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Authors: Indu Sundaresan
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dipped cleanly into the water and then out again.
Their pace did not pick up even in the slightest. Dara had known that the boatman was rowing as strongly as his age and body would allow him to. The boatman would never use a negative with Dara or any other member of the royal family; his answer had been steeped in etiquette and in generations and centuries of servitude, and so he had said yes when, in fact, he could not physically have rowed any better or brought them to the other bank any quicker.
Dara tutted, thinking that he should not have wasted his breath in futile conversation with a menial. But he was anxious all of a sudden since his mother had died. Bapa would not see any of them, except for Jahanara, and each night she had returned to her own chambers from their father’s with a droop to her shoulders, with few words left in her mouth, and slept the nights away as though she would never again wake. Dara had waited by her side for two nights, watching the rise and fall of her chest as she breathed, waiting desperately to know what was happening with Bapa. Was he all right? he had asked, and in reply Jahan had waved her hand and brushed him away. He had stayed on in her rooms, unmindful of the clucking maids and even the shooing gestures of Satti Khanum, as Jahanara dressed and departed again to be with Shah Jahan. He had paced the hallways outside the royal apartments his father occupied, waiting for a summons or a sound from within. At times, he thought he had heard a fine keening wail, brokenhearted and reedy, which had sent a cold hand to clutch at him. Could that be his Bapa? Even here, on the outside, his legs trembled at that sound; how could Jahanara hear it up close, how could she bear it, what did she do to comfort their father? After that day, Dara spent the rest of his time in his own apartment, growing more and more restive. Now, the day after Mahabat Khan had been granted an audience with his Emperor, Prince Dara Shikoh was on his way to the other bank of the Tapti River to meet a woman who had sent him a summons for another audience. And he went, Dara thought, rubbing sweat from his forehead, because she would fill these silences that had surrounded him since his Mama had died. Nadira knew something, else she would not have sent a furtive message to him by a eunuch in the harem or insisted upon their meeting so far from the palaces at a time of day when few ventured abroad.
The boat docked, and Dara swung over the side and onto the wooden boards of the jetty before the boatman had had time to fasten the rope over a post and bring the boat’s rocking to a halt. He flew through the entrance to the garden. Guards raised their spears in threatening gestures and lowered them in one move when they recognized the slight, muscled figure of the man who swept past them. Their heads bowed to the ground, but Dara did not notice their salutations, just as he had not expected to be stopped.
In the Bagh, it was finally a little cool, and huge mango trees spread their many-armed branches over the paths, creating a permanent shade from the assault of the sun. As Dara ran, he could smell the sweet-sour aroma of the warm sap that ran down the sides of the fruit hanging from the trees, the branches so low that he had to duck his head in places. The Bagh was full of guards, lining the pathways, at the crossroads where one pathway met another, all clad in mourning white for his mother. A lone boat, bleached into paleness by the sun, drifted along its mooring rope on the pond, and Dara hauled it in toward him, shading his eyes as he did so in search of Nadira’s figure in the baradari on the island. He could not see her, but he knew that she was there. He climbed into the boat, waving off offers of help from the guards around, and rowed himself to the island. When he docked at the other end, hands came to help him, and Dara tripped as he swung his leg out over the side of the boat. Upright, he stayed standing where he
Their pace did not pick up even in the slightest. Dara had known that the boatman was rowing as strongly as his age and body would allow him to. The boatman would never use a negative with Dara or any other member of the royal family; his answer had been steeped in etiquette and in generations and centuries of servitude, and so he had said yes when, in fact, he could not physically have rowed any better or brought them to the other bank any quicker.
Dara tutted, thinking that he should not have wasted his breath in futile conversation with a menial. But he was anxious all of a sudden since his mother had died. Bapa would not see any of them, except for Jahanara, and each night she had returned to her own chambers from their father’s with a droop to her shoulders, with few words left in her mouth, and slept the nights away as though she would never again wake. Dara had waited by her side for two nights, watching the rise and fall of her chest as she breathed, waiting desperately to know what was happening with Bapa. Was he all right? he had asked, and in reply Jahan had waved her hand and brushed him away. He had stayed on in her rooms, unmindful of the clucking maids and even the shooing gestures of Satti Khanum, as Jahanara dressed and departed again to be with Shah Jahan. He had paced the hallways outside the royal apartments his father occupied, waiting for a summons or a sound from within. At times, he thought he had heard a fine keening wail, brokenhearted and reedy, which had sent a cold hand to clutch at him. Could that be his Bapa? Even here, on the outside, his legs trembled at that sound; how could Jahanara hear it up close, how could she bear it, what did she do to comfort their father? After that day, Dara spent the rest of his time in his own apartment, growing more and more restive. Now, the day after Mahabat Khan had been granted an audience with his Emperor, Prince Dara Shikoh was on his way to the other bank of the Tapti River to meet a woman who had sent him a summons for another audience. And he went, Dara thought, rubbing sweat from his forehead, because she would fill these silences that had surrounded him since his Mama had died. Nadira knew something, else she would not have sent a furtive message to him by a eunuch in the harem or insisted upon their meeting so far from the palaces at a time of day when few ventured abroad.
The boat docked, and Dara swung over the side and onto the wooden boards of the jetty before the boatman had had time to fasten the rope over a post and bring the boat’s rocking to a halt. He flew through the entrance to the garden. Guards raised their spears in threatening gestures and lowered them in one move when they recognized the slight, muscled figure of the man who swept past them. Their heads bowed to the ground, but Dara did not notice their salutations, just as he had not expected to be stopped.
In the Bagh, it was finally a little cool, and huge mango trees spread their many-armed branches over the paths, creating a permanent shade from the assault of the sun. As Dara ran, he could smell the sweet-sour aroma of the warm sap that ran down the sides of the fruit hanging from the trees, the branches so low that he had to duck his head in places. The Bagh was full of guards, lining the pathways, at the crossroads where one pathway met another, all clad in mourning white for his mother. A lone boat, bleached into paleness by the sun, drifted along its mooring rope on the pond, and Dara hauled it in toward him, shading his eyes as he did so in search of Nadira’s figure in the baradari on the island. He could not see her, but he knew that she was there. He climbed into the boat, waving off offers of help from the guards around, and rowed himself to the island. When he docked at the other end, hands came to help him, and Dara tripped as he swung his leg out over the side of the boat. Upright, he stayed standing where he
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