Muhammad Bin Tughlaq Read online

  Jauna had very respectfully sought and obtained permission from Khusrau Khan to train the horses on a daily basis to make them battle-ready. The Shah had concurred, pleased to note that Ghazi Malik’s son seemed amenable and pliable to his will.

  ‘Everybody knows that Ghiasuddin Tughlaq has emerged to eminence from a humble background,’ he told his advisers, who wanted to know what he intended to do about the threat posed by Ghazi Malik. ‘Unlike some of the others, he knows the merits of a man who has worked his way to the top on the strength of his own talent and hard work. He will not respond to force and I will win him over by elevating him to the post of supreme commander of my forces, with gifts of land and riches for him as well as his son. It will be an offer no sane man can refuse.’

  ‘But he is loyal to the Alai family and is known to have openly voiced his outrage over your ascent to the throne. Your enemies will most certainly offer him the throne in exchange for declaring war. He is too dangerous!’

  Khusrau only smiled at this outburst, but it did not reach his snake-like eyes, and his men swallowed their protests. He saw no reason to explain himself to the fools who surrounded him. Of course, Ghazi Malik was too dangerous. But in order to get rid of him, he needed to be lured out of his stronghold in the Punjab and present himself in Dilli. Which is why he had stayed his hand and refrained from presenting the grizzled veteran with his son’s head.

  Jauna would persuade his father of the good intentions of their generous new ruler and convince him to pay homage and swear allegiance as soon as possible. Then he would take care of them both. In the meantime, he could sport with the horses to his heart’s content. Khusrau Khan was nobody’s fool. Instructions had been issued to keep a wary eye on Jauna, lest he were foolish enough to conspire against his new ruler.

  Even so, his bold move took them all by surprise. The absconding duo had managed a decent start but Khusrau Khan’s panwaris, with a full regiment of the cavalry, gave chase. Nasiruddin’s orders had been explicit and barked out to the full array of war chariots and elite troops armed to the teeth: ‘By this time tomorrow, I expect to find that traitor whelped by a whore and his companion dragged back here on the back of your chariots!’

  Their quarry could hear the sound of pounding hooves as well as the exhortations and grunts of their pursuers in the distance, but Jauna ensured that the gap between them never closed. He knew every inch of the terrain and had taken the trouble to familiarize himself with the routes and the time it would take him to traverse the distance.

  In his capacity as the Barid-ul-Mulk, he had made it his business to personally arrange for relays of horses to convey messages from Dilli to the various provinces with the utmost speed and efficiency. Fresh teams awaited them now in prearranged spots, along with food and drink. The men were loyal to the handsome young man who treated them as his equal and had always been generous and genuinely solicitous when it came to their needs.

  Once Jauna and Abu were on their way, man and beast melted away into the distance, having been instructed to make themselves scarce and catch up with Jauna in Punjab, where they would be richly compensated. And so they rode on for three days and nights, danger dogging them every step of the way.

  The sun and the winds were not always their friends. Sometimes, the sun was hostile, threatening to bake them whole with their horses, while the wind was biting cold or inclined to whip the dust and grit into their eyes. The poor horses were showing signs of distress, unable to withstand the punishing pace and gruelling distances they were expected to cover.

  Jauna was indefatigable, seeming to need no rest or sustenance—at one with the horses he rode. He encouraged them to give him their very best, devouring the distance that separated them from safety. As Abu rode behind Jauna, he couldn’t help thinking about how handsome and heroic his friend was. Almost Godlike. Calm, confident, blessed with clarity and vision, unflinching in the face of clear and present danger. For the umpteenth time, Abu thought what a fine ruler he would make, if God Almighty willed it. Abu himself would happily die to make it happen. How lucky this land would be to have Jauna lead its citizens to the greatness that had always been well within their reach.

  There was a strange smile on Jauna’s face that offset the curious light in his eyes. It was hard to decipher his expression. Perhaps he was exhilarated, feeling savagely alive as he rode headlong to meet the destiny he had been singled out for. But every once in a while he would glance back, almost as if he yearned to return to the darkness and death he was leaving behind, fully convinced that it was better than what awaited him ahead.

  ~

  To his dying days, Jauna remembered those three days and nights when they had ridden like madmen, uncaring of the encroaching menace, laughing like maniacs to keep the fear and fatigue at bay. On that fateful journey from Dilli to Punjab, Jauna felt his senses come alive like never before, and he was fully attuned to his body and mind. The light had an ethereal quality to it, revealing the things that lay blurred behind the boundaries of time, space and distance.

  As they rode past the fields, rivers and huts that dotted the countryside, he felt every bounce and jolt, the sweat oozing from his pores, the fine dust that he breathed in and the moody breeze that buffeted him alternately with sapping heat and reviving coolness with crystal clarity.

  Jauna was aware of the great heart of the beast that bore him towards safety past the hostile countryside, mindful of the exhaustion it battled as sweat lathered its flanks and the laboured breaths it drew, chest heaving painfully. He could sense Abu’s raw excitement rising when they pulled ahead of their pursuers, ebbing to be replaced with crushing fear as they determinedly sought to close the gap. He felt Abu’s gaze on him and the tremendous weight of his admiration and expectations.

  The arrows flew hard and fast around them and Jauna never did figure how he managed to escape that deadly hail without a single scratch. He spurred his horse on, and it responded to his touch, blindly trusting the resolve and nerve of his master who never once faltered.

  Jauna glanced back. Abu had wheeled around, having drawn his sword in a suicidal bid to slow down the pursuers gaining on him. He saw the shafts of the arrows buried in his back. ‘Go, Jauna!’ Abu had screamed. He did go, without looking back. He couldn’t. The wind dried his tears before they could be shed.

  Many were the people who had gathered to cheer him on. The news had spread like wildfire. Ghazi Malik’s son had defied the tyrant and escaped his clutches in an unparalleled act of heroism. In doing so, he had become the spark that set off the flames of rebellion.

  He heard the cries of ‘Fakir-ud-Dawal!’ and ‘Fakir-ul-Haq!’ over the whoosh of the wind in his ears, honouring him as the great pride of the state and of truth. From a tremendous distance, he saw himself afloat on a sea of adulation, accepting the approbation with graceful ease as he waved, without pausing or breaking stride. Jauna felt himself gather their hopes and dreams in a fluid embrace and hold aloft the promise to take them to a safe haven, far from the excesses of their unworthy ruler.

  In return, they blocked the passage of the mounted and armed warriors who pursued him, willingly laying down their lives to ensure the safety of the hero they had already taken to their hearts. Dozens were trod underfoot by flying hoofs or impaled by thrown spears. The mobs tore down the rest from their mounts before tearing man and beast alike to pieces.

  Still, Jauna rode on, aware of the blood, bones and senseless sacrifice that ensured his safe passage to glory. Of Abu’s faith in him and the fate it had condemned him to. He felt it all in his head, heart and deep in his bones. Yet he was detached, removed from the frenzied activity he was so furiously engaged in. He shed no tears for the fallen. But he could not exult either. From his heightened place of awareness, he saw too much. With blinding clarity, he realized the price to be paid for every step he had taken. It was more than he could take, but he could not turn away. He was filled with dizzying excitement and nameless dread.

  The terrors of t
he past he was leaving behind lay revealed to him. He kept thinking back to the bloody events of the fell night when it had all begun for him. They had been summoned in the darkest reaches of the night to the palace. Jauna remembered the flickering light of the hastily lit lamps throwing long shadows over the momentous but grisly proceedings.

  The headless corpse of the late Mubarak Shah remained where it had landed in the courtyard, limbs and sleeping robes akimbo, pooling in blood and the contents of emptied bowels. A tragic but fitting symbol of the rot that had set in.

  Khusrau was seated in the throne room. He had changed his blood-soaked robes, but there was a touch of red in his dishevelled hair, which complemented his audacity in holding court not far from the scene of his heinous crime. His thugs had taken over the palace, led by the despicable Jahariya, who Jauna later learnt had struck the killing blow, their mood jovial. They reeked of alcohol, blood and sweat. It had made Jauna’s gorge rise as he stood solemn and stone-faced, along with the other nobles. Abu was with him but they couldn’t bring themselves to meet each other’s eyes.

  They heard the sounds of women screaming and struggling as Khusrau’s men invaded the harem. Alauddin’s aged widow was throttled, but not before she was forcibly disrobed and made to endure the jeering abuse of her tormentors. The younger ladies of the harem and even the children who hadn’t succeeded in fleeing or hiding probably envied her fate. Jauna refused to look up, but in his silence, he knew himself to be an accomplice to the unspeakable horror. Their piteous cries for help and mercy tore at his heart, but still he moved not a muscle.

  He averted his gaze and glanced at the courtyard. Two women made their way to the fallen body, uncaring of the danger. Jauna recognized them. One was Devala Devi, the wife of Khizar Khan, Alauddin’s eldest son and designated heir apparent, who had been blinded by Kafur and killed by Mubarak. She spat on the corpse before collapsing to her knees, pounding her chest and bewailing the fate he had condemned them to.

  Jauna could not take his eyes off the other one. She was Alauddin’s youngest daughter, Saira. Gently, she tried to clean up the worst of Mubarak’s injuries and covered her dead brother with a richly embroidered quilt, which seemed incongruous in the macabre setting. Kneeling by the side of the corpse, she began to pray.

  Khusrau followed his glance and frowned at the surreal spectacle. She was a jarring presence. An oasis of beauty, grace and goodness in the midst of the savagery, bloodshed and hysteria that surrounded her. At his command, his men dragged the two women away. Devala Devi screamed imprecations at her captors, frothing, gibbering and struggling. Saira seemed uncaring of the rough hands that violated her, strangely calm in the midst of the madness and violence that loomed ahead of her.

  Jauna had started forward then, but stopped. For a brief moment, their eyes locked. There was nothing in her eyes, not the faintest trace of anger or sorrow. They were devoid of every emotion, save the faintest trace of pity. There was no judgement in that beautiful countenance. Yet he would carry that look to his grave. For he had tried himself on that day and found himself wanting. Not a day would pass by without him feeling guilty. Or entirely unworthy.

  Finding himself land in the present with jarring intensity, he heard thousands of voices cheering as the flying hooves of his mount clattered past them, hailing him as a hero, saviour and champion. His heart would have soared, but it was too heavy with the haunting memory of the lovely girl he hadn’t saved. Jauna couldn’t forgive himself for not even trying. At that juncture, he had made his choice to live as a sinner rather than die a hero.

  Jauna looked ahead and away from the demons let loose by his past. At that moment, he knew with the utmost certainty that the throne would be his. As would the power, prestige and untold riches it offered. He should have been beside himself with pride and joy, but all he felt was an aching emptiness and a profound sorrow that urged him to turn around and embrace the death that he had eluded. But he couldn’t do that. No more than he could turn back time to save the worthy souls who had been far more deserving than him.

  All he could do was ride. Without stopping. For as long as he could. So he rode on and on.

  3

  Ghiasuddin Tughlaq was on the move with his sons, supporters and troops, not long after Jauna’s ride of glory. Having risen in revolt, they marched against the false Shah. En route to Dilli, large crowds gathered to see Ghazi Malik, whom they knew by repute and who was the man most likely to be declared the Sultan, should he survive the clash with Nasiruddin Khusrau Shah. Ghiasuddin stopped to address the people whenever possible, appraising them about the godless practices of the new monarch and the measures he himself would take to redress the wrongs done to them.

  Jauna was impressed. His father was known for his military acumen and prowess as a general, but clearly his political skills and capacity for adroit manoeuvring were nothing to be sneezed at either. The masses adored him and screamed their support, though Jauna doubted it would amount to much.

  ‘The goodwill of the people always counts for something, son!’ his father told him, seeming to read his thoughts. ‘It is their future as much as ours.’

  Jauna nodded politely. It was nice to ride by the side of his father. They had received intelligence that Nasiruddin Khusrau Shah had sent a considerable force headed by his brother, Khanan Khan, and Amir Sufi Khan to confront Ghazi Malik. The army had gathered on the outskirts of Sarsuti.

  Ghazi Malik clearly commanded the respect and goodwill of nearly everyone, and yet it was no easy feat even for him to put together a confederacy of the leading nobles, governors and military commanders. Only Bahram Aiba of Uch had allied himself with them. Most of the others were unwilling to risk their positions by throwing in their lot with what could well turn out to be the losing side. After all, if history was any indication—and it was—deserving rulers seldom managed to secure and hold a throne, although they did succeed in lowering their life expectancy.

  It did not help that Nasiruddin Shah was distributing gold by the bushel, making generous gifts of land and prestigious titles to bolster support for himself. The lack of open support for Ghazi Malik did not seem to deter him. He took it all in his stride and focused only on the job at hand, backed by his loyal supporters. Jauna himself was disgusted.

  ‘Now is the time to act, and too many are concerned only with protecting or enriching themselves at the expense of others. Worst are the nobles who had served under Alauddin Shah as well as Mubarak Shah and are all too familiar with the inequities of the false Shah. They ought to have known better. This land and its people do not deserve someone like you. They are better off wallowing in the filth with the likes of Khusrau Khan lording it over them.’

  ‘You are too hard on them, Jauna!’ Ghiasuddin’s tone was measured. ‘Remember that we cannot achieve the things we seek by depending on others. All you will ever have is your own head, heart and hands to help you do the needful. Make sure these are in fine fettle and everything else will fall into place.

  ‘But even if you choose not to depend on others, it does not mean that disobedience, defiance or disrespect ought to go unpunished.’ He had smiled bleakly at that. Later, Jauna understood what he meant.

  Amit Mughlatti, the governor of Multan, had responded most rudely to Ghazi Malik’s overture for aid. As a former muqta of Multan, Ghiasuddin had built a large mosque there and fought off the Mongols who were terrorizing the inhabitants with sudden raids. Many remembered him with respect and were incited to rebel against their governor. Mughlatti was forced to flee but was hunted down and hanged by the neck to die. As the crows plucked out his eyes, he might have regretted the lack of judiciousness he had displayed.

  As a further retaliatory measure, thanks to the faultless intelligence they had been supplied, two convoys from Multan and Sivistan, loaded with treasure, weapons and horses to aid the false Shah in Dilli during the war effort, were waylaid by Ghazi Malik’s men, and the goods appropriated. The troops loyal to him were rewarded with two years’ wo
rth of salary in advance. Needless to say, his men, who already worshipped the ground he walked on, were willing to gladly lay down their lives for him, should the occasion call for it. They cheered him with cries of ‘Ghazi Malik, the true saviour!’ and ‘Sultan Ghiasuddin Tughlaq!’

  Jauna was filled with admiration for his father’s statesmanship and sagacity. Even so, he hoped his father would take a harsher stand against those who had failed to respond to his call. If it were up to him, all who denied their overtures for help would be spitted and roasted over live coals.

  Ghazi Malik felt differently about these things, though. His father had also disregarded Jauna’s opposition to his preferred stratagem. Jauna had insisted that pandering to the religious sentiments of fellow Muslims and accusing Khusrau Khan—who was a convert—of restoring Hindu rule wouldn’t work, since the vast majority were Hindus themselves. He had been right, of course, and the ploy had done little to garner sympathy for their cause.

  His father sensed the shifting tides of his mood. ‘While watching someone work, we are always convinced we can do better, aren’t we? And while actually engaged in a task, we are confident that none can do it better.’

  Jauna gave a start, and for once, he was at a loss for words. Ghiasuddin persisted. ‘What exactly is bothering you, Jauna? I wonder if it is defeat and death at the hands of the tyrant? No true warrior can afford to fear either.’

  Appalled at the suggestion, Jauna replied without thinking, ‘Defeat does not scare me. Victory does. And it is all but guaranteed, for Khusrau Khan is no match for Ghazi Malik. His is the last gasp of a dying man.’

  ‘I am flattered but must admit to being puzzled as well. Victory is coveted by all and granted to too few, and yet you are wary. Why is that?’ he asked as he looked at his son, reminded of a young Jauna of ferocious intellect whose teachers simply couldn’t figure out what to make of him. One had been bold enough to assert that his son’s undeniable genius made it harder to forgive his abject foolishness. This assessment of his firstborn had always bothered him.