A spring breeze carried cool air from the fountains and water ways to the rest of the garden. Vines climbed brick walls and within them nested singing yellow napes, cuckoos and koels. Ashy wood swallows flirted under the canopy of mango trees while squirrels and chipmunks played hide and seek.
Shayista hurried to his ‘exercise place’. Cloistered behind the high hedges of his charbagh, he felt safe. Here, no one could disturb him. Between three bougainvilleas, was a floral tile, upon which he rested his forehead in prostration. The bougainvilleas he had planted, one for Ellora, one for Miri, and the smallest one, most recently, for Pari. The tile, an intricately designed marble slab, was where he offered his penitence.
Shayista closed his eyes to meditate as Huzur had taught him but mental silence proved elusive. The blasted joint stock company gnawed at his skull. Why would Aurangzeb support the Company? How could Aurangzeb be so different from Arjumand and Dara? The beauty of the Mughal Empire lay in its harmonious plurality of faith and culture. Aurangzeb was compromising the syncretic Empire which Akbar worked so hard to build, the essence of which was liberty.
If only Shayista had acted in time to secure the throne for Dara. The mutinous thought startled him. He had successfully repressed it for years. After Dara was killed, he swore to uphold the interest of the Emperor and the Empire as one and the same. Divisive politics would lead to trouble. It was better that he stand by Aurangzeb. Wasn’t it?
A peacock strolled past. Shayista had not thought of Dara in a while but the words of the palm reader tore open old wounds. He could not dislodge her promise. She said she could undo his regrets. Then perhaps he could set things right.