The Final Puzzle

The pleasing sounds of wind chimes jolted Padshah Akbar, Emperor of Hindustan, back to his camouflage efforts. It was getting late, and he was preparing to leave the palace in disguise. Akbar turned his face from side to side, squinting at it in the mirror. With a pencil, he skillfully applied more dark brown lines over the furrows on his forehead and nose, adding three decades to his twenty-eight-year-old face. Akbar could not help but admire his handiwork. Not many Emperors have these skills, he thought, smiling. The radiance of my face, which often gives me away, is well-concealed now.

The Emperor strode past his bodyguards, signaling them to stay in place as he vanished into the adjacent room and through a trap door. Ten minutes later he emerged at a secluded quay by the river.

Akbar’s destination was a village north of Agra, less than half an hour’s walk at his usual pace. But today his gait was halting and unsettled, much like his thoughts. Akbar was not worried about impending wars or rebellions. No famines afflicted the kingdom. Just a month ago, Prince Salim’s birth had ended the Mughal Empire’s decades-old drought for an heir. Akbar’s deepest desire to sire a son was now fulfilled, ushering in what the Emperor hoped would be a long, prosperous spell.

Earlier that evening, however, Akbar had received an unexpected visitor-his mother. And before she left, he knew another phase of his reign was about to begin.

Hamida Bano was a tall, slim woman with olive skin, almond-shaped, light brown eyes, and long eyelashes set in a heart-shaped face. She looked much younger than a woman in her early forties. Akbar had inherited only her skin tone, but no one, not even his father, could lay claim to his famously intense gaze.

Akbar had great regard for her, but lately, the Queen Mother’s visits had begun interfering with his ability to govern. Often her purpose was to plead on behalf of one of Akbar’s capricious foster brothers. It was a recurrent theme. They would arouse his ire with their reckless, often cruel attacks on the poor, then send the Queen Mother to persuade Akbar not to punish them.

Much to his relief, today’s visit had nothing to do with any of them. Instead, she brought him a gift, a relic from the past. It sent a quiver through his body.

I must not think about this now, Akbar told himself. He needed to focus on the trip ahead.

An amber glow washed over Agra, the capital of the Mughal Empire. Hymnal chants reverberated from temples, blending with the evening namaz from the mosques. Streets were busier than usual, filled with throngs of people from the Empire’s far corners.

Farmers, stone-cutters, weavers, blacksmiths, and tradesmen were heading to their homes in surrounding villages. Most traveled by foot, some in bullock carts, while others rode camels. Footmen carried women of noble families secluded in the privacy of their palanquins. Not many elephants around today, Akbar noticed.

Now and then, Akbar would see a familiar face who would glance in his direction, then walk on. Petty thieves and pickpockets were common at this hour. A sharp dagger was concealed in the folds of Akbar’s waistband, but even without weaponry, he was confident he could take on ten men bigger than himself. Or a wild elephant, as I have in the past, Akbar mused.

That the Emperor of Hindustan had a penchant for roaming incognito was an open secret. His subjects slept well at night, knowing that their hard-working monarch may be trudging through dusty streets and muddy lanes, eyes sharply alert for problems and inhaling odors of the land instead of enjoying his large harem’s company. Akbar’s insatiable need to know the truth in everything propelled him to do what few emperors did, raising the bar for officers who served him. Woe befell the secret service unit that failed to report what the Emperor may have picked up on his own if what he had been told was just a version of the truth.

Neither Akbar’s father, Humayun, nor his grandfather, Babur, the first two Mughal Emperors, mingled among their subjects in disguise. And they probably would not have approved of Akbar’s trips had they known. Moreover, Akbar was certain that Humayun, kind as he was, likely would have hanged the man who initiated this dangerous habit: the little Prince’s first tutor.

“I want you to see the real world, Prince Akbar, for true knowledge will bring you more riches than your army,” the old tutor had told the five-year-old.

Akbar’s first foray in disguise began shortly after an evening namaz. Dressed as a swarthy stable boy, the excited Prince broke into a jog, only to find a gentle cautionary arm on his shoulder.

As he absorbed the smells and sounds of the land he would one day rule, Prince Akbar’s heart filled with pride. He started caring deeply about his people, learning as much by talking to them as he did when great works of literature and theology were read to him. For they had to be read to him—not for lack of effort on the Prince’s part, but because of his inability to decipher the written word. It baffled Akbar’s father, but the wise tutor recognized his pupil’s exceptionally brilliant, fertile mind. The future Emperor’s unusual handicap needed to be overcome by an unconventional education, his tutor concluded.

Unlike boys his age—or men, for that matter—Akbar knew how to keep a secret. So these adventures continued and fed his insatiable curiosity. Five years later, ten-year-old Akbar slipped out by himself for the first time.

When he ascended the throne at age fourteen, Akbar saw no reason to stop the secret trips. It became an inseparable aspect of his governance. Over time, he also figured out that this was the best way to learn about the reputations he and his senior officials held in the court of public opinion. He knew an emperor was only as good as the people he surrounded himself with. And while Akbar had meticulously picked the best men to join his inner circle, he had less sway over other members of the royal family, particularly his foster brothers—sons of the women who were his wet nurses.

A series of scandals involving some of these foster brothers had caused an uproar among people around the time Prince Salim was born. Akbar had taken swift action against the culprits, imprisoning and banishing them to restore credibility to his image as a fair and impartial ruler. Although he had been informed that action had mollified the public, Akbar was keen to find out himself. Attending a meeting of village elders was the best way to do so.

The hazy silhouette of Agra’s red sandstone walls had faded. Vast stretches of farmland flanked either side of the road. Akbar observed a young boy singing blissfully while walking his oxen through the fields. The clink of brass cowbells and the sweet smell of ripe corn were welcome reprieves from the city’s thick, dusty air. A cluster of mud houses came into view as he neared his destination. The clatter of hooves and the braying and mooing of animals grew louder as he approached the village.

Akbar was of average height with a sturdy, muscular build and regal glow that often stunned those who first met him. But today, with his false, speckled grey beard and matching long mustache, he was confident he could pass as a traveling oil seller. He abandoned his regal gait and slouched like a man who carried heavy containers on his shoulder.

Akbar found the elderly men and women of the village huddled under a banyan tree. Visitors from other villages were seated separately. Everyone was served a snack before the meeting started. Akbar particularly enjoyed raisin-stuffed wheat balls that were being distributed on a bronze tray. Another reason he chose this village was the openness of the residents to outsider ideas, much like his philosophy. He settled at the back of the crowd and listened to their chatter. Most of it was not new, but Akbar continued to hear veiled references to the atrocities of his foster brothers and high clergy officials. On the whole, the elders seemed content with the “just actions of the Padshah.” Akbar scanned the crowd for signs of dissent. There was none.

The assembly was about to be dismissed when a thin, gaunt, morose-looking man joined the crowd and murmured something to a village elder. “Share with everyone what your trouble is, Kareem. Maybe a clever visitor here from another village could help you,” said the elder, pointing to the crowd.

A look of pain flitted across Kareem’s dejected face, but the man who had been a wealthy merchant until recently dared not disobey the elder. So Kareem described his predicament in a lifeless voice: a week ago, he had lost his house in a fire. The village drunkard had braved the flames and saved a trunk full of precious belongings. But he refused to return the trunk to the merchant.

“What is the problem? He should give it back to you,” said someone in the crowd.

Kareem replied in a heavy voice, “He extracted a promise from me before going into the burning house that he only needed to give me what he liked.”

There was shocked silence. A man had to keep his word. Kareem must accept his loss, some voices muttered.

“Why don’t you take the matter to the Emperor’s court tomorrow?” asked Akbar, taking great care to mask the deep tenor of his voice.

“Yes, I am sure Mahesh Das will be able to help you,” said another to the crowd’s murmur of approval.

“It is decided then,” said the village chief. “We will accompany you to the court. And I will bring Fauji, the man who has your possessions. Let us hope our Emperor’s court can give you justice.”

Kareem looked skeptical. Typically, the clergy resolved Muslim issues according to Islamic law. A few days ago, they had ruled in favor of the drunkard and dismissed Kareem’s pleas. Mahesh Das, Emperor Akbar’s right-hand man, was a Hindu. Why would he even get involved?

Kareem shook his head dejectedly and said, “I don’t think anyone can help. Not even Allah!”

“Don’t be so sure. I hope you do go to his court,” replied Akbar. A few people glanced at him, but they turned away without any signs of recognition.

Slowly the crowd disassembled and Akbar made his way back to Agra.

I am not sure how Mahesh can solve this. But I have been wrong every time I underestimated him, Akbar thought. His mother had echoed the same sentiments earlier in the day.

“Maybe talk to Mahesh, my son. He always seems to know what to do no matter how impossible things seem,” the Queen Mother had said on her way out.

Relaxed and reassured after the village meeting, Akbar’s mind drifted back to his mother’s visit as he returned to the palace. He would have to deal with it in the morning anyway, and it was best to process it before summoning Mahesh Das.