Raiders from the North

in their loincloths and the women in lengths of brightly coloured cloth wound round their bodies and thrown over their heads, with red marks on their foreheads and gold studs in their noses — certainly didn’t seem intimidated. They pressed curiously around Babur and his army as they passed through the sun-baked villages, to which clung an ever-present sweetish aroma of drying cattle dung, spices and incense, and even brought out sacks of grain and fruit and vegetables to sell to the troops.

As the days passed, the flat, brown, dry landscape with its teeming people beneath a relentless sun began to oppress Babur. He felt leached of life and vitality. It was not much better at night when mosquitoes whined and his attendants could do little to cool his tent, designed for colder climes. He found no refreshment in looking at the sluggish Jumna. Its fetid banks of cracked mud made him long for the swift rivers and bracing air of his homeland beyond the Indus.

On the sixth evening, a messenger arrived bringing a gift from Kabul. In a metal-lined wooden cask that, at the start of its journey, must have been packed with ice, he found some melons, sent by Khanzada who knew it was his favourite fruit. Alone in his tent, as he cut into the moist flesh and tasted the sweet juice, tears pricked his eyes, so strong was his sense of exile. Khanzada had meant to give him pleasure but her gift had also brought him pain.

Reaching for pen, ink and the diary that in recent months he had too often neglected, Babur began to write:

Hindustan is a land of few charms. Its people are not handsome. . There are no good horses or dogs, meat, grapes, fragrant melons or other excellent fruit. There is no ice, cold water or good provisions in the bazaars. There are no hot baths nor

madrasas

.

Except their rivers and streams, which flow in ravines and hollows, there are no running waters in their gardens or residences. .

He paused. What would Baburi, who had brought him the means to conquer Hindustan, have said to him? What he had just written looked bitter and carping. Baburi had detested any sign of self-pity and had always been quick to spot it. He would have told Babur to get on with it. . that he had been given a great chance and it was his duty not to squander it. But perhaps if Baburi was still with him, he wouldn’t feel like this. .

Reaching inside his tunic, Babur drew out the soft leather pouch in which he kept the Koh-i-Nur, his Mountain of Light. Even in the gloom of the tent it shone, a potent symbol of this new land that sent renewed energy and determination flowing through him. This was no time for regret. If Hindustan was not yet the kind of land he wanted, he and his sons must make it so. They must create an empire so fabulous that, for centuries, people would speak of it with awe.

Opening a fresh page in his diary, he began again:

From the year when I first came to Kabul, I had coveted Hindustan. Now, through God’s great favour, I have conquered a mighty adversary, Sultan Ibrahim, and won for my dynasty a new empire.

After a moment’s further thought he added,

The best thing about Hindustan is that it is a large land with an abundance of gold and other wealth. .

Yes, much could be done here by a man if he only had the will. .

Babur’s mood lifted further as he continued his progress south-eastward. He began to notice that the land was not as bare as he had thought. Despite the dryness and the hot winds, some flowers bloomed, like the red gudhal with blossoms deeper in colour than those of the pomegranate, and the oleander, five-petalled like peach blossom, with a faint but exquisite scent.

With his new optimism came the thought that — if he was indeed to establish himself here — he must try to understand this new land and its customs. With the aid of Junayd Barlas as interpreter, he began to question some of those they passed on the road, farmers, merchants, peasants, about the things he saw. One day he noticed a man in a purple turban striking with a mallet a brass disc big as a tray hanging above a tank of water. He learned that this man was a ghariyali — a timekeeper. In Babur’s homeland each day was divided into twenty-four hours and each hour into sixty minutes but he discovered that in Hindustan his new subjects apportioned day and night into sixty parts — gharis — of twenty-four minutes, while night and day were also each divided into four watches, pahars. Ghariyalis measured the passage of each pahar by submerging in water special pots with a hole in the bottom that took exactly one ghari to fill. At the end of the first ghari of their watch they struck a large, thick brass disc so that all could hear. At the end of the second ghari they struck it twice, and so on until their watch was over, when they struck it many times in rapid succession.

From a money-lender whom Babur observed counting coins in the marketplace, he discovered that the Hindustanis had an excellent numbering system: one hundred thousand was equal to one lakh; one hundred lakhs equalled one crore; one hundred crores equalled one arb, and on it went, even higher up the scale. In Kabul there was no need of such high numbers but here in Hindustan, where the wealth — at least of its rulers — seemed almost limitless, there was. It was a pleasing thought.

Babur watched the laborious way in which the farmers irrigated their fields, using leather buckets hauled from the well by oxen, and tasted the sweet, intoxicating wine of the date palm, a plant he’d never seen before. Most of all he attempted to understand more about the Hindu religion, learning that Hindus believed in reincarnation, and that their bewildering multiplicity of gods — from many-armed women festooned with skulls to a pot-bellied elephant-man — were all manifestations of a central trio or trimurti: Brahma, the creator of the world, sky and stars; Vishnu, who held them all in balance and harmony; and Shiva, the destroyer. But it still seemed shadowy, confusing, even disturbing. What had Sultan Ibrahim — a Muslim like himself — made of it? Babur thought again of the temple priest’s words: ‘I am the destroyer. .’

He soon discovered that he was not the only one to find Hindustan unsettling. Sitting outside his tent one night, hoping for some touch of a breeze on his face, he saw Baba Yasaval approaching.

‘Majesty.’ His commander touched his breast and waited respectfully.

‘What is it?’

Baba Yasaval hesitated.

‘Speak.’

‘Majesty, my men are growing restless. . They do not like this new land. . these hot, incessant winds. . Many are becoming sick. .’ He paused, torchlight falling on his mosquito-bitten face. ‘We’re not cowards — we never flinched in battle — but this place is alien to us. . We want to return to Kabul. I speak not just for myself and my men but for some of the other commanders. They asked me to speak for all of us.’

‘Summon them here — now.’

Baba Yasaval had spoken from the heart, saying what had been in Babur’s own mind only a few days ago. But hearing those things from the lips of another made him realise how passionately he wanted to keep what he had seized. While he waited, he turned over carefully what he must say. When the commanders were gathered, some avoiding his gaze, he addressed them slowly, deliberately, his eyes never leaving their faces.

‘Conquest isn’t easy. For years we’ve struggled, overcome great obstacles, travelled great distances, subjected ourselves to hardship and danger, fought great battles. By God’s grace we’ve overcome numerous enemies and conquered a vast new realm. How can we throw away what we have won at such great cost? How can we go back to Kabul and abandon what God has given us? What will our people say of us? That we were afraid of greatness. .’

Babur paused to let his words sink in. ‘Any man who wishes may take his share of the booty and return across the Indus. But I promise you this. When, as old men, you sit by the fire with your grandchildren and they ask you to tell them what great warriors you once were, you will have nothing to say. You will be ashamed to admit that you left your king — no, your emperor — who had given you a chance of seizing the world. . You will stay silent and hang your heads, and your grandchildren will drift away. .’

The commanders looked at one another uneasily and for a few moments there was silence. Then, led by Baba Yasaval, a low chant began, words that Babur had not heard for many years which took him back to his days as boy-king of Ferghana: ‘Babur Mirza! Babur Mirza!’ The chant grew louder and louder, vibrating through the heavy