‘Let me go,’ said Suleiman Beg.
‘No, it should be me. I owe it to Zubaida to be the one to go. She took great care of me as a child. I remember she climbed a thorn tree to rescue me after I got stuck in it bird-nesting when I was about three.’
Within five minutes a rope had been brought and Salim had stripped off his outer garments and tied the rope firmly round his chest. ‘Hold on tight,’ he shouted to Suleiman Beg. ‘Have further ropes ready to lower to pull survivors up with.’ Then he disappeared over the edge.
For about the first ten feet or so he picked out hand- and footholds on the wet rocks. Then he came to a place where mud had partially covered another small ledge. As he put his foot on it, some of the loose earth and stones slipped beneath his weight. For a moment he lost all purchase. Only the rope tightening under his armpits saved him from what he realised with a shudder would inevitably have been a fatal fall. However, as he swung back and forth on the rope he retained the presence of mind to propel himself back towards the ledge and to kick away some of the mud so that he could get first one foot and then the other on to the base rock of the ledge.
After taking a deep breath, he looked down towards the considerably wider lower ledge where the howdah had caught. His view was much less obstructed now and he could see that there were two figures, both women, on it. One was lying prone on the ground and the second, who from her long grey hair he recognised as Zubaida, was kneeling beside her.
‘Zubaida,’ Salim shouted. She didn’t hear him through the wind and rain. ‘Zubaida,’ he yelled again. This time to his relief the woman looked up and waved her right arm. ‘I am coming,’ Salim called down. ‘Keep back against the rock wall so you don’t get knocked off by any further falls.’
Moments later he saw Zubaida tugging at the other figure in an attempt to pull her nearer to the wall too. It would be completely beyond Zubaida’s strength, but he knew she wouldn’t give up and seek protection only for herself. He had no time to lose. Cautiously, so as not to dislodge any more material, he lowered himself carefully down the wet muddy slope. When he was only about twelve feet vertically and perhaps the same horizontally from the two women, he heard a noise above him and small rocks began to fall. As he looked up to see where they were coming from, a large stone struck the side of his face and he felt blood flow into his mouth.
As he spat out the metallic, salty-tasting fluid, he heard Zubaida, who had recognised him, shout, ‘Go back, Highness. Save yourself. You are young. Both of us here are old and have already enjoyed a long life.’ As she spoke, more stones and earth fell between him and the ledge. Glancing hastily about, Salim saw some hand- and footholds created by fissures and protuberances in the rock which might take him directly above the ledge. Quickly but carefully, testing each hold before he put his full weight on it, he manoeuvred along until he was in a position from which he could jump the ten feet or so on to the ledge. He did so, landing with a knee-jarring thump next to Zubaida.
She was in a bad state, worse than he had hoped. A large jagged cut on her swollen temple was bleeding profusely and one of the shattered bones of her left forearm was protruding bloodily through her age-mottled skin. Blood was seeping from the back of the other woman’s head and staining her hennaed hair. She was unconscious, if not dead. ‘You’ll both soon be out of here and safe in the hands of the hakims,’ Salim said with a little more confidence than he felt. He manoeuvred slowly forward to a position by the howdah from where he knew those on the road above could see him. Then he waved both his arms above his head in the agreed signal to throw further ropes down. Soon, two ropes snaked through the air towards the ledge. Salim grabbed one but the other fell too far away. He had to signal twice more before another rope finally descended within his reach.
He tied the first rope round Zubaida, who winced only when he accidentally caught her damaged arm. ‘Be brave.’ Salim smiled encouragingly at her. ‘When I give the signal those on the road will pull you up on the rope. Use your feet to push yourself away from the rocks.’
‘Yes, Highness, I understand.’
‘When you reach the top, tell them to pull on both my rope and the remaining one at the same time. I will go up with your companion.’
Zubaida nodded and Salim moved again to the shattered howdah to signal for his old nursemaid to be hauled back up. Soon, to Salim’s great relief, she was ascending the rock face, obediently pushing with her bare feet just as he had instructed.
As she disappeared from his view, Salim went over to the second woman, who somewhat to his surprise was still breathing. As he tied the rope around her, he saw her eyelids flicker. Then he quickly resecured his own rope about himself and lifted the woman in his arms. A few moments later he felt the ropes tauten. Slowly they began to be hoisted up, Salim using his feet to keep them clear of the rocks when he could. He couldn’t prevent himself being swung heavily against one overhang, grazing his back through his thin tunic, but he was soon at the top, safe if bruised and blood- and mud-stained. As the hakims took the two elderly women away on makeshift stretchers, the first person Salim saw striding towards him was his father, the crowds parting before him. He had a broad smile on his face as he extended his arms to embrace his son.
‘Salim, I am proud of you. Your strength is now the equal of mine.’
To his son, every word was as precious as gold.
A soft wind was blowing through the beds of roses and some of their red petals were falling to the ground as three months later Akbar and Salim walked side by side through the Nasim Bagh near the Kashmiri capital of Srinagar. The gardens had been laid out on Akbar’s orders only twelve months previously on the west bank of the Dal lake, whose blue waters lapped the edge of the lowest of the gardens’ series of descending terraces. It must, thought Salim, be one of the most beautiful places in the world.
As if sensing what his son was thinking, Akbar said, ‘The Persians at the court boast that their homeland has the most beautiful gardens, the closest on earth to the charbaghs, the gardens of Paradise, which the Koran describes as the reward of the faithful in heaven. However, for me, the whole of Kashmir is one great garden of Paradise with its meadows carpeted in spring by the mauve flowers of the saffron crocus, its babbling brooks, its tumbling waterfalls and these wonderful hills and lake.’
Salim thought, not for the first time, that he had never seen his father as relaxed as when he was in Kashmir. Although Akbar still dealt daily with the despatches brought by post messengers from Hindustan and often inspected the construction of the fast-rising Hari Parvat fort in Srinagar, he still seemed to have more time to talk to members of his family. Perhaps, thought Salim, that was because almost immediately after they had arrived in Srinagar his father had despatched Abul Fazl back to Lahore to deal with some reported problems with the running of the imperial administration.
‘I was just thinking the same, Father. It is good to be among breezes and green meadows instead of the heat and rain of the monsoon in Hindustan. It makes me feel more alive.’ Salim paused, pleased to share his father’s mood, and then went on, ‘While we’ve been here I’ve become more and more interested in nature. I’ve had some of the artists draw accurate pictures of crocuses and other flowers much larger than life so that I can see all the intricate details of their make-up. I have even had scholars dissect the wings of birds to see if they can understand how they fly.’
‘Your grandmother has told me of your researches. I would like to see the drawings myself. Kashmir has been good for all of us. It has shown me not only how courageous you are but how strong your mind is.’