The palace in Delhi seemed largely abandoned. It was dark, and nothing stirred. The soldiers keeping vigil outside stood stiffly and quietly in the night.
The atmosphere inside the palace reflected the cold exterior. The dark hallways and chambers of the sprawling palace were cold and silent. Nobles, ministers, and courtiers spoke to each other in hushed whispers none of them tarrying for long in the almost empty palace. There was a deep sense of gloom and foreboding.
The Mughal Emperor Babur was ill. It was an aliment of the stomach, the Emperor regularly coughed blood, and vomited, he could eat nothing. It was a lingering illness that ate away at him and sapped his strength. Physicians, fakirs, doctors, soothsayers, monks, and alchemists had been called from all over the world to cure him of this disease. None found a cure. The disease continued making him waste away until he was eventually bedridden and no longer able to carry out his duties and forced to rely increasingly upon his ministers and sons.
The Emperor lay in his bed as usual, his cheeks sunken in with folds of wrinkled flesh hanging down. His breath came out in wheezing gasps. He was a shadow of his former self. He had once conquered a dozen kingdoms, annihilated a hundred armies and built a vast empire that stretched from the wastes of Central Asia to the hills of the Deccan. And this is what he was reduced to though his son Humayun sadly.
“Father” he said gently “I am here.”
Babur gazed tiredly up at him and raised himself up slightly in the bed. “Ah so you have come to visit your on his deathbed. I take it your brothers are not so filial.” he observed sardonically
Humayun looked hesitant “Well surely they must be busy in other affairs of the state Father.”
Babur shook his head and chuckled but it quickly turned in a wheezing cough. Humayun quickly motioned for one of his attendants to get water. After drinking it Babur spoke “No they plot against you for the throne before I am yet cold in my grave. Son you must move against them if you wish to hold the throne. None of them are fit to rule, they are corrupt and soft. Given to frivolity and excess. They know not the ways of war nor politics. They overindulge in wine, hookah, and women and their habits outrage the pious. They cannot be allowed to rule, I know you are young but you must take action.”
Humayun nodded “Yes Father.”
“However my fondness as a father cannot allow me to consent to their death. So promise a dying man one thing.” He said clasping his son’s hands “Do not kill them for my sake. Exile them if you wish, but do not kill them.”
“Very well Father.”
“Good” Babur sighed and laid back in his bed. “I feel the darkness of death overcoming me. I have lived a good life; I have lived well and lived gloriously. I have always sought to be a warrior for Islam, a Ghazi, for it is our duty to fight for Allah. I have spread Islam from the deserts of Central Asia deep into the lands of Hindustan. I have defeated great empires, that of Ibhrhim Lodi and his one hundred thousand soldiers, the mighty kings and chieftains of Rajputana, the rich and wealthy Sultanates of Ahmadnagar, Bijapur, and Golkonda, and the fierce mountain warriors of Nepal. It is the blood of Timur and Genghis that runs in our veins and it is their greatness that allows us to accomplish such feats. But now I am tired. I have honored my religion and my ancestors. I have done my duty on earth and it is now time for you to do the rest. Do not fail me nor our ancestors Humayun.”
“I won’t Father” said Humayun tearfully embracing him.
With that the first Emperor of the Mughals died. He would forever be known as Babur the Great.