#aurangzeb

For my bbg @kajuuuukatliiiiii

Part I

The Diwan-e-Khas did not belong to noise.

It belonged to judgment.

White marble reflected filtered afternoon light in muted brilliance. Columns carved with intricate geometry rose toward a ceiling painted with delicate restraint rather than indulgent excess. The Mughal court was not theatrical under Aurangzeb’s reign; it was precise.

When he entered, no announcement preceded him.

He walked with unhurried control, each step measured, each movement stripped of unnecessary flourish. His robes fell in disciplined lines, his expression composed beyond interpretation.

Men who commanded armies lowered their gaze.

Scholars who debated theology spoke only when permitted.

Power, in his presence, did not shout.

It compressed.

You had stood within that hall before, summoned weeks ago for translation of provincial correspondences. Your presence had been technical, temporary. You were neither noble nor ornamental. You were useful.

Usefulness, in this court, was currency.

The day’s petitions unfolded with familiar rhythm—land disputes, taxation clarifications, border skirmish reports. Aurangzeb listened more than he spoke. When he did speak, it was decisive and final.

A governor from the Deccan misquoted a revenue assessment. You corrected it—briefly, clearly.

Silence followed.

The governor stiffened.

Aurangzeb’s gaze shifted toward you.

It did not soften.

It did not sharpen.

It assessed.

When the matter concluded, he said only:

“Darbar bar-khaast kiya jata hai.”

The hall began to empty.

Then—

“Aap thehriye.”

The words were not loud.

Yet they altered the air.

One by one, courtiers withdrew. Sandaled footsteps faded. Heavy doors closed with dignified finality.

The echo lingered.

You remained standing beneath carved arches that now felt taller, emptier.

Aurangzeb did not look at you immediately.

He reached for the tasbih resting near the arm of the throne. The beads moved between his fingers with steady rhythm, the quiet click against one another marking measured thought.

Finally, he spoke.

“Kal jo aap ne hisaab ki durusti ki… us mein sahih nishandahi thi.”

It was not praise.

It was acknowledgment.

You bowed your head slightly. “Huzoor ki khidmat mein sach arz karna farz hai.”

His eyes lifted then—dark, unwavering.

“Aksar log farz se zyada apni hifazat ko ahmiyat dete hain.”

“Khauf agar sach ko rok de, to farman kamzor pad jata hai, Alam Panah.”

A faint shift. Barely perceptible.

He rose from the throne.

Descended the shallow steps without haste.

The distance between ruler and subject narrowed to something more intimate than court protocol preferred.

“Be-baaki aur be-hissi mein farq hota hai,” he said quietly. “Har alfaaz soch samajh kar ada kiye jate hain.”

You held your composure.

“Bandagi mein hadain wohi hoti hain jo aap muqarrar farmayen.”

Silence deepened.

His gaze lingered longer than before.

“Aap ko apni had ka ilm hai?”

“Jitna zaroori ho, huzoor.”

The tasbih beads stilled.

For a breath—only a breath—there was something unguarded in his eyes.

Then it was gone.

“Aap ja sakti hain.”

Dismissal.

Precise.

Measured.

And yet—

It did not feel indifferent.

The second summons came after nightfall.

The palace corridors were dimly lit, torches burning lower, guards quieter. Shadows gathered in archways like silent witnesses.

When you entered his private chamber, you understood the difference between spectacle and solitude.

The room was restrained. A writing desk positioned near a latticed window. Shelves of Qur’anic manuscripts and administrative records. No excessive ornamentation. No indulgent luxury.

He stood with his back to you, hands clasped behind him.

“Aap ko takleef di,” he said without turning. “Burhanpur ke muamle mein wazahat darkar hai.”

You approached the desk.

Explained the misinterpretation in trade phrasing that could alter levy percentages.

He listened without interruption.

The only sound was your voice and the distant rustle of night wind against carved stone.

When you finished, he turned.

“Saltanat tafseel par qayam rehti hai,” he murmured. “Aur tafseel ko dekhne wale kam reh gaye hain.”

“Jo dekhta hai, us par zimmedari zyada hoti hai,” you replied.

He studied you.

“Zimmedari… ya jur’at?”

“Dono, Padshah.”

The word settled between you like something fragile.

He stepped closer.

Not abruptly.

Not aggressively.

Deliberately.

The air narrowed.

His presence carried no perfume beyond faint sandalwood and parchment ink. Yet it felt consuming.

“Darbar mein aap ki nigah kabhi jhukti nahi,” he observed.

“Jhoot ke saamne jhukna be-adbi hoti.”

A pause.

His hand reached toward the document.

Your fingers brushed.

The contact was brief.

But unmistakable.

He stilled.

The tasbih in his other hand ceased its rhythm.

For the first time, you saw restraint strain.

Not collapse.

Strain.

He withdrew first.

“Aap ja sakti hain.”

His voice remained level.

But it required effort.

You bowed and left.

Behind you, the beads resumed—slightly faster than before.

Days passed.

Then weeks.

The pattern established itself with quiet inevitability.

Summons after dusk.

Consultations framed as necessity.

Conversations that lingered beyond political relevance.

He never smiled.

Never indulged softness.

Never crossed the invisible line that separated ruler from subject.

And yet—

He asked questions no emperor needed answered.

“Saltanat ke liye sab se bada khatra kya hai?”

“Ghuroor.”

“Aur Badshah ke liye?”

You hesitated.

“Tanhai.”

He regarded you carefully.

“Badshah tanha nahi hota. Us ke gird lashkar, wazir, mashir hote hain.”

“Magar faisle akelay karta hai.”

The words did not accuse.

They observed.

His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.

“Aap ko lagta hai hum tanha hain?”

“Ijazat ho to arz karun… jo shakhs jazbat par poora qabo rakhta hai, woh aksar tanha ho jata hai.”

Silence followed.

Heavy.

Intentional.

He stepped forward once more, close enough that you felt warmth through layers of silk.

His hand lifted—

Not decisively.

Not with the confidence of command.

It hovered near your cheek.

A ruler accustomed to control.

A man unfamiliar with hesitation.

Then—

It lowered.

“Yeh guftagu yahin muntahi hoti hai.”

Dismissal.

Again.

Controlled.

But not untouched.

Court noticed before you did.

The Mughal darbar was not easily shocked, but it was perpetually observant. Patterns were studied. Proximity was measured. Favour was weighed with ruthless accuracy.

Your presence had become a pattern.

At first, it had been administrative. Practical. Justifiable.

But repetition, in a place ruled by discipline, invited interpretation.

One afternoon, as the court debated revenue reforms, a senior mansabdar cast you a glance edged with faint disdain.

“Alam Panah,” he said smoothly, “kuch logon ko zaroorat se zyada qaribi naseeb ho rahi hai. Darbar mein haddain wazeh rehni chahiye.”

The implication was careful. Respectful. Dangerous.

Aurangzeb did not react immediately.

He let the silence stretch.

The court shifted uneasily.

Then, without raising his voice, he replied:

“Darbar ki haddain hum muqarrar karte hain.”

Nothing more.

No elaboration. No irritation.

The mansabdar bowed instantly. “Farman sar aankhon par.”

The matter ended.

But it did not disappear.

You felt the weight of altered gazes that day—curiosity sharpened by calculation.

That evening, the summons came earlier than usual.

When you entered the private chamber, he was seated at the writing desk rather than standing by the window. The lamp cast steady light across parchment, illuminating the deliberate stillness of his posture.

“Aap ne aaj jo dekha, us par kya rai hai?” he asked without looking up.

You understood his meaning.

“Darbar har cheez ko siyasi nazar se dekhta hai, huzoor.”

“Aur aap?” His eyes lifted.

“Me zarurat ko.”

A faint pause.

“Log zaroorat aur raghbat mein farq nahi kar pate,” he said.

“Log farq dhoondhte rehte hain,” you replied softly.

His gaze held yours longer than protocol required.

“Aap ko apni shohrat ki fikr hai?”

“Izzat hifazat se zyada nazuk hoti hai,” you said carefully. “Magar agar huzoor ka itminan ho, to logon ki rai ahmiyat kho deti hai.”

He leaned back slightly.

“Hum kisi ki rai se mutasir nahi hote.”

“Magar log farman se hote hain.”

Another silence.

This one different.

Less political.

More personal.

He rose slowly and crossed the space between you.

Not hastily.

Not thoughtlessly.

Deliberately.

“Aap ko maloom hai ke qaribi ka matlab kya hota hai?” he asked quietly.

You met his gaze. “Zimmedari.”

“Aur?” His voice lowered.

“Qeemat.”

His jaw tightened—subtle but visible.

“Tanhai ki qeemat?” he pressed.

“Har us shakhs ko ada karni padti hai jo qudrat se zyada qabo ko tarjeeh deta hai.”

Something in that answer struck deeper than either of you anticipated.

For a moment, he looked less like a sovereign and more like a man measuring his own reflection.

Then discipline returned like armor sliding back into place.

“Aap had se aage badh rahi hain,” he said.

“Ijazat ho to arz karun,” you replied evenly, “hadain aap ki marzi se badalti hain.”

His hand moved—swift enough to surprise, controlled enough not to alarm.

It closed around your wrist.

Not harshly.

Not violently.

But firmly.

The contact sent a quiet shock through the air.

He did not pull you closer.

He did not lean in.

He simply held.

The pulse beneath your skin beat steady.

His thumb shifted slightly—as if registering that rhythm.

The tasbih beads lay abandoned on the desk behind him.

“Aap ko dar nahi lagta?” he asked, voice lower now, almost introspective.

“Dar tab hota hai jab niyat par shakk ho,” you answered.

“Aur hamari niyat?” he pressed.

“Saltanat.”

The word hung between you like a shield.

His grip tightened for half a breath—

Then released.

He stepped back first.

Always him.

Always first.

“Aap ja sakti hain.”

The dismissal carried strain beneath its surface.

You bowed and turned.

Before reaching the door, you heard him speak again.

“Darbar mein aap ki jagah barqarar rahegi.”

It was not reassurance.

It was decree.

The days that followed grew heavier.

Whispers intensified. Courtiers measured your movements more carefully. Invitations were extended and withdrawn with equal subtlety.

But Aurangzeb’s conduct in public remained immaculate.

He did not single you out.

Did not praise you.

Did not protect you openly beyond what decorum required.

The restraint was deliberate.

Calculated.

And yet, the night summons continued.

One evening, rain fell against the palace roofs in steady rhythm. The air smelled of wet stone and distant earth. When you entered his chamber, he stood near the lattice window, watching the storm.

“Aaj barsaat der se aayi,” he murmured.

“Har cheez waqt par nahi hoti,” you replied.

“Magar hoti zaroor hai.”

He turned then.

There was something different in his gaze that night—less guarded, though no less intense.

“Hum ne apni zindagi ka har faisla aql se kiya,” he said slowly. “Jazbat ko kabhi hukm nahi diya.”

“Aur kya jazbat ne kabhi hukm maanga?” you asked softly.

His eyes darkened.

“Aap sawal zyada karne lagi hain.”

“Sawal na hon to jawab ki ahmiyat kam ho jati hai.”

The rain intensified outside, striking stone like distant drums.

He moved closer again.

Closer than before.

Close enough that your breath mingled in the dim light.

His hand lifted once more.

This time it did not hover uncertainly.

It reached your jaw.

Fingers resting just beneath your chin.

Not possessive.

Not gentle.

Steady.

He tilted your face upward slightly.

You held his gaze.

There was no smile in him.

No softness.

Only conflict held in iron restraint.

“Aap jaanti hain,” he said quietly, “ke har had ko paar karna mumkin hota hai.”

“Aur phir?” you whispered.

“Phir saltanat kamzor padti hai.”

“Aur agar saltanat aur shakhs mein takraav ho?” you asked.

His grip tightened fractionally.

“Saltanat kabhi nahi jhukti.”

It was not merely a political answer.

It was personal creed.

For a moment—just one—the distance between command and confession dissolved.

Then discipline returned.

He released you.

Stepped back.

Turned away.

“Aap ja sakti hain.”

This time, the words sounded like armor reforged.

You left.

And behind you, in a chamber built for power and restraint, Aurangzeb remained standing long after the rain ceased—wrestling not with rebellion or empire—

But with himself.

The change began with absence.

Three nights passed without summons.

No quiet knock at your door. No guarded escort through torch-lit corridors. No measured voice waiting in lamplit solitude.

Court resumed its disciplined rhythm. Petitions rose and fell. Governors reported. Decrees were signed.

Aurangzeb did not look at you longer than necessary.

If anything, he looked less.

The distance was deliberate.

And it unsettled you more than proximity ever had.

On the fourth evening, the summons came—not after dusk, but before the final assembly of court dispersed.

Unusual.

When you approached the Diwan-e-Khas, the hall was already half-empty. Ministers bowed themselves out, murmuring respectfully as they passed. The marble floor carried the faint echo of retreating footsteps.

He remained seated upon the elevated throne.

Still.

Composed.

Waiting.

“Darbar mukammal hua,” he said quietly. “Magar aap thehriye.”

The doors closed.

The hall expanded into silence once more.

This time, he did not descend immediately.

He regarded you from above—not arrogantly, but thoughtfully.

“Logon ki guftagu barh rahi hai,” he said.

You did not feign ignorance. “Darbar ko fursat kam hi milti hai, huzoor.”

“Aur jab milti hai,” he continued evenly, “to woh kahaniyan banata hai.”

“Har kahani mein sach ka hissa hota hai.”

He rose then.

Descended the steps slowly.

The distance between throne and marble narrowed.

“Aap kya samajhti hain,” he asked, stopping before you, “ke yeh silsila kis had tak ja sakta hai?”

You held his gaze steadily.

“Jitni ijazat di jaye.”

A long pause followed.

“Aur agar ijazat wapas le li jaye?”

The question was controlled.

But it carried weight.

“Phir bhi yaad rehta hai ke kabhi di gayi thi.”

For the first time, something almost like frustration flickered across his features.

“Aap har guftagu ko nazariyati bana deti hain.”

“Aap har ehsaas ko nazm mein bandh dete hain.”

The words left your mouth before caution intervened.

Silence struck the hall like a bell.

His eyes darkened—not with anger, but with something far more volatile.

He stepped closer.

Closer than ever before in public space.

“Hum ne apni zindagi mein kabhi jazbat ko hukm nahi diya,” he said, voice low but firm. “Har faisla aql se kiya.”

“Aur kya aql kabhi ghalat nahi hoti?” you asked softly.

His hand moved before either of you could reconsider.

It closed around your wrist again—but stronger this time.

Not violent.

But decisive.

He pulled you a step closer.

Close enough that the vastness of the Diwan-e-Khas faded into irrelevance.

“Aap had ko azma rahi hain,” he said quietly.

“Had aap ne muqarrar ki thi,” you replied.

His grip tightened slightly.

“Aur hum use tod bhi sakte hain.”

The words were not boastful.

They were truth.

You felt your pulse beneath his hand.

Steady.

Unflinching.

“Agar todi,” you said, voice barely above breath, “to phir kya bachega?”

His gaze searched your face.

For the first time, there was no calculation in it.

No emperor.

Only conflict.

“Saltanat,” he answered at last.

“Ya khud?”

The question landed like a blade wrapped in silk.

His fingers shifted, rising from your wrist to your jaw once more.

He tilted your face upward—not harshly, not gently.

Steadily.

Your breath mingled in the vast stillness of the hall.

For one suspended moment, centuries of discipline trembled.

His forehead nearly brushed yours.

Not quite.

Never quite.

“Aap samajhti nahi,” he murmured, voice roughened by restraint. “Badshah ka har qadam tareekh likhta hai.”

“Aur agar tareekh mein ek lamha insaniyat ka likha jaye?” you whispered.

His jaw tightened.

“Aur agar us lamhe se saltanat kamzor ho?”

“Aur agar us se aap kam tanha ho jayein?”

The word lingered between you.

Tanha.

He closed his eyes for a fraction of a second.

Only a fraction.

When they opened again, the emperor had returned fully.

His grip loosened.

Then vanished entirely.

He stepped back first.

Always him.

Always first.

“Yeh guftagu yahin khatam hoti hai,” he said, voice steady once more.

Not strained.

Not broken.

Reforged.

“Aap kal se darbar mein hazir rahengi. Magar raat ki mulaqatein muntahi.”

The decree was final.

You felt the absence before it even settled.

“Aapka farmaan sarankho par, Alam Panah.”

A flicker—barely visible—crossed his face at the formal title.

He turned away from you.

Faced the throne once more.

“Hum ne apni zindagi mein bohot kuch qurban kiya,” he said quietly, though his back was to you. “Yeh bhi sahi.”

There was no bitterness in his voice.

Only acceptance.

You stood for a moment longer.

Waiting.

But he did not turn.

“Aap ja sakti hain.”

The final dismissal.

You bowed.

Walked across the marble floor.

Each step echoed softly.

At the threshold, you paused—not long enough to be defiant, not short enough to be indifferent.

He did not look back.

The doors closed.

From the next day forward, nothing appeared altered.

You stood in court as before. Spoke when necessary. Remained when required.

He treated you with immaculate distance.

His gaze did not linger.

His tone did not lower.

The empire saw an emperor unchanged.

Disciplined.

Unyielding.

But once—only once—during a quiet debate over provincial levies, your eyes met across the hall.

Just for a second.

In that second, you saw it.

Not regret.

Not longing.

But knowledge.

He had chosen.

And so had you.

Silence would remain between you—not empty, but deliberate.

He would not name what nearly was.

He would not claim what threatened order.

He would not allow desire to fracture rule.

And yet—

Long after the court dispersed, and long after torches dimmed in palace corridors, Aurangzeb would sometimes pause by the lattice window of his private chamber.

Tasbih beads moving steadily between his fingers.

Discipline intact.

Empire secure.

But the memory of a boundary almost crossed—

Burning quietly in the one place he permitted no rebellion.

His own heart.

A/N : Soooo Do we like it ??

I have originally planned it to be a 3 part series.

Also, @kajuuuukatliiiiii mj would you like me to integrate smut into this or should I keep this high tension only ??

Moving on to my current fics Lines don't cross is finally over. Stitches & Secrets is a 10 chapter + Epilogue fic. I have another Major Iqbal coming up for my girl @sarahmuradjuber

Credit for divider : @uzmacchiato

Queen 👑.

I don’t see Indian Christians supporting the British just because they were Christians.

Urdubegis

The urdubegis were a group of female warriors in the Mughal Empire, who protected the zenana, the harem of the emperor. Although the origins of female bodyguards go back to the beginning of Indian civilizations, the urdubegis were a Mughal creation. The only member of the urdubegis known by name is Bibi Fatima, who served in Humayun's and Akbar's court.

Origins

Starting from Chandragupta Maurya's court, we have two important texts that mention the need for female bodyguards. The first text comes from Megasthenes, a Greek ambassador to the court of Chandragupta Maurya (r. c. 321 to c. 297 BCE). He reports the presence of women who protected the Mauryan king, especially while he was out hunting. Women hunters accompanied the king, riding on chariots, horses, and elephants equipped with weapons. Although having male guards next to the king for his protection, was something very common in the Western world, the presence of their female counterparts was a bit of a surprise for Megasthenes.

The second text was the Arthashastra, written by Kautilya (l. c. 350-275 BCE), the advisor of Chandragupta Maurya. He wrote about the necessity of female guards due to the number of murders of previous kings. Kautilya describes the dangers of the harem:

When in the interior of the harem, the king shall see the queen only when her personal purity is vouchsafed by an old maidservant. He shall not touch any woman (unless he is apprised of her personal purity); for hidden in the queen's chamber, his own brother killed Bhadrasena; hiding himself under the bed of his mother, the son murdered king Karusa; mixed rice with poison, as though with honey, his own queen poisoned Kasiraja; with an anklet painted with poison, his own queen killed Vairantya; with a gem of her zone bedaubed with poison, his own queen killed Souvira; with a looking-glass painted with poison, his own queen killed Jalutha; and with a weapon hidden under her tuft of hair, his own queen slew Viduratha. (1.20, ed. Kangle)

Between 340 and 293 BCE, another group of female warriors was formed under the instruction of Kautilya. Known as the Visha Kanya (Poison Girls), these women were trained from childhood by being given small doses of poison, which would gradually help them build up a tolerance. Thus, these assassins would lure their prey by using their beauty and charm and then administer the kiss of death to the enemy of the King. According to a 9th-century Arabic text, the Secreta Secretorum, Aristotle (384-322 BCE) warned his student Alexander the Great (r. 336-323 BCE) about the dangers of these "venomous virgins" before the young general set off on his Indian campaign. In another legend, the death of Alexander the Great was said to be the result of an embrace with a Visha Kanya, that may have been given to him as a trophy by King Porus, after his defeat.

The Visha Kanya were Indian, but other female bodyguards may have been brought from Central Asia, where the ancient Greeks believed the Amazons and other warlike women were located. Unfortunately, many sources are tantalizingly silent regarding the social background of these armed women. In ancient India, a king's retinue of women displayed his power, wealth, and status. Thus, female bodyguards seemed to serve two purposes: not only did they protect the king but also added to the king's stature in a theatrical display of divine power. While these warriors did exist, they did not have a specific title by which they were known, until the Mughal era.

What if we organize a fest for 🍊 on Tumblr like other Tumbler people do for Caesar. My idea is, we can all make drawings of maratha attire, war drum sounds, war slogans etc. once a year so that Aura minus breaks his leg again. What do you think?

OMG YOO THAT'S SUCH A GREAT IDEA LOL

I'm most interested in making 🍊 break him leg again while shitting 🤣🤣🤣🤣