Salim felt content as he approached the Agra gate of Fatehpur Sikri. It had been a good morning’s hawking and his birds had performed well, swooping down through the pale early morning light on doves and rats alike. Even better, in a few weeks’ time he was to accompany his father on a long hunting trip. Akbar’s hunting leopards, with their jewelled collars and velvet blindfolds, would soon be being readied to go with them in their brocade-covered wicker cages, and hundreds of beaters would be making their preparations too.
Salim was pleased that his father had invited him, in preference to either of his half-brothers. Over the eight months since his nighttime visit to Shaikh Salim Chishti he had done as the Sufi suggested, observing his father’s daily rituals whenever he could, from his dawn appearance to his people to his daily audiences when, surrounded by courtiers and protected by his heavily armed guards, he received petitions and dispensed justice. The Sufi’s words had given him confidence that whatever else happened, one day these would be his tasks. He had begun worrying less about what his father thought of him and concentrating more on what it meant to be a ruler of men. As the Sufi had predicted, this seemed to have gained him a little more of his father’s approval.
If only Abul Fazl wasn’t always there, scribbling in those ledgers of his and whispering in Akbar’s ear. But his influence with his father remained as strong as ever. Whenever there was a problem, Abul Fazl, as he himself might put it in his ornate style, dodged between the raindrops of his father’s criticism, unlike many others who failed to meet Akbar’s exacting standards. It was Abul Fazl who often prompted his father to request that Salim leave meetings, arguing that the subject matter meant they should be restricted to those most closely involved. Salim also suspected that Abul Fazl was behind Akbar’s stopping him from attending any meetings of his military council, much to his dismay.
‘Protect His Highness, the prince! Seize those men.’ The sudden shouts of the commander of Salim’s bodyguard jolted him from his thoughts. Almost simultaneously a man in a scruffy dark brown robe darted straight across the path of Salim’s horse, which skittered sideways in alarm. Salim pulled hard on the reins to steady it while struggling to unsheathe his sword. Just behind him he heard the neighing of his qorchi’s horse and the youth’s muttered curses as he fought to control it. Almost at once another man — dressed strangely and with a sword in one hand and a dagger in the other — came hurtling in pursuit of the first, roaring words that Salim couldn’t understand.
The first man, clearly almost out of breath and with the second gaining fast on him, vanished down a narrow, rubbish-filled alley between two rows of mud-brick houses. Four of Salim’s bodyguards had already jumped from their saddles and were racing after the two men — the alleyway was too narrow for horses. Minutes later Salim heard more shouting and yelling. Soon after, the two malefactors emerged, driven from the alley by the tips of the guards’ swords. The man brandishing the weapons had been disarmed but he was glaring furiously around him. The other had a bleeding cut above his left eye. The guards had clearly not been quick enough to prevent a clash between the two. Halting them a few yards in front of Salim, a guard struck them behind the knees with the flat of his sword, sending both sprawling face down to the ground. Then two more guards stood over them, feet resting in the smalls of their backs in case either should think of trying to get up.
Now that he could see them properly, Salim realised that the one in the dark robe was a Jesuit priest. The cord round his thin waist was frayed and the feet Salim could see protruding from beneath the hem of his garment were clad in the kind of thick-soled brown sandals that he had often seen the Jesuit visitors to his father’s court wearing. But the other man was a puzzle. Salim stared down at the stocky, broad-shouldered figure. He was clearly also a foreigner, and among the more bizarre Salim had ever seen. His long, curly hair was a bright orange — somewhere between saffron and gold. He was wearing a short, tight-fighting leather jacket beneath which his backside was encased in billowing striped trousers that ended mid-thigh and were secured by maroon ribbons. From this curious clothing protruded long, skinny legs clad in fine-woven yellow wool stockings. On one of his feet he wore a pointed black leather shoe. The other had clearly been lost in the scuffle in the alley.
‘Stand them up,’ Salim ordered. As his guards hauled the two men to their feet, he leaned forward from the saddle to get a better look at the men’s faces. The Jesuit he recognised — he was one of half a dozen priests sent from the Portuguese trading settlement at Goa at Akbar’s request to work with his scholars on translating some of their holy books from Latin into Persian. He was a thin, gangling man with angry red pustules on one side of his face and even though some ten feet separated them Salim could smell the acrid, sweaty stench of him. It was a mystery to him why these foreigners didn’t visit the bathhouses — the hammans. How could they endure to stink like mules?
The other man looked even odder standing up. He had a clean-shaven upper lip but a pointed beard like a billy goat’s. His bulbous, pale-lashed eyes were bright blue and his complexion nearly as red as his hair — or, in the case of the shining, peeling end of his nose, even redder. He began brushing the dust from his garments.
‘What has been going on?’ Salim addressed the Jesuit in Persian, knowing he could probably speak it.
The priest drew himself up. ‘Highness, this man insulted my religion. He called my master the Pope a scarlet whore of Babylon. . he said-’
‘Enough.’ Salim had no idea what the Jesuit was talking about except that there had been a quarrel about religion. ‘Where is he from?’
‘From England. He is a merchant newly arrived in Fatehpur Sikri with some of his devilish companions.’
‘What did you say to make him so angry he unsheathed his weapons?’
‘Only the truth, Highness, that the queen of his country is a bastard whore who will rot in hell as will all his miserable heretic compatriots.’
The merchant was listening to the exchange beneath lowering brows though clearly unable to comprehend a word. Salim knew where England was. A small country on a wind-buffeted, rainwashed island on the fringes of the known world ruled by a queen with hair as red as this man’s. He had even seen a miniature portrait of her brought to the court by a Turkish merchant who knew of Akbar’s love of curiosities. He had sold his father the picture in its oval tortoiseshell frame studded with tiny pearls for a good sum. The queen, wearing a cream-coloured gown standing out stiffly from her body, had looked more like a doll than a woman.
‘Does this merchant speak any Persian?’
‘No, Highness. These English are a crude, uneducated people. They speak nothing but their own simple tongue and all they care about is trade and making money.’
‘Enough. I wish to question him. As you seem to know something of his language, you will translate for me. Make sure you do so accurately.’
The Jesuit nodded glumly.
‘Ask him why he makes war on the emperor’s streets.’
After a brief exchange in what sounded to Salim a terse, guttural tongue, lacking the graceful cadences of Persian, the Jesuit, lip curling with contempt, replied, ‘He claims he wished to avenge the insult against his queen, his country and his religion.’
‘Tell him there will be no brawling on our streets and that he is lucky I do not have him thrown into prison or flogged. But I will be merciful because I can see there was blame on both sides. Tell him also to come to the court. My father will wish to question him about his country, I am sure. As for you, be careful whom you insult in our land. Like this man from England, you too are only a visitor.’
‘I bid you welcome to my ibadat khana, my hall of worship. A monarch’s first duty is to preserve his borders and if possible extend them as I have done and will do again. But I believe that a great ruler should also be intent on extending the boundaries of human knowledge and understanding. He must be ever curious, ever questioning, and through knowledge seek to improve the lot of his people. That is why I have summoned not only the ulama and many Muslim scholars here but also the representatives of other faiths. Together we will debate questions of religion, and by exploring what is true and what is false and what is common to us all seek to shed a new light on its real meaning.’
Salim, standing towards the back of the vast hall, had seldom seen his father look more magnificent. Akbar was dressed in a bright green brocade tunic and trousers, with ropes of emeralds round his neck and on his head a turban of cloth of gold glittering with diamonds. A golden candelabra, tall as a man, stood on each side of his throne, which was positioned on a high dais approached by a flight of marble stairs. The dais itself was placed towards the back of a great sandstone platform on which were grouped the assembled clerics. The overall effect was as if his father were seated on the summit of a mountain and the men beneath him were the trees clothing its slopes.
The mullahs of the ulama were dressed in black — stout Shaikh Ahmad was in the front rank while Abul Fazl’s father, Shaikh Mubarak, was standing a little to one side of the main group. The Jesuits were in their usual coarse dark brown robes, cords knotted round their waists and wooden crosses hanging from their necks. Salim could see among them Father Francisco Henriquez and his companion Father Antonio Monserrate who, when they had originally come to the court nearly five years ago, had been the first Christians he had ever encountered.
There were also five Hindu priests, calm-faced men wearing only white loincloths and a long loop of cotton thread round their left shoulders and passing beneath their right arms. Near them stood holy men whom Salim knew to be Jains and by their side fire-venerating Zoroastrians who had come to Hindustan long ago from Persia and laid their dead on the tops of ‘towers of silence’ to be picked clean by birds until their bones shone white. Salim recognised the tall, thin old man with a white beard and lively bright eyes standing behind the Zoroastrians as a Jew from Kashan in Persia — a scholar who had recently come to Akbar’s court and found employment in his library.
On the floor of the ibadat khana — because he was not himself a man of God — was the red-haired English merchant Salim had encountered three months ago and whose name — it still sounded strange to him — was John Newberry. By his side were his two equally oddly dressed companions. The three Englishmen had taken lodgings in the town while they awaited a reply from his father to a petition they claimed to have brought from their queen seeking permission to trade. Just as Salim had anticipated, Akbar was keenly interested in what the strangers could tell him of their faraway world and of their religion which, though also Christian, seemed very different from the faith of the Portuguese Jesuits.
The whole scene made Salim’s heart swell with pride. Though his father had said little to him about why he was constructing the ibadat khana, he had often gone to watch the sandstone building rising up. Having heard his father’s words he now understood its purpose — to help satisfy Akbar’s growing curiosity about religion. His mother had been wrong to deride the Moghuls as barbarians, Salim thought. What higher pursuit could a man follow than to enquire into matters of the mind, the very meaning of existence itself? His father in his glittering robes with his eagle-hilted sword by his side seemed the embodiment not just of physical might but of true greatness. His grandmother had spoken shrewdly when she had told him how skilled Akbar was at creating spectacle and how important was the image he projected to impress upon his audience that he was a man dazzlingly unlike any other. If he were to succeed his father, would he ever be able to reproduce such presence?
‘I have heard that in far-off lands Christian men burn each other alive for reasons of religious belief,’ Akbar was saying. ‘I would like Father Francisco and Father Antonio to explain this to me. Let them speak up so that all can hear.’
The Jesuits exchanged a few words in low voices, then at a nod from his taller companion Father Francisco began to speak. ‘You are correct, Majesty, that in Europe a battle for men’s souls is being fought. A great evil has come amongst us of the Catholic faith — we call it Protestantism. Its followers have strayed from the true path and refuse to acknowledge the authority of our great spiritual leader in Rome, the Pope, who stands between us miserable sinners and God and is God’s representative on earth. The Protestants reject and revile our most sacred beliefs and read heretical translations of our holy Bible in their own tongue, claiming they have no need of an intermediary between themselves and God. In good Catholic countries holy men — we call them the Inquisition — devote their lives to rooting out these heretics and, when they find them, forcing them to recant. Those who refuse are consigned living to the flames as the first taste of the torments of eternal damnation.’
‘What of those who agree to return to your “true path”?’ Akbar asked. His eyes, resting on the Jesuits’ faces, looked very intent.
‘Even if they acknowledge their error, their earthly bodies are still consigned to the flames to cleanse their souls of sin and make them worthy to enter the kingdom of heaven.’
‘How do you persuade men to change their beliefs? By debate, such as we are having here?’
The fathers exchanged glances. ‘Indeed, we use force of argument to bring stray sheep back to the fold, but regrettably we must sometimes also employ physical force.’
‘My scholars have read to me of such things — of devices for stretching the body of a man until his joints leap from their sockets, of a great wheel on which men are spread-eagled naked and beaten with iron bars until the marrow spurts from their bones, of knotted ropes twisted tight against men’s eyes until their eyeballs burst. .’
‘Sometimes it is necessary, Majesty. The torment of a few hours is nothing compared to the red-hot fires of eternal hell.’
‘You torture women and children as well as men?’
‘The devil casts a wide net, Majesty. Women are especially weak vessels, and tender years are no protection.’
‘But how can you be sure that the tortured have truly repented and are not dissimulating to make their torments cease?’
‘Our Catholic Inquisitors are skilled in such matters, Majesty, just as your investigators are. Only last week I saw two suspected thieves being buried up to their arms in hot sand to make them confess to their misdeeds. I see no difference.’
‘The difference lies in whether a crime has been committed. In the case of the thieves, undoubtedly a felony had taken place and the magistrates were attempting to discover the truth. But does one religion have the right to force its opinions on another? Isn’t that the question we should be addressing? In my realms, I do not distinguish between men because of their religion. My advisers, my commanders and even my wives are not all of my own faith.’
The Jesuits looked grave and Salim could see Shaikh Ahmad vigorously shaking his head and muttering something to another of the ulama, but no one spoke.
‘Let us extend our enquiry. .’ Akbar continued, seemingly content that the import of his words had sunk in. ‘You have told me your beliefs, but let us now hear from one of these Protestants you were speaking of with such disdain. . I wish to question the Englishman John Newberry. One of my scholars, a Turk, knows his language and can translate.’
The red-headed Englishman looked as confident as a turkey cock and about as truculent, Salim thought, as he strutted forward, the Turkish interpreter by his side.
‘What is your religion, John Newberry? Tell the assembled people just as you have told me in private.’
The merchant muttered a few words to the Turk who began to translate in a somewhat hesitant voice. ‘I am English and a Protestant and proud to be both.’
‘You told me that your queen is the head of your religion. Explain to us how that came about.’
Again more whispering between Newberry and the Turk, but the interpreter seemed to be gaining in confidence and, though having to pause every few seconds for fresh information, was soon able to keep up a smooth commentary. ‘When he was very young, Her Majesty’s father, our great King Henry, married a princess who had once been betrothed to his brother. However, as the years passed and she bore him only one surviving child — a daughter — he realised that by wedding his brother’s affianced bride he had sinned in the eyes of God. He sought to remedy the ill by divorcing her but the Pope — whom these Jesuits revere so much — refused to allow it. Our king decided that he could not permit such interference in the governing of his kingdom. He declared himself the head of the church in England, divorced his wife and married the woman who gave birth to our present great and blessed queen, Elizabeth.’
‘You have told me your religion allows a man only one wife, but I have heard that this King of England, Henry, took six wives. How? Are there different rules for a king in your country?’
‘No, Majesty. Our queen’s mother was found guilty of adultery — it was even said she was a witch — and executed. The king married yet again but his third queen died when her son was not two weeks old. He divorced his fourth wife — a foreign princess — because she did not please his eye. His fifth wife — young and beautiful but sadly not virtuous — also fell into the snare of adultery and was beheaded on his orders. But the king’s sixth and final wife, a modest matron, outlived him.’
‘Your king might have saved himself some trouble had he followed our path and taken more than one wife at a time. And it seems he did not guard his haram well. .’ A ripple of laughter went around the hall of worship, but neither the Englishman nor the Jesuits were smiling as the Turk translated Akbar’s words.
‘Tell me about your queen, John Newberry. Are the men of your country content to be ruled by a woman?’
‘She is loved by our people because she protects us from the Catholic menace and keeps us free.’
‘Has she no husband?’
‘She glories in being a virgin. Many foreign princes have wooed her but she says England is her bridegroom.’
‘Is she beautiful?’
‘She is more than beautiful — she is glorious.’
Salim saw Father Antonio whispering urgently into Father Francisco’s ear and after a few moments the latter stepped forward. ‘If I might speak, Majesty,’ he said in his smooth court Persian. ‘You are in danger of being misled by this merchant. This queen of England was born of a sinful union between a king inflamed by lust and a proven whore. This Elizabeth is not the legitimate ruler of her country — which by rights should be ruled by the Catholic King of Spain — but a bastard heretic leading her country to eternal damnation. Our master the Pope in Rome has cast her out and she will burn for ever.’
The Turk was translating all this for Newberry, whose already crimson countenance was darkening as he took in what the priest had said, but Salim saw that Akbar was starting to look bored. His father enjoyed philosophical debate rather than the trading of insults, and Salim was not surprised when he rose abruptly.
‘Enough. We will resume our enquiries another day,’ he said, and swept from the chamber.
It was a perfect autumn day. Sunlight filtered through the dense foliage of the forest as the beaters advanced, banging their gongs and shouting to drive the game ahead of them. Salim enjoyed the rhythmic motion as the elephant bearing him and his three attendants plodded on. Some ten yards ahead he could see his father’s elephant, Lakna, left hind leg scored by the claws of a male tiger many years earlier. Lakna was Akbar’s favourite hunting elephant. He had captured him himself, while still a youth, from a herd of wild elephants, then tamed him.
Salim had watched his father fearlessly break other elephants. It was a dangerous business requiring two men, each perched on a tame elephant on either side of the wild beast. Once in position, their task was to fling a noose of stout rope round the neck of the wild elephant and secure it to the neck of their own mount. Then, by progressively tightening the noose, they were able gradually to calm the beast and bring it under control. Salim had seen many good men killed during the process. It was easy to fall off and what chance did a man have beneath the feet of an enraged elephant? Several times he had heard the sickening squelch of a body trampled beneath a heavy grey foot. Even after the initial subduing, months of hard work remained, training the beast to advance to order by throwing fodder down on the ground before it. But Lakna had served Akbar well, and amply repaid the time he had spent.
The temperature was rising and a bead of salty sweat ran into the corner of Salim’s mouth. He flicked it away with the tip of his tongue. Soon the circle of beaters, who had been closing in since dawn, would be tight enough and the hunt would begin. Glancing over his shoulder he saw his qorchi was following close behind on a horse and leading his own black stallion in case he should wish to exchange the elephant for a faster mount. His heart was thudding with the excitement he always felt in the hunt. He was a good marksman — equally accurate with musket or arrow — and perhaps today he would impress his father. He would like to have been riding with him on Lakna in the golden howdah festooned with green ribbons, but as usual the bulky figure of Abul Fazl was by Akbar’s side.
The brief shadow that fell on Salim’s spirits as he watched his father’s elephant advance into a particularly thickly wooded part of the forest passed quickly. He must continue to do as Shaikh Salim Chishti had told him — wait and watch and learn and all would come right. And it was good that his father had invited him on the hunt. Hearing a sudden shouting from up ahead, Salim reached over his shoulder to check that his quiver and bow were in place and then ran his hand over the smooth steel barrel of his musket, a beautiful weapon inlaid with triangles of mother-of-pearl. Yes, he was ready.
But then he realised that the shouts were more than a cry for the hunt to begin and were growing louder. Among them he could make out the words, ‘His Majesty is ill! Fetch the hakims!’ There was a sudden thudding of hooves and two of Akbar’s mounted bodyguard burst through the foliage ahead of him and galloped off towards the back of the line where the court hakims who always accompanied the hunt were travelling in their bullock cart.
‘What is it? What’s happened to my father?’ Salim shouted but in the confusion no one was attending to him. Heart pounding, he climbed over the edge of his howdah and lowered himself on two gilded straps until he was close enough to the ground to jump lightly down. Dodging more riders and a group of beaters, metal gongs now silent in their hands, Salim ran forward. His father’s elephant Lakna was on its knees and beside the great grey shape Salim saw a group of men clustered around a supine figure. Forcing his way through, Salim saw Akbar lying on his back, body arching as spasms rocked it. As Salim stared, he found himself repeating over and over, ‘Please God, not yet.’ His ambitions and his fears for the future no longer seemed to matter.
Akbar was thrashing more wildly, and red blood mingling with a dribble of spittle oozing from his mouth showed that he had bitten his tongue. Salim watched helplessly. In his mind’s eye he already saw himself standing beside Murad and Daniyal at their father’s funeral. He heard Hamida’s and Gulbadan’s wails of grief and saw the smile curving his mother’s lips at the knowledge that the man she regarded as the enemy of her people was dead.
Abul Fazl was loosening the turquoise clasps of his father’s tunic, fingers trembling. ‘Stand back, all of you, give His Majesty some air. .’ he was saying. At that moment one of the bodyguards returned, a white-robed, white-turbaned hakim mounted behind him. The crowd parted to let the doctor through. He was a young, sharp-featured man whose intelligent brown eyes seemed to take in the situation at once.
Dropping to his knees beside Akbar he seized his arms and held them steady. ‘You!’ he shouted without ceremony to Abul Fazl. ‘Hold His Majesty’s legs to help calm him. And you there,’ he nodded at another courtier, ‘fold a clean piece of linen — handkerchief, face cloth, whatever comes to hand — and ram it hard between His Majesty’s jaws or he may bite through his tongue.’
‘Hakim, what can I do for my father?’ Salim asked.
The doctor glanced round. ‘Nothing,’ he said tersely and turned back to his patient. Salim hesitated a moment, then getting to his feet pushed his way through the onlookers. If he couldn’t help he would rather not watch.
The sunlight that had seemed so full of promise for a good day’s sport barely half an hour ago as it shafted through the canopy of leaves was now lighting the forest floor with a harsh, metallic brightness. Salim wandered away through a patch of low, scrubby bushes, neither noticing nor caring where his feet were taking him. Reaching a clearing he paused, and more by instinct than anything else suddenly became aware of a pair of bright eyes watching him through some branches. It was a young deer, the velvet mantling on its antlers the very palest brown. Slowly Salim reached behind him for his bow but then stopped. What was the point? There was enough death in the world.
Almost at once the deer bounded away. Salim listened to the sounds of the frightened animal crashing through the scrub and then turned to retrace his own steps. Whatever was happening to his father, he must face up to it and any implications it had for him. He couldn’t hide in the forest like a dumb beast and anyway in a few moments he would be missed — imperial princes couldn’t wander off on their own unnoticed. But he dreaded what he would see as he emerged once more into the open. The hakim was standing up now with a crowd gathered around him, listening to what he had to say. But where was Akbar? Salim broke into a run.
As he drew closer, staring around him in panic, he saw his father sitting propped against a tree trunk, Abul Fazl holding a flask of water to his lips. His bodyguards had formed a protective circle around them but they parted as Salim ran up. ‘Father. .’ He was half-sobbing with relief to see Akbar, a little paler than usual and long dark hair dishevelled, but otherwise much as usual. The bright eyes that he now turned on his son had lost none of their disconcerting penetration.
‘There is no need for concern. I have had a vision — a direct communication with God. I felt my whole body shaking with joy, and God revealed to me what I must do. We are abandoning the hunt and returning at once to Fatehpur Sikri, where I have an announcement to make to my people. Go now, and let me rest.’
Salim turned away, feeling that his father had somehow rebuffed him. If his father had received some divine revelation why wouldn’t he share it with him? Did he think he was not to be trusted? Glancing round, he saw the man whom just a little while ago he had thought close to death whispering with Abul Fazl and realised that all the anxiety he had felt had turned to nothing more noble than resentment. He was angry with himself, but angrier still with Akbar.
‘I have summoned you here to the great mosque in Fatehpur Sikri to hear an important pronouncement.’
Dressed in cloth of gold and with three nodding white egrets feathers secured to his turban by a ruby clasp, Akbar gazed around at the assembled mullahs, courtiers and commanders. Salim, standing amongst them, glanced up at the small women’s gallery concealed from public view by a carved jali where he knew that Hamida and Gulbadan were watching and listening. Did they have any idea what Akbar was going to say? He didn’t. For the past three days since Akbar had returned from his hunting expedition the court had been awash with rumours. Akbar had shut himself away in his private quarters, seeing only Abul Fazl and, on two occasions, Shaikh Mubarak. Some even claimed that Akbar was about to declare himself a Christian.
‘Several days ago, in his infinite goodness God spoke to me and revealed his heart. He said that he had chosen me because, like other prophets before me, I cannot read and my mind therefore remains open to hearing his voice in all its strength and purity. He told me that a true ruler must not leave the conduct of divine worship to others but take this great responsibility upon their own shoulders. Today is Friday, our day of prayer. In past times I would have asked one of our learned mullahs to mount the pulpit to lead us in our worship and to recite the khutba. But because of what God is asking of me, I must fulfil that task in front of you all.’
To gasps of surprise Akbar turned and climbed the steep carved rosewood stairs leading up to the marble pulpit. Then in his deep, resonating voice he began to recite, his voice building to a climax as the final words rang out, ‘Blessed be His Majesty! Allah Akbar!’
Salim’s head jerked back with surprise. Allah Akbar meant ‘God is great,’ but his father’s words could also mean ‘Akbar is God’. Was his father claiming some sort of divinity? All around him he heard a surprised buzz of conversation. But looking up again he saw his father coolly observing the effect of his ambiguous cry. He raised his hands for silence, which fell instantly. ‘I have commanded my most trusted spiritual adviser Shaikh Mubarak to draw up a document that I will require every mullah in my empire to sign, which states that in any question of religious interpretation I — not they — am the final arbiter.’
Salim saw Shaikh Ahmad and the other members of the ulama exchange shocked glances as they took in the full import of their emperor’s words — that he stood higher in the knowledge of God than any mullah. Just like that King of England, Akbar was claiming for himself not only the role of head of state but of the head of religion within his empire. Akbar was smiling a little and Salim felt a new awe for the father whom with every passing day he felt little closer to understanding.