Shadow Princess

by Indu Sundaresan

  Praise for Shadow Princess

  “From a few lines in various historic documents, Sundaresan brings to life two little-known though remarkable women who, though they lived in the shadows of great men, proved that still greater women stood behind them.”

  —The Oregonian

  “Sundaresan marshals extensive knowledge of Indian culture and history to tell the story of Roshanara and Jahangir as well as that of the Taj Mahal. A perfect read for those who wish to delve deeply into the cultural struggles of Indian women and the Taj Mahal’s celebrated architecture.”

  —Booklist

  “Sundaresan has a scholar’s fascination with the period; she’s at her best describing the opulent court or the construction of the Taj Mahal.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Sundaresan brings sober devotion to the dynastic tale. . . . A mine of fabulous detail on the daily lives of the Mughal emperors.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “Heavily researched and expertly written. . . . An exhilarating mixture of character and event, emotion and intrigue, extravagance and architecture.”

  —India Currents

  “Enthralling. . . . Sundaresan handles very complicated and varied history with a beautiful simplicity. The book never becomes bogged down in details, yet she provides a vivid look at an amazing period in Indian history. . . . I can’t sing her praises highly enough.”

  —S. Krishna’s Books

  . . . and for Indu Sundaresan’s other remarkable historical novels

  The Twentieth Wife

  “Sundaresan’s debut is a sweeping, carefully researched tale of desire, sexual mores, and political treachery set against the backdrop of sixteenth and seventeenth-century India. . . . Sundaresan charts the chronology of the Mughal Empire, describing life in the royal court in convincing detail and employing authentic period terms throughout.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Fascinating. . . . The Twentieth Wife offers a rich and intimate view into palace life during the late sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries—and an incisive look at gender roles of that period.”

  —USA Today

  “A rousing tale of the rise of the most powerful woman in Mughal Empire India—she who set into motion the forces that would, among other things and not at all incidentally, result in the building of the Taj Majal.”

  —San Diego Union-Tribune

  “Rich and realistic. . . . [A] delicious story.”

  —The Seattle Times

  “Indu Sundaresan has written a fascinating novel about a fascinating time, and has brought it alive with characters that are at once human and legendary, that move with grace and panache across the brilliant stage she has reconstructed for them.”

  —Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni, author of One Amazing Thing

  “Informative, convincing, and madly entertaining. The reader comes away with an unexpected vision of the power behind the veil.”

  —Marilyn Yalom, author of A History of the Wife

  The Feast of Roses

  “Imaginative storytelling.”

  —India West

  “The novel’s scope and ambition are impressive.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Pepper[ed] beautifully with her rich and well-informed vision of 17th-century Mughal India.”

  —Seattle Weekly

  “Sundaresan weaves a seamless story, integrating solid research about the political affairs of the Mughal kingdom into the fictionalized account of Mehrunissa’s life as empress so skillfully that she brings a sense of easy familiarity to Mughal court life.”

  —The Seattle Times

  The Splendor of Silence

  “Sundaresan unfolds her bittersweet story in flashbacks that are full of sharply drawn details and adroit dialogue. It’s a riveting read.”

  — The Seattle Times

  “Indu Sundaresan expertly blends together history, memorable characters, and the sights, colors, and smells of India to create a hugely compelling novel. It is, quite literally, a feast for the senses.”

  —David Davidar, author of The Solitude of Emperors

  “Indu Sundaresan continues to display her talents as a great novelist of historical fiction. Finely researched and full of evocative details, this sweeping tale of intrigue brings to life a fascinating era with richly drawn characters and a story that is engrossing, deep, and surprising. Sundaresan will certainly please her many enduring fans as well as draw in a wave of new ones.”

  —Samina Ali, author of Madras on Rainy Days

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  For my mother, Madhuram,

  and

  my daughter, Sitara

  Sketch of the Taj Mahal Complex c.1648

  Principal Characters

  (In alphabetical order)

  Abul Hasan

  Jahanara’s maternal grandfather

  Ahmad Lahori

  Architect of the Luminous Tomb

  Akbar

  Third Emperor of Mughal India (r. 1556–1605)

  Amanat Khan

  Calligrapher employed at the Luminous Tomb

  Antarah

  Jahanara’s son

  Arjumand Banu

  Titled Empress Mumtaz Mahal; Jahanara’s mother

  AURANGZEB

  Jahanara’s third brother; later, the sixth Emperor of Mughal India (r. 1658–1707)

  Babur

  First Emperor of Mughal India (r. 1526–30)

  Dara Shikoh

  Jahanara’s first brother; the expected heir to the Empire

  Ghias Beg

  Titled Itimadaddaula; Jahanara’s maternal great-grandfather

  Humayun

  Second Emperor of Mughal India (r. 1530–40; 1555–56)

  Ishaq Beg

  Jahanara’s eunuch

  JAHANARA

  Shah Jahan and Mumtaz Mahal’s first daughter and oldest surviving child

  Jahangir

  Fourth Emperor of Mughal India (r. 1605–27); Jahanara’s paternal grandfather

  Khurram

  Titled Emperor Shah Jahan; Jahanara’s father

  Mahabat Khan

  The Khan-i-khanan; Commander in Chief of the imperial armies

  Mehrunnisa

  Empress Nur Jahan; Jahanara’s maternal grandaunt; Emperor Jahangir’s twentieth wife

  Mumtaz Mahal

  Jahanara’s mother, for whom the Taj Mahal was built

  Murad

  Jahanara’s fourth brother

  NAJABAT KHAN

  Noble at court; Jahanara’s lover

  Raja Jai Singh

  Raja of Amber; noble in the Mughal court; original owner of the land on which the Taj Mahal was built

  Roshanara

  Jahanara’s sister

  SHAH JAHAN

  Fifth Emperor of Mughal India; Jahanara’s father

  Shah Shuja

  Jahanara’s second brother

  One

  After the passing of midnight . . . a daughter was born to that tree of the orchard of good fortune; whereupon her feverish temperature (mizaj-i-wahhaj) transgressed the bounds of moderation. . . . This unexpected incident and soul-rending disaster filled the world with bewilderment.

  —From the Padshah Nama of Abdal-Hamid Lahauri, in W. E. BEGLEY AND Z. A. DESAI, Taj Mahal: The Illumined Tomb

  Burhanpur

  Wednesday, June 17, 1631

  17 Zi’l-Qa’da A.H. 1040

  Th
e Empress’s howl, splintered and exhausted, stretched thinly into the night air and then fractured into little pebbles of sound. One AM The coming dawn, still hours away, smudged the horizon in ghostly gray. Oil diyas and candles rippled in an impulsive draft of air, spilling light from the apartments fronting the Tapti River.

  Mumtaz Mahal screamed again without a sound, lips drawn back over even, white teeth, eyes shut.

  “Mama,” Jahanara desperately said, grasping her mother’s hand in her young, strong ones. “Can I give you some more opium?”

  Mumtaz shook her head and leaned back on the pillows, shivers racking her body. Now, once the contraction passed—despite the long day and night of suffering—her features settled into an immeasurable beauty. It was there in the perfect cut of her nose, the seamless curve of her chin, the glowing skin and liquid eyes, irises ringed in darkening shades of gray. She had retained the newness of youth, though she was thirty-eight years old this year.

  Empress Mumtaz Mahal, the Exalted One of the Palace—a title Emperor Shah Jahan had bestowed upon her a few years after they wed—let her hand lie in her elder daughter’s comforting hold. In another minute, the pains would begin again. As she struggled to give birth to her fourteenth child in nineteen years of marriage, she was grateful even for the fact of it, for she was married to a man more beloved to her than anyone else, Khurram. He had been Shah Jahan for many years now, but she still thought of him as Khurram—the name his grandfather Emperor Akbar had bestowed upon him at birth.

  A roar filled her ears. Opium. She briefly considered it in the filigree silver bowl, sweet to the taste, mixed with dates, the juice of the tamarind, a sprinkling of crushed cashews and almonds, studded with raisins. She had already eaten five round balls, each the size of a jamun fruit, since her waters broke . . . when was that? But the opium, always effective before, had only just razed the edges of the pain this time; she was hesitant to take more. The midwives, with their constant chatter and advice, had said that it would not harm the child already formed inside her. Mumtaz did not believe them. Her belly began to throb again, and she screamed, frantic with worry that Khurram would hear; he was sure to be nearby, though he was not allowed to enter the birthing chamber. There were some rules even the Emperor of the Mughal Empire could not circumvent.

  A gaggle of midwives flitted around the room, keeping their distance from the bed where their Empress lay. She could not bear their touch upon her so soon.

  Jahanara’s fingers constricted, and Mumtaz, through her screaming, gasped, “Let me go, beta.”

  The girl did in fright, covering her own face instead. When Mumtaz could rouse herself, she reached out blindly.

  On her left side, a voice said, “I am here too, Mama. I will comfort you. If you do not want your hands held too tight, I will hold them lightly.”

  The Empress sighed. She turned to her second daughter, Roshanara, and then back to Jahanara. How similar they were to each other, though, and she smiled within; they would hate that comparison. Jahan was seventeen years old, willowy and upright. She had a thin, sharply structured face, all planes and angles, brows that had been plucked to arch thickly above the bones surrounding her eyes, hair drawn back in this heat and plaited down her back. Roshan was a smoother version of her older sister, her skin more fair, her eyes colored with flecks of green, her face round. And yet, despite this outward physical sophistication, she was only fourteen years old, three years younger than Jahan in age—a lifetime in understanding. She should not have been here, but she had insisted and Mumtaz had given in, unable to argue once the labor began. After all, the girls would one day be mothers themselves; let them see and learn and know what a woman was to do in her life. Between the two of them, there was already a slender rivalry, so inconsequential now as almost not to exist. But, Mumtaz thought, she was here to control them, for they needed a mother’s hand; Khurram was of little help, he had too much love for one child and a bland indifference to the other.

  When her belly strained with the next contraction, Mumtaz wondered why her thoughts were so clear. During the thirteen previous births, she had no memory of actually thinking anything. Those experiences had been simple, practically easy, an ache in her lower back, a sucking of opium, the child brought out splitting the room’s seams with its cries, each successive yell painting smiles on all of their faces. Laughter from outside as Khurram heard the news, his ear pressed against the wood of the door. Then there had been those early years when Khurram and she, and the children, had been sent in official exile to stumble around the Empire, pursued by his father Emperor Jahangir’s troops. Some of the births had taken place in tents, on the roadside. Even now, in these comparatively restful times, with the whole Empire in the palms of their hands, Mumtaz could hear the distant rumble of pursuing horse hooves and felt an overwhelming fear for their lives if they were caught.

  Not all the children had lived. There had been a girl before Jahanara who had died when she was three years old, and Mumtaz had to struggle to remember her name . . . and her face. They were still in Emperor Jahangir’s good graces at that time, and so he had sent his condolences to his son and his daughter-in-law upon that child’s death. Some of the other children had been stillborn, mercifully so, not giving her the time to create an attachment with them. Some had died within a few days; some, like that oldest girl, had died of the smallpox or of a mysterious and stubborn fever just as they were beginning to crawl, or walk, or babble or talk. But she still had six children. Jahan and Roshan—the only two girls—here with her and four fine boys in the outer room with their father. And if this child lived also . . . She touched her belly gently, and for the first time came this thought—if this child lived and she herself did not die, there would be seven. And she still had some childbearing years left in her, and though Khurram and she had been married so many years, despite the burdens of the Empire, despite the women in his harem, he would visit her bed. And so there would be other children. In the end, this, and everything else, was in Allah’s hands.

  “Jahan, you are of an age to marry soon,” she said faintly when the contraction had passed.

  “I am?” And then, softly, “I am.” Those two words were fraught with longing, and Mumtaz watched her child. So she had felt too at her age, well before her age, with none of the patience Jahan had. “We will speak of it when you are feeling better, Mama.”

  “Your Bapa and I have been talking,” Mumtaz said, the words rushing from her mouth, determined to use this precious, snatched moment of calm. She had realized the truth of what was to happen to her, suddenly and with clarity. Her only anxiety was that she would not be able to see Khurram before . . . and she wanted to see his face, touch him, hear his voice. But she had her duties to her children too. She beckoned with a tired hand. “Come closer.”

  She had meant this for Jahan, but Roshanara also crowded over her. “There is an amir at court, of a good family who have been servants of the Empire for generations. They hail from Persia, descended from the Shah, though their ancestral lands are in Badakhshan. Your Bapa and I will not force you into a marriage you do not want, Jahan, but—”

  “You know that I will want what you do, Mama,” Jahanara said. “Why all this now? We will have plenty of time later, save your energy for the child.”

  Empress Mumtaz Mahal closed her eyes, exhausted, and lay unmoving on the bed for so long that the two girls gazed at each other in trepidation. Roshanara bent to her mother’s ear and whispered, “What is his name, Mama?”

  “Najabat Khan.”

  Neither of the girls knew anything about Mirza Najabat Khan. They had been at court only a few times in the zenana balcony behind their father’s throne, not paying attention to the names of the nobles presented to the Emperor, mesmerized instead by the glittering gold and silver standards, the absolute quiet in a room thronging with men, the rows of turbaned heads bent in deference to their Bapa.

  Mumtaz took a deep breath as pain bit into her lower back again. “Jahan, call for
your father.”

  Jahanara rose; orders from her mother were obeyed almost before they left her lips. When she realized what was being asked, she dithered. “Bapa cannot come here, Mama.”

  “He has not until now,” Mumtaz said. “But I want him.”

  The midwives grabbed veils and drew them over their heads, falling into submissive attitudes even before the Emperor had stepped into the room. Someone clucked, in disapproval, and Mumtaz, though she heard the sound, paid little heed to it.

  “Tell him to come.”

  Jahanara bowed to her mother. “He will be here, Mama, as soon as I can open the door.”

  “Go, Roshan,” Mumtaz said to her younger daughter. “I want to be alone with your Bapa now.”

  Roshanara went from her mother’s bedside, her mouth pursed with discontent, and sat down with the slave girls, who had made a space along the wall for her. When Jahanara put her hand on the latch, the metal chill against her skin, she heard the midwife mutter, “The head is showing, your Majesty. It will not be long.”

  • • •

  Princess Jahanara Begam rested against the door and rubbed the back of her aching neck. Her mother had labored for thirty hours, and now finally the child’s head was crowning. At first, this confinement had been like so many others at which Jahanara had been present. The slave girls had laughed and called out for the birth of a son. The sage primary midwife sat in one corner (holding her own court among the lesser midwives), nodding at the jokes, her fingers busy with her knitting so that they would remain supple when she was needed. Aside from the opium, Mumtaz had wanted to eat only apples. Jahanara had patiently sliced and fed them to her mother. These were early apples from the valleys of Kashmir, exquisitely tiny and well formed, the size of cherries. Their aroma filled the room in this fiery month of June—in the middle of the flat plains and miles from the cool mountains of Kashmir—and all of their senses slavered. Jahanara had seen saliva drip from the primary midwife’s mouth. But the fruits were for the Empress, and no one, not even her children, princesses of royal blood and birth, had a right to them. And then, in the past few hours, something had changed. Not the fact that Mumtaz had labored too long but that she had struggled too hard, her eyes vacant during the contractions, her conversation impeccably lucid in between. As though she would never find the time to speak again.