by John Shors
I turned left onto a much wider street, skirting around a moaning camel. The beast was trying to mount a female. A man gripped its distended organ and sought to place it within the miserable female, which was held immobile by several more men. Camels were often reluctant to mate, and this spectacle was quite common. Still, I was reminded of my husband and found myself pitying the slighter animal.
The farther I walked from the Red Fort, the less chaos prevailed. The street I followed soon paralleled the Yamuna. I passed an enormous rice field bustling with water buffalo and farmers, then wandered by several grand palaces perched alongside the river. A sandstone bridge carried me over a stream, depositing me on the western edge of the land Father had purchased for the mausoleum.
At first Ustad Isa didn’t see me. He held oversized leaves of paper and took notes as he strode about the area. As before, he wore the garb of a laborer. His gray turban was soaked in sweat and he appeared in a hurry. I noticed, however, that he ensured that each of his strides was the same distance as its predecessors. He walked in this awkward manner from the northern end of the parcel to its southern border. He then marched east to west and finally strolled about the entire perimeter. This process was time-consuming and so I rested, shielding my face from the hot sun.
The young architect finally noticed me and approached where I knelt on a diminutive blanket. In some ways he lacked the grace of my brothers, not holding himself upright and hardly strutting as a warrior might, yet his gait possessed a certain dignity and purpose. And he was strong, for I could see his muscles pushing at the seams of his tunic. They were the thick muscles of one who lifts stones and chisels marble.
“Good morning, my lady.”
“The same to you, Ustad Isa.”
A thought of Mother bloomed, as her mausoleum, after all, was the cause for this meeting. Yet today, unlike so many others before it, I didn’t dwell on my loss. She would not have wanted me to, and though I’d been too weak to heed what would have been her advice, since leaving Khondamir’s home I was able to ponder notions beyond her death.
I rose, nodding to Ustad Isa. The architect looked more hawklike than ever, with the sun behind him casting shadows across his angular face. “My lady,” he said, “please call me Isa.” His smile was slightly askew, as if one side of his mouth outweighed the other.
“Only if I’m Jahanara.”
“You look lovely today, Jahanara.”
I had purposely left most of my jewelry in my room and wore a simple robe and shawl. Even if he built treasures, I had sensed that Isa was at odds with everyday trinkets. Still, I was uncertain what to make of his compliment. “What, may I ask, were you just doing?”
He showed me his notes. “Ensuring that the dimensions of the parcel are as listed in the contract.”
“Are they?”
“Nearly.” He rolled his papers up and placed them in a basket with many others.
“Have you started on your plans yet? May I see them?”
He chuckled, and I was struck by what a happy man he seemed. “Your father told me to beware of your impatience.”
“My impatience?”
“He said you were like a young swallow as it prepared to fly, forever leaping from the nest too quickly.”
“He did? What else did he say?”
His crooked smile came again, though his teeth were long and true. “Only that he loved you, and that I was fortunate to have you as an assistant.”
“And do you think, that I’m this…swallow?”
“I think, my lady, that you’d be more woman than most men could manage.”
A presumptuous comment it might have been, but the corners of my mouth rose at his boldness. Normally, I was guarded with such displays around men, for smiles spoke not of wisdom, but of gaiety. And I needed to be known as someone wise. Yet today it felt good to relax, and my insides warmed.
“Let’s walk the grounds,” he said, motioning for me to lead. “Because if I’m to design something wonderful, I must commit this land to memory.”
And so we walked. The first sight to catch my attention was a group of men building a boat. The vessel was mostly completed and the laborers caulked its seams with pitch. One withered man carved a tiger’s head into the bow.
“A gifted craftsman,” Isa said. “We’ll have to hire him.”
“How will you gather them all?”
“The artists? When the time is right, I’ll send out messengers. I hope to find calligraphers from Persia, masons from Egypt, and even craftsmen from Europe.”
Perhaps fifty Europeans dwelt in Agra. Though Father occasionally spoke with them about trade, I could hardly imagine them working on Mother’s mausoleum. “You want Europeans working on this?”
“We need the world’s best, Jahanara. I don’t care where they call home.”
I dropped my gaze, embarrassed that I’d so openly revealed my surprise. Mother would have been displeased. “Can you tell me,” I asked, “of how it shall appear?”
“The mausoleum will sit near the river, while the grounds to the south are to be gardens.”
“And the structure?”
“Think of what…imagine how a tear from Allah might look,” he replied eagerly. His passion startled me, for soft voices usually hint of indecision, not the fire I now discerned. “That tear will be the dome. And the dome will be supported by a square structure full of great arches. Four minarets, placed beyond each corner of the mausoleum, will rise almost as high as the dome. And everything, from the courtyard to the tomb to the tear, shall be white marble.”
I tried to envision such a sight but didn’t possess the mind for it. “Do you have a sketch?”
“For the present it resides in my head.”
I noticed then that Isa had forgotten his basket of papers. Pointing behind us, I replied, “But is your head the best place for it?”
His eyes widened when he saw his precious documents sitting unguarded. “The problem with artists, Jahanara, is that we often forget the more common things in life. Our heads are so high in the clouds that we don’t see the world beneath.”
“Then I’ll just have to remind you where to plant your feet.”
He smiled at my words, which pleased me in a strange way. I hadn’t been pleased with anything since Mother’s death. We returned to the spot bearing his papers. Once there, I folded up my blanket. “May I ask, Isa, your age?”
“Twenty-two autumns. And you?”
“Six less, though soon to be five.” I caught his eyes then and held them, something few women would dare. Even for our people they were dark, and I found myself trapped within their depths. “Why,” I muttered, forcing my lips to move, “did you become an architect?”
“I was born in Persia,” he responded, answering my thoughts regarding his distinct features. “There my father designed things. Wells mostly, but once an aqueduct. After my mother died and illness struck him down, he gave what little coin he owned to a visiting architect so that I might become his apprentice.”
“But what happened to your father?”
“He fought, fought like a bull elephant, but didn’t last long. And so I lived with my master, a good, kind man if ever there was one. When his project ended we returned to his home in Delhi.”
I thought of the pain of my loss and instinctively desired to comfort him. But I knew him far less well than was needed to do so. “How old were you?”
“Seven.”
“And you never returned to Persia?”
“There’s nothing to return to. The war makes it impossible at any rate, as I’d likely be beheaded as a traitor. No, Hindustan is my land. I feel hardly a tug from the north.”
He smiled again, surprising me on account of his story. It seemed that he should have been more acquainted with sorrow than bliss
, but he acted the contrary. Why, I wondered, did he so freely share his musings with me? Was he always so forward? Did he always feel so at ease with himself? Captivated by his voice, I asked, “You enjoy your work?”
“I’m fortunate, Jahanara. Truly blessed. For I can show my parents what I’ve done with their gifts.” His eyes darted between my face and the land encircling us. “I could never be closer to them than when building.”
Despite my desire for such a connection to Mother, his passion was infectious enough that I was not envious. “I look forward to…seeing you build,” I said, trying to subdue my budding emotions. “For now I’ll leave you to your duties.”
“Your company is most pleasant. Would you return this evening? The moon shall be ripe and I hope to show you something.”
“Then perhaps I shall come,” I replied, suppressing a grin when his face tightened in consternation. I bade him farewell and headed back toward the Red Fort. As I walked Isa kept popping back into my mind. I saw his face, recalled his words. I wished that my husband were so gentle. Why did I receive him when men such as Isa graced the world? Perhaps I was mistaken, but I struggled to envision the young architect ever striking me.
Too much time had passed since I spoke to Ladli, so, dust-covered from my long walk, I sought her out in the royal kitchen. She was covered in beet juice, her hands stained purple from peeling. The head cook glared at me, as usual, when I stole Ladli from her services. Once outside, my friend squinted in the bright light, shielding her eyes from the sun. I heard soldiers practicing their warfare in a nearby courtyard and I walked in that direction.
We climbed a series of stairwells and were suddenly on a rampart high above the men. Several dozen were present, tough-looking warriors in shining helmets and leather armor. To my surprise, I saw that Aurangzeb led them. Though almost all the soldiers were older than he, they listened to him attentively. He held a musket and in short order showed his men how to load and discharge the weapon. There was a sharp crack as he fired, and a watermelon perched a stone’s throw away shattered from the blast. The warriors cheered at his accuracy. As he handed his gun to a huge warrior, I wondered if Aurangzeb had shed a single tear for Mother.
“Who’s the giant?” I asked my friend, for she harbored all the fort’s gossip.
“A murderous half-wit, if you believe the rumors,” Ladli replied, spitting to show her disdain. “They call him Balkhi.”
“What do you hear of him?”
“That your brother freed him from prison so the lout could be his bodyguard.”
“Why was he in prison?”
“Rape. He raped and mutilated a servant girl after returning from battle. She was Hindu and so your brother—may Shiva boil him in piss—forgave the creature.”
I shuddered at the thought. “And what do the people say of my father condoning the pardon?”
My friend looked about us, ensuring our privacy. A guard was posted next to a rippling red banner but stood at least thirty paces away. “That his grief has blinded him to the matter.”
A splattering of guns erupted below and more melons toppled. Aurangzeb cuffed a man who’d missed. The soldier stood immobile and my brother shoved a fresh gun into his hands. Fire belched from the weapon and a melon exploded.
“Why can’t they use wooden targets,” I asked angrily, “when so many of our people lack such food?”
“Surely you don’t expect men to think? Least of all your brother.” Ladli fingered a silver nose ring, the only piece of jewelry she wore. “Sometimes, Jahanara, I see him watching me. And his eyes…his eyes are wicked.”
I wished then that my friend was not so physically stunning. I knew Aurangzeb had bribed the fathers of girls in the past, girls he had ravaged. “Then you must be careful, Ladli,” I advised, “for Aurangzeb takes what he wants.”
“What should I do?”
“Never show him any fear, because if he sees it, his head will swell with his power over you.”
“What else?”
I imagined myself as Aurangzeb. Mother had taught me this trick, and I had learned to place myself within another’s skin with little effort. People, after all, were never as private as they believed. “Go out of your way to be kind to him,” I replied, tapping my foot as I thought, wishing I could confer with Mother, wishing she sat at my side. “Flatter him the way all the other girls do. He tires of them quickly and you’ll soon bore him.” An inspiration suddenly stuck and I paused.
“What?”
I wondered if it was right to ask a friend to do something dangerous, something that wouldn’t aid her, but me. “I’m unsure if—”
“Do speak, Jahanara. I grow older by the moment.”
“Perhaps, if you desired, you could even earn his trust.”
“His trust? But why?”
“You know so many secrets. Someday you’ll learn information he can use. Give it to him. Let him kill an enemy or stop a crime. He’ll gain face before the court and you’ll become his confidante.”
“I’d rather scrub a leper’s boils.”
“And so would I,” I whispered, “under normal circumstances.” I studied my brother as he ordered his men about. “Come to me long before you tell him anything. We’ll decide together if he should know. And meanwhile, act unafraid around him. Completely unafraid. Give him some sweets, and try to catch his eye. But when you see him and you know that you’ll talk, chew garlic cloves and make sure to breathe into his face.”
Ladli looked at me oddly. “I didn’t realize, Jahanara, that you were so …versed in such matters.”
“I have a husband, don’t I?”
“And what kind of fool is he?”
I pondered my choice of words as muskets roared and the stench of gunpowder drifted about us. “A man who could be outthought by a newborn, who makes love as if he were a goat.”
She giggled at my effort. “You improve. But, truly, like a goat?”
“When it suits him.”
“Then may Shiva be kind to you and let his manhood rot and fall off. Let it become a plaything for my dogs.”
“Really, Ladli!” I exclaimed. “The notions you have. I could never best you in these contests.” Ladli, my closest friend, seemed always to improve my mood. “I met a man today,” I said quietly. “He’s to be the mausoleum’s architect.”
“So? I met a cockroach. Is there a difference?”
“He appears to be everything that my husband isn’t.”
“Men deceive. They charm you at first, then once they’ve bedded you, their gifts disappear and their gallantry becomes as rare as their compliments.”
I took her hand. “We need to find you a good husband, Ladli.”
“Why? You think I’m so bored as to want to spend a lifetime taking care of some scoundrel?”
Despite her words I sensed that behind her feigned indifference she was as interested in finding love as was I. But she would never admit it. Because the afternoon was late, and I’d still much to do, we parted and I hurried to the Diwan-i Am, where Father and Dara stood before the Peacock Throne and oversaw the squabbles of nobles. I moved to the back of the proceedings, careful not to announce my presence.
With interest I watched Dara spearhead efforts to settle disputes. My sibling was becoming skilled at negotiation, and as I listened to his compromises I savored a sense of pride. If ever a just man dwelt in this world, more just than even my father, that man was certainly Dara. He truly believed Muslims and Hindus were equal and that it would be upon this equality that the Empire would flourish. While Father supported laws suppressing discrimination, I suspected his feelings were sometimes less noble than his actions. Dara, meanwhile, assumed that all men should be of the same rank, regardless of religious orientation. In fact, to prove himself true to this conviction, my brother had started translati
ng the Upanishads—the fundamental mystical texts of Hinduism—from Sanskrit into Persian. No one had ever undertaken this arduous task, which Dara pursued quite seriously, as he was determined to give Muslims access to these famous works.
We dined together that evening, just Father, Dara and myself. Like Dara, Father often found solace in books, and I’d arranged that we eat in the imperial library, as we had occasionally done the past few years. Amidst this grand room we were served chicken fried in butter, replete with rice, raisins, cardamom powder, cloves and almonds. Rice wine filled our goblets.
The library was a vast refuge—half an arrow’s flight from front to back. Much of its floor was covered in black carpets woven with ivory-colored quotations from famous texts. These included the Qur’an, biographies of our emperors, and the great Hindu epics. Sandstone shelves contained multiple copies of such works, the most renowned of which boasted hundreds of paintings. In all, more than forty thousand volumes were housed here. Fire was a dreaded specter within this priceless room, and a servant stood beside a bucket every five or six paces beneath the books. Several marble pools ensured a constant supply of water. A burning torch rose from the center of each pool, providing the room’s only light.
The imperial library had always relaxed Father, and tonight was no exception. Despite our painful awareness of Mother’s absence, we spoke of better times and reminisced about our lives with her. We savored wine. We smiled. It was a fulfilling evening, and ended when Father bowed to Dara and kissed me. I recognized then, more than ever, that we were his favorite children, and that only we brought happiness to his heart.
Darkness had fallen when I returned on horseback to the site of the future mausoleum. The night was cloudless and the moon full, its muted light falling on the Earth like a spell of enchantment. Some men claimed to see faces on the moon, whereas others spied everything from maps to mountains to mosquitoes on its surface. I thought it looked like a hole punched through the black fabric of night. Beyond it shined a light, a power surpassing my understanding.