We considered spring to be the best season for marriage and this day had been chosen by an astrologer for an unusually auspicious alignment of stars and planets. I stared out the window to see the scorching sun and hear the gentle cries of a kokil bird. I focused my attention on the lively trumpet-like sounds of shehnai being played by a hired musician in the courtyard below.
I opened my wardrobe. Only a few weeks ago, I had received a visit from a cloth merchant commissioned by Job. “Tell me what you want,” the merchant had said, “and I’ll deliver it to you.”
I had taken him to the garden to show the colors and designs I preferred. Sure enough, he’d kept his word. My wedding trousseau consisted of bright-colored silks, appliquéd cottons, and brocades in petal and floral creeper motifs, embroidered with gold and silver threads. My wedding sari was in auspicious red, threaded with gold, the hues equally intense on both sides. I took a step and peered at the sari from another angle. A shifting volume of light deepened the red, made it brighter. I placed a hand over the fabric, luxuriated in its fluid touch, absorbed its brightness.
It was time. I anointed my body with sandalwood and draped the red silk. My hair had grown long; I brushed it out, watching the gleaming blackness as it fell like satin to my waist. Then I coiled it up on my head in a bun and looked into the tall mirror—a happy bride, too skinny, not a beauty, but happy. What a contrast to my first wedding day when I’d sobbed for hours.
My grandmother’s pendant peeked from underneath the beautiful red sari, again reminding me of my family. I would wear other ornaments, but this one remained the most precious of all. I slid open a cabinet drawer. Next to Job’s pistols, which I preferred not to look at, there rested a jewelry box. The goldsmith Job had dispatched weeks earlier had appeared with a box of sample designs and produced custom-made ornaments to suit my taste. I pulled out the box. Bangles, anklets, earrings, and an elaborate wedding necklace glittered in the daylight.
Finished with dressing, I chewed a triangular-shaped paan of betel leaves to dye my lips red and sweeten my breath. A woman servant named Lila, hired by Idris, braided shiuli blossoms into my hair and stained my palms a vivid yellow with turmeric.
As she left, I heard footsteps outside my door. Idris appeared, distinguished in a formal purple robe, his elaborate headdress encircled with gold chains. He, of Muslim faith, had offered to do the kanyadan, the giving away of the bride in this Hindu ceremony, insisting that he considered me his daughter. I didn’t fail to observe the trace of worry clouding Idris’s eyes. What worried him so much? That I would not be accepted by the other Englishmen, for I had not converted to Christianity? That I’d be persecuted by the Brahmins for reentering matrimony?
He recovered in a moment. “How beautiful you look, Maria! Let me be the first to wish you a long and happy married life, with truth and righteousness as your guide.”
“I wish our families were here. I wish Job heard from his mother.”
Idris hesitated. “A letter from Job sahib’s mother did arrive this morning. She wanted him to cancel the wedding.”
I couldn’t breathe.
“Much as he loves his mother, Job sahib said he would not obey her.”
My eyes became misty as I considered how much agony Job must have gone through to come to this decision, how deep he considered our bond.
“It’s been quite a morning for Job sahib,” Idris said. “Another bit of news has devastated him. As you already know, the Council didn’t punish Charles sahib, given his status in England; in fact, they freed him. Now he’s back in town for a conference with the Nawab.”
“I wonder what kind of trouble he’ll stir up for us.”
“We have sufficient security for this event, so I don’t expect any trouble today, but in the long run, only Allah knows.” Idris tossed a glance toward the window, motioned with his hand, and adopted a light voice. “They’re pouring in, practically the whole town. It’s the biggest wedding of the year. Shall we go?”
With Idris escorting me, I stepped lightly down the stairs and through the hallway to the courtyard. The blowing of conch shells announced my arrival. I gazed in wonder at the crimson-and-purple velvet mandap, situated in the center of the courtyard, embroidered inside and out, specially built for this occasion. The canopy glowed with the light of a hundred lamps. Amidst the sound of drums beating, I entered. A small open fire flickered at the center and the fragrant smell of burning sandalwood permeated the air. Agni-dev, the fire deity, messenger between heaven and earth, would witness our wedding.
Job beamed at me. My prince. Resplendent in a golden satin coat fitted close to his body and buttoned in front, he wore a white muslin turban on his head, held together by a ruby brooch. An emerald-worked silver sash was wound around his waist. A glimmering beige dab of sandalwood paste shone between his eyebrows. Eyes glowing, he cast an admiring look at me. I found myself smiling in return, my heart overflowing with emotions bigger than I could measure. In that moment, I released my concerns over Charles’ presence in town and Job’s mother’s disapproval of our union, anything that sought to dampen this wonderful day, and looked into the eyes of my beloved.
Arthur who had dressed for the first time in Mughal style, a long maroon tunic extending to his ankles and a headdress adorned with a cream-colored feather, stood next to Job. Arthur didn’t have his umbrella with him. He greeted me, eyes wide in merriment. Never before had I seen him in such a jolly mood. A young Hindu priest, dressed in white, welcomed us in a solemn manner. Guests, adorned with silks, pearls, and diamonds and conversing among themselves in low voices, sat in a semi-circle on plush rugs placed around the canopy. There were many familiar faces—Jas, Pratap, and the other Factors—as well as Job’s business associates. Children, dressed in festive and colorful clothes began singing a folk song and dancing in my honor. I was the focal point of all this! Even among such a huge gathering, I spotted Chand, the bearded broker. He acknowledged me with a nod, his face betraying a puzzlement that I didn’t understand. Possibly he had some news to share.
The shehnai player paused and the whole courtyard became still. At the priest’s request, Job and I took seats next to each other on decorative wood planks, our heads bowed. Idris and Arthur sat nearby.
The priest began the ceremony by speaking about our respective duties in a shared domestic life, frequently punctuating his talk with a sprinkling of water from the Ganges on our heads. The air turned more somber when the priest asked us to join our hands; it was time to take our marriage vows. Voices merging, Job and I took pledges of love, loyalty, and fidelity, the Sanskrit words creating a kind of blissful music. Despite the unfamiliar nature of the ceremony and the strangeness of Sanskrit, Job seemed steadfast. We ended our vows with: “Your heart and mine are one; it belongs to us both.”
I trembled with joy. Using a ladle, the priest poured more ghee into the nuptial fire. Huge tongues of golden flame leapt up, almost as high as those of my first husband’s funeral pyre. Smoke engulfed me and I drew back in a sudden panic.
“Time for the saptapadi ritual around the nuptial fire,” the priest announced.
The bride and the groom would circle the fire seven times, each step symbolizing a different aspect of their journey of life, the most beautiful part of a Hindu marriage ceremony.
Perhaps noticing the momentary terror in my eyes, Job smiled reassuringly at me. He understood my fear, but his smile also told me that I had to let go. It was time.
The priest asked us to stand and tied the edge of Job’s robe with the end of my sari to symbolize the marriage knot. He reminded us that the wife would be the ruler of the household, the husband, the follower, and as such I must lead this walk.
“Begin your steps and repeat after me,” the priest said. “With the first, we join together for partaking of water, the sustainer of life.”
I recited along with Job, summoning courage as I took each step around the glittering flames and grey smoke.
At the end of the seventh and mo
st important step, we recited: “With this step, we become friends and companions, so that we may bask in the warmth of each other.” As I listened to Job’s richly resonant voice, my heart swelled. I didn’t doubt for a moment then that he’d accept me as his full partner.
How was I to know on that occasion of pure joy that our happiness wouldn’t last long?
Job and I stood facing each other. At the priest’s signal, we exchanged necklaces of yellow-orange marigold flowers, an emblem of the circular nature of our love. For a fleeting moment, I felt my parents’ blessings, their presence with me.
Amidst the sound of conch shells blowing and logs crackling in red-orange flames, the priest announced, “You are now married. May God bless the duties you will be asked to perform.”
A messenger sent by Teema walked over and handed me her gift of a lovely brooch studded with amethyst.
Chand, attired in a white muslin robe, offered his blessings and conveyed Rani Mata’s regrets for her inability to attend the wedding. With a flourish, he opened a purple velvet box and held it out for me. Inside, there rested the coral-set, filigree-worked bracelet I had so admired on the brave queen’s wrist. I stared at the ornate piece made of solid yellow gold. Power seemed to emanate from it. I looked up at Chand, my mouth open, my hand at my throat.
“Rani Mata wants you to wear it,” Chand said. “She wishes you both a peaceful life.”
With the shehnai playing a wistful tune, I slipped the bracelet on my wrist and stared at it. Yet I couldn’t help but register the slight tremor in Chand’s body.
“Any news?” I asked Chand.
He lowered his face and withdrew.
“Please,” I said to his back.
But he was gone. Fireworks erupted over the moonlit sky, whistling a tune and shooting out silver stars, then fluttering down with an explosion.
TWENTY-NINE
Four months since our wedding.
Heavy monsoon winds and torrential rain had replaced the stifling heat of spring. Job and I toiled day and night to keep the Company afloat; we were happy, contented.
“How have you managed to expand your business so much in such a short time?” A visiting merchant from Hooghly had asked Job the other day in my presence.
Job had looked at me, his eyes twinkling, urging me to reply.
“The credit belongs to our workers,” I said.
Indirectly, through the brokers, I employed craftsmen and laborers, promising that if they did their best, they would be properly compensated. Even when we sacrificed some profits, I made sure the workers were paid a decent salary, which in turn inspired them to produce goods of higher quality.
A few English Factors were also present at that meeting. The next day, I overheard William whisper in the dining hall: “I say, the bloody little heathen actually seems to think she’s going to take over.”
I had no such ambition; I simply took pride in the products of my land and in helping the Company realize its potential in the European market.
Besides my regular duties, I conferred with the local and regional tradesmen and went on-site for inspections. I had learned how to choose among thirty-three varieties of silk and one hundred-fifty varieties of cotton, where the best saltpeter deposits were to be found, the silk dyer with the best reputation in the region.
Job was my inspiration, my temple of support, in all I undertook. Our days were rich and fresh; our eyes sought each other no matter where we were. Only last night, my body molded against his, I found the day’s trials dissipating from my mind. Although my English had improved to the point where I could converse easily, I couldn’t always give adequate expression to my feelings. But in the intimacy of the night, snuggling against Job, in the afterglow of our pleasure, I felt that language was superfluous.That we were meant to have been together, always; it was all that mattered.
The next morning, I stood by the window and talked with Job as he finished dressing. He looked elegant and vibrant in a white tunic dec-orated with pearls. He drew close and put his arms around my shoulders.
A pleasant shiver ran through my body. “My darling,” I whispered softly.
“You look so beautiful in the morning,” he said, cupping my face in his hands. “I don’t want to leave you, ever. Throughout the day, whenever I have a trying moment, I picture your face. The pressures vanish, and I can handle anything.”
He hadn’t mentioned any recent pressing business problems. I worried about that for a moment then let it go.
“You wouldn’t believe how petrified I was when I first came here,” I said. “Now, with your love surrounding me, I find myself acting smarter, cleverer, and braver. Even speaking English has become pleasanter.”
“I never thought life could be so good, so full for me, either.” He kissed me gently and pointed to the side table where a letter lay open. “That letter is from my mother. She has finally given us her blessing. She says she has come to understand what you mean to me and that is all she cares about.”
My voice rose in excitement. “Shall we go to England to visit her?”
“She may have written this letter from her deathbed,” Job said, his voice heavy with certainty. “The handwriting. The sentiments. The lengthy farewell. I have lost a part of my life; it’s prudent that I accept it, my love.”
He looked long and lovingly at me. He kissed me and drew me closer into his arms. “I shall always miss her, but I am happy with you, happy for the first time in my life, ready to face whatever challenge the day brings.”
And then the story changed.
I was too naïve yet, too happy in my newly expanding world to understand its impact. That evening is fresh in my memory. A storm thundered outside and rain pelted the roof. Dressed in a delicate pink-tinged yellow sari patterned with leaves, my hair knotted at the back of my head with a chain of white flowers, my body perfumed with shiuli essence, I entered our well-illuminated bed room and smiled at Job.
Clad in white nightclothes and red slippers, Job paced the room absent-mindedly, his lips compressed, a sure sign he was perturbed. He raised his eyes but didn’t seem to notice me. I drew near, smelling the warm familiarity of his skin.
In a voice both rough and desperate, he broached an important matter—the new levy the Nawab had imposed on us. “Surely you’ve noticed the dictate from our governor.”
“Yes, I have.”
A wax-sealed document from the ruler demanding extra tariff from us: the letters inscribed on silk paper in black against an ivory background, the language both formal and severe. It had appeared without notice a few days ago. “We can’t pay such a large sum unless we reduce our expenses by a fair amount,” I said.
“The levy is both exorbitant and unfair,” Job said. “I won’t submit to a demand like that.”
His tone had an alarming finality to it.
Although the rain had subsided, the heat and humidity still pressed down. A feeling of stuffiness had settled over the room; I picked up a palm-leaf fan from the table and dropped down on a chair.
“We should stay in the Nawab’s good books,” I said, “that is, if we want to continue to do business in his territory.”
“I will not pay,” Job insisted, his tone calm. His ambition, the momentum to push forward to expand the Company’s business, had collided with a stone barrier. After all, his loyalty was to his trade and to his monarch. “It’s an insult. I want to teach him a lesson.”
In the reddish glow of the lamp light, I studied my proud husband, his furrowed brow, the arms held rigidly close to his body. “Didn’t the document say no leniency would be shown if the levy wasn’t paid? Have you considered the consequences?”
He nodded.
Once challenged, the ruthless Nawab would stop at nothing. Our very existence might be under threat. We’re no more significant than the dust on the Nawab’s feet, so went a common complaint. Any warning from the authorities dangled before most citizens like an executioner’s sword. Fanning myself, I sat firm in my belief that
we shouldn’t take this course of action. The big impressive gold royal seal on the Nawab’s letter clearly indicated that it was an order, not to be taken lightly. Would Job be willing to pay the price for dissent?
“It’d be well to recall how your close social contacts with our previous governor, the late Haider Ali, proved beneficial for the Company,” I said. “Will it be wise to alienate our new ruler?”
“Unfortunately,” Job said tightly, “there is bad blood between the new Nawab and me, and not merely on a personal level. He’s a puppet of Emperor Aurangzeb, who’s corrupt, ineffective, tyrannical, and a poor administrator.
As I listened, Job spun out other details about the Emperor.
Emperor Aurangzeb had hundreds of vaults filled with gold, silver, and rubies. Besides the enormous sums of money he received as revenues, he took nearly three-quarters of all crops that were raised, but what did he do for his subjects? With the exception of a small wealthy class, most citizens barely got by. Beggars roamed the streets in this land of plenty. Hindus, the majority population, were especially vulnerable. They weren’t entitled to work as Court appointees and were restricted to certain professions only. The Mughal rulers failed to realize that their base of support had grown dangerously weak. Marathas in the West had already begun to revolt. Protest, bloodshed, and instability would result in other parts, Job suspected. There was endless in-fighting in the Royal Court. Some local chiefs were beginning to defy imperial authority by operating independently. The roads were being taken over by caravan robbers, the seas by pirates.
“If things continue the way they are, there will be an uprising which will be bad for trade,” Job said. “Now do you see why I am for resistance?”
“But isn’t this the opposite of what you had suggested to Rani Mata?”
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