When the earth swung around, with a few hours left to greet the sun, Emperor Jahangir was still awake. Clouds had filled the skies outside his windows. These were monsoon clouds, purple, angry, pregnant with moisture. By morning the rains would come. Already it was cooler. Jahangir rose to go to the window. He leaned over the balcony into the night air, breathing deeply to settle his thoughts. Was it true, what Mahabat said? That the nobles snickered openly at his obsession for Mehrunnisa? That they called his love for her by this abominable name? Had they lost respect for him?
Jahangir was crushed all of a sudden. For many nights he stayed awake watching over Mehrunnisa as she lay in her bed, not even wanting to live. During the days he attended his audiences and court business, but without any heart. These were duties, they had to be done, what he wanted was to be with his wife. Now he remembered that a few nobles at court had lounged indolently in front of him, leaning against a pillar, clasping their arms below their elbows in huge breaches of etiquette; at the time, he had noticed but had not paid heed to it. Etiquette had not seemed important when his very life was in danger of being overthrown.
And again he thought of Mahabat’s coming to speak to him, daring to speak to him. How could that have happened unless, for some reason, for the very reason Mahabat had spoken of, Jahangir had lost the reverence of his people?
He fretted thus until Mehrunnisa returned back to the palaces the next day. At court, the Emperor was more solemn—no more lounging was allowed, infractions against his person or his court were reprimanded, order brought to its knees again. The murmurings ceased, silence regained its hold at court, and the only voice heard was Emperor Jahangir’s.
That night, the chief writer of the harem was reading out her journal to the royal couple. The writer was employed specially to keep a day-to-day journal of zenana happenings. Everything of significance was recorded in that book: names and relationships of visitors to the harem women; purchases made by the ladies; their requests for money; and even the length of their private conversations with eunuchs. It was a highly efficient spy system. The ladies were watched every day, and nothing they did went unnoticed by the spies interspersed throughout the zenana. It was hard to tell who was a spy. It could be a maid faithful for twenty years, a new eunuch appointed for the purpose, a mali in the garden brought in to water the flowerpots . . . it could be anyone.
Mehrunnisa played listlessly with the rubies on a silver plate next to her, dropping the stones through her fingers. Jahangir watched her thoughtfully. She had seemed pleased at the gift but had not listened when he had given her suggestions about how the jewels should be set. In her turban? That was fine. A new necklace? That was fine too. A set of six sherbet goblets in jade? Fine again.
She paid no notice to him anymore, weighted down with her sorrow. It came and went as it pleased, with no warning, one moment she would laugh and he would join in so happily, at another she would be silent, barely lifting her head.
Now she did not listen to the writer, where once she would be sitting on the edge of her divan, nodding as the writer spoke.
“Mehrunnisa,” Jahangir said gently, “would you like the writer to leave now?”
“As you wish, your Majesty.”
“Would you like to listen to some music?” he asked.
“No.”
Irritated by this response, Jahangir put his hand under her chin and raised her eyes to his. “Well, I would like to listen. Hoshiyar, command the orchestra to play.”
“Do not, Hoshiyar,” Mehrunnisa said. “The music will tire me.”
“Everything tires you now, my dear. The music will only relax you.” The Emperor’s voice held an edge to it.
She shook her head, and Hoshiyar stood between them, hesitant, not quite knowing what to do. “If only I could believe you were solicitous of my health, your Majesty.” She said this softly, leaning toward him.
“What?” Jahangir flared up. He had tried to tell himself that this swerving of her moods would end, that in a few days she would settle down. It was for her he had done this, courted the insolence of his nobles and his empire, why was she so ungrateful? How could she even think that he did nothing for her?
“I hear Mahabat Khan came to visit, your Majesty. I also heard he was most concerned for you, and unconcerned for me, and that you did nothing about it.”
“Mehrunnisa.” He opened his arms, but she moved away. “Please, my love, come here and listen.”
Tears came to her eyes and she shook her head. He watched them fall down her face, and an ache began to grow inside him. She was still so lovely to look at, so graceful as she sat there, her ghagara spangled with tiny emeralds that glittered in the lamplight. Her wrists were slung with the gold bangles he had given her, but her eyelashes were wet with crying. He had given her everything material, anything that his empire could command was at her service, but she would not be appeased. How could he give her the child she so wanted?
“You have Ladli, Mehrunnisa.”
She raised angry eyes at him. “She is a girl, only the child I carried would have been worthwhile. You know this, your Majesty. What use am I now?” Her words were bitter, hurtful.
Suddenly he was furious. Jahangir turned away from her and signaled to Hoshiyar. The eunuch nodded his head, and the music began to play from the orchestra balcony above them. Slave girls brought in wine and poured out a gobletful for the Emperor. Why was he even doing this? Why cajole a stubborn wife out of her obstinacy? If she wanted to mourn, let her.
He drank steadily and in silence. Mehrunnisa stopped crying. She had waited for the ache in her heart to settle, to go away somewhere, to be banished. But it would not. She was angry too, and in this anger, she asked, “You have said nothing about Mahabat Khan, your Majesty.”
“What do you want me to say, Mehrunnisa? He asked for an audience, for a chance to speak of what was in his mind. I allowed it. I would allow it again; Mahabat Khan is a trusted minister, he is a friend of old, he has nothing but my best interests at heart.” He drained his wine and held out the goblet for more.
Hoshiyar Khan coughed in the background. “Your Majesty,” he addressed the Emperor. “Prince Shahryar requests an audience.”
Jahangir waved a languid hand. The door to the hall opened, and a boy came into the room, or rather, his nurse, wife of one of the nobles at court, dragged him in. Shahryar was nine, born the same year as Ladli. All of Shahryar’s brief life had been spent under the supervision of nurses, one after another, almost one every year. Just as he became attached to a woman, developed an affection and learned to sleep through the night without any fears, the guard would change around him. This was on Empress Jagat Gosini’s orders. She knew that Khurram could have little threat from Shahryar, but she wanted to make sure that even that smallest danger was removed from her son’s life. There had been a precedent for a nursemaid gaining power in her charge’s name—Emperor Akbar had had one such wet nurse who had ruled the empire for a few years before he had dismissed her. So Jagat Gosini kept Shahryar unsettled at all times. Even this young, the prince knew he could trust no one, that his nurses were playmates for a short time and that they would be whisked away.
Prince Shahryar was a beautiful child, Mehrunnisa thought. His hair was still curly and long like a girl’s, his eyes were a bright black, but behind this outer face, she did not think much existed. The prince was like well-kneaded dough, easily shaping himself into whatever plans the people around him suggested. He had no mind of his own. When his nurse whispered in his ear, Shahryar came forward to perform the taslim, and he did this awkwardly, without any grace.
“Al-Salam alekum, your Majesty,” Shahryar said. He looked around the room.
It was a large, rectangular hall with a high domed ceiling. A balcony ran all around on top, supported by an arched hallway below. The corridor on one side was lined with another set of open arches leading to the gardens. The prince wriggled his toes in the deep pile of the red carpets on the marble floor. In one c
orner, a silk-covered divan reposed, strewn with jeweled cushions and velvet bolsters. Mehrunnisa and Jahangir were surrounded by attendants, eunuchs, slave girls, and servants. In front of them, gold and silver trays bore flasks of wine, paan, and sweets and delicacies from the imperial kitchens.
Shahryar looked greedily at the sweets. He did not see such richness in his apartments. Every nurse had her own rules, and this current one did not think that sweets were good for his health. He tried to be respectful and stand with his head bowed in front of his father and stepmother, but his gaze kept moving to the tray. The gulab jamuns looked so plump and soft, surely they would ooze sugar syrup when he bit into them. The son papdi, dressed with pistachios, was flaky, made with a light hand—this would melt upon contact with his tongue. And the burfis, in all different colors, made of wheat and chickpea flour and coconut, gold and purple and green and white . . . all scattered with cashews, sultanas, and raisins roasted in ghee. He hung over the tray without realizing, his mouth open.
“Would you like some sweets, Shahryar?” Mehrunnisa asked, unable to bear the sight of the boy salivating over the plate.
He stepped back hurriedly, tripped on the edge of a carpet, and went down. His nurse picked him up. Shahryar bowed and said, “Whatever you wish, your Majesty.”
“Oh, take him away. Take him away now,” Mehrunnisa said. Did the child not even know what he wanted? She pushed the plate of sweets at the prince. “Here, take this and go.”
Shahryar’s face became red. His nurse caught him at his collar and started to pull him backward from the room. Mehrunnisa rose from her divan and went up to him. She patted him on the head and he recoiled from her hand, not used to gestures of affection. “Go, Shahryar,” she said more gently. “Come and visit us at another time, now is not good.”
“I apologize, your Majesty,” the prince said, beginning to cry.
“You have nothing to be penitent for, Shahryar. Go now.”
Shahryar left the room sniffling, and Mehrunnisa returned to the divan, ashamed of herself. The Emperor had not moved at all through Shahryar’s visit, or if he had, it was only to drink. How many cups had he had already? Five? Six? Perhaps more, but today, Mehrunnisa had no strength to argue with him, no will to stop his goblet from rising to his lips. She sat trembling at her place, her mind rioting with thoughts. What was this uneasiness? She had never felt it before, not even when she had had the previous miscarriages. But somehow, the promise of this child, and that he would be a son, and that she would teach him how to rule the empire—this had come upon her in the two short months she had carried the child with such a force of feeling that it still stayed. Even now, when there was no child.
Mehrunnisa doubted herself too now. The hakims said, in no uncertain terms, that there would never be another child. They explained their reasons for this, but she scarcely heard them, concentrating instead on those words, no more children. Why was this happening to her? Why was her body so traitorous? And what did the Emperor think of this? Ever since Mahabat’s visit, something had changed. Hoshiyar had told her of the meeting, and of what had been said during it. At another time, when she was less vulnerable, less fearful, Mehrunnisa would have been in a rage with Mahabat, but now . . .
Mehrunnisa had returned to the zenana as fast as she could after hearing of Mahabat’s visit from Hoshiyar, even though she was to have stayed at her father’s house a few more days. But it was important that she be by Jahangir’s side, and yet, each time he spoke, each time she opened her own mouth, nothing but bitterness seemed to come out. She was irritated even with the mild, donkeylike Shahryar, who was so harmless. When she looked at Shahryar, she thought of the child she should have had. He should have lived; if this boy could, why not her own son?
Mehrunnisa rubbed her face and leaned sideways against a silk-covered bolster. What stupidity it was to think over and over again about the child, what he could have been, what she would have done with him. The reality was that he was not here, would never be here. Where was her resolve? Where was her strength? If she lost this, she would lose Jahangir.
She cried again, and this time, she noticed, the Emperor did not reach out to her. He sat by her side, so close, and yet they had nothing to say to each other, no words of comfort to offer. The deep trust between them seemed to have been slowly rinsed away by something neither of them could control.
Mehrunnisa heard Jahangir ask for yet another glass of wine, and suddenly, after all these days of mourning and feeling angry and sorry for herself and generally living on the periphery of life, something snapped in her brain. She sat up and put a hand on Jahangir’s arm.
“This will be your last cup today, your Majesty.”
He shook his head. “Remember that it is not your place to tell me what to do, Mehrunnisa. I am your Emperor. You must listen to me. If I wish to drink I will do so.” Jahangir drank the wine fast, until he was choking, and then held out his cup for more. It was filled, and defiantly he raised it again to his mouth.
Mehrunnisa grabbed the cup from him, spilling wine on the front of the Emperor’s embroidered qaba, and threw it against a pillar. The cup, made of white jade studded with rubies, shattered into tiny pieces, the wine leaving a stain on the marble of the pillar.
He wrenched at her shoulder until she faced him, and then his hand swung in an arc through the air and came into contact with her cheek. The slap rumbled through the room and brought on its heels a huge silence. The musicians in the balcony above stopped playing, the slaves and eunuchs froze where they stood. No one knew what to do. And neither did Mehrunnisa, for a few seconds. Then her arm went back, her fingers in a fist, moving from below to connect with Jahangir’s chin.
Within minutes, they were rolling around on the floor, yelling and screaming. They spit at each other, tried to claw each other’s eyes out, and punched one another. Mehrunnisa’s veil came off her head and her hair came undone. Jahangir ineffectually tried to ward off her blows with his hands. Shame had already come to leave its mark on him. He knew he should not have hit a woman, he had been taught not to do so, and even deep in his cups, he had never done this before. But this time . . . something had turned in his brain, had taken over his thinking. He stopped fighting, gave up, tried to shout at Mehrunnisa that they should halt, but she was too enraged and he could not stop her.
The attendants watched amazed as the couple rolled over again; this time Jahangir lay on the ground and Mehrunnisa sat astride him. She slapped Jahangir four times with an open palm.
The servants dithered in the background, shifting from foot to foot. No one had ever before hit the Emperor, either in his childhood or his youth. And here he was, meekly taking a beating from his wife. Should they go and break up the fight? The event was unprecedented; no other Mughal Emperor had fought with his wife so disgracefully before. What were they to do?
Just then, the room resounded with yells from the orchestra balcony, followed by a series of deep, skin-thumping thuds.
In the hall below, Mehrunnisa looked up in surprise. Who was dying? She jumped off Jahangir and gave him her hand. They ran up the stairs to the orchestra balcony. When they got there, one of the sitar players was lying on the floor, shouting out nonsense, “Save me. O Lord, save me!” He wriggled on the floor, beat himself on his chest, and screamed out each time he did so. Then he saw them and stopped, rising to perform the taslim. “Your Majesties, I hope the fight is over.”
The Emperor and Mehrunnisa stood panting at the top of the stairs. Now they were both ashamed. The orchestra had very effectively broken up their quarrel by creating a diversion.
“Hoshiyar, scatter gold over these men, they have done well,” Jahangir said. He turned to Mehrunnisa. “Shall we leave to take care of our persons, my dear?”
Mehrunnisa nodded and followed Jahangir down the stairs and back into the reception hall. Her hair had escaped from its plait and her scalp burned near her nape where the Emperor had yanked it. She could feel an ache on her right cheekbone, and her
eye was already swelling shut. They both had wine spilled on them and were now redolent of it. Mehrunnisa’s anger had abated somewhat. Even her pain had gone, she thought, in the fighting her pain had gone.
Jahangir was limping, and she asked, “Did you twist your ankle, your Majesty?”
He turned to her. “It is best you go to your apartments, Mehrunnisa. I will take care of myself, and you must get Hoshiyar to look after you.” When she opened her mouth, he cut her short. “We should not have forgotten who we are. Fighting like animals, with no sense of decorum . . . what are people in the empire going to say about this? Come to me, Mehrunnisa, only when you wish to ask pardon, and no sooner than that. I will wait for your apologies. But only for so long.”
She stood mute, stunned, disbelieving that Jahangir would talk to her like this in front of all the servants. She walked away slowly and went to Ladli’s room. Her daughter slept slanted across the divan, the silk sheet thrown off, her pajamas riding up to her knees. Mehrunnisa climbed onto the divan and put her head next to Ladli’s. The child’s hand came up to touch her hair.
“Mama?” she said wonderingly, half-asleep.
“Yes, beta.” She gathered her into her arms, and Ladli sighed. She did not ask why her mother came to her like this at night after so many nights away. Mehrunnisa was tired, so shattered by everything that had happened lately.
The Feast of Roses Page 18