Mehrunnisa wore white—a widow’s color—her ghagara made of chiffon was peasant-plain. Her choli was white too, but this was thickly studded with diamonds, and her face glowed in the reflected light from the stones. The women watched, mouths watering, eyes greedily catching the brilliancy of the diamonds. Mehrunnisa wore no veil, nothing else to cover her but her hair, which went down in a smooth sheet of soot black to her waist. As she walked, the skirts of her ghagara swirled over the rose petals, destroying their careful arrangement on the marble slabs. Mehrunnisa went up to the center of the pathway and stood waiting in the sunshine. The diamonds on her twinkled with every breath, capturing the light from the sun.
Emperor Jahangir entered from the other end, the western end of the courtyard. He did not notice, and did not acknowledge, the bows of the women of his zenana, nor did he reply to the salutations. He too walked down the steps to the yard below, weaving his way through the crowds, and went down the pathway to meet Mehrunnisa.
The women leaned forward in their seats. This was so obviously staged, so patently a drama of some kind, a ritual, but what was it? They watched as Jahangir moved closer to Mehrunnisa, his shadow moving gracefully ahead of him. He stopped, perhaps just a carpet-length from her, and his shadow stopped with him. They stood looking at each other, and ears strained to hear words. But no, there was no sound. Only . . . the Emperor started to move forward again, and every woman shouted out the same phrase in her mind. Move away, Mehrunnisa. Move away. Step aside. But she did not move. She did not look down either as Jahangir’s shadow—just his head and chest—draped over the bottom half of Mehrunnisa’s ghagara.
A deep sigh drifted through the courtyard as every eye there gazed upon the dark gray shadow across Mehrunnisa’s feet. So sacred was the Emperor’s person that even his shadow could not fall upon anyone near him. If it did, it meant he had fallen at their feet, bowed before them—it was unthinkable.
Mehrunnisa stepped away and went to her husband. As they stood there, now side by side, letting the zenana see them together, she said, “Thank you, your Majesty. You have restored my name to me.”
He clasped her hand and they went back to their apartments, scattering the rose petals as they walked. “Let them all know, Mehrunnisa, that there is no one quite as important to me as you are. It shall always be thus.”
The women of the imperial harem left the Anguri Bagh, overwhelmed by what they had seen and filled with yearning. Each had wanted to walk upon the rose-strewn pathway, each wanted to feel the soft bruise of the petals under her feet, to stand in the bright sunlight and have Jahangir’s shadow cast its darkness upon her. To be the most brilliant rose among the royal damasks. To be literally feasted thus, so sumptuously, with roses. This was a banquet like none other. The flowers were used, of course, to adorn marriage beds, or sling about necks in garlands or nestle in hair. But this—to so negligently strew them on the floor, and in such large quantities so as to divest a whole garden, and simply for treading upon with feet—this was unprecedented.
For the next few weeks, the women talked of nothing else. Those who had watched the reunion gossiped about it, exaggerating almost everything. The choli Mehrunnisa wore, it had a thousand diamonds sewn into the fabric, each exactly like its neighbor. Her feet did not burn when the Emperor’s shadow fell upon it because she was a sorceress. How else could she have cajoled the Emperor into denuding the rose garden for a few seconds of pleasure?
Prince Khurram heard of the event; he was not there, and until it happened, did not actually believe his father would debase himself thus. But he did hesitate when news was brought to him. Arjumand and he were in his apartments that afternoon, and he was reading to her as she poked a needle into some silk, but her fingers were fat with the pregnancy, and the needle slipped more often than not.
“The entire garden of Ispahans,” Arjumand said softly, imagining the scene in her head. “Would you do this for me, Khurram?”
“Of course,” he replied, but his mind was not with her.
“Would you?” She nudged his chin toward her.
He rubbed her back with one hand, the book still in the other. “Yes, my dear. I would. I will make a garden for you, a forest, anything you want.”
“His Majesty adores my aunt, Khurram,” Arjumand said, a little wistful now. And so Khurram loved her too . . . did he not? But such lavishness for her aunt, who was an old woman, a beautiful woman, true . . . envy pricked inside her, tiny at first and then, suddenly raging. “How can his Majesty allow her to demean him so, and in public?”
But Khurram had turned away from his wife and was looking out the windows. Arjumand talked on for the next half hour—she would never do this to Khurram, never demand an apology like this, she was always considerate of his reputation. Behind all her protestations lay jealousy. Like the other women of the zenana, Arjumand wanted this feast of roses for herself, wanted it to bear her name, not Mehrunnisa’s.
Khurram heard little of her tirade. He was thinking, and he did not confide his thoughts in Arjumand. Instead, Khurram went to pay his long overdue respects to Mehrunnisa. Khurram was not stupid, ambitious he was, but not so filled with pride that he could not see that Mehrunnisa had come back to reign over the zenana and over the court. He did not see the feast of roses as an opulent mark of favor from a man to his beloved; he saw it for what it actually was—his father had bestowed power unto Mehrunnisa, now and for always. And she too was now stronger somehow. After the events of the past few months, a second skin had formed over her, thin as an eggshell, resilient as iron.
• • •
In an inner sanctum of the fort at Agra, within the walls of the imperial zenana, lay the Khel Aangan. It was a courtyard of sixty-four unblemished black and white marble squares, hand-polished to a seamless shine. The roof yawned to the sky above. On breathless summer days, as the sun drenched the palaces, the black squares swallowed the light; the white reflected it pearl-like in a mosaic of deep pools and still white water. The squares measured ten feet on each side. On one side of the courtyard, raised from the ground, was a marble balcony strewn with divans and pearl-studded cushions.
As the sun set over Agra, lingering in the western sky for a brief equatorial moment before being scooped into the earth, torches flared to life in sconces set high on pillars that surrounded the courtyard.
Hoshiyar led Mahabat Khan into the balcony and let go of his hand.
“You may open your eyes now.”
Mahabat opened his eyes slowly, his heart thumping. He first looked at Hoshiyar, unwilling to let his gaze stray, aware that he was within the imperial zenana, where few men unrelated to the royal family were invited. Mahabat had been in the periphery of the harem before, of course, in reception halls where he had met the Emperor, and gardens where he met Jagat Gosini. But he had never been this far inside.
The eunuch nodded. “You may look around, Mirza Khan. It is safe.”
“Thank you for bringing me here.”
Hoshiyar let a small smile crease his mouth. “Her Majesty commanded your presence. She does you a great honor, Mirza Khan, by allowing you within the walls of the harem. It is an even greater honor that you were given permission to come this far with only your eyes closed, not covered with a sheet like the physicians. She has trusted you.”
“I know,” Mahabat said, acerbity in his voice. Hoshiyar was reminding him, none too subtly, of his meetings with Empress Jagat Gosini in the zenana gardens all those years ago. Then, Hoshiyar Khan had been Jagat Gosini’s eunuch, with the Emperor’s ear and the Empress’s faith. Now, he served another mistress. Just how much had he told her about Mahabat’s meetings with Empress Jagat Gosini? Mahabat waved his hand. “You may go now.”
Hoshiyar bowed. “I most certainly will, Mirza Khan. The Empress must be informed of your arrival.”
When he left, Mahabat looked around him. It was dark by now, the sky a soft velvet studded with glimmering stars, but it was the courtyard below that drew his attention. The lig
ht from the torches and oil lamps glowed gold in the warm air. Mahabat leaned over the balcony, his blood alive with excitement, assaulted by the perfume of incense. His hands trembled as they rested on the marble balustrade of the balcony. No other man he knew had seen this famous Khel Aangan, the courtyard of play. Legend had it that Emperor Akbar had had the workmen sent into exile once they had finished work on this part of the imperial zenana, so they could not talk of it, in seriousness or in jest. And no one would build another quite like it.
And now he, Mahabat Khan, was here. When the summons had come to him the night before, Mahabat had stared at the curved writing for a long time, disbelieving what his eyes read. In the Khel Aangan, she said, will you honor me with your presence, Mirza Mahabat Khan? His Majesty wishes to reward you for many years of devotion, so you are to be invited to the zenana as my guest. I have heard much of your prowess in Shatranj ; perhaps when you visit you will agree to play a game with me?
Mahabat had touched the paper, disregarding the eunuch who waited for a reply. It had been well written, lyrical, almost poetic. And though it had been polite, what he had held in his hands had been an imperial summons, one he could not refuse. When the eunuch had departed with his answer, Mahabat had swallowed a deep draught of his wine. Setting the goblet down, he tried to think of a precedent. It was not entirely uncommon for Mughal Emperors to invite strange men to the zenana, but only when they were vassal kings or other high dignitaries. It was a sign of favor, usually done in the hope that the honor would make the guest more amenable to signing a treaty or offering his support to the empire. In just one other case had the man thus honored been a commoner. Emperor Jahangir had ordered the ladies of his harem to go unveiled in front of Ghias Beg. But Mirza Beg was Mehrunnisa’s father, and grandfather of Prince Khurram’s wife. His blood lay in the imperial harem; he had strong ties to it. Mahabat could claim no such kinship. Now these summons. No title, no amount of wealth, no grants of land could match this.
It had been a month since his talk with Emperor Jahangir, Mahabat thought as his legs weakened under him. He sat down on a velvet-covered divan, his hands suddenly cold. This summons was a result of that talk, of that he had no doubt. But why? He must have displeased Mehrunnisa when he had gone to the Emperor with his complaint. Yet here he was being rewarded.
An elephant trumpeted softly, and Mahabat rose from his seat to look down into the courtyard again, his mind imprinted with the picture in front of him, his brain storing every exquisite detail.
The floor stretched gleaming in front of him, shining dully in the lamplight. The board was set with live pieces for chess, and Mahabat’s eyes greedily skimmed over the pieces. The rukhs on either end and on each side were calf elephants sporting tiny howdahs, a mahout standing next to each elephant, hands on their charges’s necks. These were the Emperor’s special elephants, born in the imperial stables, their bloodlines impeccable, dating to Emperor Humayun’s time. They were trained especially for this game; in a few years they would be too large to fit into the courtyard, or to stand comfortably on the squares of the board.
The knights were foals, drenched in imperial livery, bridles, bits, saddles embellished with real gold and silver. Next to the knights were the commanders of the Emperor’s army—mansabdars—holders of mansabs of ten thousand infantry and cavalry. Mahabat looked at their strange vestments with surprise. The eunuchs masquerading as commanders were dressed in long, thick cotton robes, much like the Jesuit fathers at the church at Agra.
In the very center, behind the row of eight foot soldiers, were the Shah and his Grand Vizier. The pieces were all dressed in white satin and black velvet, contrasting white and black pearls sewn into their clothes and the elephants’ head coverings. Mahabat shut his eyes and opened them again. No, it was not a dream. He was here, in the Khel Aangan, the board set for Shatranj, the pieces like jewels glimmering in the lamplight. He had only heard of the Emperor’s collection of pieces before, now he had seen them for himself. Mahabat felt a sudden chill cast over his bones. One thing was certain. Although it was a privilege to have been invited to play a game of Shatranj with the Emperor’s favorite, he would not allow her to win, etiquette be damned.
“Mirza Mahabat Khan.”
Mahabat turned around, his hand automatically plunging to the ground, his head bowed in the konish. When he straightened, he allowed his gaze to fall on her almost diffidently. No story he had heard about her beauty, no portrait he had seen of her—not even the one he had stolen from the Emperor’s atelier—did justice to the woman before him. She was taller than he had expected, coming almost to his shoulder. She was clad in a deep sunset red, her choli fitting over her breasts, the sleeves long and caressing her wrists. Her ghagara was strewn with ocean-blue aquamarines, catching the light in the courtyard with every movement. She was wearing a veil of a thin red muslin, but her face was visible behind it. Mahabat reacted to her instinctively as a man would to a beautiful woman, straightening out his qaba, running a hand over the slick dome of his well-oiled head.
Mehrunnisa smiled, her teeth flashing suddenly, and Mahabat caught his breath again. This was why Emperor Jahangir was so enamored of her, why she seemed to obsess his every thought, why she had so much power over him.
“Thank you for responding to my request, Mirza Mahabat Khan,” the Empress said, her voice soft, the tones dulcet and charming.
Mahabat bowed. “I could not have refused, your Majesty.”
She gestured toward the divans. “Please sit down.”
Mahabat hesitated. “Your Majesty, it would not be right to sit in your presence.”
Mehrunnisa laughed as she sat down gracefully on a divan, tucking her feet under the glittering fan of her ghagara. “Come now, Mirza Khan, we are all friends here. I always allow my friends to sit in my presence. Besides, we will be here a long time playing Shatranj. Sit down, Mirza Khan.”
Mahabat sank uneasily onto the feather-stuffed divan, his back straight. “Will his Majesty be joining us?”
Mehrunnisa shook her head. “His Majesty is unwell tonight. It is nothing serious, just a headache. I hope my company will suffice, Mirza Khan.”
“Your Majesty, this is a great honor for me. Words cannot express—”
“I know,” the Empress said, cutting off his sentence midway, “it is indeed a great honor. And one you must remember.” She clapped her hands. At her signal, the pieces in the courtyard below them bowed to the imperial balcony, the elephants lumbering to one shaky knee at their mahouts’ command. “Are they not enchanting? I personally designed their costumes.”
Mahabat nodded. “Your Majesty, this is all delightful. The pieces, their livery—but I do not understand the clothing of the mansabdars.”
As she moved, a waft of civet and musk swirled over Mahabat. “If you will grant me one request, Mirza Khan. I thought we should play by the rules of the Portuguese. And perhaps then we will better understand why they give us so much trouble. I hear you know their game? The mansabdars have been replaced by bishops.”
She said “beeshops,” much as Mahabat himself would have said the word, and he found himself leaning toward the Empress. He drew back hastily. “I do know their game, your Majesty. They allow castling and the Grand Vizier to move unlimited steps in any direction.”
Mehrunnisa looked long at Mahabat. “The Grand Vizier is called the queen on their board. She is the one given so much influence. A most wise policy, you must agree. No mere Vizier can be given such power.”
The confusion about the summons crystallized into clarity in Mahabat’s mind. If she wished to give the queen such power, so be it. He would play by her rules and defeat her. This game of Shatranj, he saw, was to be symbolic of their individual authorities over the empire, and Mahabat would show her just how influential he could be. When he spoke his tone was polite. “I beg to differ, your Majesty. The Grand Vizier is the Shah’s most important ally. He protects the Shah. And doubtless has been with and known the Shah all his life. Such rela
tionships are difficult to dissolve.”
Mehrunnisa laughed. Mahabat watched, fascinated, as she drew her veil from her face. Her skin was so exquisite, like a pearl, he wanted to touch it. Her eyes blazed at him. “Mirza Khan, you are a worthy adversary. But I do not agree with you. Relationships, even long ones since childhood, are easy to invalidate. You see, a wife must be everything to a man, not his friends. To a Shah, a queen is everything.”
Mahabat was still recovering from his first sight of her face, and her words slid over him unheeded. The veil lay in a pile of red cloud around her shoulders. Now he saw the lines around her mouth and eyes. She was not young, not fresh of face, yet the experience of years had brought loveliness to her eyes. All of a sudden he remembered her first husband, Ali Quli, a man he had intensely disliked. He had been a mere Persian soldier fled to India, whom Emperor Akbar had honored with this woman’s hand. What a waste, Mahabat thought, still speechless. He stared at her until Hoshiyar Khan coughed.
“Shall we play now, Mirza Khan?”
Mahabat looked down at his hands. He had not really heard her words, but now they came to him again. The queen is everything. He shook his head. Mahabat had seen and been with many beautiful women, yet the Empress was truly stunning. When he looked up, she had pulled her veil over her face again.
The Empress held two exquisitely carved Shatranj Shahs in her hand, one in ivory decorated with rubies, the other in ebony studded with diamonds. She closed her palms over them and put her hands behind her back. “You choose, Mirza Khan.”
“Your Majesty . . .”
“I insist, you are my guest. You must choose.”
Mahabat pointed to her right hand. She brought it forward and unclasped her fingers. The ivory king lay against her palm.
She laughed softly. “You have the advantage, Mirza Khan. Make sure you use it well.”
“I most certainly will, your Majesty.” Mahabat kept his gaze away from her, determined not to be distracted by her presence.
The Feast of Roses Page 20