As the server heaped plates with food, the attendants brought in gold goblets studded with rubies and diamonds into which they poured chilled khus sherbet. Jahangir indicated his choice by pointing, and his plate was prepared for him. The attendants waited in silence as the royal party ate. They did not speak during the meal. Food was best enjoyed without the distraction of conversation. They ate with their hands, using only the right hand, picking at their food delicately so that it rode only up to their knuckles. A food-smeared palm was bad etiquette.
Mehrunnisa chewed on a mouthful of rice with a gravy-smothered piece of chicken. What was in it? Ginger—its fresh scent exploded on her tongue—some cumin seeds, and something else . . . something tart. Ah, the powder of dried mangoes. She nodded at the Mir Bakawal, who was standing with his arms folded, watching them with anxiety. The food was excellent as usual, the gravies weightless and well cooked, the fish flaky, each piece soaked in garlic and lime. The Master of the Kitchen bowed his head at the compliment, which was given to him at every meal. But at this one, Mehrunnisa thought, it was doubly important. It must have been difficult for him to move the entire kitchen from the fort to the gardens, hard to cook in the open air, where even water had to be brought. She had suggested to Jahangir that they return to the zenana for their food, and he had laughed at her concern. There were men enough to take every dish, plate, and ladle to Zahara Bagh. Enough slaves to bring every teaspoonful of water, teaspoonful by teaspoonful, for the cooking. But won’t it be a discomfort for the kitchens? Mehrunnisa asked, still not used to the casual way in which even the most elaborate events took place. What else have they to do? the Emperor replied. This is their job, their work, their life itself. So Mehrunnisa complimented the Mir Bakawal—he would talk of this to the cooks who waited behind the garden walls in silence, straining to hear if they liked the food.
She ate and contemplated Khurram. It was barely a year since Arjumand had her first child, now she was pregnant with the second already. Khurram and her niece had a boy, whom Jahangir had named Dara Shikoh. This one would be a boy too, Mehrunnisa thought, from the easy way Arjumand carried him inside her. An ache began to grow at this idea, but Mehrunnisa stifled it. This kind of thinking had debilitated her, taken from her the will to live even; it would not do. She had Ladli. And so she had reminded herself, at first almost every few minutes, and then day after day, and then, it was only at times like these that the thought sneaked in at all. She had Ladli.
Something had changed between them with Dara’s birth. Khurram did not come as frequently as he once had for their meetings; often, it was only Bapa, Abul, and Mehrunnisa who met, with Abul offering apologies for his son-in-law’s absence. For this hunt too, Khurram had not wanted to come, but Mehrunnisa had sent him a letter and insisted, albeit gently, that the Emperor would be glad to see him.
Khurram did not glance up from his food to catch her eye. When he did eventually, the meal was over, and attendants were bringing warm water for them to wash their hands.
An hour later, Jahangir laid his head down comfortably on a pillow as the musicians outside the baradari played soothing music. He was asleep in a few minutes.
Mehrunnisa made a sign to Khurram. He got up and followed her outside. They cut across the lush, green lawn and reached a square water reservoir filled with goldfish and white lilies. A willow curved over gracefully, sheltering them from the sun. Mehrunnisa sat down at the edge of the pond and took off her jeweled sandals. She put her feet into the cool water and watched as the goldfish curiously nibbled at her feet. Khurram sat next to her in silence, waiting for her to speak.
“How is Arjumand? I hope the confinement is progressing well.”
“Yes.” A flush of happiness spread over the prince’s face. “She is doing well. The soothsayers say it will be another son. It does not matter much to me, but Arjumand is content.”
“You love Arjumand very much.”
“More than life itself, your Majesty,” the prince replied fervently. Then he stopped and said, “This sounds too grand, too much like what I should say to you, her aunt, rather than what should be. But it is the simple truth.”
“It is good to love your wife, Khurram,” Mehrunnisa hesitated, “but remember, as a royal prince it is your duty to marry often and to show impartiality to all your wives. You have another wife, one before Arjumand. I hear you visit her less often.”
“This from you, your Majesty?” Khurram asked. His smile was wry. “I beg your pardon, but I have known you since I was a child and so feel I can safely say this. Empress Jagat Gosini complains of the Emperor’s neglect of her, others do too.”
Mehrunnisa laughed, and the sound tumbled around the silent gardens. The eunuchs in the baradari leaned their heads out to look at them, but they could not hear the conversation. She touched Khurram’s arm. “That was well said. But matters are different with the Emperor, Khurram. He has too much else to do, the court, the people, the empire, all these have his attention. When he returns to the zenana, he comes to me. I do not need to remind you of this.”
“I apologize, your Majesty.”
She nodded and fell silent. She had not expected to be questioned thus by Khurram. On the other hand, that mocking, light tone had been absent from their dealings for a long while, and she welcomed its return. Yet . . . behind those words lurked insolence. Even if he had not meant it to be so. But had he meant it? Khurram too had taken off his sandals, and they sat shoulder to shoulder on the stone edge of the pool. “I shall never marry again,” he said. “No political marriages, no more marriages of convenience, I have all I could want in Arjumand.”
“It is very well to love Arjumand,” Mehrunnisa said quietly, “but think of all the alliances you can make for the good of the empire, alliances which will link us with other kings. You cannot put love before duty.”
Khurram frowned. “Why must it be a royal prince’s duty to follow these orders? Why cannot I make my own choice?”
“You complain of a lack of freedom, Khurram?” she asked. “You want choice? Will you then give up your royal birth and your right to the throne for these?”
He whipped around to her. “I can have them and still be free. My father did, he chose you, your Majesty.”
At his words, the anger that had simmered somewhere inside Mehrunnisa flared to life. He was reminding her of her lowly birth, of the fact that her father was a Persian refugee, and that she had brought no political connections to the marriage. His wife was that Persian refugee’s granddaughter.
“Arjumand has my blood in her. Did you forget that so soon?” The prince began to talk, but Mehrunnisa shushed him. “I know your first wife is descended from Shah Ismail of Persia, but I do not see that her ancestry makes you any more fond of her. Just as the Emperor is fond of me, the woman he chose after having married nineteen others for the empire, you too find yourself by Arjumand’s side. Are you now disrespecting your wife?”
He moved away, his face flushed. Khurram apologized, over and over again, mumbling and incoherent. He had not meant to be disrespectful, surely your Majesty could not think so. He had much to be grateful for, and it all came from her family. Mehrunnisa let him talk, did not interrupt him and waited until her own rage had calmed a little. He had wanted to be spiteful, and in the process had overlooked the fact that anything he said to her would reflect upon him too. They were now tied in marriage. Let him be unsettled, she thought. It would make what she had to say much easier. He must never again forget who she was, or what she could do for him.
“Then you will agree with me, Khurram, that some inconveniences have to be borne to enjoy greater conveniences.”
“Yes, of course, your Majesty. But what do you have in mind?” he asked. “Has another alliance been offered?”
“Yes,” she said finally. “I wish, your father and I wish, for you to marry again.”
“Who is it?”
No more protests, Mehrunnisa thought; he was more curious to know who it was than he was on
insisting on his undying love for Arjumand.
“Someone you know well. And someone who will make you a good wife—Ladli.”
“Ladli!” Khurram repeated. “But she is a mere child.”
“She is eleven years old, Khurram. I am not suggesting a marriage yet, merely a betrothal. We can wait while she grows up.”
“How can I marry Arjumand’s cousin?”
“A precedent has been set before, need I remind you of this? Dowager Empress Ruqayya was Emperor Akbar’s first cousin, another of his wives was their common cousin. Why now an exalted sense of morality?”
Khurram stared at her. Who was she to tell him of the responsibilities of an Emperor? She spoke as though his becoming an Emperor depended upon her good graces. He was the natural heir to the throne; his two older brothers, Khusrau and Parviz, were wastrels, and Shahryar was still a child. Why, even Emperor Akbar had indicated that he was the best loved of all his grandchildren. What right did this woman have to dictate his responsibilities or belittle his moralities?
“I shall think about it,” he mumbled.
“Think well, Khurram,” Mehrunnisa said, getting up and slipping her wet feet into her sandals. “Remember who you are.” She stopped and said in a gentler voice, “I do not mean to command you into this decision. But what can be so wrong about it? Ladli is a charming child—and I say this not just as her mother—she will become a charming woman, one much like Arjumand.” She laughed. “Now I sound like the mother of a bride, lauding my daughter’s advantages. But think that this will not disadvantage you either.”
The Empress and the prince walked back to the baradari in silence. Khurram did not venture into conversation again, his brow furrowed in thought. Mehrunnisa let him be. The idea she had suggested would take time to settle in his mind. It was a little thing to ask. He was her niece’s husband, why not her daughter’s? Soon he would see why this was important.
But she remained uneasy. They were still strong, surely, the junta. The same loyalties existed. Surely.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The shippe, which arrived at the barre of Suratt the 13th of September, 1613 . . . was taken by the Portungales armado of friggots, notwithstandinge theire passe which they had of the Portungales.
—WILLIAM FOSTER, ed.,
Early Travels in India, 1583–1619
The Rahimi rode on the water, her massive sails distended with breeze. She was on her way back to Surat from Jiddah, the Red Sea port near Mecca.
“Land ahoy!” the panjari seated in the bird’s nest atop the main mast yelled out.
The deck was immediately crowded with passengers and sailors, all eager for the first glimpse of land after almost four months at sea. They were finally home. They pressed eagerly into the railings, chattering with one another, faces lit with smiles, eyes searching for the land the panjari had seen. The gulls had come to the Rahimi two days ago, bringing promise of home as they had squawked and swooped around the ship. But such promises were not easily believed, for birds had flown over the ship before and vanished into the vast and empty sky, and no land had been sighted.
Most of the passengers aboard the Rahimi were pilgrims on their way back from the Haj in Mecca. They had been away for a long time—in some cases, two or three years. They mingled easily on the ship’s polished decks with the crew, men and women together, waiting. At first there was nothing, the lines of the horizon were flat and unmarred. And then there was a blue-black smudge, like a fingerprint. Finally, it was land. It was India. Shouts and yells resounded over the water. The gulls got their reward as pieces of bread were thrown into the air.
In a few hours, just as the sun was setting, the Rahimi furled her sails and glided smoothly to anchor off the bar at the mouth of the river Tapti. The next morning at sunrise, boats would row out to the Rahimi and carry its passengers and crew fourteen miles inland along the river to Surat.
With the sun dipping behind her in the Arabian Sea, the Rahimi was a magnificent sight. The ship could displace up to fifteen hundred tons of water at full cargo, her main mast rose forty-five yards to the sky, her sails were so huge that they were identifiable from many miles away, and she could carry fifteen hundred passengers. On this voyage, the Rahimi had aboard seven hundred pilgrims from Mecca and a full complement of crew. The cargo holds below deck were stocked with silks, spices, and other goods for trade. She was the largest ship that plied the Arabian Sea routes, and her bulk and enormity did not make her less stately or elegant. Her sails were handwoven in thick canvas, and shot through with one-inch strips of gold embroidery—on a bright day, she seemed on fire. Her fittings were of the shiniest brass, and her wooden decks were swabbed daily.
All these were on Dowager Empress Ruqayya’s orders. The Rahimi belonged to Ruqayya.
As night fell, the passengers retired to their cabins, delighted to be back and awaiting their first step on their homeland the next day. The captain and crew rested after a long, arduous voyage. As the ship slept, five Portuguese frigates silently moved into position around the Rahimi.
When morning came and the sun rose behind the hills in the east, the lone lookout woke guiltily. He had fallen into sleep aided by wine; the captain himself had brought him a cup. But the night had been calm, there had been no trouble. He rose from the deck, rubbed his aching back, and yawned. A frigate loomed in front of his eyes. For a moment this did not register, and then he turned and ran.
“Captain!” he shouted, racing toward the captain’s cabin, “we are surrounded by the Portuguese.”
His cries woke the whole ship, and within minutes the deck thronged with passengers and crew, who came pounding up from their cabins. They stood gazing with awe at the mighty battleships. As they watched, a lifeboat was lowered from the side of a frigate and a small party of Portuguese rowed over to the Rahimi.
“Let down a ladder,” the Portuguese captain yelled.
“What is the problem? We have paid for our cartaz and have not violated any conditions on it,” the captain said. Upon hearing the word, the pilgrims on the Rahimi shuddered, but they said little, watchful of the frigates surrounding them. The cartaz was the pass all ships departing the Indian coast had to carry. It was a passport for the ship, detailing ports of call, routes to be taken in the Arabian Sea, and even items for trade by name and quantity. The top page of this hated cartaz was stamped with the picture of Mary and Jesus—hated because it was abhorrent for the Muslim pilgrims headed to Mecca to travel under the auspice of a God they could not call their own.
“Let me see your cartaz.”
The Portuguese pass was brought out and lowered by a rope. The Portuguese captain perfunctorily examined it. Then he demanded a ladder again; it was let down, and they came aboard. “The Rahimi is being appropriated by us. You have violated the rules.”
“What rules?” the Rahimi’s captain yelled. “You cannot do this; the Rahimi belongs to her Majesty, Dowager Empress Ruqayya Sultan Begam.”
“We do not know yet,” the Portuguese captain said. “Your cargo will be examined and we will check for violations. The crew is under arrest, give yourselves up peacefully and you will not be hurt.” He turned to his first officer. “Get a crew over here to guide the Rahimi to Goa.”
The man nodded and went off to signal his frigate.
“The Emperor will hear of this.” The captain of the Rahimi turned to his first officer and said, “Send a message to his Majesty in Agra.”
“No one is to leave.”
A murmur started in the crowd. The men began to press in around the Portuguese officer, some started to shout, and some of the women cried. The Rahimi’s captain pushed them back. “Let the passengers go. They have waited too long to come home.”
“They can wait a little longer. My orders are to escort the Rahimi to Goa intact, with all the crew, passengers, and cargo.”
In an hour, the entire crew had been rounded up and sent to the Portuguese frigate. A new crew came aboard. The passengers were ordered to their cabins
and they did what they were told, fear taking hold of them. They had been so close to home, they could see the land, and now . . . now what would happen? As the sun rose in the sky, the Rahimi weighed anchor and set sail south to Goa, the seat of the Portuguese Viceroy in India.
• • •
Mehrunnisa pushed her notebook toward Siddhicandra. “What do you think?”
He read carefully, marking out specific passages. “Your Majesty, the essay is very good, but you have made some elementary mistakes. Like here . . .” Siddhicandra pointed out with his quill.
She sighed. “Sanskrit is more difficult than I thought, so many grammatical hurdles.”
Siddhicandra smiled. “It is just a matter of time and patience, your Majesty.”
The twenty-four-year-old monk had a youthful face, his skin unfettered by lines. And nature had been kind to him, shaping the muscles on his back, shoulders, and abdomen as with a sharp knife. His cheekbones and chin were strongly cut, his head was shaved and no bumps marred his skull. The monk wore saffron clothing, loose cloth draped upon his body, his feet were bare, he rarely walked in sandals, and he usually bore a thin muslin mask across his nose and mouth so even in breathing he would not endanger insects that might otherwise find their way into his lungs.
Siddhicandra was a Jain monk. Jainism, a religion founded by Mahavira, had found its roots many centuries before the advent of Christianity or Islam. In India, it was followed mostly by the baniyas, the merchant class in Gujrat. The main precept of Jainism was kindness to all creatures, big and small, which meant no meat, and, in cases like Siddhicandra’s, even an unwillingness to step on, or breathe in, life the eye could not discern.
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