The Feast of Roses

by Indu Sundaresan

  Khurram unrolled the letter and let his eyes run greedily over the graceful, flowing handwriting. “All is well with the grace of Allah.” Here was that first line of assurance; before Arjumand began her letters, she always put this line on the top. It was something she had learned from her grandfather; Ghias Beg had taught her to tell the reader, upon first perusal, that the letter bore no bad news. And leaving out that line would be warning of what was to come. She wrote:

  My dearest lord,

  I miss you. There must be ways, surely, of saying this more poetically, with more emotion and distress, with more feeling. But for me, these three words are enough. You are not here by my side, your absence is felt every day and every moment, without you there is no life in me. When is this to end? Why must I be confined thus to the bearing of children, and not be with you? Why can I not bear those children where you are?

  I apologize for these words and this language, but I am anxious for your safety. If I cannot see you, or be near you, how can I look after you?

  Khurram clutched the letter to his chest and rocked back and forth on his divan. It was not enough to have just the letter from Arjumand; he wanted her in his arms. He was the one who should look after Arjumand, so he had promised when he had married her. And why this separation indeed? Because Mehrunnisa had suggested it, she had said that Arjumand was pregnant, that she could not possibly travel with the army, that she would slow them down, that the child, possibly a future emperor, could not be born on the roadside without the royal physicians in attendance. That Khurram would endanger his wife’s life if he insisted upon taking her with him. It was this last argument that had given Khurram pause. And though Arjumand had wept and thrown a tantrum, he had withstood her demands. She could not come with him in her condition. But now, after all these months apart, all these months when Khurram felt as though his body was here in Mewar but everything else, his thoughts, his heart, his every breath was where Arjumand was, Mehrunnisa’s reasons no longer seemed valid.

  The Empress had wished to separate them, to bring a break in their relationship, to cause them this grief. What would have been so bad if Arjumand had traveled with Khurram and lived in his camp? He would have brought the royal hakims with him to be at her service when she needed it. As for the child, Arjumand had already been safely delivered of two other sons, with seemingly no distress at all. And even if Aurangzeb was going to be emperor after him—this Khurram did not think very possible, because there were those two other sons, Dara Shikoh and Shah Shuja, whose claims were a mite stronger because they had come into the world earlier—Emperor Akbar had been born in a tent while Humayun was fleeing India.

  Khurram held up the letter and started to read again.

  My aunt has received five passes from the Portuguese Viceroy at Goa. I went to ask her for one, just one cartaz for your ship that is to leave Surat soon for Jiddah, but she refused. She had given them all out already, she said, but I know at least three rest in the pockets of her ships’ captains. She is a vicious woman. I know you will never marry Ladli, but is there any necessity to plague us so just because of one refusal?

  I upset myself with these thoughts, but one remains always constant. That you must return, my lord, safely and with victory adorning your forehead. The Emperor will see that he has a son he can be proud of, for my part, no woman was ever so fortunate in the man she loves. May Allah be with you.

  The prince kissed the letter, folded it up, and put it into a silver box that he kept with him always. In the box were Arjumand’s other letters. He suddenly realized how silent it was—the rain had stopped as abruptly as it had started. He could still hear water flowing through the camp sewers, but his men were now moving around outside. Khurram put his head through the flap of his tent. The humidity of the night had come to take the place of the rain. Mosquitoes buzzed furiously, fireflies came out to twinkle in the darkness, and in the center of his camp, some of the soldiers had set up logs of neem wood in a fire pit. It was too hot for a fire, but the acrid, smoldering smoke of the neem would keep the mosquitoes away in the night, and for the first time in many months they could even light a fire for this without worrying that Amar Singh would ambush them.

  Khurram withdrew and went to his desk. He pulled out a sheet of paper and sharpened his quill with his knife. He would write to Arjumand immediately. Then he pushed the paper away. No, he would be with her soon, before the letter found its way to her hands. He dipped the quill in the ink cup and sketched the outlines of his ship in Surat. Khurram had started dabbling in overseas trade only recently, mostly because Mehrunnisa found so much in it to interest her. The money was excellent, so Ruqayya had always told him, and Khurram had seen her throw bags of mohurs at servants who brought her something she really wanted. Why, the Portuguese had captured Ruqayya’s ship, so there must be some value in this kind of trading. Besides, Khurram needed the money, he had only the income from his jagirs and his mansabs, and he wanted more so that he could buy Arjumand as many jewels as she wanted, and as many jewels as he pleased. He was poor, he thought, compared to Mehrunnisa. The Emperor had the most income, as was only befitting, but he should have been next in the empire, instead of being third, behind Mehrunnisa.

  If Mehrunnisa would not give him a cartaz, he would write to the Portuguese Viceroy himself. The Viceroy would be a good ally and would not refuse a royal prince, especially one who had the most chance of becoming the next emperor. He took out a fresh sheet of paper and began to write.

  Khurram was just finishing the letter when Ray Rayan lifted the flap of the tent. “Your Highness, would you like to come out? The men wish to see you.”

  “Yes.” Khurram put his seal on the letter, folded it, and handed it to his eunuch. “See that it gets to Goa as soon as possible.”

  He went outside to the circle around the fire. The soldiers cheered when they saw him.

  “Hail to the conqueror!” they shouted, waving their arms and clapping their hands.

  He stood there smiling, exulting in this praise. All the commanders were older than he was, but he had planned every detail of the siege. And these men had followed his orders, trusted in his judgement. He let them hoot and yell, and then he held up a hand. The soldiers quieted down, wine bottles were raised to their mouths, and they waited for Khurram to speak.

  “We have succeeded,” Khurram said. “It has taken us a long time, but now it is all over. The credit lies with all of you, brave soldiers and able commanders. The Emperor will be pleased with your service to him and the empire. Tomorrow, the Rana comes to the camp to surrender.” At this, the soldiers began to snigger and boo, but Khurram stopped them. A few weeks ago, his father had written to him. Even then it had been evident that the war against Mewar was over. Treat the Rana with dignity and honor, Jahangir’s letter had said. He is a king; he comes to us still a king. Regard him as one king would another, Khurram.

  So, standing there in the hot light of the neem fire, Khurram told his men of the Emperor’s wishes. They fell quiet, looked at each other with shame, and bowed their heads. Khurram clapped his hands when he saw their somber faces. It was enough that he could tell them of this—he knew he would be obeyed.

  The prince signaled to the musicians behind his soldiers. Music started to play, and the nautch girls came out from behind the tents. They swayed in front of the soldiers, the light searing through their thin muslin skirts and veils, illuminating a slender thigh here, the shape of a barely covered breast there. The soldiers drank some more, flung silver rupees into the air, lurched drunkenly after the women, who giggled and escaped their hands. They would eventually succumb, of course, but the longer they held out, the more money they would make.

  Khurram turned to go back to his tent. Someone touched his arm, and he turned back. The girl was young, perhaps no more than sixteen. She had a warm, earthy beauty. Heavy breasts, well-curved hips, a tight waist. Her skin was clear and golden in the light from the fire. She smiled at him, her eyes full of a rich promise.
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  She put out a hand. And Khurram, suddenly hungry for the taste of a woman’s skin, took it and led her to his tent.

  • • •

  Rana Amar Singh came into Khurram’s camp to the sound of trumpets. The imperial army stood along the path the Rana was to take, and when he walked among them, the men bowed. They had fought him for very long, and though Amar Singh was subdued, even cornered, he was still a king. Their commander had said so, and if Khurram was going to treat the Rana with respect, they could do no less.

  Amar Singh was now in his sixties, his hair and thick moustache were white, in startling contrast to the brown of his face, where the sun of Mewar had painted its colors. Amar Singh had come into the camp almost tentatively, not quite sure of his reception. He was in full armor, and his boots and mail clanked as he walked. His back was straight though; even had he been boorishly received, Amar Singh would not have let his pride fall as his kingdom had.

  Khurram stood outside his tent and watched the Rana. Amar Singh went down on his knees and touched Khurram’s boots. The prince immediately bent and raised the old man to his feet.

  “There is no need to ask for forgiveness, all is forgiven,” Khurram said. “You have shown your fealty to the Mughal Empire by coming here today. The Emperor shall protect you at all times, and it is your duty to respond to his call when he needs you.”

  “I will do so, your Highness.” Rana Amar Singh lifted his head and looked at Khurram. He gestured to the soldiers behind him. “Please accept these offerings.”

  The soldiers came forward and set down a huge ruby. It was enormous, about the size of a polo ball, and it glowed like the heart of a fire. So the rumors about the existence of this ruby were true, Khurram thought. It was said that the ruby had belonged to the Rana’s family for many generations, and his gift of the stone proved his loyalty and complete surrender. He had to restrain himself from grabbing the ruby and running his fingers over its many-faceted face. What a lovely jewel it would make, set in a turban, the light catching its pomegranate redness. But Khurram would have to give the ruby to his father, and it would most probably end up in Mehrunnisa’s hands. He looked at the black velvet cushion he held with wistfulness, thinking, at least for now, this stone was his. The Rana’s soldiers also brought in bales of silks and jeweled daggers. Seven elephants and nine horses were led into the enclosure. Each animal was clad in cloth of gold and silver with gem-studded reins and bridles.

  “I am ashamed of the meager offerings,” Amar Singh said. “But as your Highness probably knows, they are the only things left to me.”

  “This is more than generous,” Khurram smiled. “We have captured all the other animals in your private stables. The Emperor is pleased with your surrender. A royal farman will be sent to you bearing the imperial seal. The farman will provide you with protection and will name you as a vassal to the empire. As proof of the Emperor’s intentions, please accept these gifts from me.”

  Khurram turned and signaled to Ray Rayan. The eunuch brought forward a robe of honor and a jeweled sword that the prince gifted to the Rana. Attendants led an Arabian mare into the enclosure with a jeweled saddle and an elephant strapped with a silver howdah.

  The Rana bowed his head. “Thank you, your Highness. Your kindness is much appreciated.”

  “One more thing,” Khurram said. “You are still a king, Amar Singh. You will retain your title and your lands. Mewar is given to you as a jagir, yours to rule while you live.”

  The Rana spent a few days at camp, where he was feted and his every need tended to. After he left, his eldest son Karan came to pay his respects to Khurram, according to custom. The heir apparent never accompanied his father to pay his respects to an Emperor or a prince; he always came later. Karan would go with Khurram to Ajmer and pledge allegiance to Jahangir on behalf of Amar Singh. Khurram accepted this, and did not insist upon Amar Singh’s accompanying him himself. This much dignity the old Rana was allowed. And so the empire and Jahangir told Amar Singh that he had fought a worthy fight, that he was a mighty king too.

  Soon after Karan’s arrival, the royal party broke camp and began their journey back to the court at Ajmer.

  Prince Khurram returned to the imperial court victorious in a siege his father had once fought as a prince. With this triumph, many things changed. Khurram found a confidence he had not had before. He could lead an army, so he could wear a crown. He would find a way to tell Mehrunnisa that a marriage with Ladli was impossible.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The Prince entered the Towne, and all the great men in wondrous triumph. The King received him as if he had no other, contrary to all our expectation.

  —WILLIAM FOSTER, ed.,

  The Embassy of Sir Thomas Roe to India

  Mehrunnisa glanced at the letter in her hand thoughtfully. News had come from Surat. The Portuguese had burned four Indian ships at the Gulf of Cambay in direct disobedience to imperial orders.

  Hoshiyar Khan coughed. “What is the reply, your Majesty?”

  “Do you know what is in this letter?”

  “I have an idea,” Hoshiyar said. “I talked to the runner who brought the letter.”

  Mehrunnisa nodded. Hoshiyar had probably not just talked to the runner but as the letter had found its way to her on the silver salver, it had also probably unrolled itself. The seal was broken, but she said nothing about this. Finally, after all these years, she had come to trust Hoshiyar. What she knew, he knew. He would never betray her.

  She spread her fingers on the satin cover of the divan. The tendrils of jasmine vine, drawn on with henna paste, were now a feeble orange. Tonight, no, tomorrow, soon anyhow, she would have the maids repaint the henna. Khurram was coming home from Mewar, bringing the captured Prince Karan Singh with him. The court would celebrate, and she had to be prepared for the festivities.

  Mehrunnisa sighed. There was so much to think about, and here she was, wondering about her toilette. What was to be done with the Portuguese? Ever since the capture of the Rahimi, they had taken possession of at least a hundred more Indian ships. If they could dare to seize the Dowager Empress’s ship, how long before they took one of hers? Mehrunnisa had ordered the Portuguese to return the Rahimi—there was no question about the ship not being restored to Ruqayya—but her language had been honeyed, her tongue imprisoned by the passes the Portuguese Viceroy had sent for her ships.

  And Khurram would come home a hero, feted and pampered, still as much a worry as the Portuguese Viceroy. She rose from the divan and walked around the room. She needed to make a decision, needed not to feel helpless against these men. Mehrunnisa stopped and dug her toes into the pile of the carpets. She willed anger to flood through her, to take over her thoughts and drown out everything else. If the Portuguese wanted war, they would get war.

  A few minutes later the Empress whipped around to Hoshiyar, her mouth set in a tight line. “Send an order to Muqarrab Khan. He is to lay siege on the Portuguese city of Daman.”

  “Your Majesty, why Muqarrab? He will do all he can to help the Portuguese. You must know that he has been converted to their religion. He is on their side.”

  “He cannot openly defy imperial orders. If he does, it will mean death. This order will test his loyalty to the empire. Muqarrab will get no more indulgences from the court. Yes,” Mehrunnisa nodded, “it will have to be Muqarrab Khan. As governor of Gujrat, he is closest to Daman. The Portuguese will not be granted any more privileges. They have enjoyed the magnanimity of the Emperor for too long and have misused their power. Daman must be captured.”

  Hoshiyar bowed and turned to go, but Mehrunnisa’s voice stopped him. “Also prepare a farman to Agra. The Jesuit church in Agra shall be shut and the salaries paid to the priests stopped. Send the priest Jerome Xavier to Muqarrab Khan, he is to keep Xavier in custody until further orders come from me. All the Portuguese in India are to be arrested and their belongings seized.”

  When Hoshiyar left, Mehrunnisa wrote to the captains of her ships; th
ey would find the letters waiting for them when her ships returned to Surat. The passes from the Viceroy were to be sent to Goa with thanks from her Majesty. She had no more use for them.

  The imperial farmans were prepared and sent to the zenana, where Mehrunnisa read them with care before affixing the seal of the Emperor. Then she picked up a smaller green jade seal in the shape of a rose with six petals, dipped it in ink, and firmly affixed it on the farman s. The seal read, “By the light of the sun of the Emperor Jahangir; the bezel of the seal of Nur Jahan has become resplendent like the Moon.”

  She used her personal seal rarely, but in this case, she wanted the Viceroy to know that this was on her orders. That she would play no more games of diplomacy with him, that if he wanted to keep his head in India, it should be bowed toward her.

  Next to Jahangir’s name, Mehrunnisa wrote with an unwavering hand, “Nur Jahan, the Queen Begam.”

  • • •

  The streets of Ajmer were decked with flowers and banners. Torches flared from sconces in doorways, pillars were wrapped in marigold garlands, and the stone-flagged paths had been washed clean. Fire and color welcomed Khurram. The streets were thronged fifteen deep, men and women pushing against each other and the imperial soldiers who kept them from the path. The balconies of the houses overhanging the lanes were filled with women and children, leaning over the parapets to look at the head of their triumphant prince, hoping for an upward glance.

  Khurram rode into the city in style. He sat upright on his black Arabian mare, his person glittering with jewels and brocade. Gone were the dull mud colors of the campaign, the heavy weight of the armor he had worn daily for months, the unwashed hair, and the sweat-rimmed collars. Khurram was well rested; he had slept on the road to Ajmer on divans sent for his comfort by Mehrunnisa, and the cooks from the imperial kitchens had come to meet him halfway so that delicacies their Majesties ate would fill his own mouth. Unlike the mad dash from Agra to Mewar, when speed had been necessary, this trip had been more leisurely. The imperial favor shown to Khurram was not only for Khurram himself but also to awe Prince Karan, the mountain prince, and to show him the grandeur of the empire.