Khurram put a hand on an attendant’s shoulder to steady himself and climbed into the large golden disc. He glanced up at the screened zenana balcony as he sat down cross-legged and attendants brought bags of gold and silver to weigh down the other end of the scales. Khurram clutched the gold chain of his scale, felt the smoothness of the metal in his hands, and wanted to grab it to his chest. It was all solid gold, with a smidgen of copper to give it its burnished sheen. Above him, the rubies and pearls on the center beam glowed and blurred before his eyes. What happiness this was.
Emperor Akbar had begun the tradition of weighing himself—on his solar and lunar birthdays—against silks, gold, silver, copper, quicksilver, butter, grains, and anything else he deemed to be a luxury. The items were then distributed to the poor. It was Akbar’s way of blessing his empire.
Today, the court was packed with onlookers. The passes for this weighing ceremony had been much sought. Bribes had filled the pockets and deepened the smiles of the imperial eunuchs, slaves, and guards.
The weighing began. First, thick silk bags of gold mohurs were loaded on one plate of the scales, and on the opposite scale Khurram was lifted in the air until the scales were level with each other. Khurram was light, and the number of bags of gold, few. The months at Mewar without the comforts of a proper kitchen had eaten the flesh from his body.
“You are too thin, Khurram,” Jahangir said from his throne. “And thus do you deprive the needy of their gold.”
Everyone laughed. Khurram smiled too. He bowed from his scale to his father.
“If your Majesty permits, I will eat more and become more prosperous.”
The weighing went on for an hour. Khurram was weighed against silver, copper, gold, fruits, mustard oil, vegetables, and butter. The precious metals had been provided by the ladies of the harem, foremost among them the Dowager Empress Ruqayya, who was gratefully acknowledging Jahangir’s support in the affair of the Rahimi. Mehrunnisa had donated some gold too, and as each bag was put onto the scales, the Mir Tozak announced its origins. So Mehrunnisa’s name was taken often in the silent court, and the nobles glanced at each other. The junta was as strong as ever.
Mehrunnisa watched from behind the zenana screen as Khurram tried to get up after the weighing. He rose a couple of times, fell, and then a couple of courtiers grabbed him under his armpits and hauled him up. He swayed unsteadily as he performed the taslim to the Emperor again, his gaze blank. Mehrunnisa smiled. The prince was drunk. In the zenana earlier, when Khurram had come to pay his respects, Jahangir had offered him some wine and the prince had accepted. Of all the royal princes, Khurram had been the only one who had abstained from drink. But since the Mewar victory, Khurram drank wine as though it were sherbet. Earlier this morning he had consumed three cups in twenty minutes and walked out with firm feet and a mocking glance. See, your Majesty, it does nothing to me.
This was the time to talk to Khurram, Mehrunnisa decided. When the darbar finished its business, she called for the prince in open court, her voice silencing the talk of the courtiers.
The Emperor inclined his head to listen and turned to Khurram, who was still swaying on his feet. “Khurram, have you heard Nur Jahan Begam’s command?”
“Yes, your Majesty.” The prince bowed, but ended up lurching into a courtier.
In the zenana balcony, Arjumand started to speak; Mehrunnisa held her hand up across her niece’s face. “You have not been given permission to address me, Arjumand. Go back to your apartments. I will send Khurram there when I am finished.”
Arjumand opened her mouth again, but Hoshiyar came to lift her from her seat and usher her out.
• • •
Khurram had to be led to Mehrunnisa’s apartments, half-carried by Hoshiyar and another eunuch. He stood at the doorway, shaking his head to clear it of the wine. But the alcohol was in his blood, not in his head. Khurram staggered forward, almost fell, and then righted himself. He pitched into the room and flung himself onto a divan.
Mehrunnisa waited until he turned to her. His gaze was insolent, intractable.
“What do you want, your Majesty? Was there any necessity to speak in court, in front of all the nobles? Am I a puppet to be pulled here and there at your will?”
“Watch your tongue, Khurram,” Mehrunnisa snapped. She had meant to be calm, to convince him of what she wanted, but Khurram’s impudent speech sent all heed of caution flying from her mind.
“What do you want?” Khurram said sullenly, suddenly finding his hands very interesting. He held one, and then the other, in front of him, turned them this way and that, stroked the hair on his knuckles.
Mehrunnisa hesitated. Her words of diplomacy had gone. If Khurram wanted to ask a direct question, she would ask one too. “When will you marry Ladli?”
The prince pulled a bolster from behind him and draped himself over it, lying on his stomach, his arms over the thick roll of cotton. Khurram knew what he wanted to say, what he was supposed to say, but for a little moment he shut his eyes and willed the memory of that night to come into his wine-fogged brain. He could still smell her skin; he could not pass an incense censer without remembering Ladli’s skin. His fingers throbbed with the yearning to touch her, to see that want returned in her eyes as when he had slipped off his blindfold. Yet . . . this was a lust, not a passion. So Arjumand told him. So he knew. Surely, he was right in what he was going to say. Mehrunnisa could not become his mother-in-law. Surely, he was right . . . he inclined his head to Mehrunnisa.
“When did the question turn from ‘Will you marry Ladli?’ to ‘When will I marry Ladli?’ Why should I marry Ladli?”
“Khurram,” Mehrunnisa said sharply, “do I have to tell you the advantages of this union? The Emperor wishes for it, and that should be enough.”
“His Majesty does not wish for it quite as much as you do, your Majesty. And what advantages could there possibly be in this match? What lands and jagirs will I gain? What precious stones will adorn the cushions of my divan? What connections will I have with powerful nobles in the empire—connections I do not already enjoy?” Khurram let his head flop onto the bolster.
Mehrunnisa flew from her place and stood over the prince. Her hand itched, moved restlessly about, wanted to make contact with Khurram’s brazen face. The wine had not made Khurram more pliable; it had made him more bold. He was using this as an excuse to be disrespectful to her. She turned away and paced the carpets as she always did when she was upset. This was the man she wanted for Ladli? This was the man she had built up, given consequence? Though Arjumand was not in the room with them, her presence was there. In Khurram’s pretended wine-induced insolence, in his language.
“If you are being honored at all now, Khurram, it is because of me. Without me, you would be nothing. Oh, you might still have pretensions to the throne because the Emperor’s blood is mixed with yours, but there would be nothing else. Remember that, and keep your mouth shut if you want to keep your place in the empire. You will marry Ladli, because I order you to. And if you do not, I will make sure the Emperor takes away his favor.”
Khurram turned to lie on his back. “You overestimate your influence over the Emperor, your Majesty. What wife could be as important as a son?”
She flinched, speaking in a voice low and filled with abhorrence. She had no need to shout anymore. “And you are a weak man, Khurram. A man with no spine, no substance. You deny me this one request because of Arjumand, but you do not see how this will eventually change your life.”
Hoshiyar had been watching and listening to their conversation, leaning against the wall near the door, his arms folded across his chest. Mehrunnisa turned to him and he hauled Khurram from the divan, put his arm over his shoulder, and dragged him out of the room.
When Hoshiyar returned to his mistress, he found her seated on the carpet, her back straight.
“I offered his Highness some more wine, your Majesty,” Hoshiyar said, bending to Mehrunnisa’s ear. “I told him it would take away the
distress. He was very happy at the suggestion.” The eunuch took four gold mohurs from his cummerbund and laid them in front of Mehrunnisa. “Very pleased indeed.”
More wine. After twenty-six years of not drinking, so much wine in one day. The words they had exchanged would never be taken back now. Bitter words, words of hatred. Khurram had become something beyond her control, or he thought so anyway. She would not ask him again, not after what had happened today, not after she had already asked twice and been refused. Khurram was a fool. He said that a wife was not as important as a son was. Did he really think that? Loving Arjumand as much as he did, how was he so blind to the love between his father and Mehrunnisa? Did he not realize that this was his father’s only real marriage? Ever since they had been married, Emperor Jahangir had had only one wife.
But he had three other sons.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
. . . I found a change in my health, and by degrees was seized with fever and headache. For fear that some injury might occur to the country and the servants of God, I kept this secret. . . . A few days passed in this manner, and Ionly imparted this to Nur-Jahan Begam than whom I did not think anyone was fonder of me . . .
—A. ROGERS, trans., and H. BEVERIDGE, ed.,
The Tuzuk-i-Jahangiri
Night hovered over Goa and the Arabian Sea, the skies awash in gold and tangerine. Here, on the very western edge of the empire, the sun lasted longer, as though unwilling to leave. Long after dark, a line of silver would glimmer over the flat horizon, like an unseen city aglow in the distance. The moon had risen a few hours ago, and as the sun died, it gained in color. The streets were painted in silver, the steeples of the Jesuit churches plunged into the sky, their brass crosses laying shadows across the churchyards. The Portuguese Viceroy’s mansion stood tall and mammoth, made of open-faced brick, with arched verandahs, turreted roofs, and gabled windows. Goa’s harbor could be seen from the balcony of the mansion, which lay over the open portico in front.
During the day the sands were white as salt, their colors seemingly rinsed out by the waters edging the vast and impossibly blue ocean. Palm trees shivered in the humid breeze, and palm thatch umbrellas adorned the beaches. Time came to a halt in Goa; each day was like the next, beautiful, restful, the shade inviting a siesta to the lulling sound of waves scrambling up the beach and then wistfully draining down.
On this night, the harbor was crowded with a hundred and twenty ships. The ships swayed in the harbor, big and small, arranged like toys on the water, their hulls so close as to touch. The only sound across the waters to the Viceroy’s mansion was the creaking and groaning as the wind shoved one ship toward another, and they met uneasily and bobbed away. The sails were furled, gleaming white in the moonlight. The ships were for the most part small, displacing just a few hundred tons, but today they rode even lighter on the water of the harbor. Their holds were empty, their brass fittings removed, their crews on the beach, watching. The Rahimi lay in the center of the other ships. She too was forlorn, dejected—she was not made for this waiting, but to boldly sail across oceans and make war with storms and pirates.
The Viceroy sat alone on his vast and square balcony. A servant bent to his ear.
“We are ready, sire.”
The servant handed him a torch. The Viceroy rose to stand at the edge of the balcony and lifted his torch in the air. From the beach, another spurt of light answered his orders. A few minutes later, the Viceroy watched as a catapult was wheeled to the water’s edge, and a round, oil-soaked ball of cotton and wood chips was set on fire. The ball of fire went spinning through the air and landed on a ship in the far right corner of the harbor. For a few long seconds, nothing happened. And then the ship flamed to life as the fire ignited a barrel of gunpowder on the deck. She leaped into the sky and slammed down on her neighbor.
The catapult went to work again. And again. And again. One by one, all the ships in the harbor caught fire. Burning wood splintered into the night sky and fell in a shower of stars. The Rahimi was the last to burn. Her deck was littered with embers of wood, but she held out, resisted this invasion until the very last moment. And then she too was aflame. The fire, orange and red, licked along her mast and sails, covered her deck with greedy fingers, ambushed her holds and cabins.
The light from the burning harbor raced across the beach and over palm trees to illuminate the mansion and the man standing on the balcony, a fluted glass of wine in his hand. He watched all through the night as the ships burned slowly, until only their blackened skeletons were left. When morning came, thick clouds of smoke rested over Goa. A few ships still burned, but most had sunk into the now filthy gray waters of the Arabian Sea.
When the Viceroy eventually turned from his night’s entertainment to crawl into bed, he felt a faint chill of fear, as though his demise had been announced. But this was nonsense, he told himself. Emperor Jahangir dared to capture Daman, a Portuguese protectorate. The Indian ships were burned in retaliation. Long before the Mughals called India theirs, the Portuguese were here. They had as much claim as, no, more claim than, the Mughal kings. He slept then.
But news of the arson was already on its way to Ajmer, where Mehrunnisa and Jahangir would hear of it. The Viceroy had miscalculated the court’s apathy toward trade, misjudged the weight of Mehrunnisa’s anger—had forgotten that the Mughal kings were in India to stay and the Portuguese were merely their guests.
• • •
Jahangir opened his eyes and groaned. His head ached as though an iron vise gripped it and twisted it slowly. He swallowed, and his tongue felt like cotton, flapping against the roof of his mouth. He could feel heat radiating off his face. The Emperor lifted himself with an effort on one elbow. “Is someone there?”
Three eunuchs immediately came running and performed the taslim. “Your Majesty is awake?”
Jahangir sank back into his bed. “Where is the Empress?”
“She is in her apartments, your Majesty.”
“Send for her,” Jahangir said, his voice barely audible. It was an effort to talk. Every word pounded in his head and echoed in his ears. “And bring me some khichri.”
The eunuchs looked at each other. The Emperor must be unwell. Khichri was a mixture of rice and lentils boiled together with salt and pepper. It was known as poor man’s food, since it was cheap and easy to make. Jahangir rarely ate khichri, only at times when his stomach gave him trouble.
The Emperor moved, searching for a cool spot on the pillow but the satin covers were drenched with sweat and lay damp and solid beneath him. Shivers sloughed through his body. His hands trembled. Perhaps opium would calm this restlessness. So he asked for it. The eunuchs hesitated. It was not the time of day for opium, but his Majesty had commanded them. They brought it eventually, a small grape-sized ball of opium mixed with sugar, and put it between his lips.
The drug sang through Jahangir’s veins, taking over his debilitated body in a few short minutes. The trembling stopped, and sweat began to pour from his hairline down his face.
“Go!” Jahangir said irritably to the eunuchs who hung over him. “What are you doing standing around?” And then he slipped into the cool embrace of the opium, the daylight turning into night before his eyes, sleep coming to claim him again.
The eunuchs fled from the Emperor’s apartments, two to the kitchens to order the khichri, and one to Mehrunnisa. She had just returned from the jharoka balcony and was holding in her hand a letter from Goa. When the eunuch bowed before her, she looked at him angrily. “What do you want?”
He told her, and even as he spoke, Mehrunnisa rose from her divan and flew to Jahangir’s apartments. What was wrong with her husband? When she had woken that morning, he had muttered something about a headache and gone back to sleep, so Mehrunnisa had gone alone to the jharoka. He had been restive during the night, but she had been tired herself, waking only once to move Jahangir’s arm from around her waist, where it had left a long streak of perspiration.
She entered the room a
nd saw the bowl of khichri steaming by the Emperor’s bedside. Jahangir lay still on his divan, his eyes closed, his breathing labored and heavy. He did not move when she laid a hand on his forehead. It burned to her touch, and Mehrunnisa drew back.
“Your Majesty,” she said, close to his ear. He did not wake at her voice. She shook his shoulder.
“Hoshiyar!” Mehrunnisa screamed. The eunuch was behind her. Together they tried again to wake Jahangir, but he had slipped into unconsciousness. Mehrunnisa put her face close to his, and the sweet fumes of opium rose to her nostrils.
“Who gave the Emperor opium?” she yelled, turning on the eunuchs. They cowered against each other, fingers pointing in all directions. “Get out now. You are fools, he is not well and you give him opium? Get out!”
They ran from the room, tripping over each other. Mehrunnisa ordered cold water and towels. While waiting for it, Hoshiyar and she took off the Emperor’s kurta and pajamas. His skin was now moist and still burning hot. They soaked the towels in cold water and wiped his body over and over again until the fever abated somewhat. Then Mehrunnisa covered him with a cool sheet.
“Wake up, your Majesty,” she said. “Talk to me.”
But the opium had caught hold of the Emperor and would not release him until it had run through his blood and sweated out of his pores. Hoshiyar suggested calling the hakims.
“It is nothing, Hoshiyar,” Mehrunnisa said as she turned to him, a sudden dread coming to swamp her. “It is nothing, is it not? Just a fever. It will go down. See,” she took the eunuch’s hand and laid it on Jahangir’s chest,
“see how cool his skin is now.”
“Your Majesty, let me do this.”
“No,” Mehrunnisa said. “If word of this illness got out into the court and the zenana, the empire will be in chaos.”
“The Emperor has been sick before, your Majesty,” Hoshiyar said gently. “Allow me to summon the hakims, they will be able to tell us what we should do for his Majesty.”
The Feast of Roses Page 27