Mehrunnisa stuck the needle into the cloth and laid it aside, staring out of the window at the snow-clad mountains. Leaving the court had been difficult, but it was only for a few years, Bapa had said. There were new adventures here, new friends to make, new places to see. Here she had met Mirza Malik Masud for the first time. He was her foster father; he had found her as a baby under a tree and returned her to Bapa and Maji. Mehrunnisa had been timid with the merchant with his weatherbeaten, sunburnt face, but he had put her at ease immediately. “I am like your Bapa, beta,” he said. “You cannot be shy with me.” He had brought a gift for her, a bolt of thin gold muslin for a veil, the weave so fine the cloth could be pulled through a ring. After the awkwardness of the first meeting, Mehrunnisa spent hours listening to his tales: of highway robberies, of camels that refused to budge when ghosts possessed them, of tents that flew away in the wind, leaving the caravan naked and shivering under a cold night sky. She became so comfortable with him that she was sorry when he left, but he took with him her promise to write every month.
Bapa was much revered at Kabul; people came from far to see him, to ask his advice, to listen with respect. They always left a little gift for him on the table: an embroidered bag weighted at the bottom, or, in season, mangoes, brilliant yellow and honey sweet, or even the horse one nobleman had led to the front yard. They were privileges attached to the post of the diwan, Bapa said—privileges they all enjoyed. But, Mehrunnisa sighed softly, it was nothing like the imperial zenana with its beautiful women and its petty jealousies and thrilling intrigues. She missed Ruqayya’s caustic tongue and quick wit. How did the Empress interact with Prince Salim’s proud second wife?
“When are we going back to Lahore, Bapa?” she asked suddenly.
Ghias looked up from the official documents in his hand. “When the Emperor wishes. I have no say in the matter. Why do you ask?”
“No reason.” Mehrunnisa picked up the cloth and bent toward her embroidery. Restlessness rose over her like tide on a beach. The older she became—she was now fourteen—the more Bapa and Maji imposed restrictions on her. Do not go out too much; keep your voice down; pull your veil over your head when a strange man, one not of the family, comes to visit. These restrictions would be part of her life from now on, for she was a woman. But cloistered as they were, the women of the imperial zenana still managed to step beyond the harem walls. They went to visit temples and gardens and to sightsee. They owned lands in the empire and talked with their stewards without any commotion. Ruqayya advised Akbar on grants of gifts or mansabs or his campaigns. Though she was behind the veil, she was still a voice to reckon with. Nowhere else in the empire did women have such freedom. A mere nobleman’s wife could never hope for such liberty. The sheath of royalty gave the women of the imperial harem an emancipation a commoner could never hope to achieve.
Mehrunnisa clicked her tongue in irritation when she saw that her stitches had flowed over the pattern of champa flowers. She pulled the needle out of the pink thread and, using one end, undid the stitches one by one. It was ironic, really, because the royal zenana was a sign of the Emperor’s wealth and position, his most important possession—more important at times than the treasury or the army. Although physically shut from the rest of the world, it still slid tentacles into every aspect of the empire.
She had gained all this perspective from being away from the zenana, and from growing older, for now her movements were more curtailed. At fourteen, she was already considered a woman ready for marriage.
Perhaps it was for the best that they were away. With distance must come a deeper desire. But Bapa had to, he must, return to court. Then she could watch Ruqayya, a mere woman, exert her power over the minions who scurried at her commands. Then Mehrunnisa would see Salim’s wives for herself. And Salim? He had to notice her too, or how else would she become Empress?
THREE
Baba Shaikhuji, since all this
Sultanate will devolve upon thee why
Hast thou made this attack on me?
To take away my life there was no need of injustice,
I would have given it to thee if thou hadst asked me.
—W. H. Lowe, trans., Munktakhab-ut-Tawarikh
THE SOFT STRAINS OF A sitar floated down from the balcony into the reception hall at the Lahore fort. Thin muslin curtains, hung on arches, billowed in the breeze that swept through the outer courtyard. Within, wisps of bluish gray smoke from incense censers swirled upward, spreading the aroma of musk and aloewood around the room. The white marble floor gleamed dully in the lamplight, bare of furniture except for one satin-covered divan in a corner, flanked by bright Persian rugs.
Prince Salim lay on the divan, head propped against a velvet bolster, a goblet balanced precariously on his chest. He watched as slave girls clad in the finest muslin swayed and undulated to the music, their anklets tinkling as they moved. The low insistent drum of the tabla joined in with the sitar, and Salim turned his head to look up at the enclosed balcony, where an entire orchestra was assembled. His gaze then dropped to the pretty faces surrounding him.
The ladies of his zenana sat around the prince, gorgeously attired and delicately perfumed, their toilette so complete that not one hair was out of place. The ladies were unveiled. They were the reason why the musicians were sequestered: if the ladies of the harem appeared without the parda in front of their lord, no other men could be present. Salim was surrounded only by the members of his harem: wives and concubines, slave girls and eunuchs.
The room blurred into a drunken haze. Salim lifted a languid finger and beckoned to a slave girl. She hurried to his side and, bowing gracefully, poured more liquor into his jade cup. Salim raised it to his mouth and drank greedily, the alcohol fumes tickling his nostrils. In his haste, he spilled the rich yellow liquid on his qaba.
Jagat Gosini, Salim’s second wife, touched his arm.
He glared at her. “What is it?”
“My lord,” she said gently. “Perhaps you should try these grapes.”
Salim’s glance softened as he looked at her calm face. He opened his mouth and allowed himself to be fed like a child with a few plump, purple grapes, but they were like sand on his tongue. Five years of drinking had spoiled his appetite for food. He pushed her hand away impatiently.
To his right sat Man Bai, whom he had given the title of Shah Begam, chief princess of his harem. After all, she had provided him with his first son, Khusrau. Jagat Gosini made a sign to Man Bai. As Salim turned to Man Bai, she tried to tempt him with some sweets.
A petulant frown creased Salim’s brow. He stared moodily into the distance, tapping his now empty jade goblet on the marble floor, ostensibly keeping time with the music. Suddenly he threw his cup against a sandstone pillar. It crashed and broke into tiny, green, wine-tinged pieces. Startled, the musicians stopped playing, and the princesses froze in their places.
“Your Highness—” Jagat Gosini tentatively put a hand on his arm. Salim pushed her away and staggered to his feet.
“Why doesn’t the old man die?” he yelled. “He has ruled for thirty-five years. It is time for the next generation to sit on the throne of Hindustan.”
Silence followed.
Salim weaved unsteadily up and down the carpet, his hands clenched into fists, his face red. He had been content until now to be heir to the throne. But during the last few months, his courtiers had pointed out, quite rightly, Akbar’s extreme injustice in remaining steadfastly alive while Prince Salim was mature enough to take over the duties of state.
Salim’s legs gave way, and he collapsed on the floor. Attendants came rushing to help him. He waved them away with a drunken gesture and lay there, looking up at the ornate ceiling of the hall, abloom in lotus flowers embossed in gold trim.
He had everything he could want: handsome looks; virility, which had been proved twice by the birth of two sons; several wives; and an equal number of concubines. Yet, he had nothing without the crown. He should rebel, as Mahabat Khan and the
others had suggested. That would teach Akbar a lesson.
As soon as the thought came to his mind, Salim groaned. Akbar was too strong an Emperor. It was unlikely he would give up his throne without a fight. But why not? Akbar had come to the throne of the empire at the tender age of thirteen. He, Salim, was now twenty-two, and surely mature enough to handle the duties of state.
Salim drummed his fists on the floor in frustration. Akbar could live for many years, and when he eventually died, it would be too late. Salim would come to the throne an old man. What use would that be? He curled up on the carpet, and hot tears rolled down his face.
Jagat Gosini made a sign for everyone to disperse. The musicians and attendants bowed and left in silence. She went up to her husband. “Sleep now, my lord,” she said in a soothing voice. “You are tired.”
Salim lifted a tearful face. “When will I be Emperor?”
“Soon, my lord. Come, you must rest.”
Salim let himself be led to the divan. He lay down heavily, still sniffling. The lamps were extinguished, plunging the room in darkness. Under the soft touch of his wife’s hand, the prince cried himself to sleep.
• • •
SALIM OPENED HIS eyes and gazed around the unfamiliar room. Why had he slept in the reception hall? He moved slightly, then sank back on the divan with a groan. Hammers pounded on his brain. His mouth was dry, rank with the smell of stale liquor. He licked his lips and shouted, “Water!”
The previous night came rushing back to him. Something had to be done. Salim rose and staggered to his rooms. He sat waist-high in a tub of warm water, deep in thought, as the steam leached out the aches and pains and alcohol from his body. Should he do what Mahabat and the others had suggested—no, dropped hints about? But how could he do that to his own father? A father who doted on him and loved him, whose eyes lit up when he saw Salim? Yet, what was he, Salim, without the throne?
Salim scooped water with his hands and splashed his heated face. No, it had to be done. Mahabat said Humam was reliable, that he would fix it so Akbar would not be hurt too much, just incapacitated. Then Salim could be Emperor. . . .
A few hours later, Akbar’s personal physician, hakim Humam, came to the prince’s apartments. Salim dismissed all his attendants. The hakim and Salim remained closeted for an hour. Then the hakim left, carrying in his right hand a heavy embroidered bag, usually used for gold mohurs.
Salim stood at the door to his apartments, watching Humam leave. He almost shouted out at the last minute to stop the man, then changed his mind. He was not strong enough yet, and his mind was too fuddled by the morning dose of opium. Perhaps, Salim thought dully, sinking down to the marble floor and leaning against the doorway, nothing would happen after all. Neither Salim nor the hakim noticed one of Akbar’s servants lounging against a pillar in the main courtyard.
A few days later, the royal palace was rife with gossip. The Emperor was unwell from a bout of colic, and it seemed he would not recover. The royal physicians could do nothing to ease the Emperor’s suffering.
News of Akbar’s agony was brought to Prince Salim in an inner courtyard of the mardana late one afternoon as he fed the pigeons. The eunuch who brought the message coughed to attract his attention. Salim did not look at him, heard what he had to say, and then dismissed him with a nod. A pigeon gently nudged his clenched fist. Salim opened it and let the wheat fall to the ground. He watched the pigeons scramble in the dust. Was it true that the Emperor was gravely ill? Or was it just an exaggeration, as all matters of the royal palace were exaggerated? What if Akbar died?
Salim straightened up and said, “Hoshiyar.”
A eunuch stepped forward from behind one of the pillars. Hoshiyar Khan was the head eunuch of Salim’s zenana, the most important man in it other than the prince. It was he who ran the harem with metronomic efficiency, settling squabbles between the various women: wives, concubines, slaves, maids, cooks. He also doled out their allowances and advised them on their investments.
Like everyone, he had his instructions not to disturb his master during the afternoon sessions, but he was never too far from the prince. Hoshiyar listened, bowed, and left the courtyard. Salim watched him go. What was done was done. Humam had assured him Akbar would live. Now he had to attend to other matters.
Through Hoshiyar, Salim sent spies to the palace of his brother Prince Murad to check on his activities. Murad, now twenty-one years old, was also a candidate for the throne, as was Daniyal. The laws of primogeniture did not prevail in Mughal India as they did in Europe—all three of Akbar’s sons had equal rights to the throne.
The spies reported that Murad was in no fit state to contend for the crown. The prince was a drunkard, barely lucid for a few hours every day. He had no ambition; wine and the women of his harem had propelled him to past caring. Daniyal was as yet too young to pose a threat. Neither of the two princes would inspire confidence in the nobles of the court, so their support would naturally go to Salim.
• • •
IN HIS BEDCHAMBER, Akbar suffered in silence, not daring to voice his fears. Pain racked his body, and sweat drenched his face. But the physical agony was nothing compared with the dull ache in his heart, as though something large and heavy were sitting on his chest. The previous day, one of his trusted retainers in Salim’s service had asked for and been granted an audience. What he had to say filled Akbar with unbelievable distress.
The Emperor moved restlessly in his bed. How could he believe such an infamous charge against his beloved son? But the facts all pointed to it. His condition had steadily deteriorated day by day. He was a robust forty-nine years of age, temperate in his habits, and he had always enjoyed good health. Yet, the colic was persistent, the pains increasing every day. Now he lay in his bed, a ghost of his former self.
As he moved again, muttering to himself, Ruqayya rose from her seat at the far end of the room and then sank back, signaling the approaching attendants to move away. She sat down heavily, turning her face from her husband, unwilling to see him like this. Salim was not her son, not born of her, but she had known and loved him since he was a child. His actions defied belief, defied all reason. But worse, much much worse was Akbar’s grief. If the colic did not kill him, the sorrow would, and all those years when the whole harem and the Emperor had prayed for a male heir, when they had rejoiced at Salim’s birth, would mean nothing. They had all failed in their duty to make him a good man.
Even as she thought thus, another thought came to her mind—that perhaps Akbar himself was responsible for Salim’s drinking and his laziness. Ruqayya had many times warned the Emperor that the prince needed responsibility, that he spent too much time in the zenana and not enough among warriors and men of learning. But Akbar would not listen to her, for sending Salim on campaign or out to study with mullas would mean sending his son away. How could Salim repay Akbar’s affection thus?
An attendant padded silently onto the room on bare feet and bent to the Empress’s ear. She listened, then rose and went to the Emperor’s bedside.
“Your Majesty, hakim Humam is outside.”
“Send him in.”
Ruqayya motioned to the eunuchs by the door to let the hakim enter. As she was pulling a veil over her head the Emperor said with an effort, “Thank you.”
Tears welled in her eyes and flowed down her plump cheeks. She clasped the pale hand between her two warm ones. “I would do it a hundred times, my lord,” she said simply.
Humam entered the room and bowed. Akbar lifted a feeble hand and bade him come closer. The hakim went up to the bed and knelt by the Emperor.
“Your services are no longer necessary to us.”
Humam lifted his head in surprise. Akbar glared at him.
“But, your Majesty, I have served you and will always serve you, with my life if necessary,” Humam said, trembling. He had never seen the Emperor in such a mood before. Akbar was known for his calmness and his ease of temper, and now Humam was frightened.
“Enoug
h!” Akbar roared, with strength born from anger. “Leave our sight, and no longer show your shameful face to us.”
Two attendants swiftly came and pulled the hakim away from Akbar’s bedside. Humam hung his head, paid obeisance to the Emperor, and backed out of the room.
Empress Ruqayya watched Humam go, wondering if he knew how lucky he was to have his head still. If it had been her decision, Humam would not have seen another sunset, but the Emperor had been adamant about not punishing the hakim—as though, Ruqayya thought, putting Humam to death would be an admission of Salim’s culpability.
For the next week, Akbar’s life hung on a thread. Then, slowly, with the help of his physicians and his devoted wives, he recovered. But the Emperor was not the same: he became quieter, more reserved, and soon the court noticed that the relationship between Akbar and the heir apparent had greatly deteriorated.
• • •
AS THE DYING sun heralded the end of yet another day, Ghias Beg carefully laid down his quill on the inkpot and rested his elbows on the desk, letting the golden rays play over his work. He watched as the approaching gloom chased the light over the barren mountains, until one by one they disappeared from his view. Only then did Ghias turn from the window.
In front of him lay a royal farman, an edict from the Emperor himself. In it Akbar congratulated him on his services to the empire as diwan of Kabul for four years, and finally summoned him back to the imperial court at Lahore.
Four years, Ghias thought with a flush of happiness. Four long years of hard work. His father would have been proud of him. Ghias had initially resisted being sent here, although only inwardly, for no one would have dared disobey or even question the Emperor’s command. Ghias had not wanted to leave the Emperor to go to Kabul, important as the post was. He had grown fond of Akbar, reverent almost, and thought that being away from court would mean sure death to his career.
But that was not so. Ghias spread out the farman again under his hands, his eyes skimming over the black-ink Turki and the heavily embossed royal seal in one corner. Instead of forgetting him, the Emperor seemed to have carefully watched him these four years through spies and regular reports from Kabul. It was a comforting thought for Ghias, because he had worked hard and put effort into the job with a dedication that was paid back not only by the Emperor’s accolades but by the gratitude of the people of Kabul.
The Twentieth Wife Page 6