The Twentieth Wife

by Indu Sundaresan

  A look of pain crossed Jagat Gosini’s face for an instant. Then she drew herself up and said, “I am Princess Jagat Gosini.”

  Princess Jagat Gosini, not your mother, Mehrunnisa noted wryly. What was she doing here, anyway? Ruqayya would be furious to hear of an unannounced visit.

  Khurram, absolutely indifferent, pointed imperiously to the arched exit of the gardens. “Go away. I am playing with Nisa.”

  “I have come to see you, Khurram.” Jagat Gosini lifted her skirts and skipped over the hedge. When she had crossed the stone pathway, she put out a hand.

  Khurram dodged her outstretched hand and ran across to Mehrunnisa. He clutched the skirt of her ghagara and said, “Go away, or I shall tell my ma.”

  “No, please . . . I shall go.” Her eyes lifted with a malevolent glance to Mehrunnisa. “You are to say nothing of this to the Empress, do you understand?”

  “Yes, your Highness,” Mehrunnisa murmured.

  “Who are you? Where is Khurram’s nurse?”

  “Mirza Ghias Beg is my father, your Highness.”

  “Oh?” The well shaped eyebrows lifted. “I have not heard of your father. Send for Khurram’s nurse immediately.”

  Mehrunnisa’s face grew hot. She took a deep breath to steady herself and chose her words carefully. “Your Highness, the Empress will send for us as soon as her nap is over. We must go inside now.”

  Jagat Gosini nodded. “Remember, not a word to the Empress.” She held up a warning finger. “If you say anything, I will make your life miserable.”

  “I can only obey your Highness’s commands,” Mehrunnisa said. She let her hand fall to caress Khurram’s curly head and watched warily as Jagat Gosini’s face twisted with hatred and grief. Any brief sympathy she might have felt for Jagat Gosini had vanished with those unfeeling words. The princess might not know who her father was, but she would remember Mehrunnisa. Khurram clung even tighter to her legs, and Mehrunnisa bent to pick him up. He put his head on her shoulder and watched his mother with curious eyes.

  The princess turned around and stalked out of the gardens. Mehrunnisa drew Khurram to the shade of a neem tree and sat down. The prince laid his head in her lap and soon fell asleep. Mehrunnisa stared at the haze dancing over the bright yellow sunflowers. She had finally talked to Salim’s second wife. It was said in the zenana that Jagat Gosini was very powerful in Salim’s harem, that she had the prince under her thumb. But she was certainly too arrogant and lacking in common courtesy.

  Perhaps she could change all that, Mehrunnisa thought slowly. So far, Salim had not seen her since their return from Kabul. He came to Ruqayya’s apartments only once a month, in the evenings after she had left to go home. And she herself had been in no hurry to meet the prince, either. For the past few months, Mehrunnisa had watched and learned about the workings of the harem from the zenana ladies. She had political conversations with her father at the end of his day’s work. She talked with her mother when she visited other palaces in the imperial harem, and all the time she absorbed information about zenana life, Salim’s likes and dislikes, and the situation at court. Ghias, impulsive most of the time, had yet managed to impart some of his patience to his daughter, which she used with a supreme confidence in her abilities.

  But now the time had come to captivate the prince, Mehrunnisa thought, goaded into action by Jagat Gosini’s cruel words. She glanced at her reflection in the nearby pool. Many people had told her she was beautiful, but would that be enough for Salim? Her brows came together in thought as she picked a blade of grass and ran her fingers over it.

  She looked over at the women under the peepul tree. The slave girl now had her entire back and the backs of her legs covered with henna designs. She lay on her stomach, her arms spread out, letting the black paste dry on her body. It was power; these women knew how to have it and to hold it. From Ruqayya she had learned the value of conversation, of exuding comfort. In these other women of the harem, Mehrunnisa had seen the assurance that only physical beauty can provide.

  Ten minutes later, she smiled and looked down at the curly head in her lap. Perhaps Jagat Gosini would be more careful when both her husband and her son were at Mehrunnisa’s feet.

  • • •

  EVEN AS MEHRUNNISA sat dreaming in the imperial gardens, Ali Quli Khan Istajlu was announced to the Emperor in the Diwan-i-am. He entered the Hall of Public Audience slowly and bowed low as he reached the throne, the back of his right hand touching the floor. He then raised his hand up to his forehead until he stood erect in front of Akbar.

  As the Emperor inclined his head, Ali Quli glanced surreptitiously at the Khan-i-khanan, the commander-in-chief of Akbar’s army, and his mentor at court. Abdur Rahim nodded. Ali Quli had performed the taslim well.

  Ali Quli was new to Akbar’s court. Like Ghias Beg, he had fled from Persia to India, but after the assassination of Shah Ismail II in 1578. Ali Quli had been a safarchi, a table attendant to the Shah. But even then he had known that was not his calling; being a warrior was. He reached Multan and joined the forces of the Khan-i-khanan, who was then on his way down the Indus to lay siege to the king of Thatta, Mirza Jani Beg. After six months of hard fighting, Thatta surrendered to the imperial forces, and Ali Quli distinguished himself in the battle. Abdur Rahim, much impressed by Ali Quli’s valor, had promised him an introduction at court. Now the soldier stood in the august present of the great Emperor.

  “Is this the brave soldier you have told us so much about, Abdur Rahim?” Akbar asked.

  “Yes, your Majesty.”

  Akbar looked at Ali Quli. He was in his early thirties, tall, broad-shouldered, and strong, his skin ravaged by countless suns, a fearless look in his eyes.

  “We are pleased with your dedication and loyalty to the throne,” Akbar said.

  An attendant brought Ali Quli the robe of honor and a jeweled sword. Akbar also granted him a small mansab of two hundred cavalry and infantry. Overwhelmed by the imperial gifts, Ali Quili fell to his knees and thanked the Emperor.

  Akbar was pleased. “We have yet more honors to bestow upon you, Ali Quli. We hope you will remain with the imperial army for many more years.”

  “I will, your Majesty,” Ali Quli said fervently. He bowed again and backed out of the Diwan-i-am.

  The Emperor thoughtfully watched him leave. He knew many men like the young Persian: brave, adventurous, though essentially restless. Abdur Rahim, a man not usually given to effusiveness, had been profuse in praise of the young man. But how much longer would Ali Quli serve his crown?

  The soldier needed stability, an anchor that would keep him in the Mughal Empire. Marriage would provide that anchor.

  Akbar’s eyes roamed over the silent assembly. Which of his courtiers had a daughter who would make a suitable bride for the Persian soldier?

  The Emperor’s gaze passed over, returned, and finally rested on one man. He searched through his vast memory for details of the courtier’s family. Then Akbar nodded happily, well pleased with himself. It would be a good match. Later that afternoon, he would talk to his Padshah Begam Ruqayya; she would tell him whether he had made the right decision.

  The Emperor was looking at Ghias Beg.

  FOUR

  The daughter, who had been born to Aiafs in the desert . . . was educated with the utmost care and attention. In music, in dancing, in poetry, in painting, she had no equal among her sex. Her disposition was volatile, her wit lively and satirical, her spirit lofty and uncontrouled.

  —Alexander Dow, The History of Hindostan

  “MIRZA GHIAS BEG, HIS IMPERIAL Majesty, Emperor Akbar, commands your presence,” the Mir Tozak, Master of Ceremonies, intoned.

  Court was in session at the Diwan-i-khas, the Hall of Private Audience. Ghias came forward and performed the konish, placing the palm of his right hand on his head and bowing to the Emperor. The konish indicated that the saluter placed his head in the hand of humility and gave it to the royal assembly, showing his readiness to obey any service demande
d of him.

  Ghias straightened up and remained standing. No one was given the privilege of sitting in the Emperor’s presence, and Ghias would have considered it sacrilegious to do so.

  “Mirza Beg, we have called you here for a special purpose.”

  “Your wish is my command, Padshah.”

  “Do you have a daughter of marriageable age?”

  Ghias looked at Akbar in surprise.

  “Her name is Mehrunnisa, your Majesty,” Ruqayya called out from behind the screen.

  “Ah, yes. Mehrunnisa. It is a good name,” Akbar said. He turned to Ghias. “There is a brave young man at court named Ali Quli Khan.”

  “I remember the soldier well, your Majesty,” Ghias replied cautiously. So this was why the Emperor had commanded his presence.

  “We have decided to honor him, Ghias. And what better way to do so than to give him the hand of your daughter in marriage? It will be a good alliance. You are both Persian and share the same ancestry and history. We wish for the marriage to take place.”

  “Yes, your Majesty.”

  He knew that the Emperor’s wishes were as good as a command. There was nothing to do but agree. His search for an appropriate bridegroom for his darling Mehrunnisa was over. Ali Quli had impressed Ghias on the day he had been presented at court. Pushing aside doubts that suddenly and involuntarily came rushing to his mind, Ghias bowed his head.

  “I shall immediately start proceedings for the marriage, your Majesty.”

  • • •

  GHIAS RODE HOME in the gathering dusk, thinking of his audience with the Emperor. As his horse ambled down the well-known path home, Ghias let his mind wander again as it had done all day since his morning audience with the Emperor. He did not doubt the matter had been instigated, at least in part, by the Padshah Begam Ruqayya. She had betrayed her interest by speaking up in court. Surely the Empress would want the best for his daughter? Around Ghias, the twilight was tinted gray-blue with smoke from cooking fires. The spicy tang of wood smoke brought sudden memories of the day he had stood at the base of the tree where he had left Mehrunnisa, thinking he would never see his daughter again. Now, after all these years, she was to leave him again.

  The evening call for prayer, the fourth of the day, rang from atop the mosques around Lahore as Ghias entered the front courtyard of his house. In an inner courtyard, Asmat and their children were already on their knees, facing west toward Mecca. Ghias dismounted, threw the reins to the waiting groom, and hurried in to join them.

  They lifted their hands in prayer and silently mouthed the sacred verses, bowing to the ground at the end. Ghias watched as Mehrunnisa, Khadija, Manija, and Shahpur rose from their knees and walked inside the house. Darkness was falling fast, and the servants moved around noiselessly, lighting oil lamps inside the house and in the courtyard. He called out to Asmat.

  She came to him, the bells of her anklets jingling as she walked. “Why were you late today? The call for prayer has already been made.”

  “I had an interesting audience with the Emperor.”

  Asmat looked at him questioningly.

  “He has commanded our daughter for Ali Quli.”

  Asmat sat down on the stone bench in the garden. “Who is he?”

  “A soldier, a very brave soldier, who helped the Khan-i-khanan in his conquest of Thatta.” Ghias hesitated before adding, “Ali Quli is from Persia, like us, and he was a safarchi to Shah Ismail II.”

  Asmat’s eyebrows met in a frown. She was silent for some time, and then said slowly, “Then he must be considerably older than Mehrunnisa.”

  “Asmat, the Emperor has commanded us.” Ghias took her hand. “I saw Ali Quli presented at court. He has distinguished himself in battle and is now a favorite of the Emperor. By asking for Mehrunnisa, the Emperor is doing us a great honor. He wants the two Persian families to be united.”

  “But a common soldier, Ghias,” Asmat protested. “What would he know of the classics, and poetry, and music? Would he be the right choice for a daughter we have so carefully reared, one who is so proficient in the literary arts, so well educated and so . . . delicate?”

  “Asmat.” Ghias turned to her. “It will be a good alliance. I am sure Ali Quli will be kind to Mehrunnisa, that he will look after her well. What more can we ask of a rishta?”

  Asmat pulled her hand out of his, her face flaming with anger. “Listen to yourself, Ghias. Is this what we wanted for Mehrunnisa? Is this what we have talked about? Are you so blind to your daughter’s needs that you cannot see this will not be a good alliance? It is your responsibility to make sure she is happy.”

  “Enough,” Ghias roared. “Send Mehrunnisa to me now.”

  Asmat rose and stood looking down at her husband. Her voice was quiet. “Do not raise your voice at me, Ghias. I have never gone against your wishes before in all the years we have been married. But to send our child away to such a home . . .”

  Ghias put his arms around her and pulled her to him, his head against her stomach. The scent of musk enveloped him. “I am sorry.” His voice was muffled. He raised his head to look at Asmat. But she looked away from him, her arms held stiffly at her sides. She had voiced a concern he had not dared even to think about, and he had shouted at her for it. “You know that I cannot disobey the Emperor. Ali Quli is to be our son-in-law, and we must start treating him with the respect he deserves. Send Mehrunnisa to me.”

  Asmat nodded and moved away from the circle of his arms. “It will be as you say, my lord.”

  Deeply angry, she went into the house. Was it for this Mehrunnisa had come back to them? Even as this thought came to her mind she knew that what Ghias said was true. The moment Akbar had expressed a wish for a union between Mehrunnisa and Ali Quli, the matter had been decided. There was nothing Ghias could do. Neither of the two families would dare refuse the Emperor. Still . . . a soldier for Mehrunnisa?

  • • •

  MEHRUNNISA WALKED SLOWLY toward her father. He sat with his face in a shadow, a thoughtful expression on his brow. She stopped a few paces away, wondering why he had called for her. Her mother had seemed upset, barely looking at her when she gave Mehrunnisa the message from Ghias. Her eyes had been bright, as if she were crying.

  Mehrunnisa stepped up to Ghias and put a hand on his shoulder. “Bapa . . .”

  “Ah, you are here, beta.” Ghias turned and caught her hand. He patted the bench next to him. “Come, sit down. I have something very important to tell you.”

  Mehrunnisa sat down and looked into his face. Ghias was smiling, but his smile seemed too forced; it did not reach his eyes. A feeling of dread rose in her, and she tried to shake it off.

  “Mehrunnisa, I have found a bridegroom for you,” Ghias said abruptly.

  “Oh.” Her hands left her lap to grasp the edge of the bench, her fingers clutching, slipping against the smooth stone. This could not be happening. Was she to be married already? What of Salim?

  “He is a very handsome man, a brave soldier, a prince among princes.”

  Mehrunnisa glanced up quickly, hope filling her. A prince? Surely, Ghias could not be talking of . . .

  “His name is Ali Quli Khan Istajlu. Like us, he is from Persia. It is our good fortune that the Emperor himself has commanded this marriage. We are again given an opportunity to serve him. . . .” Ghias continued in the same vein, but Mehrunnisa heard him no more.

  She stared unseeingly into the darkening garden. She was to be married to a common soldier. Gone were the dreams of being an Empress, of ruling the great Mughal Empire. How absurd her fantasies had been. They had been childhood dreams, better left in childhood.

  Somewhere, far away, she could hear the lamplighters greeting each other in the street. The once pleasant perfume from the opening rath-ki-rani, Queen of the Night flowers, now hung stifling in the humid night air. The crickets had begun their incessant chirping, sounding unnaturally loud in the silent courtyard. Her father droned on in the background.

  “Mehrunnisa?”


  She was suddenly aware that Ghias had finished talking and was looking at her expectantly. “You have not said anything, my dear.”

  “Can I say no?”

  Ghias frowned. “Have you been talking with your mother?”

  “What does Maji have to do with this? I am the one who is to be married to a soldier,” Mehrunnisa said bitterly. “Why? . . .” Why could it not be Salim?

  Ghias stared at her until she lowered her eyes. “It would seem I was too indulgent with you, Nisa, have given you too many liberties. But in this matter there will be no argument. It is not your choice who you marry. I am telling you of the rishta; most fathers would not even have done this.”

  With every word, Mehrunnisa felt shame and guilt flood over her. She had addressed her Bapa without respect. Ghias had never before spoken to her like this; he always hid his anger well.

  “I shall do whatever you want.”

  “Don’t you want to know more about your bridegroom, my dear?” Ghias asked.

  She shook her head. “No.”

  A flash of pain crossed Ghias’s features, so Mehrunnisa forced a smile on her face and added, “I do want to know, Bapa. Perhaps later. All this . . . it is so sudden.”

  Ghias leaned over and kissed her forehead. “Yes. It is not every day a girl gets such a wonderful proposal of marriage. We are very lucky, beta.” He drew back. “Now go see that dinner is readied. I am hungry.”

  Mehrunnisa wanted to fling her arms around her father’s neck and plead with him. Was it decided already? Just like that? Was the rishta fixed? Was there no turning back from it? When she looked at her father, his expression was forbidding. She could ask other questions—about her husband-to-be—but not these. She rose tiredly from the bench. Her father’s voice stopped her. “You can tell your Maji that I will call upon Ali Quli tomorrow to discuss the marriage.”

  “Yes, Bapa.”

  Mehrunnisa stumbled to the verandah in a daze, her heart filling with despair. She turned back to glance at her father.