Mehrunnisa bowed to the Empress and went out of the rooms slowly. The sun was sinking in the horizon, setting the western sky past the towers and minarets of the city ablaze in shades of gold. From the mosques came a faint call for prayer in the musical voices of the muezzins. Allah-u-Allah-u-Akbar . . .
Mehrunnisa knelt on the floor of the veranda to pray. Then she rose, touched her head against a cool sandstone pillar, and closed her eyes. She was so tired. At home and here in the imperial harem, she had to pretend that nothing had happened. Ruqayya never spoke of the incident in the gardens, though she watched Mehrunnisa incessantly.
She took a deep breath and leaned out over the verandah into the chilling evening air. At least Maji and Bapa did not know of all this. But the pretense was taking its toll on Mehrunnisa. She hardly ate or slept, and dark circles ringed her eyes during the day, fatigue drawing her face into a pale shadow.
Through all this were thoughts of Salim. Mehrunnisa smiled involuntarily. The first meeting in the zenana gardens had happened so swiftly; she had been unprepared for him. The second meeting during the Mina bazaar had been what she had wanted until the Emperor had called him away. And he had left saying, wait for me, Mehrunnisa. How sweet her name sounded on his lips.
“Mehrunnisa?”
She froze against the parapet. It could not be . . . Mehrunnisa straightened and turned slowly, knowing who had called her name.
Salim stood in front of her.
The verandah was deserted except for them. The cold evening air had driven the last of the dawdlers to the coal braziers indoors.
They looked at each other in silence. Salim looked tired too, Mehrunnisa thought, wanting to smooth away the lines on his forehead. She reached up to pull her muslin veil over her face.
“Don’t,” Salim said, putting out a hand, then drawing back as though afraid to touch her. “Let me look at you, please.”
She hesitated, then let her hand fall to her side. Let him look at her, as she would him, unhindered by the veil. This would be the last time. Even as she watched him, Salim, suddenly bold, tilted her face with the tips of his fingers and bent down to touch her lips with his.
A fire blazed to life within Mehrunnisa. No man had kissed her before; no man had touched her with such exquisite tenderness. Today, now, Salim was just a man who with love in his eyes had met her lips with his in a token of ultimate affection.
And she was bound to another.
Mehrunnisa drew back and pushed Salim away. “I cannot, your Highness.”
“Why not?” Salim asked, laughter in his eyes.
Why not indeed? Overcome, she reached to touch his jaw, tracing her finger down to his chin, then up the other way. With a sigh, Mehrunnisa put her hands around his face and brought it to hers. She laid soft kisses on his brows, his closed eyes, the cheekbones jutting just under them. She followed around his mouth with her breath, inhaling the clean scent of him, and finished by laying her face against his.
“Now I must return the favor,” Salim said hoarsely, capturing her hands in his. With exquisite tenderness, he pressed first one, then another to his mouth. Then he bent to where her neck joined her shoulder, his face a few scant inches from her breasts. Mehrunnisa groaned and let her head fall back. Every nerve was alive to his touch. Her skin quivered under his tongue. She enclosed him in her arms, rubbing her chin against his hair. How was it she knew what to do, even though she had never done this before?
Salim was the one who broke this embrace. As the evening glowed golden around them, they stood watching each other, their breaths coming in harsh gasps. “You smell of roses.”
“My mother . . .” Mehrunnisa stuttered. What was it he had said? What was she trying to say? “My mother makes rose water for our baths.”
Salim stared at her with an intensity that made her shiver. “You will come to me soon, Mehrunnisa. I know your father is Mirza Ghias Beg. I will ask the Emperor to send a formal proposal to your house tomorrow—no, today.” He grinned impishly. “What would you like for a wedding gift? A menagerie of birds you can set free?”
But she was another man’s property. She should not have done this, not have kissed him with such ferocity. But for these past few weeks he had obsessed her every thought. Why, Allah, did they have to meet like this if nothing was to come of it? Why even bring him into her life if he was not to be hers? She spoke tiredly. “I am to be married in a few weeks, your Highness.”
Salim frowned. “No one told me. But,” he reached for her hand, “that can be no problem. I will ask the Emperor to dissolve your engagement. You will be mine soon, Mehrunnisa.”
Mehrunnisa pulled her hand out of his grasp. “No, your Highness, please do not do that. My father has promised my hand in marriage. To go back on his word would shatter his reputation. Please . . .”
“It cannot be that bad, Mehrunnisa. The Emperor himself has commanded many marriages dissolved, let alone engagements. A word from him—”
“No, your Highness,” Mehrunnisa cried out, Ruqayya’s words of warning ringing in her ears. She still did not believe Salim to have been responsible for plotting Akbar’s death. Not this Salim who stood before her, surely. It was a rumor, grown ugly and huge through the years, arms and legs added haphazardly with each telling. Yet, the estrangement between father and son was common knowledge. There was no easy way out. Sudden tears sprang to her eyes—for the loss of Salim, fear for her father’s reputation, dread of her future life, everything.
The prince reached out and rubbed a tear away from Mehrunnisa’s smooth skin. “Go now, my darling,” he said softly. “I will fix everything. And don’t worry.”
At his command, Mehrunnisa picked up the skirts of her ghagara and fled down the marble verandah, her bare feet skimming the stone. She knew Salim stood where she had left him, looking after her, but she did not turn to him one last time.
• • •
MEHRUNNISA RAN OUT of the palace, calling for her chaperone, Dai Dilaram, who had once been her wet nurse. Dai came out of the servants’ quarters where she had been gossiping, took one look at her distraught charge, and hurried her home.
On the way, Mehrunnisa sat motionless in the palanquin. Matters had progressed too far for her to handle on her own. After her talk with the Empress, she had finally begun to think. What Ruqayya said was true: if her engagement was broken, it would bring great dishonor on her father. And the last thing she wanted was to cause pain to Ghias. She had been blind to what was happening around her, so determined to captivate Salim, that she had flirted with him without thinking of the consequences. Even just now . . . but that had been irresistible, the need to touch him. And now Salim was determined not to forget her. What if he went to the Emperor? Her father would be disgraced and held in ridicule. People would say that he had deliberately sent his daughter to the zenana so that Mehrunnisa could bewitch Salim. And rumors would circulate that Ghias Beg was not a man of his word, that he was not to be trusted.
Mehrunnisa’s heart lurched at the thought. There was only one thing to be done. She must tell her mother. Asmat would know how to handle the situation. But Salim . . . his kiss . . . no, her mother had to know—not about the kiss, but everything else. Even as the palanquin reached the outer courtyard of Ghias Beg’s house, Mehrunnisa was dreading the encounter with her mother, for if Asmat knew, sooner or later her father would come to know too.
• • •
THAT NIGHT, ASMAT heard her daughter’s story in shocked silence. She talked with Ghias, and they decided that the best thing would be to approach the Padshah Begam. The next morning Asmat went to Ruqayya and complained of the young prince’s behavior.
The Empress was very concerned to hear how far matters had progressed. She had thought it to be a mere flirtation on Salim’s part, knowing her stepson’s mood swings well. She sent a message to the Emperor.
Akbar arrived at her apartments that afternoon, and Ruqayya wasted no time in telling him of Salim’s latest fling. While they were talking, th
e prince entered Ruqayya’s apartments unannounced.
“Your Majesty, I have a request.” He hurried to his father and sat down at his feet. In his haste, Salim had not followed court etiquette. Upon entering the Emperor’s presence, everyone had to perform the taslim or the konish, irrespective of age, status, or kinship to the Emperor.
“You forget your manners,” Akbar said angrily.
Salim performed a half-hearted salutation.
“Well, what is it?” Akbar demanded.
“I would like to marry the daughter of one Mirza Ghias Beg, your Majesty. Her name is Meh—”
“That is not possible,” Akbar cut Salim short. “She is engaged to be married, and we have given our permission. We cannot go back on our word.”
Salim stared at his father. Why did he care if Salim married a courtier’s daughter? He forced himself to be polite. “But your Majesty, that can be easily overturned if you order it.”
“No, Salim. The engagement took place by our command, and we shall not break our word.” Akbar turned away from his son as he spoke.
Salim knew he was dismissed. He rose slowly, bowed to his father, and walked out of the room on leaden feet. He wanted Mehrunnisa, desperately even; he had not slept much last night. Every thought, every dream had been colored by her face, the feel of her in his arms, the touch of her skin. She consumed him. But he would not beg for her from his father. Salim knew he had done wrong, once, all those years ago. Now, it seemed Akbar would not meet him halfway. He had tried time and again to show his repentance without actually admitting what he had done. If only the Emperor could have indulged him in this one matter . . . for in this short time, Mehrunnisa had come to mean more to him than any other woman he had known. Outside the door, he leaned against the wall, resting his head on a cool marble pillar. Mehrunnisa.
As Salim left, Ruqayya watched the Emperor’s face crumple in sorrow. Suddenly he seemed older than his years. Akbar sighed and bowed his head. “We shall talk to Mirza Beg.”
• • •
WITHIN THE WEEK, trumpets sounded the arrival of Ali Quli at Ghias Beg’s house. The men of the house—Ghias, Muhammad, Abul, and Shahpur—waited in the front yard for the bridegroom. Ali Quli had no family in India, so the Khan-i-khanan, Abdur Rahim, rode with him, the women of his house behind them in palanquins. In her room, Mehrunnisa sat with her head bowed under the weight of the gold zari embroidered red wedding veil. Her hands were patterned in henna, her body golden with sandalwood paste, her eyes outlined in kohl. The women around her—neighbors, friends, and cousins—kept lifting her veil to exclaim at her beauty. They laughed at the tears in her eyes, for it was the right attitude for a bride who was to soon leave her paternal home. Asmat bustled around, calling to the servants to bring in fresh pots of chai and trays of laddoos and jalebis. She did not look at her daughter. This last week, no one had talked to Mehrunnisa much. Maji and Bapa did not tell anyone of what had really happened. People were just informed that the wedding was being rushed at the Emperor’s orders. Even Saliha had not yet come from Kabul for the festivities; she was still on her way.
So Mehrunnisa sat waiting during the long hours before the actual ceremony. She forced her mind to empty itself of all thoughts. She seemed to have let Bapa down even though she had done right in telling her parents. Empress Ruqayya had commanded her to stay at home and not to visit until she was married. From Salim, of Salim, there was no news.
The wedding ceremony was brief, but the feasting went on all night. Ali Quli took Mehrunnisa home as the hired musicians played their trumpets and beat on their dholaks. When she left to climb into the palanquin in the outer yard, Mehrunnisa clung to Ghias Beg until he had to push her away from him. “She is fond of all of us,” he said to the watching Ali Quli.
Ali Quli laughed heartily, baring his teeth. “As she will become fond of me soon, Mirza Beg.”
Asmat and Ghias flinched. Then, without a look back, Mehrunnisa entered the palanquin. She kept her gaze away from her family as the bearers lifted the palanquin on their shoulders and jogged slowly out of the courtyard.
In the seclusion of the bridal chamber, Ai Quli lifted the veil and looked upon Mehrunnisa’s face for the first time. Involuntarily, his hand went out to touch her face. He traced her bridal makeup of tiny painted white dots that ran from over her eyebrows down to the curve of her cheeks. She was trembling; Ali Quli ignored it. He could not believe his good luck. He had thought the marriage would cement his alliance with Ghias Beg, but never had he imagined his wife would be so beautiful.
While Ali Quli marveled at his good fortune and enjoyed his wedding night, Prince Salim drowned every coherent thought in cups of wine.
SIX
She aspired to the conquest of Prince Salim and succeeded, by a dexterous use of her charms and accomplishments at an entertainment, in casting a spell over him. But she was married to Sher Afkun, a Persian noble of the highest courage and valour.
—Beni Prasad, History of Jahangir
THE DAY HAD DIED A few hours ago, pulling all light into the flat horizon beyond the fort at Lahore. As the earth swung away from the sun, the streets glowed in small pools of light—more shadows than light. The bazaars were empty, the shopfronts shuttered, the brick houses along the banks of the Ravi closed behind their high walls and towering tamarind trees. At night few people walked the streets. Even here, at the seat of the Emperor’s court, it was unsafe to wander alone, for the night brought out thieves, murderers, ghosts, and demons.
Ghias Beg sat on the steps of the inner courtyard where the women of his house resided. It was paved in gray-flecked granite slabs and surrounded by a deep verandah from which doors opened into various rooms. Ghias sat silent, letting the worries of his day melt away. Arjumand slept in his arms, her face against the crisp white cotton of his kurta, her skin smudged already by the raised embroidery over the front. He looked down at her. Her thumb was in her mouth, her little legs dangling over his lap, the other hand clutching at his chest through the kurta’s opening. Her ghagara had ridden up to her knees, and he smoothed it back down, his fingers slipping through a small rent in the silver zari border.
She looked like Mehrunnisa, he thought. She had the same thick black hair, tied behind her head now but reaching beyond her waist when let loose. The same mischief in her eyes, gray like a storm-filled sky; the same delighted laughter when she was pleased; the same furrowing of her brow when she was denied something she wanted. She was just like Mehrunnisa. But she was not Mehrunnisa’s.
Ghias gently pulled Arjumand’s thumb from her mouth. She resisted, then, deep in sleep, allowed him to do so. What an unhealthy habit it was in a six-year-old child. But try as Abul had, neither he nor his wife had been able to break Arjumand of this habit of comfort. Arjumand was Abul’s daughter, and now she slept in her grandfather’s arms. Ghias looked over at the courtyard where the two women knelt.
Mehrunnisa and Asmat worked in silence, their hands dipping into the rangoli powder in little clay saucers by their side. Torches in sconces on the pillars of the courtyard threw swaths of light over them, skipping over the shadowed part where Ghias sat. They had started work on the rangoli pattern two hours ago, and now the flat stones of the courtyard bloomed with colors and patterns. Jasmine drawn in white rice flour, delicate closed buds and fresh-blown flowers; long-fingered mango leaves in colored green powder; hibiscus in deep reds; lotus in silk-pinks; triangular peepul leaves, sharply veined in sandstone brown.
Mehrunnisa sat back on her knees, her hands colored to the wrists with the chalky powders. “It looks like an impossible forest, from someone’s wild dreams.”
Asmat smiled as she filled in the green of a mango leaf, the powder escaping her fingers in a precise pattern, not straying outside the chalk outline they had drawn earlier. “The more colorful the rangoli, the more welcoming we are to Manija’s new family. This is a Hindu custom, this laying of rice powder patterns on the floor, but very appropriate for Manija’s wedding.”
“His name is Qasim Khan Juviani. I saw him only briefly at the engagement ceremony. Your Bapa says it is a good family. He is a poet, Manija tells me.”
Mehrunnisa bent over the clay saucers again and scooped some yellow powder into her hands. “A poet. And what does he compose?”
“Love poetry. He sent Manija a poem yesterday.” Asmat’s voice took on a little lilt. “His eyes thirsted for the sight of her, his heart beat in cadence with her footsteps, his every breath cried out her name.”
Mehrunnisa laughed, the sound tripping in the warm night air. “And we paint an enchanted forest on stone to welcome the women of his family. What would he say if he saw this rangoli?”
“Volumes, I imagine. But he will never come this far into the women’s quarters; you know that.”
“Manija is getting married,” Mehrunnisa said, after a pause. “First Khadija, then Manija. It seems hard to believe.”
‘Your Bapa and I would like to have you all with us, as Abul and Muhammad live with us now. But daughters belong to someone else, right from their birth. We are only temporary guardians of girl children, beta,” Asmat said. “They grow up; they marry. They go to their real homes. They have children of their own.”
At her mother’s words, Mehrunnisa glanced over to where her Bapa sat. Ghias shifted Arjumand in his arms, making her more comfortable. Then Mehrunnisa looked down. Though she tried very hard to stop it, a tear rolled softly down her cheek and splattered onto the rangoli pattern, like a dew drop on a mango leaf, turning the dry powder under it a deeper shade of green. Mehrunnisa turned away from Asmat, hoping she had not noticed, not wanting her to see how those words had suddenly emptied her heart. They have children of their own.
It had been four years since her marriage to Ali Quli. But their house was silent of the pleasant noise of children. It was also just a house, not a home, for Ali Quli was rarely there. Five days after the wedding he had gone out on campaign with the Khan-i-khanan. For eight months after that, there was silence: no letters to her—just news from runners. When her husband returned, he was a stranger: a man she had known for five days. He was not a bad man, Mehrunnisa thought. He did not beat her, was not openly cruel to her as other women’s husbands were, as if their wives were dogs, unclean, untouchable, fit only for the most carnal satisfaction. This pain Ali Quli did not give her, but his silences were almost more painful. It was as though he did not care.
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