He rose slowly from the divan and went to the window. With shaky hands, he unlatched the clasp and opened the latticework shutters. It was midafternoon; the sun rode high in the sky, bleaching everything to a glaring whiteness. Heat exploded into his face, and the Emperor stepped back, glad for the sensation after these last three days of numbing sadness. It was so hot that every breath seared his tired lungs. From here, Akbar could see only the heat-broiled plains beyond the Yamuna river, dotted here and there with stunted trees. But somewhere out there, in the dust of the plains, its sandstone buildings decaying, lay the city of Fatehpur Sikri. The city he had built for Salim.
Akbar had been twenty-seven when Salim was born. He had ruled the empire for fourteen years by then, already an old king. A king married many years, one possessed of vast lands and varied people—with no one to leave them to. A ruler with no heir. He had seen many sons born to his many wives by then. Some were dead at birth—perfectly formed, the hakims had told him, fingers and toes intact, hair dense on their heads, bodies rounded in their mothers’ wombs. But the little chests lay silent without a heartbeat. Some had died in infancy after he had held them in his arms, watched them suckle with vigor at the wet nurse’s breast, smile at his face.
With an empire to care for, it had been almost easy to forget these ghost sons of his, Akbar thought. Coming to the throne as he had at thirteen had cultivated in him a deep sense of responsibility for his people, to every single person around him: the women of his harem, the soldiers of his army, the noblemen of his court. A king could not and did not give in to personal sorrow. Yet, an ache gnawed away at him. Akbar had searched for solace from every direction: religious, spiritual, physical. He had visited saints and gurus and physicians, hoping one or another would be able to tell him why he had this great empire and no one to bestow it upon. To tell him he would have the son he so longed for.
And in this search he had gone to Shaikh Salim Chisti. The Shaikh was a Sufi saint who lived in a cave at the outskirts of Sikri, a small village of little distinction sixteen miles from Agra. And there in his cave, Akbar, Emperor of Mughal India, had drawn off his pearl-and-diamond-studded slippers and sat on the bare ground next to the Shaikh. Three sons will be born to you, your Majesty, the Shaikh had said. Three brilliant sons. Your name will not die; your empire will flourish. Allah wills it.
Hamida Banu, Akbar’s Hindu wife, had become pregnant around this time, and on August 31, 1569, Salim came bawling and kicking into the world. Just as the Shaikh had promised.
And so, Akbar thought, leaning out of the window again, his hand to his eyes against the glare, he had built an entire city at Sikri. And called it Fatehpur—Victory—Sikri after the conquest of Gujarat.
He could not see the city from where he stood at his apartments. The sun washed out the lines of the horizon, and Fatehpur Sikri was too far away, but he remembered every detail of the planning. Akbar’s architects and engineers had balked at his commands. It was too far away from Agra, the capital of the empire. But Fatehpur Sikri was to be the capital of the empire, Akbar had responded. No one of any eminence lived there. They would, when the Emperor himself resided at the city. No water source, your Majesty, they had said. Dig a lake, was Akbar’s order. And so it had been done. A vast lake had been dug and filled with water. In 1571, two years after Salim’s birth, foundations had been laid for a mosque and an imperial palace in Sikri.
The imperials court had resided fifteen years at Fatehpur Sikri. With each passing year, as the waters of the lake dwindled, as the rains failed time and again, as the dust swallowed the red sandstone buildings of the city and turned everything a dull brown, Akbar knew the time had come to abandon the city. He had moved the court to Lahore to oversee the menace on the northwest from the king of Uzbekistan.
The city he had built for his son lay abandoned. He had never gone back there again.
But there had been exquisite memories, cherished even now, when he was so bewildered by Salim’s actions. One year, when Salim was four, Akbar had taught him to swim in the lake. The servants had cordoned off a small section in the water with velvet ropes. It was early one morning, just before the sun rose. The sky around them was aglow in red-gold tones. Salim howled for five days.
“No, Bapa, I don’t want to swim. I hate the water. It frightens me.”
“But kings are not frightened, Shaiku Baba,” Akbar said, smiling. He called him thus: Shaiku Baba. His given name was Salim, for the saint Shaikh Salim Chisti. Shaiku Baba was an endearment, again for the saint.
“No! I will not go. You cannot make me go. I don’t want to go.”
“Tomorrow, Salim,” Akbar said sternly. The boy had to learn to obey orders.
“I will not come.”
But that morning, he stood shivering and petulant at the bank of the lake in the early dawn light, sleep still creasing his face, his pouting lips blue from the cold. For Akbar taught him also that kings always kept their appointments and followed orders. If one did not know how to follow orders, one would not know how to give them.
Akbar was already in the water, a dhoti ballooning about his waist, the cool morning air bringing goosebumps on his arms and chest. “Jump, Shaiku Baba!” he called out.
Salim’s nurses huddled around him, their faces covered, but Akbar could sense their displeasure as they glared at him through the muslin of their veils.
“Jump, beta!”
A nurse took off Salim’s clothes until he stood naked in front of his father, his arms around himself. His ribs stood out sharp and rigid under his skin. His legs were long and skinny. His hair was dense and lush to his shoulder blades. He did not cover himself but just stood there gazing at his father with defiance.
Akbar almost sent him back to the palace at that moment, the look of fear in Salim’s eyes melting his resolve to teach him to swim. But it would not do to be too kind. Salim had to learn. So he said, “Do you want to be a great king?”
Salim nodded, still clutching his arms around himself, his eyes not leaving his father’s face.
“ ‘Then how can you fear something as simple as water?”
Taking three running steps to the edge, Salim jumped from the pier, flying out over the water into Akbar’s arms.
And now, his spies told him that little boy was responsible for Abul Fazl’s death. The Emperor sat down heavily on the floor, the heat still blasting from the open window above him. Salim had clung to him once in the water, his bravado deserting him. Even today, Akbar could feel those small arms around his neck, Salim’s legs wrapped tight around his waist, his tear-stained face buried in his shoulder. Once, when he was a child, Salim had listened to him. Now he listened no longer. Like Fatehpur Sikri, their bond seemed to have been left to dry out in the sun, to be overcome by dust and dirt and cobwebs. He had abandoned the city he built for his son; now his son had abandoned him.
The Emperor lifted his head slowly. He was becoming so very tired these days. Everything fatigued him. The royal physicians could find nothing wrong, but he saw it in their eyes. Old age. The end of a life well and fully lived. Akbar sighed. He would have to put this affair behind him and reconcile with his son. Salim was the natural heir to the throne. Perhaps in the short time he had left on this earth, he could instill some character in Salim and make him a worthy Emperor.
Akbar rose and walked to the imperial zenana. He went first to his Padshah Begam’s palace. She was waiting for him; even as he left his own apartments, servants had fled to Ruqayya to announce his arrival. He found her there with Salima Sultan Begam, another of his favorite wives. Salima and he had grown up together; they were first cousins and had been close friends before Akbar married her. She had initially been married to Bairam Khan, the regent when Akbar came to the throne at thirteen, too young to rule the empire himself. When Bairam died, Akbar married Salima to give her a home and to recapture their childhood friendship.
With Ruqayya and Salima, Akbar was more at ease than anywhere else, even at the royal darbars.
They were his comfort. Now, true to character, they sat with him and talked of zenana affairs until he was ready to talk. When the Emperor was finally ready, his grief poured out in broken sentences: sorrow at Fazl’s death, and pain at Salim’s part in it. But he said nothing of a reconciliation. Salima, who had known Akbar all her life, left the next day for Allahabad. She knew, and Ruqayya knew, that Akbar wanted to see his son again. It was time. And so, as they always had, with an unspoken agreement between them, the two women went about setting the Emperor’s world right again.
• • •
SALIM AND AKBAR met in the Diwan-i-am, in front of the entire court. It had been three years since they had seen each other. Even so, the Emperor insisted upon a public meeting. The Hall of Public Audience was packed to capacity with courtiers and onlookers. News of the strife between father and son had spread through runners and travelers to the farthest corners of the empire. Almost every person present had a vested interest in seeing how the meeting would advance; the empire’s fate depended on this moment.
Behind the throne, the harem balcony was filled with the ladies of the zenana. For once, they too were silent, watchful, wondering. Right up front, near the screen, sat Ruqayya Sultan Begam. To her right was Salima, who had brought Salim home to his father. No one knew what she had said to the prince or how the encounter had progressed, only that she had convinced him to return—and without a large army. Also, when Salim first came to Agra, he had come to the harem to pay his respects to his grandmother, Maryam Makani, so the ladies had already seen him. Only one person associated with the royal zenana, but not actually part of the zenana, had not seen him in many, many years.
Mehrunnisa stood silent behind Ruqayya’s divan, close enough to the screen to look through it with ease. It was still a few minutes before the prince’s arrival at court and she felt as though she had been holding her breath till this moment. Mehrunnisa looked down at the marble floor of the zenana balcony, wondering if he had changed. Had time been kind to him? Had he aged? Had this mad dashing around the empire in search of futile goals weathered him?
It was all stupid, so stupid, she thought, to be led astray by men like Mahabat and Koka and Sharif. At least now he was returning to his rightful place by his father. Pray Allah he would stay there. Maybe then she could see him every now and then. Even that would be enough after all those years of starvation for the sight of him. She grimaced and looked up as the trumpets blared, announcing Salim’s arrival. It was she who was stupid, married to one man all these years, and all these years still thinking of another . . . Perhaps if Ali Quli and she had had a child, things might be different. Mehrunnisa put a hand on her stomach softly, remembering that winter afternoon in Lahore in the hen shed. Yasmin had lived . . . and not wanted the child. Still, Mehrunnisa did not take him. She wanted, yearned desperately for a child—but her own child, not the fruit of some other woman’s womb. So she gave the baby back to Yasmin and sent her away. Mehrunnisa bent her head, still touching her stomach. Would she ever have children?
Just then the Mir Tozak announced Prince Salim, and she looked up.
Salim walked slowly into the Diwan-i-am, followed by a few courtiers. Mahabat Khan and Koka were conspicuously absent from his entourage. Mehrunnisa watched as Akbar rose from his throne and walked down the few steps to the center of the court. The Emperor’s eyes brimmed with tears. He held out his arms, and Salim, who was bending to perform the konish, straightened and came into his father’s embrace. The court watched in silence as the two men hugged each other.
Salim stepped back from Akbar with a shock. It had been three years, and his father had aged immeasurably. The shoulders he embraced were bony, the Emperor’s hair almost all white. Worry lines patterned his forehead.
“Bapa, I will surrender four hundred of my war elephants to you.”
“We have missed you at court.” The Emperor’s voice broke in midsentence.
At a signal from Akbar, attendants brought forward robes of honor and jeweled swords.
“Come closer, Salim.”
Akbar took off his jeweled turban of state and placed it on Salim’s head. A hush came over the entire assembly. Salim raised his hand in wonder to the unfamiliar burden on his head, his fingers smoothing the jewels on the imperial turban. How sweet the weight was.
“You do me a great honor, Bapa,” Salim said softly, so only the Emperor could hear.
Akbar stared at him for a long time, and Salim met his gaze unwaveringly. He wanted to touch his father again, to embrace him again, to apologize for the madness of the last few years. But there was no forgiveness in Akbar’s look, just sorrow and disapproval.
“The empire must have an heir, Salim. There is no one else.”
“Is that the only reason you asked for me to return to Agra, your Majesty?” Salim asked, wrath flaring in him.
“We did not ask you to return,” Akbar said.
“No.” Salim put his hand up to the turban again and adjusted it so it sat firmly on his head. “You did not ask; I know that. May I have permission to leave your presence, your Majesty?”
Akbar nodded. Salim took off the turban and laid it reverently in his father’s hands. He bowed and backed slowly from the Diwan-i-am, past the courtiers in the front tier, the noblemen in the second, the commoners in the third, the war elephants standing in a row in the outer courtyard. Everyone was watching him, but he did not betray his feelings with any expression.
Until he left, the court was silent. Now, not having heard the soft exchange between the two men, the ladies in the zenana balcony burst into excited chatter, the nobles following them.
For with the laying of the imperial turban on his son’s head, the Emperor had proclaimed, in no uncertain terms, that he wanted Salim to be his heir.
Mehrunnisa leaned back from the screen, her face flushed. Salim had not changed, not outwardly at least. She watched while the darbar dispersed as soon as the Emperor and Salim left the courtyard. Now there would be some peace in the empire. And Salim would stay here, at Agra, near his father, where he belonged. One of the ladies passing by made a sudden fleeting reference to a name, and Mehrunnisa’s head snapped in her direction. A chill descended upon her. Even she had forgotten in her desire to see Salim. But all was not well, he must know somehow. Even she had forgotten Salim’s son, Khusrau.
• • •
“THE EMPEROR WISHES me to return to the Mewar campaign.” Prince Salim strode angrily into his apartments.
From their work, Mahabat Khan, Koka, and Abdullah looked up at him in dismay. Muhammad Sharif had been left in Allahabad as governor.
“When?” Mahabat asked, putting aside the farman he had been reading.
“As soon as possible.” Salim signaled for a cup of wine.
“But why, your Highness? Both the Khan-i-khanan and Prince Daniyal are in the Deccan. They can easily travel to Mewar to command the imperial forces.”
Salim gulped down the wine and held out his goblet for more. “You know that Daniyal is a poor leader. He drinks too much and spends too much time in his harem. I must go and instill confidence in the army, uplift the spirits of the men. Those are the Emperor’s words, not mine.”
“Your Highness,” Abdullah said urgently, “You cannot leave Agra at such a crucial time. I beg forgiveness for what I am about to say, but the Emperor is not in good health . . . he is old and . . .” Abdullah let the sentence trail away.
Salim knew what he was about to say. Akbar’s death was imminent; if Salim left Agra now, he would be too far away to claim the throne if Akbar died. He drummed his fingers impatiently on a little rosewood table. What did that matter? The Emperor had proclaimed him heir. Though he did not want to go, at least it would be something to do.
The homecoming had not turned out to be all he wanted. Salim and Akbar spent more time together than they had before the rift, but things were still not as they had once been. Too much had happened—the attempt on the treasury, Fazl’s death. The only time they reall
y felt close to each other was in the royal zenana, when the ladies were there to dispel any tension.
The three men around the prince watched him carefully. Didn’t he realize his position in court? Salim’s power play and his impatience to wear the crown had alienated him from most of the powerful nobles at court. Assured of his right to the throne, the prince had not attempted to befriend the courtiers. Now, while he was in a tenuous relationship with his father, the nobles were openly assembling against him.
“I realize that it is not prudent to leave now,” Salim said. “But my father has commanded me, and I dare not disobey him. Besides, there can be no fear of my claim to the throne. The Emperor himself has publicly announced me to be his heir. Daniyal is no real threat. Who else can there be?”
“Prince Khusrau, your Highness,” Qutubuddin Koka spoke up for the first time.
Salim looked at him in shock. “Khrusrau? My own son?”
“Yes, your Highness. I have heard that both Raja Man Singh and Mirza Aziz Koka have been gathering a coalition to support him.”
Raja Man Singh, brother of Salim’s first wife, Man Bai, was Khusrau’s uncle. He was still at Bengal, having quelled the Afghan rebellion, but even from that distance he had friends at court.
Mirza Aziz Koka was Akbar’s foster brother and lately Khusrau’s father-in-law. Koka’s mother had been Akbar’s wet nurse. Aziz Koka and Man Singh, father-in-law and uncle to Khusrau, were definitely interested in seeing the sixteen-year-old youth ascend the throne to the Mughal empire. He would be easily controlled by these statesmen.
“The Emperor will never countenance putting Khusrau on the throne. It would defy the laws of natural succession. Besides, how could my own son even think of rebelling against me?” Salim cried. He looked away, the irony of his words not escaping him. What was Khusrau doing but following his father’s example? But it was not as simple as that. Khusrau he had barely seen during his childhood; he had been brought into Salim’s presence briefly on special occasions to be shown to him, and then whisked away to his nurses and attendants. Salim did not even like this son of his very much, mostly because he had never really known him.
The Twentieth Wife Page 17