The Twentieth Wife

by Indu Sundaresan

  An hour passed, but Ali Quli did not send for her. Unable to bear the suspense, Mehrunnisa sent word to him to come to her apartments. He entered with a swagger, a bottle of wine in his hands.

  “What is it?”

  “My lord, what happened at the Diwan-i-am?”

  “Is that why you asked for me?” Ali Quli growled.

  She nodded.

  “I was granted the jagir of Bardwan, and we are to leave for Bengal immediately.” His teeth showed. “I told you not to worry. The Emperor is well cognizant of the debt he owes me. After all, I saved him from the tigress.”

  Mehrunnisa looked at him, eyebrows lifting. Not only was Ali Quli not punished, Jahangir had actually raised his rank and offered him an estate. Why?

  “Why do you look so surprised?” Ali Quli said. “Not even the Emperor can do me any harm.”

  He wandered to the divan and flopped down. He took a swig from the bottle and looked at it reflectively. “This is bad; I will have to ask for wine from Kashmir.”

  “Did the Emperor say anything?”

  “He gave me a speech about duty and loyalty.” Ali Quli grinned again. “But I knew that he would come around. He owes me his life. If I had not saved him, he would be dead now and”—his face hardened—“Khusrau would be Emperor.”

  He threw the bottle against the wall, and Mehrunnisa winced as it shattered. The rich red wine seeped into the carpets.

  “Khusrau would be Emperor, and I would not be exiled in disgrace to the jagir of Bardwan,” Ali Quli yelled. “Bardwan! What is it but an insignificant holding? What do I know of farming and estate management?” He puffed his chest out. “I am a soldier. I have fought many battles. People sing praises of me everywhere, and what does the new Emperor do? He relegates me to the sidelines, to Bardwan.”

  Mehrunnisa smiled slowly, turning her face away from her irate husband. She had not been wrong about Jahangir after all. It was a masterpiece of diplomacy. Ali Quli was well known for his bravery in the battlefield. Executing him would have served no purpose. Besides, Bengal was a hotbed of discontent. Who better than a soldier to send there? In one stroke, Jahangir had exiled Ali Quli— unofficially of course—and sent a soldier to suppress his dissidents. There was no fear of Ali Quli’s supporting Khusrau again, not while the prince was thousands of miles away in the custody of the Emperor. Jahangir had shown himself worthy of the throne. Akbar would have been proud of him.

  That was when she told him of the child, to placate him, to make him feel that the exile would not be so harsh if they had a child. Now, with his desire for a son, Mehrunnisa was tormented. What if she did not give him a son?

  So here they were, traveling to Bardwan. Not even Ali Quli dared disobey Jahangir’s orders. He had consoled himself that Raja Man Singh would be governor of Bengal and that they would together concoct another conspiracy.

  Before their departure Mehrunnisa had gone to the imperial zenana to see the Dowager Empress. Ruqayya had taken her to the Diwan-i-khas to witness Mirza Aziz Koka’s trial, and Mehrunnisa accompanied Ruqayya because she had commanded her and because she wanted one last glimpse of Jahangir. That she would see him so close, she had not expected. Perhaps fate had deemed it so for the last time. Jahangir would never move Ali Quli back from Bengal to the imperial court—that much Mehrunnisa knew. A dull ache flared in her back, and she massaged it as best she could. She leaned back and closed her eyes. If not Jahangir, at least there was to be a child.

  They reached the house at Bardwan as dusk fell over the city. As Mehrunnisa stepped out of the palanquin, a sharp pain shot through her back, unlike any other she had felt before. Her knees buckled, and a gush of wetness flooded from her body. Heart pounding, she put a hand between her legs over the silk of her ghagara, uncaring that she stood in the front courtyard in front of all the servants. It was too early: only eight and a half months. Was her treacherous body going to expel this child too? Her hand came away sticky with a clear fluid. She leaned against the palanquin, then collapsed on the mud floor of the outer courtyard. Not blood, thank Allah, not blood.

  The female slaves picked her up and rushed her into the house, to a room at the back, and put her on a bed. Through the deepening pain, Mehrunnisa saw Ali Quli’s frightened face at the doorway, before he disappeared, shouting for a midwife. They were new to Bardwan; a midwife was not easily found at night.

  Mehrunnisa lay sweating on the mattress, still in her travel-stained clothes, the birth pangs coming faster and faster, sweeping over her until she lost sense of everything around her. How had Maji given birth to seven children? Was it easier if one loved one’s husband?

  When the midwife came at last, she found Mehrunnisa moaning on the bed, her lower lip raw and bleeding where she had clamped down on her voice. The night was long, filled with pain, and Mehrunnisa slipped in and out of reality, opening her eyes to see a room filled with strangers. The servants were new, the midwife a woman she did not know. Ali Quli would not come into the room, for this was women’s business.

  “Maji . . .” Mehrunnisa whispered over and over again, wanting the cool comfort of her mother’s hand on her brow, wanting to tell her of the fears that ambushed her. It was too early. What if the child came out dead?

  The midwife patted her on the shoulder. “It will be all right, Sahiba,” she said. She was kind, Mehrunnisa thought, staring dazed at her calm face, clutching at her hand and holding it tight. But she was not Maji.

  The slaves had drawn the curtains in the room, and it was stifling inside, filled with the steam of breathing and sweat. Lamps flickered feebly in the humid, fetid air.

  “Open the drapes,” Mehrunnisa gasped. “I cannot breathe. . . .”

  One of the slaves drew the drapes aside an inch, and the cool night air surged into the room, a tangible presence. Almost immediately, the labor became easier. Fourteen hours later, Mehrunnisa lay back on the mattress exhausted as the cries of the newborn babe filled the room.

  “A girl,” the midwife said in a hushed tone, pitying the woman who lay on the bed. After all these years of marriage, this poor woman had given birth to a puny baby girl. What ill luck.

  Mehrunnisa immediately held out her arms and hugged the baby tight. Ali Quli would be disappointed. The great soldier had only a daughter; there was no son to grow into manhood and emulate his father’s deeds—or misdeeds. She glanced down at the wrinkled, pink face, at the tiny legs that had kicked inside her, at the cut end of the umbilical cord that had drawn nourishment from her body. This child would be her own, she thought fiercely, protective of the babe as she had never been of anyone else. Even if Ali Quli did not want the baby, she did. Then, greatly daring, not wanting to tempt the fate that had given her a child, she counted her fingers and toes. Ten fingers, ten toes. A button nose. Eyebrows that winged over a face riddled with dots of peeling skin from the womb. Hair thick and unruly, curling over her cheek. Forgive me for my greed, Allah, Mehrunnisa prayed softly. Thank you for the child, and thank you for making her perfect.

  Warmth stole over her was as she held her daughter, disregarding the false sympathy from the midwife and the slave girls. Ali Quli roared from the other room when he was told the news: “A girl! Only a girl child!” But Mehrunnisa heard little of what he said.

  As the baby opened her tiny mouth in a yawn before subsiding at Mehrunnisa’s breast, she knew what her name would be.

  Ladli.

  One who was loved.

  Ali Quli did not come immediately to see Ladli. Mehrunnisa, selfish and wanting to keep the baby to herself, did not mind that he did not come. And so, with the child nestled in the crook of her arm, Mehrunnisa slept for the next twelve hours, exhausted from the journey and the birth.

  Ten days later, news came to Ali Quli and Mehrunnisa of the birth of two more royal princes. Shahryar and Jahandar had been born within a month of each other to two royal concubines. Notwithstanding their parentage, the two princes were also potential heirs to the throne; Mughal law did not differentiate
between the progeny of wives and concubines. Emperor Jahangir now had five sons: Khusrau, Parviz, Khurram, Shahryar, and Jahandar.

  • • •

  JAHANGIR STARED INTO the distance, his brow wrinkled in concentration. He was seated in the outer courtyard of his apartments. He had a sheet of paper, an inkwell, and a quill by his side.

  It was late afternoon in the month of December, one of the most pleasant times in Agra. The sun dipped in the western sky, and shadows from the guava and mango trees, long past fruiting, lengthened in the courtyard. Musicians played softly in the verandah above the Emperor.

  Jahangir rubbed his forehead thoughtfully. He wanted to be known as a just and kind king. It was difficult to follow in his father’s footsteps; they were calling him “Akbar the Great” in the streets. The initial euphoria of being an Emperor had worn off, and the enormity of his obligations now came crashing on Jahangir. Millions of people depended on him. Akbar had left him a large empire, and its administration was no trivial matter. True, Mahabat, Sharif, Koka, and Abdullah had taken most of the responsibility on their shoulders; but it was up to him to keep the empire together, to protect his people, and, in essence, to look after their needs.

  But this was what he had been born for. If Murad or Daniyal had been alive, they could not, would not, have handled their responsibility well. He would show the people that he was capable of carrying on his father’s legacy. They would come to love him as they had loved Akbar. One day, posterity would view him as the Adil Padshah, the Just Emperor.

  And to make sure that his enemies did not distort the characteristics of his reign, he would keep a personal day-to-day journal. He would call it the Jahangirnama. The journal would start with the day of his coronation. Like his grandfather, he would leave a legacy for the future in his own handwriting. But to start off . . .

  He dipped his quill in the inkwell and wrote out the words dasturu-l-amal: the rules of conduct. Pausing every now and then to think, he slowly filled the page. Sarais, rest houses, were to be erected on roadsides for the convenience of travelers. Merchants’ goods and caravans could not be searched without their permission. Hospitals should be founded in the larger cities, and trained physicians were to be appointed.

  He hesitated, looked at the goblet of wine by his side, and then added to the list: intoxicating drinks of any kind were to be forbidden in the empire. It was ironic, he knew, but these were the rules for his empire, not for him.

  A thrill coursed through his body; he was making history. These would be known as the twelve edicts of Jahangir. Even though he had been born to royalty, expected to wear the crown, his dreams had been so long in coming that they might never have happened. It was luck, Jahangir thought, his hand trembling over the page—Murad and Daniyal had died, taking away two potential heirs. Luck—Khusrau had been put away before he could make a nuisance of himself. Luck—and despite everything he himself had done, Akbar had pardoned him in the end.

  Jahangir took a deep breath and continued writing. He revised the law of escheat, which had formerly determined that upon a man’s death, his property went not to his heirs but reverted back to the crown, and it was for the Emperor to decide where to bequeath it. In his dasturu-l-amal, Jahangir decreed that the right of the lawful heirs to a person’s property would not be disputed.

  The twelve edicts were sent out in the empire, and people marveled at the Emperor’s kindness and justice. The news filtered back to the imperial palace. Carried along by the people’s praise, Jahangir ordered that a Chain of Justice be strung up. The Chain of Justice was a golden chain, eight feet long, fastened at one end to the battlements of the fort at Agra and at the other to a stone post on the banks of the Yamuna. It was hung with sixty brass bells. Jahangir decreed that the Chain of Justice was to serve the common people; any person who felt that justice had not been served could come to the fort and shake the chain so the noise would attract the Emperor’s personal attention.

  Jahangir then invoked one of the symbols of sovereignty: the right to issue coins. On an auspicious day, he ordered gold mohurs and silver rupees to be minted in his name. A few days later, samples were brought to him in court, shimmering on black velvet. The gold coins seemed to set fire to his veins; here was another lasting moment to posterity. He would go, his bones and flesh would turn to dust, but hundreds of years later, this piece of metal would glitter in someone’s hands. This was what it meant to be king. Almost reverently, the Emperor set the coins back on the tray, his eyes full of unshed tears.

  Thus Jahangir enjoyed his new-found popularity and power. Muhammad Sharif, as Grand Vizier, found himself busy with duties of state—so much so that he no longer had the time to personally oversee the details of Prince Khusrau’s imprisonment.

  A grave mistake, as both he and the Emperor were to find out soon.

  TWELVE

  To accomplish their purpose, the discontented lords turned their eyes upon Chusero, and hoped, by his means, to effect a revolution in their state. . . . They roused his ambition by the praise of past actions, and animated it by the fair prospect of present success.

  —Alexander Dow, The History of Hindostan

  “IT WILL SOON BE TIME.”

  Khalifa looked up at her husband and blushed. “Yes, my lord.” Her voice was low and musical. “I have prayed for a son, a healthy boy.”

  Prince Khusrau frowned. “What use will a boy be? I will have no throne to leave him. My father has made sure of that.” He gestured around the room bitterly.

  Khusrau and Khalifa were in the prince’s apartments. At first glance, it seemed that every affluence available to a royal prince was present. But only at first glance, Khusrau thought, hunching into dissatisfaction. The windows were hung with ivory silk curtains; the stone floor was carpeted with deep-piled, red and green geometric patterned Persian rugs; sandalwood tables inlaid with mother-of-pearl were laden down with terracotta curios; and huge gold vases were filled with yellow summer roses. But outside the main doors, two strong Ahadis stood guard, and as the breeze lifted the curtains, ugly black iron bars showed on the sills, mocking the room’s finery.

  “The day will come when the throne shall be yours, my lord. It is only a matter of time.”

  Khusrau turned to her, his young face twisted. He had married Khalifa because Akbar had wanted the union, but Khusrau had fallen hopelessly in love with the shy girl whose face he had seen for the first time on their wedding night. Her complete devotion to him, even to the point of living in captivity in his quarters, had won him over. “I want it now. It is rightfully mine; my father has no right to rule. Even Emperor Akbar wished it.”

  “Hush, my lord.” Khalifa turned frightened eyes towards the door. “The Emperor will hear of your outburst.”

  “I do not care,” Khusrau muttered in a lower voice. “How long is he going to keep me locked up? It has been six months already.”

  “Perhaps when the child is born, my lord. The Emperor will be pleased to see his first grandchild.”

  “I cannot wait that long. I will not have my son born in captivity.” Khusrau jumped up from the divan and paced the room, hands clasped behind his back. He was quivering with outrage. The empire was his. His father had no business ruling his realm. And then to ignominiously chastise him in the Diwan-i-am, in front of all the courtiers, as though he were a child pulled up for recalcitrance.

  Khusrau stopped at the window and gazed out. He could see the ladies of the zenana lounging in the shade, draped in colorful muslins and silks, their attendants flitting around them with goblets of cool sherbet. If she had so wanted, Khalifa could have been there, outside. Jahangir had given her the choice, and she had chosen to be with her husband.

  An inner door opened quietly, and a man stepped into the room.

  “Your Highness,” he said, his voice a soft whisper.

  Khusrau whirled around. Khalifa quickly pulled her veil over her face.

  Abdur Rahim, the Khan-i-khanan, came into the room and bowed to the prin
ce. He had been one of Khusrau’s most avid supporters during his rebellion for the throne. As the commander-in-chief of Akbar’s army, he had been in a position of power, and he had lent that power to Khusrau’s abortive cause. Like many others who had supported the young prince, he preferred to be Khan-i-khanan under a younger, more naive ruler than under the older, more shrewd Jahangir, with his cunning advisers. It was from him that Ali Quli, too, had taken his loyalty to Prince Khusrau. Of all the people in the empire, the Khan-i-khanan was the one whom Mehrunnisa’s husband knew best. Years ago, when the Persian soldier had first come to the empire, he had hired himself out as a mercenary to Abdur Rahim, and Rahim had introduced him to Emperor Akbar.

  “I beg pardon, your Highness, but there was no way to announce my arrival without the Emperor getting to know of it.”

  “That is all right. What news do you have?” Khusrau asked eagerly.

  “Plans have been made to free you from the clutches of the Emperor. Husain Beg and Mirza Hasan are standing by to support you.”

  “Excellent!” Khusrau smiled. His petulance disappeared, and in its place appeared the youthful enthusiasm that had beguiled so many nobles and commoners in the empire. “What are the plans?”

  “Three days from now the Emperor is to leave on a hunting trip. He will have you locked up as usual in the tower when he leaves.”

  Khusrau nodded. How he hated that bare, stone-walled prison, where a single pane of glass let milky light into the room. When Jahangir left for extended hunting trips, Khusrau spent days in the tower; he was not even allowed his daily walks in the gardens.

  “The imperial party will return late at night after the hunting trip. That will give us enough time to escape from Agra. You will have to leave in the morning, right after the imperial party departs,” Abdur Rahim continued.

  “But how shall I get out? The Emperor allows me no visitors and has strictly forbidden me to leave the tower,” Khusrau said.