The Twentieth Wife

by Indu Sundaresan

  “ ‘Ours’? Did you say the northwest would be ‘ours’?”

  Ali Quli nodded, peering at the letter in the dim light of the moon. “I leave tonight. Pack my belongings; I must go to the prince’s army immediately.”

  “What about Raja Man Singh?” Mehrunnisa asked. “And have you heard from the Khan-i-khanan?”

  “No. But no matter. Raja Man Singh will support his nephew. And the Khan-i-khanan will definitely need my services.”

  Mehrunnisa looked at him. He was an idiot if he thought he could traverse the whole empire in search of Prince Khusrau and his army. How long would the trip take? Six months? Eight months? Much could happen during that time. If the Emperor captured Khusrau, Ali Quli’s life would be worth nothing. A second offense against the Emperor would be unpardonable. Ali Quli didn’t stop to think of those things, but he should at least have reflected on why they were in Bengal, so far from the imperial court—precisely to keep Ali Quli from consorting with Prince Khusrau. How could she convince him that he was making a mistake?

  “Wait a while, my lord. It is better to hear from either of the two nobles before you make any decision. Let us wait to hear more news. Please.”

  “Wait, wait! That is all I do now!” Ali Quli shouted. His voice resounded in the room, and Ladli awoke with a wail.

  Mehrunnisa ran over to the bed, untucked the mosquito net, and picked her up. “Hush, beta.” She tried patting the child back to sleep. But Ladli had already been awakened by the sound of her father’s voice. She gurgled at him.

  Ali Quli turned away and headed for the door. “I have to go. I must be with the prince’s army. What am I to do here?”

  Ladli, seeing him leave, began to wail again.

  “Keep her quiet,” Ali Quli said. “And pack my clothes. I leave soon.”

  Mehrunnisa stared at him, furious. He could not, must not go. What would happen to them if he left? “Think, my lord. The Emperor spared your life once and sent you here. If the prince is captured again, he will not hesitate to take it. Wait until you hear from either Raja Man Singh or the Khan-i-khanan. What you do will reflect upon all of us—Ladli, me, even my Bapa.”

  Ali Quli glared at her from the doorway, deep furrows creasing his forehead. He looked so angry that Mehrunnisa thought he would raise his hand and hit her. She stood there unflinching, holding a wailing Ladli in her arms. Ali Quli turned and stomped out of the room. As he passed Nizam peeping around the door on all fours, he bent and cuffed the boy on his head, sending him yelping and sliding across the stone floor of the verandah.

  • • •

  “HOW MANY DAYS have we been here?”

  “Eight, your Highness,” Husain Beg replied.

  Prince Khusrau turned to look down the desolate hill that sloped to the ramparts of Lahore fort. They had arrived at Lahore to find the fort barricaded and fortified against an attack. Even the terrain seemed as inhospitable as the people of Lahore. The ground was baked dirt; the trees and shrubs were stunted from a lack of water; the only relief in the dry colors of the land were gray rocks and brown boulders. During the day the sun raged, and at night the temperatures plunged to near freezing. The battle, the weather, and the lack of cohesion in his army were all taking a toll on his men.

  “They will not hold out much longer,” Khusrau said, hope in his voice. But inside, his mind was dead, numbed by the fear that had been his constant companion these last few weeks.

  “No, your Highness. Their supplies must be running out. Only—” Husain hesitated.

  “We must take the fort before the imperial army arrives. I am aware of that,” Khusrau said, sinking into his shoulders. “How did Ibrahim Khan hear of our arrival?”

  “His Majesty sent him a message. Ibrahim Khan was already on his way to Lahore to take up his post as governor when we left Agra. He rushed to Lahore before us and fortified the city.” Husain Beg looked shrewdly at his young commander’s woebegone face. “There is one thing in our favor, your Highness. Ibrahim Khan’s army is made up of servants and tradesmen. He did not have enough time to amass an army of soldiers. Besides, for eight days, we have surrounded the fort and not allowed in any food supplies. They will soon surrender.”

  “I hope so.” Khusrau ran a grimy hand through his hair. He shaded his eyes from the harsh sunshine and peered down. Every day, Khusrau’s army had set off mines near the ramparts, but each night, under cover of dark, Ibrahim’s men had worked swiftly to repair the breaches. For servants and tradesmen, they had shown an amazing amount of loyalty and resilience, neither of which Khusrau was able to evoke in his men. It had been eight long days since they arrived at Lahore. And the fort had held out.

  As he turned and walked slowly into the camp, the all-too-familiar fear came flooding back. Would they capture the fort before imperial reinforcements arrived? If they didn’t, Khusrau would have no place to hide, no defense against his father’s army. It was too late now to flee to Persia in hope of refuge; the imperial army would catch up before they crossed the border.

  The prince kicked a wayward pebble and watched it tumble in the red dust. Had he acted too hastily, without enough planning? For that, too, it seemed late for remorse. Jahangir would not forgive him this time. It was said that a price had been put on Khusrau’s life.

  Khusrau shook his head from side to side, trying to ease the cricks in his neck that only rest—which had been almost unknown for these eight days—would erase. He would have to run from his father all his life, for to surrender meant sure death. Yet, there was some hope. His army now numbered over twelve thousand infantry and cavalry, all dissidents who had joined him as they had passed from city to city on their way to Lahore. Khusrau shuddered as he thought of the manner in which his army had behaved en route. They had plundered and looted the villages, raped the women, left sorrow and misery in their wake. And he had not been able to control them.

  “Your Highness!”

  He turned to see Husain Beg leading a runner.

  “Your Highness, the imperial army led by Shaikh Farid Bukhari is a day’s journey from here.”

  Khusrau paled, the blood rushing from his face. “They have made good time. What else?”

  “Mirza Hasan is dead.”

  “How did he die?”

  “The Emperor’s men captured him at Sikandara, where he was gathering forces.” The runner wiped his sweating face. “The Emperor ordered him to be trampled to death by elephants.”

  Khusrau bit his lip to choke back sudden tears. He had lost another supporter. Pulling himself together, he turned to Husain Beg. “We will have to take Shaikh Bukhari’s army by surprise tonight. Where will they be pitching camp?”

  “Near Sultanpur, your Highness.”

  “Your Highness . . .” The runner hesitated and then went on. “The Emperor himself follows at the head of a large army. He is a day’s journey behind Shaikh Bukhari.”

  His father was right at his footsteps. No time was to be lost now. Khusrau’s insides turned to sudden iron. He would die fighting if necessary, but he would not surrender.

  “We cannot afford to be attacked from both sides. Prepare an army of ten thousand men. I will lead them into battle against Shaikh Bukhari. In the meantime, keep up the siege on the fort with the rest of the men. We should be able to vanquish at least one of the armies.” Khusrau’s voice took on a new strength as he spoke.

  He sat on a rock outside his tent as the arrangements went on around him, wanting the men to see him and to know that he was there to lead them. All this would finally be worth it, he thought, when the crown sat on his head. He had heard that Jahangir was furious with him, that the ladies of the zenana cursed him for his waywardness, that the nobles at court, who had once supported him, now denounced his actions. It was lonely and frightening to be at the receiving end of such invective. But he was doing exactly what his father had done for fifteen years: hunger for the throne. Why, then, this outrage?

  That night, as Shaikh Bukhari’s army, only five thousan
d strong, were pitching camp at Sultanpur on the Beas river, they were attacked. Although taken by surprise, the imperial army fought hard. Khusrau’s men outnumbered them by far, but the rebels lacked the discipline and training of the imperial forces. The two armies fought all through the night and into the next day.

  • • •

  THE AROMA OF ginger-spiced chicken and fragrant rice grown on the foothills of the Himalayas filled the imperial tent. Jahangir washed his hands and sat down cross-legged on the mat. He inhaled deeply as a slave set the silver plate in front of him, his mouth watering. Arranged against the outer rim of the plate were three silver katoris filled with steaming curries of chicken, lamb, and fish. In the center was piled a small mound of flaky rice, cooked just the way he liked it. A dollop of cucumber and tomato raita, smothered in sour yogurt, was on one side of the rice. On the other side were two wedges of green mango pickle, glistening red with chili powder and oil. The slave bowed and reverently rested two crisp rice-flour papads on the side of the plate before backing out of the tent.

  Just as the Emperor bent over his plate, Mahabat Khan whipped open the flap of his tent and rushed in unannounced. “Your Majesty, Prince Khusrau’s army is fighting Shaikh Bukhari’s army. The Shaikh’s army is outnumbered.”

  Jahangir grimaced. He had not eaten since the previous evening, and he was hungry. But this was the time for action. He scooped up a little of the rice, dipped it in the onion and tomato gravy of the chicken curry, and swallowed the morsel for good luck. Then he rose quickly.

  “Hoshiyar, get my armor,” he commanded, wiping his hand on a silk towel.

  Hoshiyar Khan ran off to do his bidding.

  “We must leave immediately for Sultanpur, your Majesty. No time can be lost.” Muhammad Sharif ran into Jahangir’s tent, fastening his armor.

  “Is my horse saddled?”

  “It awaits you outside, your Majesty.”

  Jahangir ran out, forgetting his armor. Mahabat Khan threw him a spear. Armed with only a spear and a dagger, he mounted his horse and led his forces to the Beas river. There was no time to think on the way, no time to worry about going into the battlefield almost naked. Jahangir could now reaffirm his manhood as he approached his fortieth year. This rush, this thrill at danger, had been so long absent from the Emperor’s life. With just a brief glance around to affirm that Mahabat, Sharif, and the others were with him, Jahangir kicked his heels into his horse and rode at the head of his army into Sultanpur.

  In the meantime, Shaikh Bukhari and the imperial army were fighting a losing battle. Just as all seemed to be lost, Ihtimam Khan, the kotwal, who had been appointed scout by Jahangir, arrived at the scene of the battle with another army, carrying Jahangir’s standard and flags. At the sight of the royal standard, a rumor flew through the rebel forces that the Emperor himself had arrived at the scene of the battle. Abdur Rahim, the Khan-i-khanan, panicked and dropped Khusrau’s standard. When the rebels saw the Emperor’s standard and not Khusrau’s, they thought Khusrau had been killed. In the confusion that ensued, Shaikh Bukhari, the Barha Sayyids, and Ihtimam Khan gained control of the rebel forces. Some were killed, and others fled the scene of the battle.

  Khusrau, Abdur Rahim, and Husain Beg fled from the site with a small army, intending to proceed to Kabul and from there to seek refuge in Uzbekistan.

  The Emperor crossed the Beas river and arrived at the scene of the battle to find that Khusrau’s army had been vanquished and his son had fled. He left the rebels in the charge of Shaikh Bukhari and proceeded to Mirza Kamran’s house outside Lahore to await news of Khusrau’s capture.

  • • •

  KHUSRAU AND HIS cohorts rode hard from Sultanpur toward Kabul. They came upon the Chenab river two nights after the battle. It was late, and the boats were already docked on the piers. The boatmen had all gone home, except for one, who was just returning from a late fishing trip. He was brought to Khusrau.

  “Prepare your boat to take us across,” Khusrau ordered.

  “Your Highness,” the man stammered. “The Emperor had sent orders that no one is to cross the river without his permission. I will have to see the royal seal before I can take you to the other side.”

  “I order you to take us across,” Khusrau yelled, losing his temper. He had not come this far to be thwarted by some commoner. It was imperative that they cross the river tonight. Waiting until first light would be too late.

  “I cannot, your Highness. Please forgive me.”

  At that moment, Abdur Rahim brought a woman and two children to Khusrau. The boatman started when he saw them.

  “Is this your family?”

  “Yes, your Highness.”

  “Well . . .” Khusrau looked at the woman, brought out a knife, and ran his finger along the edge until two drops of blood pearled on his skin. “How would you like to see them dead?”

  The boatman fell to his knees with tears in his eyes. “Please, your Highness,” he begged. “Spare their lives. I will take you across. I beg of you, spare them.”

  “All right,” Khusrau said curtly, turning away and wiping his cut finger on his qaba. “Go prepare the boat. Abdur Rahim, free this man’s family. Tell the army to follow us as soon as we have crossed over to the other side.”

  While the boat was being readied, Khusrau sat on the banks of the Chenab, heels dug into the mud. His finger twinged, and he started shivering. When had he become so violent? What had he become? Fear, stress, and sleeplessness had turned him into a monster he could not even recognize. What would Khalifa think of him? At the thought of his wife, Khusrau put his head down and wept. Would he ever see her again? And the child, their child—great gulping sobs rushed out of him.

  As he sat there, arms wrapped around himself, Abdur Rahim came to tell him the boat was ready. Khusrau, Abdur Rahim, and Husain Beg boarded it, and the boatman started rowing them over. The Chenab flowed fast, and crossing was no easy task. Treacherous sandbars appeared unexpectedly, and only an experienced boatman could row across. The boatman, however, was smart. He had freed his family from Khusrau’s clutches, and he had no intention of disobeying his Emperor’s orders. He guided the boat toward a sandbar, where it stuck fast. For the next half hour, he pretended to try to extricate the boat. When Khusrau’s attention was diverted, he jumped from the boat and swam to the bank, leaving the prince and his companions stranded in the middle of the inky river.

  Khusrau yelled after the boatman, but his voice was swept away by the sound of the fast-moving waters. The prince cursed and kicked the side of the boat, nearly upsetting them all into the river. Finally he gave up. Brave in the battlefield, neither of the men had the courage to defy the currents.

  As night wore on, the three men waited for assistance from the army. The river swirled around them in a melody of its own. One by one, tired from the events of the past few days, the men fell asleep.

  Day dawned. Khusrau sat up sleepily and rubbed his eyes. When he opened them, the gold banner with the crouching lion did not at first register in his brain. Then sleep was chased away when he realized it was the Emperor’s standard. The prince was surrounded on both banks by the imperial army. While he had slept in the boat the army had easily vanquished Khusrau’s men on the banks of the Chenab. Now they stood at the side, waiting for the sun to rise. A few soldiers rowed over to Khusrau and captured him.

  • • •

  THE EMPEROR BENT down and breathed deeply into the heart of a brilliant yellow rose. He straightened up and asked, “When will they be here?”

  “Soon, your Majesty,” one of the attendants replied.

  Jahangir nodded and continued down the garden path, his attendants following at a distance. Mirza Kamran had done a wonderful job, he noted with appreciation. Despite the dry climate, the garden was lush with greenery. Flowers bloomed in profusion, giving a delicate perfume to the air, and water gurgled pleasantly in the many channels that crisscrossed the lawns. Birds trilled merrily in large chenar trees, which cast shady spots around th
e lawns. It was very peaceful, even more so since the news of Khusrau’s capture had been brought to him.

  The door to the garden opened, and the sound of marching footsteps broke the silence. Jahangir turned and waited. Soldiers led Khusrau, Husain Beg, and Abdur Rahim up to the Emperor. All three prisoners were chained from hand to foot and to one another. Khusrau shuffled in between his two companions. The party halted in front of Jahangir, and they bowed in unison.

  “Your Majesty, I bring to you Prince Khusrau, Husain Beg, and the Khan-i-khanan,” Mahabat Khan said.

  Jahangir looked grimly at Khusrau. Under his father’s gaze, Khusrau broke down and started weeping, wiping his eyes with dirty hands that left streaks of grime on his face. Jahangir’s upper lip curled in distaste. Why did Khusrau give him so much trouble?

  “What have you to say for yourself?” he demanded.

  Khusrau wept on, in loud, hiccuping sobs. The last few days had been too much for him. It was almost a relief to know that he had to make no more decisions, that the fight was over. Khusrau was only nineteen. For too long, covetous men in the empire had filled his head with tales of kingship and power. He had not really had a childhood, and as he stood weeping in front of his father it seemed he would not even have an adult life.

  “Your Majesty, forgive me . . . ,” Husain Beg started. “I knew not what I was doing.” He pointed at Abdur Rahim. “The Khan-i-khanan promised me riches if I helped the prince. I would never have disobeyed my Emperor otherwise. Please pardon me, your Majesty. I am and will always remain your most loyal servant—”

  “Enough!” Jahangir held up a hand. “You are a coward and a disloyal servant. Your deeds speak of your character, and your punishment shall befit the crime.”

  Jahangir turned to Mahabat Khan. “Throw Prince Khusrau into prison. He shall remain chained. As for the others, the two villains will be put in the skins of an ox and an ass, then mounted on donkeys facing the tail and paraded around Lahore, so that all can see their disgrace.”