“How is Ladli? Has she grown? Does she speak much? The painting you sent of her is little consolation for your not being here in person. It is hard to tell whom she resembles. Is it you? Maji? May I even hope, me? Talk to her of us, beta; let her know us through your words when we cannot be where she is.”
A small hand crept out to tug at Mehrunnisa’s ghagara, and she looked down and smiled. Ladli sat on the ground, clutching her knees. Her inquisitive eyes looked up at her mother as she reached out for the letter with an imperious “Give.”
“Not this, beta,” Mehrunnisa said, holding the letter aloft. “You will tear it. Go play with the horse and cart Nizam made for you before he went away.”
Ladli shook her head. “Give me.” Then, when Mehrunnisa held the letter away again, her face crumpled into sham tears.
“Come here,” Mehrunnisa said, putting the letter on a table beyond her daughter’s reach. She pulled her onto her lap and sat back on the divan. Ladli lay on her mother’s lap, her thumb seeking her mouth, her petulance gone. Mehrunnisa smoothed the hair from her forehead. This child had made the years away from Bapa and Maji bearable.
“This is from your Dada, Ladli. He is a big man, an important man, diwan of the whole empire.”
Even without Ghias’s command, Mehrunnisa had spent many hours telling Ladli stories of her grandparents. And also stories of the Mughal court, of the pomp and glamour surrounding the harem ladies, of money that flowed like wine, and wine that flowed like water. But most of all, she told Ladli of Jahangir, convincing herself that her daughter must know of the Emperor. One day, Mehrunnisa thought, she would take Ladli back to court to meet the ladies of the harem and Dowager Empress Ruqayya Sultan Begam.
She looked down at her daughter and began to speak. The tale was one oft told, but the child’s eyes grew round with wonder. She did not talk much yet, but it seemed to Mehrunnisa that she understood, that she listened intently to her mother’s stories. Twenty minutes later, Ladli was asleep, leaning against her mother. Mehrunnisa gently laid her on the bed and covered her with a cool cotton sheet. She went back to her seat and eagerly picked up the letter again.
“Mirza Masud visited Lahore again and spent a few months with us. He has aged very much in the past few years; his eldest son now leads the caravan. As usual, he asked after you, his favorite foster daughter, and insisted that I read all your letters to him. I feel as though we will not see him again unless we visit Persia. He thinks the trip is too difficult to undertake at this time of life. I will never forget the debt I owe Mirza Masud: dear Nisa, he brought you back to me. For that I will be eternally grateful.
“Muhammad has settled down somewhat now. I had thought marriage and fatherhood would subdue your eldest brother, but that was not so. There is a streak of wildness in him that I have not been able to tame. Did you know that when Prince Khusrau escaped from imprisonment to Lahore, Muhammad wanted to go with him? Even now, unless I curb his tongue, he speaks of his loyalty to the prince in public. This, considering Emperor Jahangir has been so magnanimous and generous to our family. We would not be where we are if not for the benevolence of his Majesty. Even your husband enjoys a great deal of liberty and wealth because of the Emperor’s good graces. Thank Allah that you were in Bengal and far away, so he was not involved in the Lahore escapade.”
A wry smile crossed Mehrunnisa’s face. If only Bapa knew. But she had told no one, especially not Bapa. She did not want her husband to fall further in her father’s esteem. Then she frowned and read through the passage about Muhammad again. What was this madness in him? There had never been any real bond between Muhammad and her; Abul was Mehrunnisa’s favorite brother. Muhammad had always been restless, always yearning for what he did not have; now he wanted to support Prince Khusrau. Thank Allah Bapa had stopped him from doing anything rash.
“But enough of that. Here is some good news. The Emperor has seen fit to confer an even greater favor upon us by uniting the two families. Can you imagine that? His Majesty has requested the hand of Arjumand Banu for Prince Khurram. The union will bring great distinction to our family. To be tied by marriage to the imperial family—who would have thought we would have such privileges in India?
“The betrothal ceremony will take place in a few months, and your Maji and I will be overjoyed if you can attend the function. Come, darling Nisa, and bring Ladli with you. It has been too long since we have seen you. Here is a good excuse to travel; your husband will not deny you this. I have enclosed a letter to him regarding this matter. It is unfortunate that your husband cannot present himself at court and pay his respects to the Emperor, but Allah willing, the discord will be cleared up in time. Until then, for this occasion in any case, you must come alone.”
Mehrunnisa put the letter down with a flush. Just a few minutes ago she had been thinking of the Mughal court, and now she would be returning to court life if Ali Quli allowed her to go. She bent her head in silent prayer. Please, please make him say yes. She looked down at the paper again. Arjumand Banu was to be betrothed to Prince Khurram. Her niece to be married to the Emperor’s third son, the little boy who had been the Dowager Empress’s charge. And Arjumand was her brother Abul’s favorite child, his precious jewel. Abul had once said to Mehrunnisa, “If you are to have a child, Nisa, have a daughter, one just like my Arjumand. She will fill your heart with immeasurable joy.” Mehrunnisa looked over to where Ladli slept, her knees drawn to her chest. Abul had been right. And how did he feel about this marriage? He must be ecstatic. It was an unprecedented honor for their whole family, all because of Bapa. Little Arjumand—she was not even fourteen years old, and now she was to be a princess.
At one time Mehrunnisa had thought she herself would be a princess. Now that honor was to be Arjumand’s.
Ali Quli reluctantly gave his wife and daughter permission to go to Lahore. A request from Ghias Beg was in essence a command; his father-in-law was too powerful at court to refuse.
He watched gloomily as the two departed with happy smiles on their faces. He would not miss them, but he did not want them to go either. Why should they enjoy themselves when he could not? The brave soldier was discontented with life. He was not made out to be a landholder. Raja Man Singh, Ali Quli’s only ally in Bengal, had been sent to Bihar. The new governor, Qutubuddin Khan Koka, a staunch supporter of the Emperor, was not inclined to be friendly with him. But, he thought, as his wife and daughter left on their long journey to Lahore, there were others who would listen to him. There were always others.
• • •
“THEY ARE HERE!”
At the cry, Ghias Beg rushed down the stone steps into the courtyard. He waited impatiently as the bearers put down the palanquin. Then, unable to restrain himself, he went to help the passengers out.
His daughter’s cool hand reached out to him from between the palanquin curtains. As soon as she was upright, Ghias hugged her and then moved back to look at her, still holding her hand in his grasp.
She lifted the veil from her face and stood there smiling at him. Motherhood had brought a new maturity to her face, but her skin was still smooth, her eyes a clear azure blue, and her hair, coiled down the back, as black as the midnight sky. She was as slim and supple as a young girl. He leaned over to kiss her forehead. It had been too long since he had seen this child of his.
“You look the same as the day you were married, Mehrunnisa.”
She blushed, a deep rosy glow coming over her cheeks, her eyes bright with excitement. “Thank you, Bapa. I am so happy to be here.” She hugged him again and said, concern in her voice, “But you have aged. Are you looking after yourself?”
“Aged? Me?” Ghias asked in mock reproof. Then, putting a hand on his hair liberally sprinkled with gray, he said, “You mean these? These, my dear, are signs of wisdom, not age. The diwan of the empire must look his part.” He looked around. “Where is my granddaughter?”
“Here,” a voice called out. Ladli ran up to Ghias as fast as her plump little legs could c
arry her and flung herself into his arms. He held her tight, his face glowing at the warmth in her embrace. He had never met this granddaughter of his; yet she came to him naturally.
“Do you know who I am?” he demanded as he drew back to look at her. She was a tiny child—almost a miniature of her mother—with her lush hair in two tight plaits on either side of her head, his eyebrows sailing over a broad forehead, and a determined little chin that she stuck out at him.
“Yes, you are Dada. Mama says you are a very big man,” Ladli told him confidently, her words coming in a rush.
Ghias Beg roared with happiness, his eyes twinkling as he turned to his daughter. “She talks so much already. Full sentences, just like you, beta, always in a hurry to get the words out. So”—turning back to Ladli, who had an arm around his shoulders—“what else did she tell you?”
“Emperor Jahangir is handsome.”
“Ladli!” Mehrunnisa said hurriedly. “Enough chatter. Go inside now.”
“Let her be.” Ghias turned to his daughter, and she cast her eyes down. He looked at her speculatively. If things had turned out differently, she might have been an Empress by now. . . . His thoughts were broken by Ladli, who was tugging at his beard to catch his attention. He turned to her.
“Where is Dadi?” she demanded in a peremptory tone.
“Inside, waiting for you.” Ghias, still carrying Ladli, put an arm around Mehrunnisa’s shoulders, and they walked into the house.
• • •
FOR THE NEXT few days, Ghias Beg’s home was turned upside down to prepare for the betrothal. The Emperor himself would be a guest. A battalion of servants, armed with brushes and mops, descended upon the house. Every nook and cranny was cleaned; rugs taken out and dusted, floors waxed, windows washed, walls whitewashed, brass and silverware polished to a shine. Presents were prepared for the groom and the Emperor. The whole house was a potpourri of aromas and essences. In the kitchens, cooks were busy day and night preparing for the feast. Sweets and savories bubbled invitingly on cast-iron stoves. Fresh flowers brought in from the gardens brightened the rooms.
Finally, the great day arrived.
The men of the house assembled in the front courtyard in a line, with Ghias as the host right near the entrance. The ladies crowded the upstairs balconies, their veils pulled over their faces. All morning, scouts from the royal palace, ministers of state, guards, and other people attached to the court had come to the house, checking the arrangements and security, and giving orders until Mehrunnisa’s mother had almost dropped into a faint. And the day had not yet officially begun.
Now, finally, royal attendants came running to the house. “The Emperor is on his way! Be prepared.”
Mehrunnisa watched her father straighten his qaba and make sure his ceremonial dagger was securely fastened to his cummerbund. His face was expressionless, filled with dignity; but inside, she knew he was nervous. This was a great day for him; Arjumand would not be betrothed to Prince Khurram had it not been for Ghias’s service to the empire. Next to Ghias stood Abul, his expression one of pride. Even Abul had aged, Mehrunnisa thought. She had not seen this beloved brother of hers for a few years, and gray hairs had taken hold of his head. But in many ways he was the same Abul, teasing her after a few minutes of awkwardness, tickling Ladli until she squealed with delight and insisted on being carried on his shoulders around the garden. Abul and Mehrunnisa had barely had time to talk these last few days, but he had said one sentence, with wonder in his voice, that had been enough to show her what he felt. “Arjumand will be a princess, Nisa. Think of that. My little Arju. A princess.” Then, shaking his head as he left her, he had said, “What will I call her once she is married to Prince Khurram?”
But he was happy, Mehrunnisa knew. As were they all. Happy and in a daze, rejoicing at the honor that had come to their family.
A few minutes later, the courtyard resounded with the Emperor’s orchestra.
A loud gasp of awe went through the courtyard as two glittering figures appeared. Even Ghias Beg, who had seen the Emperor in his robes of state, could not help drawing in a deep breath.
Jahangir and Prince Khurram rode at the head of the imperial cavalcade, followed by the courtiers. Diamonds, rubies, and emeralds sparkled in the bright sunshine from their clothes and persons. Everyone bowed low and performed the taslim.
Ghias straightened up and rushed to help the Emperor dismount.
Mehrunnisa leaned over the balcony for her first glimpse of Jahangir, her heart pounding against her ribs.
Ladli tugged at her ghagara. “Mama, I want to see the Emperor.”
Mehrunnisa picked her up.
They watched in silence as the usual formalities were completed. The Emperor and Prince Khurram had dismounted. Ghias broke into his speech of welcome.
Mehrunnisa had lain awake last night wondering. Would Jahangir have changed? Would his new position have given him dignity? It certainly had, she thought now. He seemed calmer, more collected, much more self-assured. The crown sat well on his head.
In her eagerness, she leaned too far over the balcony ledge, and they almost toppled over. Righting herself and holding securely onto Ladli, she looked at Jahangir’s face with hunger, drinking in every detail of his appearance: the sprinkling of gray that showed under his turban, the sun brilliant on his clothes, his low laugh of pleasure at something her father had said. She waited, her breath catching in her chest, for him to glance up at the balcony so she could see his face properly.
“Mama.” Ladli put a hand to her face and turned her eyes from Jahangir. “Is that Prince Khurram? How beautiful he is!”
These were familiar words. Once, so many years before when Jahangir was Prince Salim, Mehrunnisa had thought him beautiful too. Her gaze flickered to Khurram in pleasant surprise. He had grown into a handsome boy; Arjumand was very lucky. He stood to one side, gazing around him uncertainly. Mehrunnisa smiled, remembering the curly-haired child she had once looked after. Khurram seemed overwhelmed and uncomfortable to be the focus of all the attention. Quite natural, since he could not have been more than fifteen. He fidgeted around on his feet, rubbed his smooth face, and glanced back at the palanquins being carried into the courtyard.
The ladies of the royal zenana descended one by one, led by a heavily veiled lady. Empress Jagat Gosini, no doubt, Mehrunnisa thought. Then she was sure. Jagat Gosini strode up to Khurram and nodded distantly as Ghias bowed to her.
It was a pity Ruqayya was not here. She had chosen to stay back at Agra when the royal harem made its journey to Lahore. Mehrunnisa would have liked to meet the Empress again. She wondered idly who led the royal zenana now that Jahangir was Emperor. Ruqayya must find it galling to give precedence to Jagat Gosini and Jahangir’s wives after three decades of being supreme in the harem.
The formalities completed, Jahangir, Prince Khurram, and the ladies entered the house. Mehrunnisa set Ladli down and turned to welcome the zenana ladies.
• • •
THE BETROTHAL CEREMONY took place with great solemnity. The ladies of Ghias Beg’s household and the Emperor’s wives sat behind a silk screen watching the proceedings. Arjumand was at the very front, near the parda, a gold-sequined veil covering her head. Mehrunnisa saw Khurram glance once or twice at her niece. Each time he looked at her, the ladies burst into giggles, and Khurram hurriedly looked away. Mehrunnisa leaned over to hug Arjumand. “He is very handsome, my dear,” she whispered to her niece and was rewarded with a shy nod. The men sat in the center of the room: the Qazi on one side, Jahangir and Ghias Beg on the other. The Qazi registered the formal engagement of Arjumand Banu Begam, daughter of Abul Hasan and granddaughter of Ghias Beg, to Prince Khurram, son of Emperor Jahangir. Ghias signed the contract and bowed to the Emperor as he gave him the goose-feather quill. Khurram was in for a very nice surprise, Mehrunnisa thought. Her niece was more beautiful than any other woman in the family. Once Khurram saw her, he would be pleased.
After the ceremony, the rooms were cl
eared. The servants streamed in with the dishes of goat and chicken curries; copper platters of whole river fish roasted over coals with garlic and lemon juice; turmeric and saffron-tinted pulavs sprinkled with raisins, cashews, and walnuts; and silver jugs of khus and ginger sherbets. The men ate in one part of the room and the ladies in another, long muslin curtains hanging between them.
From behind the parda, Mehrunnisa watched Jahangir. This man would have been her husband if matters had turned out differently—and today, it might well have been her son who would have had the chance of becoming the next Emperor of India.
She turned to look at Jagat Gosini. The Empress held court in one corner of the room, her ladies fluttering around her. There was no doubt who headed the zenana now. There was an imperious tone in Jagat Gosini’s voice, an arrogant look on her face, and she raised her eyebrows disdainfully when something displeased her. Just like Ruqayya.
A slow smiled spread across Mehrunnisa’s face. All this play-acting had aged Jagat Gosini. It had been all right in Ruqayya; the Dowager Empress had not been born beautiful, so she had had to use all her other skills to keep her place in the zenana and in Akbar’s heart. But Jagat Gosini was beautiful—at least, she had been. Now she rarely smiled; her mouth was set in a thin, disapproving line, her face grim. How did Jahangir take all this? The Emperor was not usually drawn to morose, long-faced women. If she remembered correctly, he liked his women to be good-humored, seductive, and witty.
“This burfi is terrible.”
Mehrunnisa looked up from her musings to see Jagat Gosini push away a plate of coconut-flaked sweets.
“I beg pardon, your Majesty. I shall send for some more,” Asmat Begam said hurriedly, signaling to the servants.
The Twentieth Wife Page 26