Ghias sighed. Again, she talked as he had taught her to, with a yielding to duty. It was a response he wanted to hear from her. As attractive as the Emperor’s proposition was, and even though it was legal, something in Ghias and now in Mehrunnisa recognized this difference between wanting something and doing what was right. He could not reconcile himself to this when he took bribes, but from his daughter he wanted to see that honesty. It was illogical, Ghias knew, but that was how it was. If nothing else, in Mehrunnisa he would leave the model of the man he wanted to be.
“Your place belongs with your husband, Mehrunnisa. I wish things were different, had been different all those years ago—”
“Hush!” Mehrunnisa put a hand on his arm. “Do not berate yourself. You made a promise to Ali Quli and were obligated to honor it. It was Emperor Akbar’s wish. My place is with my husband. It is for him to decide what to do with me. I shall immediately make preparations to leave for Bardwan.”
Ghias looked at her in sorrow. His own daughter had to flee from her father’s house, but it was the right thing to do. Perhaps time and distance would make the Emperor forget Mehrunnisa. Father and daughter sat in silence. To be Empress of Mughal India was an honor beyond their wildest dreams, but Ali Quli stood in their way. Thoughts rose to their minds simultaneously, thoughts that could not be spoken aloud, and the two looked at each other with the understanding that had always existed in their relationship.
Ghias rang the bell for his writing materials. It had to be done. Jahangir had hinted his wish to have Mehrunnisa, and it fell to Ghias’s lot to write of this wish to his son-in-law.
Ali Quli was sure to refuse Jahangir. What would the Emperor’s reaction be? Jahangir was still irascible. His new responsibilities as Emperor had not changed his childish whims. How would he answer this disobedience by one who had already been treacherous to him?
Ghias sighed again as he dipped his goose-feather quill into the inkpot and started writing. He filled the page haltingly, stopping to think long and deep for words of diplomacy and tact. He knew that no matter what he wrote, or how he wrote it, there was going to be trouble ahead. By Allah’s grace, Jahangir would remember Ghias’s long years of service and loyalty to the empire and would not wreak vengeance on his household.
The next morning Mehrunnisa left for Bardwan with Ladli. She carried with her the letter to Ali Quli. Ghias had not informed her of its contents, but she knew that he had written to her husband telling him of Jahangir’s wishes.
Now, it was for her husband to decide.
FIFTEEN
What can I write of this unpleasantness? How grieved and troubled I became! Qutbu-d-din Khan Koka was to me in the place of a dear son, a kind brother, and a congenial friend. What can one do with the decrees of God?
—A. Rogers, trans., and H. Beveridge, ed., The Tuzuk-i-Jahangiri
MEHRUNNISA GROANED ALOUD AS SHE stepped out of the palanquin. Every muscle in her body ached, turned raw by the rocking motion of the palanquin. It had been a long journey to Bardwan, almost two months. Somehow, the trip to Lahore had been easier. At least she had had something to look forward to then. But the journey back had been both physically and mentally tiring. With every step away from Agra the feeling grew that she would not see Jahangir again.
She had not wanted to return to Bengal to face an irate husband, who would doubtless accuse her of trying to captivate the Emperor. Of course, that was true. But whatever she might feel for Jahangir, she had returned to Bengal to be with Ali Quli. And then there was the matter of her father’s taking bribes. A dull ache throbbed in the pit of her stomach when Mehrunnisa thought of Ghias Beg. She knew that all the courtiers took bribes, but somehow she had thought her father above it. He had always seemed so honest, so untouched by the corruption in the Mughal court. His was one of the greatest minds in the empire, but even he was fallible . . . and human.
As a child she had seen Ghias talking with various men who had come to their house, and taking money from them or a basket of golden sun-ripened peaches or an Arabian horse, but she had never realized the significance of what she had seen. Now those memories came rushing back. Mehrunnisa sighed as she straightened out her ghagara. Perhaps it was not wrong after all. But it wasn’t right, either. She looked around at the deserted front courtyard of her house. Where was everybody?
The slave girls came running out of the house. “Welcome home, Sahiba.”
“Where is your master?” she asked, fatigue slurring her words, as she lifted a sleeping Ladli out of the palanquin.
“He has gone hunting, Sahiba.”
“I sent word of my arrival yesterday.”
The servants carefully averted their heads and busied themselves with unloading the luggage from the pack horses.
Mehrunnisa wiped the sweat from her brow with a tired hand. This was the man she had come back to in such haste. And he was too indifferent to even be present at the house to welcome her back after an absence of almost five months. Perhaps it was for the best, she thought, dragging herself inside. She could rest now before the confrontation.
Ali Quli did not return from the hunt until late. The next morning, after he had bathed and eaten his breakfast, he went to his wife’s apartments.
Mehrunnisa looked up from her book as he entered. “Inshah Allah.”
Ali Quli grunted in reply. “Did you have a good journey?”
“Yes.” They had nothing to say to each other beyond the greeting. Her hands suddenly became clammy, and she wiped them on her ghagara. How could she open the topic?
Ali Quli’s voice broke into her thoughts. “What is this?” He pointed to the embroidered letter bag on a table.
“A missive from my father. He wished for me to give it to you.” Her voice faltered.
Ali Quli picked up the letter warily. “Is there a problem?”
She shook her head. The previous night, Mehrunnisa had stood at her bedchamber window and looked out into the moonlight that painted shadows and silver over the low hills around the house. Two months had gone by since her father had written the letter. That was a long time. Perhaps, she thought with a pang, the Emperor had already forgotten his order to his diwan. Why ruffle seemingly calm waters? Why not just tear up the letter and let things be? Then she remembered Jahangir’s zest for the throne. For fifteen long years—sometimes with impatience, but mostly, because it had taken so long, with patience—he had yearned for it. She knew he would not easily forget her either. A shiver went up her back. Her husband would see the letter.
“It is best you read it, my lord.”
Ali Quli ripped open the bag and pulled out the letter. Mehrunnisa’s heart thudded loudly in her ears as the paper crackled in his hands. She watched him with care. Ali Quli’s face became expressionless as he read. A deep color started on his neck and spread upward to his face.
He threw down the letter with shaking hands. “Do you know the contents of the letter?”
Mehrunnisa bit her lip. “I have a fair idea, my lord.”
“How did the Emperor see you? You are my wife. You should have taken care not to reveal your face to him, instead of brazenly attracting his attention. Why were you near the Emperor in the first place?”
“It was during Arjumand’s betrothal ceremony. I had to be present.”
“I will never agree to this.” Ali Quli glared at her, his face ugly in anger. “You are my wife and will remain so. Even the Emperor cannot command me to give you up. Emperor! Bah!” He threw up his hands in disgust. “If I had played my cards right, that weakling Khusrau would have been Emperor today, and I would have been the commander of the imperial forces instead of rotting in this hell-hole.” He looked angrily at Mehrunnisa, and she stared steadily back at him.
“Lower your eyes as becomes a modest woman,” he yelled. “I did not want to let you go to Lahore, and now see what has come of it. You wretch, I know all about your previous flirtation with the Emperor.”
Mehrunnisa’s eyes opened wide in shock. She felt
as though she had been punched in the stomach. Yes, she had flirted with Jahangir as a prince, but only a few people knew. . . .
“Oh yes! You thought I didn’t know,” Ali Quli said, a deadly malice coloring his voice. “But I knew the day I married you that I was taking you away from Prince Salim. He wanted you then; I had you. He wants you now, and I still have you. I shall never forgive him for spoiling my hopes of a military career.”
He turned to leave. Mehrunnisa looked down, her mind in panic.
Ali Quli spoke harshly from the door. “You are confined to your rooms. Do not leave here until I give you permission to do so. I will be away for a few days, and you are to stay here.”
Mehrunnisa grimaced. This was the man she had married, and she was bound by duty to be his wife. He was going mad. Did he think he could take on the Emperor? Their family would be ruined.
“My lord,” she said hurriedly, forcing her voice to be neutral. “Don’t do anything rash. A simple no to the Emperor will suffice. It is ill advised to raise his anger.”
“So you still have feelings for your old lover,” Ali Quli mocked. “That is a fine way to talk to your husband.” He gave her an evil smile. “We shall see how long he remains Emperor.”
Mehrunnisa watched him go with foreboding, knowing it was useless to talk with him. Ali Quli would be senseless enough to try another rebellion. He rode off that very morning, looking secretive. Raja Man Singh was away from Bengal, but in this land of dissidents, there were plenty of others who were willing to listen to him. So far from the imperial court, and drunk with the heady feeling of freedom, he felt that anything was possible.
But Jahangir was no fool. Bengal was full of spies in the Emperor’s service. All designs on the throne invariably found their way to the court and to the Emperor’s ear.
• • •
JAHANGIR SAT IN the jharoka window overlooking the main courtyard outside Lahore fort. The jharoka was a special balcony built in the bulwark of the castle, where the Emperor gave audience to the public three times a day: morning, noon, and evening. Even when Jahangir was ill, he dragged himself to the jharoka. Early in his reign he had decided that people must see their sovereign; they must assure themselves of his well-being so that civil unrest would not start in the country.
Today, an elephant fight was in progress. Jahangir was reminded of the other elephant fight many years before. He had come out victorious, and Khusrau had been defeated. His mouth twisting, he turned and looked at the object of his thoughts.
Prince Khusrau sat by his father’s side with a frown on his face. The spirit of rebellion has not left this boy, Jahangir thought. He would have to watch his son carefully. It was necessary to be thought of as a generous and just king; hence he had pardoned Khusrau publicly. That meant enduring his presence on public occasions like this one. He turned away from his son, not even willing to look at him anymore. Any affection he had felt for Khusrau was gone after the prince’s numerous attempts to win the crown for himself. Now Jahangir could hardly bear to sit near him; waves of antipathy colored the air around them.
Jahangir sighed. He wished he could follow Mahabat Khan’s suggestion and have Khusrau executed. He certainly would not miss him. But the ladies of the harem would harangue him continuously, and he would have no peace in the palace. However, something had to be done about Khusrau before he put up any serious resistance to his position as Emperor.
The two elephants rammed into each other with a loud thud. The crowd cheered, but the Emperor paid no attention, a deep, aching pain dulling his senses.
Ghias Beg had come to him earlier in the day with the information that Ali Quli had refused his command. Jahangir rubbed his chin, feeling sudden tears prick behind his eyelids. All this waiting had fatigued him. Every morning on waking he had thought of Mehrunnisa. Ghias had sent her back to Bengal, and when he had asked why, his diwan had said he was merely performing a father’s duty. So Jahangir had said nothing. He would wait, with patience. Time would also tell him if that brief glimpse was enough to fix her in his love. It had—he hadn’t stopped yearning for her presence. And then to get such a reply. How was it he did not even have the power to get the woman he wanted? How did a scoundrel like Ali Quli dare deny his Emperor? And he, Emperor of Mughal India, could do nothing. He had sent Ali Quli a direct order; it had been disobeyed. Already, there were rumors around court of his wish to have Mehrunnisa. Doubtless, Ali Quli’s refusal too was the subject of gossip. He could not force Ali Quli to give her up. What else could he do?
At least the news from Qandahar was heartening. The imperial army had reached the outpost in the past month, and the attackers had fled upon seeing Jahangir’s standards and flags. The Shah of Persia had sent an ambassador, Husain Beg, to the Mughal court to assure Jahangir of his friendship and to apologize for the behavior of his governors. The Emperor had been polite to the ambassador, accepting his apology with diplomatic heartiness. But he had not been deceived either by him or by his master. The attack on Qandahar had been orchestrated not by insubordinate governors but by the Shah himself, to test Jahangir’s prowess in foreign policy.
Jahangir closed his eyes tiredly. Somehow, he had imagined that life would be easier once he was Emperor. But he had too many things on his mind, and he was constantly haunted by those blue eyes. That one glimpse of her, after so many years, was enough to bring back memories he had buried away deep inside. Now uncovered, they plagued him with longing and restlessness. And she was out of reach.
A messenger rode up to the jharoka and dismounted. He bowed and pulled a letter out of his cummerbund. Jahangir reached down for it immediately. He knew it was important, or else the messenger would have waited until he had adjourned to court. He read the letter slowly, his face growing grim. This was the final straw. He rose and walked back to the royal palace.
A few minutes later, Mahabat Khan and Muhammad Sharif, glancing up at the jharoka and finding it empty, left their seats in the courtyard and rushed into the palace.
“Your Majesty, I hope there is no bad news,” Mahabat Khan said as he caught up with the Emperor.
“There is,” Jahangir said curtly. “Ali Quli has been up to something. I have received news from Bengal that he is gathering forces in secret. Send an army to check on him.”
“Your Majesty, perhaps it would be better to investigate the matter first,” Muhammad Sharif said in a cautious voice.
“Why? The man has already proved that he is a dissident. He should have been executed for his crimes, but instead I pardoned him. He shall not escape now,” Jahangir said, striding in front of his ministers.
“Sire . . .” Sharif coughed and cleared his throat, then, seeing the Emperor a few paces ahead, ran to catch up with him. “Your interest in his wife—the whole court knows of it. To suddenly order his execution now would be unseemly.”
“What has this to do with Mehrunnisa? Do you think the people will accuse me of devious behavior just to gain her?” Jahangir stopped and turned to face the two men.
Sharif and Mahabat Khan remained silent. That was exactly what they thought, and what the whole country would think. It was a delicate situation, one that had to be handled with the greatest diplomacy. Besides, there was the small matter of the promise to Empress Jagat Gosini. Mahabat nudged Sharif.
“Your Majesty, please reconsider your decision,” Sharif said, taking Mahabat’s cue. “It would be better to investigate the matter first. Perhaps you could have the governor of Bengal pay Ali Quli a visit, or you could command Ali Quli to wait upon you. That way, the whole court will see your intentions as impartial.”
“Hmmm . . .” Jahangir stroked his chin. “You may be right. I’m sure enough evidence can be gathered against this man. I will write to my foster brother, Qutubuddin Khan Koka, immediately.”
As he turned away in dismissal, Jahangir allowed a small smile to come to his lips. Fate had thrown Ali Quli’s life in his hands. As for Mahabat and Sharif . . . it almost seemed as though they were tryin
g to dissuade him. Why? They had no affection for Ali Quli; in fact, they disliked him actively. As for Mehrunnisa, they knew nothing of her. Yet, this was the second time Mahabat had voiced an opinion about her. Why?
The Emperor watched his two most powerful ministers back out of his presence. Mahabat’s insistence made him suspicious, and only time would tell him why. There were more important matters, for perhaps he would have Mehrunnisa after all. There was hope. He could not have taken her by force from Ali Quli and justified his actions to the empire. But rebellion—that was different. Even posterity could not fault his actions now.
That evening, he sat down and wrote to Qutubuddin Khan Koka, the governor of Bengal. Koka was to summon Ali Quli and question him closely on his activities. If Koka was not satisfied, he was to send Ali Quli to court to answer directly to the Emperor. At all costs, he must meet with the soldier personally and make his decision. Jahangir added that if Ali Quli refused to come to court and Koka discovered any sedition, he was given full authority to punish him as he saw fit.
A few days later, the imperial court moved residence from Lahore to Kabul, to spend the approaching summer months in cool comfort.
• • •
IN BENGAL, QUTUBUDDIN Khan Koka received the Emperor’s letter. He immediately relayed a message to Ali Quli to present himself.
Ali Quli ignored him.
Koka was furious. He was acting on Jahangir’s orders, so indirectly Ali Quli had disobeyed the Emperor’s summons. He gathered a large force of well-armed soldiers and marched to Bardwan.
• • •
THE AFTERNOON SUN stalked sentinel in the sky, sending the people below scurrying for cover. The hot rays beat down upon Bardwan, and all signs of life disappeared from Ali Quli’s house. Shutters were drawn over the windows and laid over with khus mats. Horses stomped in the stables, twitching slow-moving flies off their backs. The grooms lay supine on the hay; their only movement was to lift smoldering beedis to their mouths and then, exhausted by the effort, to lie back and watch the smoke swirl to the roof.
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