Mehrunnisa stood before Jahangir, her mind full. Those were the words she had wanted to hear. She put a hand out to him and then drew back. Nowhere was there a mention of marriage, of a wedding. Her face flamed with shame. Perhaps Bapa had been right after all. She had insisted on not having a chaperone during their meetings; now he was treating her like a common woman.
She remembered, after all these years, sitting in Ruqayya’s gardens that afternoon, watching as Akbar’s concubines painted henna patterns over one another. They had little value in the imperial zenana—no titles, no respect, no real position—so they vied with one another for ways to capture the Emperor’s attention. She had been thankful then that she was not one of them. And young as she was, she realized that if Salim did not come to her with a desire that blinded and deafened him to everything else in the world, she would not be able to bear it. How long she could sustain it, she did not know. But that it could be sustained she was certain. Now he came to her with the words she wanted so desperately to hear—of his need for her, of his desire—but wrapped in paper, not in silk. Tears welled inside her, and she fought them away. He would not see her cry again. Why would she cry for this man?
Choosing her words carefully, she said, “Your Majesty, it is best you leave now. I cannot—I will not—be your concubine.”
Jahangir recoiled, his graying hair whiter in the sunlight, the frown lines on his forehead more pronounced, his face heavier. “Why?” It was a cry full of anguish.
Mehrunnisa stared at him helplessly. Why? He asked why? Was he stupid? Had she not made her intentions clear? She was deeply angry, because now she was a fool to have thought anything more could come of this courtship.
He took her hands, grasping them when she tried to move away. “Mehrunnisa, please, tell me why. I cannot live—” He stopped for a while, looking down at her hands, kissing one, then the other. “No, this is not about my need, although you know of that well. That I cannot live without you again, that I need to wake in the morning with you by my side. I had hoped that this was what you wanted too. I thought you had shown me that.”
“I have, and it is true, your Majesty.” Tears came then, fast and furious, splashing down on their joined hands. They had already, in these last two months, talked more than Ali Quli and she ever had. Of poets and poetry, of the empire and its concerns, of the zenana, of the Emperor’s passion for hunting, of his promises to teach her. They had laughed, touching faces, leaning against each other in what seemed like absolute comfort, with no expectations from each other, no wants the other could not satisfy. And through all this, Mehrunnisa had learned more about Jahangir than she had ever known of her husband of thirteen years.
But now she could not tell him why she denied him—his simple request, as he saw it. What would she say? Make me your wife, your Majesty. And then wonder for the rest of her life if that was why he had married her.
Jahangir wiped away her tears with an end of her silk veil. His touch was gentle, as though she were a child. “Then why? Tell me; I do not understand. Other things—about the empire, the kingdoms I acquire, the battlefield, even the zenana—these are simple. But why are you saying no?”
She shook her head mutely.
He put her hand against his mouth and spoke into it softly, his troubled gaze resting on her face, “This much I do know. I offer you a better life than you can ever have. And now, after all this time with me, if you do not come to the imperial harem, your reputation will suffer. People will talk, Mehrunnisa. The Emperor’s discarded concubine can have no standing in society. I know,” he held up the other hand to silence her when she opened her mouth to protest, “that we were never . . . never that close. But no one else knows that. Even I cannot stop them from gossiping. But in the zenana, you will be under my protection, where no one can touch you with their malicious tongues.”
She pulled away, anger flooding out at his words. “So that is why you offer me this exalted position of concubine, your Majesty? To protect me? You forget that I have looked after myself for four years now, with no help from either you or my Bapa. I will doubtless be a fallen woman, but I will not—absolutely will not—come to your zenana as a concubine.”
Jahangir stared at her, stricken, empty of feeling, her words tearing through his heart. Then slowly, heavily, as though he had aged in the past hour, he turned and went out of the courtyard. He did not look back at her.
Mehrunnisa watched him go, wanting to call out—I will be your concubine, your Majesty—not wanting to let him go. But she could not speak for anger, for shame, for the deep hurt she felt. From him she had not expected this base offer of protection. He had not spoken of love—well, yes, he had, but casually. More insistent was the fact that he made this offer for her sake, so she could hold her head up in society. All those years when he had ignored her, everyone—Bapa, Maji, Ruqayya—had echoed his words: that without a man’s guardianship she would not have any status.
Would this devastation pass? Would her strength return? As it had when she had lost two children and not known whether she would hold her child in her arms. As it had when she fought to keep her name and her reputation, when her father was labeled an embezzler, her brother was put to death because he attempted to assassinate Jahangir, her husband killed the Emperor’s favorite.
She cried aloud, collapsing on the floor of the courtyard, the sobs wrenching her body. Her world was shattered. After so many years of wanting Jahangir, she was certain she would never again see this man who should have been her husband.
TWENTY
It is scarcely necessary to recall the romantic story of Nur Mahal (better known by her later title of Nur Jahan)—her marriage to Shir Afghan, his assassination, and her subsequent union with the emperor, who had already been attracted to her before her first marriage. At this period her influence over her husband was so unbounded that she practically ruled the empire. . . .
—William Foster, ed., The Embassy of Sir Thomas Roe to India
AAOONGH! THE LOUD DEEP-THROATED ROAR swept through the imperial palaces and courtyards at Agra, jerking the royal family out of sleep. In the zenana, the women clutched one another or their children, listening as the sound echoed around the walls before dying down to a low rumble. Then it came again. Aaoongh!
Emperor Jahangir sat in front of the cage where the tiger paced, watching its loose-limbed stride. It walked the forty-foot length of the cage in unhurried, measured steps, muscles rippling under its gold and black fur. It turned, tail whipping in the air, looked at him, and opened its mouth, baring its teeth. Aaoongh!
A shiver passed through him, bringing goosebumps up his arms. The roar seemed to rattle his bones. He sat close, just four feet from the cage; only slim iron bars separated him and the tiger. It was the mating season, and the tiger roared at night, every night, in quest of its companion. Jahangir had ordered a pair of tigers captured alive because the creatures fascinated him. Tigers had intrigued him ever since that ill-fated adventure with the tiger cub long ago. The cages were built and hauled inside the fort at Agra, on the western end near the Delhi gateway. They were erected side by side: the tiger in one, the still unimpressed tigress in another. Torches burned around him, lighting up the beaten mud expanse in front of the cages and the forty guards, armed with matchlocks and muskets. If either tiger escaped, it would wreak ruin in the fort. And these were known to be man-eating tigers, captured from the periphery of the forests around Agra, where for months they had terrorized neighboring villages. Once a tiger killed a man, it could never go back to killing wildlife, for humans were easy prey. They were weak, and if unarmed, they rarely fought back.
Jahangir waited in silence for another roar, waited for the tigress to respond. He sat on a wooden crate near the cage, his chin resting in the palm of one hand, meeting the tiger’s passing golden gaze unflinchingly. It seemed to pay little attention to him as it paced, its nostrils quivering every now and then at his scent, the scent of a man, of food, even though it had just been fed.<
br />
He smiled to himself, a wry, mocking smile. He, Emperor of Mughal India, could command a man-eating tiger and its mate captured and caged, but he could not bring to himself the woman he loved. With Mehrunnisa, it seemed there were no rules.
For two weeks now he had lived in a kind of stupor. He went to the jharoka balcony and the daily darbars as usual, but paid little heed to what went on. Why did she refuse? Why couldn’t she see that his plan would be the best solution for her?
In his brief saner moments, he wondered what his fascination was for Mehrunnisa. He tried to think about it logically, but it, she, thwarted all logic. He had wanted her longer than he had wanted the throne. It was not just that she was a beautiful woman. Beautiful women he could command at the snap of his fingers, the merest inclination of his head. He admired her fierce independence, her deep sense of self, her convictions about her actions. She scorned the rules, trod on them.
One day he had been preoccupied during his visit with Mehrunnisa. “Tell me,” she had coaxed, “let me take the burden.”
“The Jesuit fathers are unhappy about the English ambassador William Hawkins’s presence at court,” Jahangir said.
“Why?” Mehrunnisa asked. “They have come here to proselytize; Hawkins is here for a trade treaty. There can be no conflict.”
“Hawkins promises security for our trading ships in the Arabian Sea.”
“Ah,” Mehrunnisa said, eyes gleaming. “And that encroaches on Portuguese domain, because they now protect our ships. The Jesuits grow too arrogant. As long as they are the only ones offering us protection, with no competition, the empire will be under their sway. You cannot let Hawkins go, your Majesty. Use him.”
Jahangir rubbed his chin. “It is not that easy, Mehrunnisa. Muqarrab Khan writes of the ill behavior of the English soldiers in Surat, how they loot and plunder and beat up our people. And Hawkins, much as he styles himself an ambassador, is just a merchant—with dirt under his fingernails, his coarse laughter, his ill manners, and his lack of etiquette.”
“Then why have you kept him by your side for so long?”
“Because he entertains me. He talks Turki fluently; I don’t need an interpreter with him. Have you listened to him at court? He is like a monkey taught tricks.”
Mehrunnisa agreed. “Then teach him new tricks, your Majesty.” She put a hand on his arm. “Tell me, hasn’t Muqarrab Khan recently converted to Catholicism?”
“I heard a rumor to that effect,” Jahangir said slowly. “That he now calls himself John. Do you think he acts under the influence of the Jesuit priests?”
“It is possible that he bends the truth, your Majesty. He would not dare lie to you—not openly, in any case. If Hawkins promises safety for our ships, then you should consider his offer.”
Jahangir had gone back to the royal palace that night deep in thought after his conversation with Mehrunnisa. He had already known what she had told him, already thought about it long and hard. What surprised him was that she knew, that she—merely a woman—would be interested in the affairs of the empire. It thrilled him to be able to talk with her about it. Unlike his ministers, she was a safe counsel; she had no personal agenda, no wish other than what he wanted. So he did what she said, what he had already mulled over in his mind, and watched with amusement as the Jesuits scrambled for better gifts and toys with which to please him.
Mehrunnisa was wrong in thinking that he had had no knowledge of her for these past four years. Jahangir had known her whereabouts and kept an eye on her. He sent an armed escort for her from Bardwan to Agra. He asked Ruqayya to look after Mehrunnisa—a request she had easily acceded to, for the Dowager Empress was fond of her. Within the walls of the zenana, even though Mehrunnisa was employed by Ruqayya, she had been under his protection, for the harem—with its palaces, courtyards, gardens, and the various people who lived in it—was his property.
The tiger stopped and faced Jahangir. They stared at each other, man and beast, conqueror and conquered. He put out a hand to touch it and then drew back hastily. It looked benign, like a large adorable cat. It almost deceived him. The tiger bared its teeth with a hiss, then moved disdainfully away to pace again, the scent of the tigress filling the air.
Jahangir sighed and bent his head. Sleep was impossible at night. Only for a few brief hours did his body give him rest, but Mehrunnisa obsessed him in his dreams. Perhaps he should have gone to her earlier, not let her be, not wondered and feared that she would hold Ali Quli’s death against him. That was his weakness, perhaps.
The tiger roared again, throwing back its massive head. Aaoongh! The sound set the bars of the cage clattering, and Jahangir shuddered. Then, finally, he saw the tigress lie on the floor of her cage and moan slowly and softly in response.
The Emperor rose and went back through the night to his apartments, not seeing the guards bow low to the ground as he passed. He knew he could not lose Mehrunnisa again. He had wanted the crown with an intensity that had frightened him, for any other alternative would have been unimaginable. Now he wanted Mehrunnisa even more, and he could not imagine life without her.
• • •
“THE EMPEROR IS coming! The Emperor is coming!” Ladli rushed into the room, waving her little arms in excitement.
Mehrunnisa looked up from her book at her daughter with a delighted smile. “Did you see the royal barge?”
“Yes,” the child replied breathlessly. “Oh, Mama, what do you think he has brought for me today?”
“Beta, you must not ask for gifts so shamelessly. Now go and wash your face and hands. We must not appear before the Emperor like this—and remember, perform the konish as I taught you.”
Ladli promptly performed the konish. “Is that right?”
“Yes,” Mehrunnisa said. “Go now.” She shut her book of Firdausi’s poems as Ladli ran off. Then she rose and ran out into the balcony.
The afternoon sun drenched the balcony, and Mehrunnisa put up a hand to shade her eyes. She could make out the royal barge coming down the Yamuna, the Emperor’s flag with the crouching lion in front of a rising sun glowing gold against red silk. She leaned weakly against the ledge, her legs suddenly giving way. Why did he come?
The last two weeks had passed slowly, miserably, every moment filled with Jahangir, with memories of their meetings. Bapa and Maji left Mehrunnisa alone for the most part. Bapa came to her once, two days after the Emperor had left in anger. In front of them, for them, she tried to look normal. It was difficult to smile, to eat, to sleep, to pretend nothing was wrong. But she had to do it. The hardest task was to pacify Ladli. Jahangir always brought her a little gift: a box of marbles, a wooden horse, a set of tiny brass pots and pans. So when he did not come, Ladli asked after him and Mehrunnisa said, “He is the Emperor, beta, a big man. His other duties call him away.”
The barge neared, cutting silver streaks through the calm waters of the Yamuna. The Emperor stood forward, watching for her eagerly. When he saw her, he waved with all the ardor of a lover at least fifteen years younger. Mehrunnisa raised her hand; even the sight of him sent shivers down her spine. Did he come back merely to torment her? Would there be another unpalatable offer, another overture she would have to refuse?
Mehrunnisa turned away. She had not allowed herself to think of what might have been, or what might be these past two weeks, even though the Emperor had indirectly made a gesture of goodwill the day after she had driven him away.
Jahangir had invited her father and her brother Abul Hasan to the Diwan-i-am. There, in front of the entire court, he had increased Ghias’s mansab to eighteen hundred horses. Her brother was likewise honored with the title of Itiqad Khan and an increased mansab.
And that evening, Ghias spoke to her for the first time about the Emperor. After the disagreement about the chaperoning, Mehrunnisa and her father had talked little; she was too full of Jahangir to talk with anyone, even Bapa.
He came into the room where Mehrunnisa was helping Ladli with the Turkish alphabet.
Ghias watched his daughter as if he were seeing her for the first time. He noted her graceful movements, her calming presence, and her melodious voice as she corrected Ladli’s mistakes. It was easy to see why the Emperor was so enamored.
But Ghias Beg held no illusions about his Emperor. Jahangir was notoriously fickle in his love affairs. He was surprised that Jahangir’s infatuation had lasted so long, and practical enough to realize that although his daughter was beautiful and looked younger than her years, the Emperor had a harem filled with much younger women, whom he could have at a moment’s notice. Ghias shook his head. He adored Mehrunnisa with a father’s passion for his child, but what was this hold she had over Jahangir?
At that moment she caught her father’s eye. “Enough for now, Ladli. Go to your Dadi. I want to talk to your Dada.”
Ladli obediently closed the book and went out of the room. Mehrunnisa folded her hands in her lap and waited for Ghias to speak.
“The Emperor has increased my mansab, and he has also honored Abul.”
“I know.” Mehrunnisa allowed a triumphant smile to flit across her face briefly. It was a distinction for her family, thanks to her no doubt. And Jahangir had done this after their fight. When she remembered that, her smile faded. What use were honors if he was not here?
“Mehrunnisa, you must know why the Emperor honors us thus. Is it wise to refuse him so long? There is no shame in being a royal concubine.”
Mehrunnisa raised surprised eyes to him. “How do you know?”
Ghias smiled. “He is the Emperor, beta. Everyone knows what he does, where he goes, what he says. The news came to Maji from the imperial zenana. You have lived in the harem; you must be aware that little is secret. But is this wise, what you are doing? Many women would die for such favor from the Emperor.”
“I know that, Bapa,” Mehrunnisa said slowly. “But you do not know the Emperor as I do. Oh,” she waved away his protest, “you know him as a king, an Emperor, but I know him as a man. A man in need, not of another concubine—he has plenty of those—but of a woman with a loving hand to guide him, to be with him always. Do you remember, Bapa, when the Emperor wanted to marry me seventeen years ago?”
The Twentieth Wife Page 36