The Twentieth Wife

by Indu Sundaresan

  “It was not possible then, Nisa.”

  “Then, I wanted to marry him too. I always have wanted that—when he was a prince, and even,” she hesitated, “when he was Emperor. Why would I give it up to be a mere concubine now?”

  Mehrunnisa let her words sink in as she opened Ladli’s book and riffled the pages without seeing the printed words. If she was to be his wife, she would be everything to him, not just an Empress, but a lover, a friend, a wife.

  “I did not know,” Ghias said, his face tormented. “I always thought it was the prince who desired you. . . . I did not know you too . . .”

  “That was why I balked at marrying Ali Quli. But it was so long ago; too many things have happened since.”

  Ghias sat down heavily. How could he have been blind to this? Perhaps if he had known, he might have had the courage to talk with Emperor Akbar. His request, even if it was to be denied, would have been listened to. But Ghias knew that the man he was then, seventeen years ago, would not have asked Akbar for his daughter’s happiness for fear of falling into disfavor with Akbar. He thought of himself as a deeply fallible man, one disgraced through his own doing, and one yet blessed with forgiveness from the people in his life. Jahangir had condoned his embezzling from the treasury; his children had overlooked the troubles that had beset them as a result of that one act. And Asmat—she had never doubted him. Her faith in him was more unwavering than his faith in himself. And now that he had been thus blessed, he too would repay his benefactors. The man he was today would not stand in the way of his daughter’s wishes. He looked at her.

  “Mehrunnisa, I have a great respect for you. You must know that; no father has been blessed by a brighter and more intelligent child.” He stopped and then went on, “I will say no more of this matter. It shall be conducted as you wish.”

  “Bapa . . . ,” she said desperately, wanting to explain and not wanting to at the same time. If she cut off all ties with Jahangir, they would all suffer. Even if the Emperor did not directly take revenge on them, the court gossips would. And everything Bapa had worked for all these years would dissolve in the actions of his willful daughter.

  “No,” Ghias said. “I understand, but I want you to be happy, Nisa. Nothing else matters as much. If we must leave Hindustan, we will find a home elsewhere. I did it once before; how difficult can it be to do again?”

  Mehrunnisa turned away from her father, knowing that he lied but grateful that he did.

  And then again the silence from the Emperor. That brief heady feeling of power was replaced all too soon by doubts. Why did he stay away? Why honor Bapa and Abul and say nothing after that? Was it a farewell present?

  Mehrunnisa looked down from the balcony. The boat docked at the pier outside her father’s house, and Jahangir jumped out. He entered the house, and Mehrunnisa went back into the room to wait for him. Suddenly she was very tired. There were so many expectations from her. Her father advised caution, advised accepting the Emperor’s first offer. A few days ago even Abul had said something in passing. Even the Dowager Empress had sent her a caustic note: Did she think she was someone too special? Don’t be tiresome, Mehrunnisa. Ruqayya wanted to regain her footing in the zenana and thought she could do it through Mehrunnisa. Nothing would give her more pleasure than to see Jagat Gosini displaced and humiliated, and Mehrunnisa seemed to be stupidly throwing it all away.

  And then a few days ago, Hoshiyar Khan had brought her a basket of green mangoes from Empress Jagat Gosini. It was an insult, like the gold bangles she had so patronizingly bestowed on Ladli. Unripe mangoes for an unfulfilled dream.

  But no matter, Mehrunnisa thought. No matter what people expected, it would happen the way she wanted. Her neck drooped as her head sat suddenly heavy on her shoulders. Then she took a deep breath and straightened up.

  The Emperor entered the apartment with a spring in his step, belying his forty-two years.

  “Inshah Allah, your Majesty.”

  Jahangir came to her eagerly and held out his hands.

  “Sun of Women,” Jahangir breathed reverently as he held her hands tight. “Your name is perfect for you. But I shall bestow another title upon you, my darling.”

  Mehrunnisa raised her eyes to his.

  “I know now that I was mistaken in offering you the position of a concubine,” Jahangir said. “I am . . .” He hesitated with the word, unused to saying it. “I am sorry.”

  She said nothing, watching him.

  “I did not know . . . did not think that it would be important. Just having you with me would have been enough.” The Emperor’s face flushed. “But of course it is. Without a title, you would have no standing in the zenana. So say you will come as my Empress. Will you? Please?” He looked at her anxiously.

  At last. At last he understood, and without her telling him. This was what she had waited for; yet her heart thundered in her chest, beating out every other sound, every thought. She could barely hear the Emperor when he spoke again.

  “Say that you will be my wife, Mehrunnisa.”

  Mehrunnisa stood still in the middle of the room, her hands clasped in Jahangir’s. At the start of this courtship, she had promised herself that she would never ask to be Jahangir’s wife, since to him it would mean little. The asking, that want, must come from him. Now he had finally asked. She looked at him again. In Jahangir’s eyes there was nothing but a deep, abiding love. He was not merely asking her to be his wife. He was giving her his life.

  “I can hardly disobey your Majesty’s command.” Her voice was low, so low that Jahangir had to lean over to hear her.

  He sat down on the divan next to them and put out a hand to her. “Come here.”

  Mehrunnisa took his hand and sat down on his lap, leaning into his shoulder, her head resting near his. He rubbed her arm gently, his nostrils filling with her scent—the jasmines in her hair, the oils of camphor and aloewood she bathed in. She filled his arms, his world. He wanted to never let her go. They sat like that for a while, both safe with each other.

  “I was afraid. . . .” Jahangir said abruptly.

  “You were afraid? That I would say no?” Laughter sang through her. Was it possible to be so deliriously happy?

  “I did not order Ali Quli’s death, Mehrunnisa. I want you to know that. Yes, court proceedings have recorded it thus, that I gave Qutubuddin Koka the order, but—”

  “I was there, your Majesty,” Mehrunnisa said quietly. “I saw it happen. Ali Quli drew the first sword. I never thought—despite the rumors—that you had ordered him dead because he refused to obey your command.” She drew closer to him, mischief lighting her eyes. “It is inauspicious to talk of one husband when I am to have another.”

  They half-lay, half-sat on the divan, close to each other, breathing the same air, their faces so close that their lips almost touched. When Jahangir hesitated, Mehrunnisa reached up and put her cool arms around his neck.

  “Do you remember the kiss in the zenana corridor?”

  “Every single instant,” Jahangir said, pulling her tighter into his embrace. “What of it?”

  Mehrunnisa shook her head. “Never mind; it was a long time ago.” Then, as a puzzled frown drew lines on his forehead, she covered his lips with hers. A raging consuming fire flowed through them, scorching out every other thought. She could smell him, taste him, feel the smoothness of his skin as she slid her fingers through the collar of his qaba. She clung to Jahangir, pressing against him, wanting to never let go.

  When they parted at last, inhaling harshly, Jahangir said, “I shall go and talk to your father.” He covered her hand with little kisses, his breath hot on her palm. “Do you think he will grant me permission to marry you?”

  She laughed at him then, her eyes full of honesty. “I think he will. He has waited for nothing else for a long time, your Majesty.” She rose from his lap and put out a hand to pull him up from the divan.

  As he left, Jahangir turned back for a moment. “Wait for me, Mehrunnisa?”

 
She laughed again in happiness. He might not remember, but she did. He had used those very words that day in the zenana gardens when he had asked her to wait for him. And she had not waited then.

  “I will be here, your Majesty,” she said softly. “I will be here when you return.”

  • • •

  JAGAT GOSINI SAT at the window in Jahangir’s apartments overlooking the river. It was after midnight, and the Emperor had not yet returned from Ghias Beg’s house. Today the Emperor had left for his visit to Mehrunnisa, smiling mysteriously to himself like a child, delighted with himself, and no amount of cajoling had made him divulge his secret.

  Jagat Gosini frowned as she peered out of the window. The Yamuna flowed calmly by, no barge marring the smooth flow of the river. Where was Jahangir? Why had he stayed so long? The visits to Ghias Beg’s house worried her. Never before had she seen Jahangir so purposeful, so consistent in his actions. Could he really be falling in love with that woman?

  An hour later, Jahangir walked into his bedroom, yawning. He stopped short when he saw his wife. “What is the matter, my dear?”

  Jagat Gosini’s heart sank as she saw the happy smile on his face. “My lord, I just wanted to see that you were safely in bed.”

  “That is very considerate of you. But I was visiting Mehrunnisa.”

  “I know, my lord,” she said. “Why don’t you have her here, at the zenana? That way you will not tire yourself with these nocturnal visits.”

  “She will soon be here.” Jahangir removed his cummerbund and started unbuttoning his qaba.

  “We all await the day, your Majesty. She will bring you happiness,” Jagat Gosini said cautiously. “I will have the slaves prepare a chamber for your concubine.”

  Jahangir turned to her. “But she will come here as my wife, not as my concubine. I will personally give instructions to Hoshiyar Khan to make up apartments for her in the palace. I may even build her a palace. She deserves all the riches and presents I can bestow upon her.”

  The Empress felt the blood rush from her face, leaving her with a sick feeling. She pulled herself together with an effort. Perhaps there still was time to change the Emperor’s mind. But even as she spoke she knew the attempt to be useless. Once Jahangir made up his mind, right or wrong, all his life he had not stepped back from a decision. It was like a breeze trying to move a mountain. She searched for words. In her haste she used a ploy already used, already proven futile. So great was her distress that Jagat Gosini let her carefully cultivated skills at managing the zenana, managing the Emperor, slip.

  “Your Majesty, please do not forget whose wife she was. We all miss Qutubuddin Koka. His death was a great blow. I looked upon him as a brother. And he died at the hands of that scoundrel, Ali Quli.”

  Jahangir turned to the window and contemplated the clear, dark night. Again that hint, the same one she had dropped so many times these past two months. What were they up to—Mahabat, Sharif, and Jagat Gosini? Would she create trouble for Mehrunnisa? He knew Mehrunnisa could look after herself, or would learn to. He never interfered in zenana politics and would not do so now. But this could not go on.

  “It is improper to talk to me of these matters. All the ladies in the zenana will make every effort to welcome her,” Jahangir said in a quiet tone. “Is that understood?”

  “Yes, your Majesty,” Jagat Gosini replied with a heavy heart.

  The Emperor turned away from his wife and spoke again. “Go now, and send Hoshiyar Khan to me. I will undress and prepare for bed.”

  The Empress bowed and left the room, her feet dragging on the marble floor. Mehrunnisa would come to the palace as Jahangir’s wife—but not as the chief Empress, not if she could help it, Jagat Gosini thought savagely. Her back straightened as she walked down the corridor. By the time she reached her apartments, the Empress’s mind was already working furiously, planning the next level of onslaught.

  • • •

  MEHRUNNISA LOOKED AROUND in bemusement. She was back at Ruqayya Sultan Begam’s apartments in the royal palace. The Dowager Empress had insisted on hosting the wedding ceremony. As Mehrunnisa sat on the Persian carpets, eunuchs streamed into the chambers carrying large gold and silver trays, heaped with all sorts of presents.

  Dozens of yards of satins, silks, and velvets in a myriad of colors appeared. Tray after tray of jewels: pearls the size of pigeons’ eggs, glowing pink and white against black velvet; huge diamonds set in necklaces, earrings, bracelets, and armlets; rubies gleaming in gold buttons; deep purple garnets and amethysts set in silver goblets. Rich red wine from the foothills of the Himalayas in gold flasks set with semiprecious stones. Perfumes in tiny gold, silver, and glass bottles from all over the world. Wooden caskets inlaid with mother-of-pearl, spilling over with yards of richly colored silks.

  She took a deep breath. Never in her wildest dreams had she imagined such riches. She reached out to caress a diamond necklace, her fingers sliding over the delicately cut stones.

  One of the servants coughed at her elbow, and Mehrunnisa looked up. He silently proffered a scroll of paper. It was sealed with the Emperor’s seal on top, denoting it to be a royal farman. She broke the seal and read the farman, her heart thudding against her ribs. Jahangir had bestowed upon her the jagirs of Ramsar, Dholpur, and Sikandara.

  All the ladies in the royal harem were given annual incomes according to their status in the zenana or, more often, at the pleasure of the Emperor. The income was at times provided half in cash and half in the form of a landholding or estate, which in turn generated sufficient income to make up the whole.

  Mehrunnisa stared at the farman. She was rich. Of the three jagirs, the one at Sikandara was the most precious. It was a small town across the Yamuna from Agra. Its position was strategic, for all the goods from eastern and northeastern India came through Sikandara in order to pass on to Agra. If she positioned officers at Sikandara, they would collect enormous duties on the goods passing through to Agra: cotton from Bengal; raw silk from Patna; spikenard, borax, verdigris, ginger, fennel, opium, and other drugs as well as the goods meant for local consumption such as butter, grains, and flour. Her income from Sikandara alone would exceed her father’s at least three times.

  She wrapped her arms around herself. So this was what it meant to be an Empress. And once she married Jahangir, she would have to worry no longer about Ladli’s marriage. Offers would pour in for the Emperor’s stepdaughter. Koka’s death would be forgotten; Ali Quli’s ignominy would be lost in conveniently short memories.

  But more important than all these riches were those two sweet words, Jahangir’s wife.

  She leaned back on a velvet bolster, the imperial farman lying on her chest. In ten days she would be Empress.

  • • •

  THE DAYS FLEW by. Nobles scurried all over Agra for suitable gifts. William Hawkins, the English merchant, was by now familiar with the etiquette at court. He sent his broker out to the marketplace to choose jewels for Jahangir and Mehrunnisa, which he would present himself to the royal couple in impeccable Turki—the one advantage he had over his Portuguese counterparts.

  The exclusive trade treaty with the British East India Company had not yet been ratified; the Emperor was busy with his latest love. However, there had been indications of favor, Hawkins thought, now after three tedious years spent in this uncivilized land with its faithless infidels. Lately, Jahangir seemed more interested in talking with him in court, asking about his affairs. Was he well rested? Did his servants give him trouble? Were the guavas from the imperial gardens to his liking? So Hawkins’s broker went to the bazaar to look for something fancy for the Emperor, and Hawkins hoped that the gift and the contentment after the wedding would make the imperial hand more amenable to signing the treaty papers.

  Hawkins was not alone in his quest. The Jesuit fathers scrambled around too, outbidding his offers, watching his every move with suspicion, tremulous and angry at this other foreign presence in their land. And every courtier vied for the best a
nd most unusual present: something that would catch either Jahangir’s or Mehrunnisa’s eye, for that would mean honors and gifts in return from the royal couple.

  • • •

  THE DAY OF the wedding finally arrived.

  The city of Agra was decorated with garlands of fresh marigolds and jasmines and multicolored paper flags. People thronged the streets in their best finery to celebrate their Emperor’s twentieth marriage. Everyone sensed that this marriage would be unusual. For the first time in his forty-two years, Jahangir had made his own choice, motivated by a charming pair of azure eyes and a bewitching smile, not by political strategy. Rumors were rife about Mehrunnisa’s beauty, so much so that people began to think of her as a goddess incarnate.

  The fort at Agra wore the same festive air as the city. Attendants spent days preparing the zenana apartments and the fort. Royal gardeners had been hard at work trimming the hedges, mowing the lawns, and forcing flowering plants to bloom. Potted shrubs provided lush greenery indoors and outdoors. Flowers bloomed in discreetly hidden pots on top of the red sandstone ramparts, garlands festooned the pillars in the palaces, and rich, shimmering silks hung unnaturally from the trees like brilliant banners.

  The servants, slave girls, and eunuchs were provided with new clothes, and the ladies of the harem vied with one another to beautify themselves. Hours were spent in perfumed baths, at massages, and at the toilette.

  In Ruqayya Sultan Begam’s apartments, Mehrunnisa stared dreamily at her reflection in an ornate gold-edged mirror.

  “It is time to get ready.”

  Mehrunnisa looked at Hoshiyar Khan in the mirror. “Call the slave girls.”

  He nodded and went to the door. Mehrunnisa leaned back on the divan and gazed thoughtfully after him.