by John Shors
Father chuckled, for an instant looking like an ordinary husband and not the Emperor of Hindustan. “Is this decision acceptable to everyone involved?” he asked, spreading out his hands.
Babur, who must have been thrilled by the prospect of obtaining more land, nodded. “Indeed, my lord. As always, the Empress finds the best solution.”
“Then the matter is put to rest, as are these tedious affairs.”
At his announcement the room emptied of nobles, servants and warriors. Ismail was released by Babur’s men and hurried forward to kneel before Mother. Beaming, she grasped his raised hands, then asked Nizam to find the man quarters near her gardens. After they departed, she whispered to Father, “Babur may be a worm, but I could think of no other way to quench his anger.”
Father slipped on his jeweled sandals. “Thank you, my love. You’ve saved me once again.” His eyes dropped to me. “And you were perfect, my flower! Perfect! Were you nervous, like a horse standing above a cobra?”
“Yes, Father. Though I’m but a mouse.”
He laughed, turning to his sons. “A pity your mother wasn’t born a boy. She’d be a splendid emperor. Better, by far, than I.”
Three of my four brothers grinned. Aurangzeb, however, tugged on Father’s tunic. “But the law says to execute criminals. Now he may steal from us.” Aurangzeb, as usual, spoke loudly. To me, it seemed he was afraid of not being heard.
Father’s smile vanished, as it often did when Aurangzeb said something he didn’t approve of. “Perhaps, but he has earned the right to prove his worth.”
“How?”
“He sacrificed his sons to the Empire. Had I done the same, I might expect my emperor to show me gratitude, not the executioner’s sword.”
“But he broke the law.”
“Is a sack of rice worth a man’s life?” Dara probed, for he almost always held the opposite view to Aurangzeb’s.
“The law is the law.”
“And it spoke,” Father said, fondly patting Dara’s shoulder. “He lost his farm, which went to his accuser, thanks to my brilliant girls.” Father took Mother’s hand and stepped away from his throne. “Come, we’ve talked enough of this. And as we’ve talked, my stomach’s done nothing but growl like a wounded lion.”
When I turned to follow them, I noticed Aurangzeb glaring at me. His eyes made me feel uneasy, and I wondered what I had done wrong.
Later that evening, I rested on a tiger’s pelt and gazed at the Yamuna. Above me rustled the heavy flaps of the canvas pavilion our servants had pitched near the riverbank. The scarlet structure possessed no sides, though stout bamboo poles supported its roof. An immensely broad and thick carpet, depicting marvelous arrays of roses, ensured the comfort of whoever lounged within the pavilion. Furs, cushions and gossamer silk blankets covered parts of the carpet.
As I rubbed my hand on the tiger’s intricate fur, I wondered how a beast could be so beautiful and so frightening. Beside me sat Mother and Father, each clad in dusky garments. My baby sisters slept next to them under pashmina blankets. Much as I loved my sisters, I could rarely enjoy their company, for their nursemaids saw to every need. These women were quite protective of their duties and certainly did not want my help.
On the opposite side of the pavilion, a troop of dancers and musicians amused us. Versed in the Kathak art of storytelling, these entertainers recreated the famous account of my great-great-grandfather, Humayun, escaping from hordes of Afghan warriors. The tale was harrowing, for after defeating our forces the Afghans began slaughtering all our people—be they child, woman or man. Legend said that as the enemy overran our imperial guards, an attendant gave the Emperor a water sack. Inflated, the animal gut allowed him to swim safely across the Ganges. Thus, my great-great-grandfather was able to return years later and drive out the invaders.
Five men—with blood-spattered faces and naked chests—represented the Afghans. Another performer wore a pearl necklace, and clutched the inflated and leather-bound stomach of a horse to his chest. While musicians plucked upon sitars and beat against drums, the Afghan warriors chased the Emperor onto a wide bolt of blue velvet.
As the music quickened the dancers became caught in the river’s currents and spun madly, flailing their arms about, while Humayun swam toward the opposite shore. When he finally stepped upon land, his pursuers fell, writhing atop the velvet, pulling it over themselves, disappearing beneath the river’s blue waves.
We applauded the scene’s conclusion vigorously. Though the Kathak was a popular art, which we witnessed almost every week, these men were among Agra’s best performers. Father did them enormous honor by rising to give their leader, who had played the Emperor, several silver coins. Compliments were exchanged and then the sweating men folded their bolt of velvet and quietly left the pavilion.
Though I’d enjoyed the display, I glanced somewhat enviously toward the distant figures of my brothers, wishing that I could also be unaccompanied. Dara lounged near the river, his back against a magnificent cypress tree. He held an open Qur’an. On such nights Dara often read, though he studied the Hindu gods as much as the Holy Book of Islam, or any other matter. Father, an advocate of the arts, took pride in Dara’s interests. In fact, they often shared sweets as they mused over architecture, poetry or music.
Happy cries caused me to lift my gaze. Shah and Murad, who seemed to find pleasure in each other and no one else, hunted carp at the water’s edge with bows and arrows. Farther away, barely within hailing distance, Aurangzeb rode his gray stallion in circles. I might have ridiculed his polo skills, but Aurangzeb was a better rider than anyone his age. His mount was well behaved, as it should be, for not three moons before I saw Aurangzeb beat it mercilessly with a bamboo rod.
Beyond Aurangzeb, who now drove his mount in twisting turns, were multitudes of our people. On the river, men returned from the muddied currents with boatloads of dying fish. Upon the shore, women mended nets or added colorful dyes to fabrics. Some families, much like ours, simply relaxed in the cool stillness of this autumn night.
“You were quite brave today,” Father said softly to me.
“But I told the truth,” I replied. “His hands were hard and he had to steal.” Despite having last sat on Father’s lap several years before, I felt an urge to do so. But my body was now too awkward, and so I dropped beside him. Around the pavilion servants lit torches to push aside the encroaching darkness.
Mother moved closer to us, leaning against the long, circular cushion supporting our backs. She reached over to reposition an emerald turtle pinned atop my veil. “Your beauty becomes you, Jahanara,” she said. “But more important, so does your mind.”
Though poets would never write of my face, as they did Mother’s, I hoped to inherit a drop of her wisdom. “Truly?”
“I wouldn’t say so if it were untrue.”
Father leaned toward Mother to refill her wine goblet. I’d seen him do such tasks a thousand times, when even minor nobles had servants attend to these duties. Father, however, preferred to please Mother himself. And while most lords surrounded themselves with young concubines, Father chose to be alone with Mother. He was kind to his other wives but seldom visited them. Even at such a young age, I was keenly aware of the rare quality of my parents’ love for each other, and often wondered if it was a blessing that I was destined ever to experience. It seemed impossible that I’d ever know such bliss, impossible that I might become worthy enough to merit a man like my father.
Weary, I closed my eyes. I leaned against Father, found the rise and fall of his chest comforting. He stroked my brow until the crickets’ songs were loud and unbroken. Then he eased me onto a rug at his feet, placing a cushion beneath my head. When he kissed my forehead, I sighed and feigned sleep.
“Allah has blessed us with children,” Father whispered. “So much pleasure in the making, so much joy i
n watching them blossom.”
I’d heard of this pleasure before and fought my inclination to dream. Silence lingered, followed by the sound of a kiss. I opened my eyes a fraction and saw that their faces had separated but were only a finger’s width apart.
“How is it,” Father asked, “that my love for you does not lessen? My body stiffens with the years, my hands ache with the monsoon. Yet now, as I see you before me, I am struck only by joy.”
“You married well,” Mother replied mischievously. “If you hadn’t found me, you’d be much older today. And I might still be selling beads to nobles, to greedy men only intent on pleasing their mistresses. To men who think with the wrong organ.”
Father chuckled, his rumblings comforting to me. “The fools jest that I envy them, that I long for the women they hoard,” he said, sipping his wine. “Do you think they could even fathom how I’d give up my empire for you, how without you by my side I’d be like a falcon with no wings?”
“You should have been a poet,” she replied, smiling playfully, for Father delighted in words. “We’d starve, most assuredly.”
“But, Arjumand, most poets write of pain, of misery, of want. I could only give verse to love, which most readers find a tedious subject. How could I write of hate, when I harbor none? Or of jealousy? Or of sorrow? No, it’s better that the poets and philosophers debate these creations. They are not of my world.”
“Nor mine.”
“Then let them write, my love, while we live.”
In the ensuing silence my heart beat strongly. And when they kissed again, I opened my eyes wider.
Chapter 2
First Betrayal
Though Father may not have fully understood hatred or jealousy, one of his sons did. Yet it wasn’t until four months later, slightly before the spring solstice, that I became fully aware of feelings Aurangzeb harbored, and of his capacity for treachery. Earlier, I had sensed his hostility mounting toward all of us: Aurangzeb wore his discontent as blatantly as the sword he’d started to carry. One day Dara would be the victim of his wrath, then I the next. We rarely deserved his scorn, but his outbursts came without warning.
I wasn’t sure how to measure his moodiness, and once I told Dara that Aurangzeb reminded me of a bee. For how often had I been stung for no particular reason? Perhaps these troublesome insects believed me to be threatening, but I much preferred to watch them suckle nectar than incur their ire. Aurangzeb, in many respects, had a similar disposition. He drifted in his own world most days, but when he felt slighted whoever was near might get stung.
I experienced my first real wound on a warm afternoon.
My brothers and I had been studying intently in the harem. Mother surveyed Father’s notes from a recent court session, while Nizam’s hands fluttered rhymically against a rosewood and deerskin tabla. The other women present gossiped quietly, drank wine, or plucked fruits from silver platters. Green and scarlet finches sang from gilded cages. The scent of opium lingered in the air.
I was expected to read widely, and a thick book rested on my thighs. The text was written in Persian, the official language of the court. Though we were now enemies with the Persians, they had profoundly influenced Hindustan. This inspiration began when my grandfather married a remarkable Persian princess, Nur Jahan, who thereafter fostered Persian culture within Agra’s court. In all but title, Nur Jahan had, in fact, ruled the Empire.
Of course, I also spoke Hindi. I liked this unassuming tongue and used it when dealing with servants or the local population. Not many commoners could speak Persian, and most who could preferred Hindi.
Persian is certainly pleasing to the eye, often inscribed in graceful calligraphy that takes a lifetime to master. The text I was reading was one such masterpiece and concerned the history of our empire, boasting of the deeds of the emperors preceding my father. I memorized what each ruler had accomplished and the troubles he faced. Mother would test me later this evening, as she always did.
I was reading of my grandfather when I heard a distant muezzin’s cries. I imagined him on a mosque’s tower, filling the sky with his calls to prayer. As I set aside my book, many of the harem’s inhabitants unrolled beautiful prayer carpets to stand upon. We prayed while standing, turned westward toward Mecca, with our palms facing the heavens. At certain times of prayer, we reverently bowed, touching our carpets with our foreheads. When the prayers ceased, we rolled up our carpets and continued with our activities.
I returned to my history, not closing my book until I knew the assigned pages like the patterns of my favorite robes. I then turned to Mother, asking her with my expression if she’d join me for a walk outside. She nodded and, accompanied by Nizam, followed me through the door.
“Who wrote the Akbarnama?” she asked abruptly.
The Akbarnama chronicled the life of my great-grandfather, Akbar, the most revered of our former emperors. “A writer, I think.”
“Jahanara!”
“A writer named Abu’l Fazl.”
Mother straightened my veil. “A simple answer would have been sufficient.”
“Have you ever given such an answer?”
Her hands dropped and her face softened. She smiled, affectionately nudging me. “Only to please your father.”
Our walk soon took us through a bazaar. Under its tents and canopies lounged dozens of vendors, tired men sitting behind iron scales, their tables brimming with dried fish, bolts of silk, sandalwood statues, incense, and, above all, reed baskets heavy with spices. Hindustanis have always loved spices. If goat cheese or spinach wasn’t drenched in curry or saffron, it would hardly be worth eating.
The scents of these seasonings mingled with smells lingering about each stall. Fragrances to savor abounded, fresh naan, roasting mutton, flowers, oiled leather, perfume. Less pleasant scents sometimes overpowered these wares, for within the towering walls no breeze removed the stench of sweat, of burning dung, of gunpowder, urine and caged animals.
Mother was polite enough to look at many goods, though she purchased only a pair of sandals for Nizam. As we left the bazaar she said, “You seem restless, Jahanara. Instead of acting so distracted you should simply ask your question.”
How she could so easily read me was disconcerting. “Yes, Mother,” I replied haltingly. “It’s just that…well, we’ve done little but study these past days.”
“And you propose?”
“My friend Ladli—”
“The child who helps in the kitchen?”
“She’s going to the river later and asked if I’d join her.”
“Today?” When I nodded, she paused, dust settling about her feet. “Only if you take your brothers. You should do these things together.”
“But Aurangzeb is cruel to her.”
“You won’t have to swim with your brothers,” Mother replied. “After all, it would be unseemly for girls and boys to bathe together.” The sarcasm in Mother’s voice was uncloaked. I was accustomed to such remarks, for she despised the confining customs of our society. While men pursued whatever game they desired, women were forced to act as shadows, hiding from the light, following only the movements of their husbands.
And how Mother abhorred shadows!
The Empress was one of the few women in Hindustan who could do almost anything she wanted. She didn’t dress like a man, of course, but she spoke like one, unafraid to voice her true thoughts. Father indulged her behavior, and thus it usually went unchecked. I sought to be bold like her but worried more than she about offending my elders.
“We women must be cautious,” she advised, stopping at a stand of lemons. She squeezed a few. “Dealing with men is like juggling hot coals. They’re fairly harmless if you take precautions, but by Allah, they can burn you if you don’t pay attention.”
“Have you ever juggled coals?”
“N
o, but I juggle men every day. And I’m sure coals would be much less frightening.”
We shared a laugh as we turned back to the harem, Nizam taking his usual place behind Mother. His hair was black, coarse and curly, while his face and nose were flat. Oddly, his right eye was somewhat bigger than his left. Still a young man, Nizam was already taller than many of Father’s soldiers.
Whenever I looked at Nizam, he glanced away. Yet I often felt his gaze on my back. In many ways he was like an older brother, protecting me from dangers I was too young to discover. Though Nizam was her slave, Mother treated him sometimes as if he were my sibling. She abhorred that he had been maimed and made her thoughts well-known on the more common practice of castration. It was an ancient custom, however, for lords are leery of ungelded servants among their women. Her pleas for abolishment were ignored.
Mother was hardly one to retrace her steps, and she returned to the harem via the imperial workshops, known as the Karkhanas. An oversized courtyard housed hundreds of studios, which sheltered thousands of craftsmen, some of whom were Europeans and Persians. The complex reminded me of a honeycomb, as it was replete with narrow alleyways and sandstone dwellings. Artists and workers created weapons of every sort, colorful fabrics, silver drinking vessels, and jewelry for seemingly each part of the body. The most prestigious workshops contained book-makers. Among these craftsmen were translators, painters, calligraphers, papermakers and gold leaf experts. They produced thousands of books each year, some even written in Portuguese, English and Chinese.
Mother wove through artisans, camels and bare-chested Hindu priests with equal ease. When at last we were beyond the Karkhanas, the alley widened so that we could stroll arm in arm. “We rarely take such walks anymore,” she said suddenly. “I do miss them.”
