Beneath a Marble Sky

by John Shors

  I massaged my temples as if to rub away the day’s memories. “I’m…I’m so tired.” I was unable to look at Aurangzeb.

  Father kissed me and then slowly walked out of the room. Mother and my brothers followed him. As Dara turned to leave, I motioned for him to stay. He shut the door behind him and came to my side. “Why are you crying?” he asked.

  “Because he…because Aurangzeb saw me.” My voice turned from a whisper to a whimper. “He wanted me dead.”

  Dara stiffened, scratching at his brow beneath his turban. “Wanted you dead?”

  “Yes!”

  “You make no sense, Jahanara.”

  “But I do! I do! He left me to die.”

  “He saved you, commandeered the boat. He said—”

  “He lies!”

  Dara stepped away. “I saw him rescue you. He pulled you from the water and even cut himself in the process.”

  “I cut him!”

  “You need rest,” he said, turning toward the door. “You’re confused now, terribly confused. But after you rest, these nightmares shall disperse.”

  Yet rest would not temper my fears.

  And I felt so alone that the room seemed to shrink, suffocating me.

  Drowning me.

  Chapter 3

  Childhood Lost

  It is said that time mends any injury. Much as I disbelieve this notion, I confess that as the months passed I had fewer nightmares about Aurangzeb. A day came when I was able to look at him without shuddering in fear, without wondering why he would let me drown. Though I loathed him for stealing my youth, for turning me overnight from a girl into a young woman, this passage was inevitable. I was a princess, after all, and had been trained since childhood to understand that life was anything but simple. The sons and daughters of emperors were expected to become adults at an early age, and in truth I’d been shirking my responsibilities. But after Aurangzeb’s treachery I said farewell to my childish ways, for I knew they were shackles in this world of adults.

  In the months following, my routine changed dramatically. Instead of seeking entertainment, I sought knowledge. Rather than escape my duties, I faced the tasks before me. Each day I spent long hours in the harem, studying everything from architecture to dance to politics. While most girls arranged each other’s hair and learned to cook exotic dishes, I practiced calligraphy or memorized geography. There were no summits to the mountains of books Mother lent me, no subjects too trite or trifling. Following her advice, I became more socially active in Agra’s court. Success, she explained, has almost as much to do with your friends as it does yourself. She’d told me so since I could first reason, but only now did I listen.

  Over the next year I sought more acquaintances, whether at polo matches or hunting expeditions, I chatted with lesser nobles and merchants on Father’s behalf. Although the lords often resented these conversations, on occasion I sensed their eyes drifting greedily about my body. At first, I was uneasy with such glances, but as time passed I learned that lust is one of man’s most glaring weaknesses. Mother, at my insistence, secretly taught me of these matters. She explained how a man’s body worked. She told me of his needs and, most important, of his desires.

  Mother embarrassed me immensely by making me practice social graces with Nizam. For instance, she dressed him like a lord and asked that I serve him wine. I then attempted to pry information from him with little more than idle chatter. Though Nizam tried his best to act the part, he often smiled at my blunders and halting sentences. But with time and much practice, his smiles lessened in frequency. I slyly tricked him into confessions. I asked questions that any vain man must answer, no matter how resolute his intentions.

  Equipped with confidence, I was ready to speak with nobles who Mother claimed were attracted to me. Most men thought my youth and sex made me as threatening as a toothless cobra. They grew gallant when I pretended bashfulness, told me secrets when I prepared to walk away. As the Emperor, Father could have controlled these men in any manner he wished, but it seemed he’d rather sweeten them with honey than subdue them with his fist. And so I wooed them.

  Father watched my progress vigilantly. Though Hindustan had prospered under his rule, that prosperity also reflected Mother’s engagement. She despised war, and because of her influence upon Father, we no longer spent precious gold and lives trying to expand northward, deeper into the land of our enemy, the Persians. Instead, we fortified our borders. We built roads and bridges. We became rich through trade. Naturally, many men still wanted to war against our foes, but these were the sort I was sent to sweeten. I often found myself chatting with them, innocently feeding their egos, or those of their disregarded wives.

  I’d have learned none of these skills if not for Mother. She counseled me on countless matters—about our laws, for instance, or which nobles were friends and which were foes. She could tell me the traits of anyone important—whether they were tolerant of Hindus, whether they preferred to bed girls or boys. With equal relish I learned of their fears and their desires. Both, I was trained, were of consequence.

  My brothers also studied these things, though in a different manner. To my surprise, only Aurangzeb took such lessons seriously. While Shah and Murad chased skirts, and Dara devoured philosophers’ works, Aurangzeb made his rounds in the court, befriending many of our leaders, especially the officers of our army. They liked him, for the taller he grew, the more he spoke of war’s merits, of how it strengthened our empire.

  Aurangzeb delighted in undoing much of my work. If I befriended someone significant, turned him into a column upon which we could build things, Aurangzeb acted like the wind, subtly pushing against the column, forcing the soil from beneath it. I rarely even knew it had collapsed until weeks after the fact.

  Dara, to my dismay, cared little for statecraft. Though Father’s favorite son, and therefore heir presumptive, his loves were the arts. And while Father adored poets, painters, architects and scholars, he also understood that they only enhanced the quality of our lives and were not the grain upon which our empire feasted.

  The first time I ever spoke to Dara of his shortcomings he paid me as much heed as he might the dirt beneath his feet. It was late in the day, and after finishing our studies and prayers we’d retired to one of the largest gardens in the Red Fort.

  The best of our gardens served to remind us what lay ahead, if we lived virtuously, that the Garden of Paradise was perpetually lush and infinitely enchanting. The sanctuary we sat in now was called Shalimar Bagh, the Abode of Love. Water flowed through narrow channels between the mango, date and lime trees, gathering in square pools and spurting in gentle fountains. Everything in the garden was decidedly geometric. The plantings and waterways formed octagons, cubes or even triangles.

  At the far end of the garden, pruning a series of rose bushes, was Ismail, the old farmer my mother had rescued. The garden, beautiful already, had brighter hues after Ismail’s arrival. He worked here from dawn until dusk, and no plant or tree lacked his signature.

  Dara and I sat on a square mound of grass between several of the many waterways. It was pleasant here, abundant with shade and delightful smells of nectar. Dara was clad in a crimson tunic and a white turban. He was trying to develop a beard, and a few dark hairs hung from his chin. I wore a yellow skirt and shirt beneath a full-length robe of almost transparent blue silk. A turquoise veil painted exquisitely with white cranes was pinned atop my head. We wore our veils opposite the Persian manner, and thus mine fell back upon my neck, covering my hair but not my face.

  Between us rested a plate of grapes. I plucked one from its stem, then said, “You never really told me what happened with Ladli.”

  “What?”

  “When she went to you.”

  “Went to me?”

  “At the river.” My brother, who knew so much of books, sometimes tested my patie
nce. While my mind ran, his sauntered.

  “You waste even fewer words than Mother. Must you always be so direct?”

  I shrugged before eating another grape. “I can be as sly as a cat.”

  “But hasn’t she already told you everything?”

  “Not everything.”

  “Well, what did she say?”

  “That you asked her about her beliefs, about the caste system.”

  Dara started to make a sweeping gesture but, sighing, let his hands drop. To me, he seemed serious for his age. But then, so did I to my friends. “Hinduism,” he said, “even if my view is unusual among Muslims, is a beautiful religion. I love its gods, its karma. But I don’t agree with the Hindu belief in the caste system. Why should someone with lighter skin be held above the rest, or a merchant be worth more than a laborer?”

  “I suppose it allows them some sort of order.”

  “Impartial laws, Jahanara, create order. Not discrimination.”

  “But are we so different? Are you and a boy working in the fields considered equals?”

  “I know,” he admitted, nodding slowly. “Just as I know that regardless of how much I care for Ladli, I could never marry her.”

  “You could ask Father for his consent. After all, he asked his father if he could marry Mother.”

  “True, but I can’t do the same,” he countered sadly. “Remember that Father was first wed to other wives. But Mother, being Mother, didn’t worry about competing against them. Ladli would hardly want to be bothered by it all.”

  We were silent, and the chatter of birds surrounded us, drowning out Ismail as he scrubbed a marble walkway. I twisted a ruby on my thumb, watching how the sun gave life to the star inside. “Do you love her, Dara?”

  “The philosophers say that love—”

  “Do you love her?”

  “Love has nothing to do with it. Because love her or not, I’ll marry for political reasons, just as you will. And believe me, we’ll marry soon. I’ve already heard Father talk of his plans for us.”

  I considered the squat man Father might choose for me, forcing an image of him away as I might discard a rotten apple. I focused again on my brother, wishing to talk about something that lately had often been on my mind. “Aurangzeb’s certainly popular these days. He doesn’t spend his time reading or writing but practices with his sword, or befriends our generals.”

  “So?”

  “So, does it ever…has it occurred to you,” I whispered, “that when Father dies, Aurangzeb will claim the Peacock Throne?”

  Dara dropped a grape. “Really, Jahanara, since when did you start thinking about such things?”

  “Mother wants me—”

  “To speak of nonsense?”

  “You think it’s nonsense,” I asked, “that Aurangzeb might want the throne? Sometimes, when Father speaks of giving it to you, I see how angry it makes him. He tries to hide it but can’t. Aurangzeb has always known that you’re Father’s favorite, and that no matter how much he excelled, the throne would be yours. How do you think that makes him feel? How would you feel if Father loved you less than Aurangzeb, and everyone knew?”

  “But I can’t—”

  “It would hurt, Dara. And I think it hurts Aurangzeb so dreadfully that he didn’t mind watching me die. So dreadfully that he might fight you for the throne.”

  My brother swiped halfheartedly at a troublesome fly. “I’ve never tried to hurt him. And I never will.” He paused, watching the fly settle on the trunk of a nearby pomegranate tree. “I want to be his friend as much as you do. But he knows the Emperor has the right to choose his successor. It’s always been so.”

  “True. But just because Father intends that you take his place doesn’t mean that you shall.”

  “Aurangzeb won’t fight me.”

  As he reached for another grape, I leaned closer to him. “We are no longer children, Dara. Perhaps we should stop acting like them.”

  “You’re not as old as you pretend.”

  “Perhaps not,” I retorted, suddenly irritated by his single-mindedness. “But our great-grandfather was only thirteen when he inherited the throne. Was he pretending then? Would you be pretending if Father died?” Part of my vexation stemmed from the knowledge that Dara was right. I was too young to speak so. Yet Mother expected me to try and grasp such subtleties. After all, she had spent the last year training me in matters of the court. And I could never disappoint her. Nor did I wish Dara to ignore Aurangzeb. “How can you know so much about philosophy and gods,” I asked, “while knowing nothing of your own blood? Do you realize how many wars have been fought over the throne? How many brothers have killed brothers?”

  “Several wars. Almost a dozen brothers.”

  “Then is it so impossible to imagine that Aurangzeb might harm you to take Father’s place?”

  Dara was silent for the period it took Ismail to scrub the remainder of the walkway. I could tell he was disconcerted, for often he glanced skyward, as if seeking divine guidance. “I still don’t believe your version of the river,” he finally replied. “But if you’re right, and Aurangzeb covets the throne, what should I do?”

  I tried to picture myself as a trusted advisor. What would Mother say to Father if his brother were his rival? “Do what he does. Start making friends, alliances. Spend less time reading about religion and more time by Father’s side. Let the nobles see him with you, instead of only with Mother and myself.”

  Dara removed his turban, then ran a hand through his raven locks. “Even if he cares for me little, I could never fight him. I don’t even want to think about it.”

  His face harbored pain, a pain that reached out to touch me. I knew he had tried to make amends with Aurangzeb but was met with the same hostility as I. How is it, I asked Allah, that we can love our brother and yet still feel him slipping away? What am I doing wrong?

  Dara’s sister again, and no longer a fledgling advisor, I took his hand. “Believe me, I’d rather lay in the harem and gossip with my friends than talk about this. But we’re unlike our friends. You are to be the Emperor, and I’m … ” I paused, still unsure of my role. “And I am your sister. I love Aurangzeb and I want no fight with him either. But he frightens me, Dara. And I would think that he’d frighten you.”

  Dara nodded weakly, but said nothing. I realized then that he was too decent for such thoughts and that I’d have to protect him. But how could I, a girl of barely fifteen summers, protect one brother from another? How could I protect myself ?

  Chapter 4

  Darkness

  Fate soon showed me just how hard it is to look after anyone, especially myself, for I was wed during Nauroz, right before the dry season of my sixteenth year. Wed to a man I would come to despise.

  The dry season in Agra is a time when the land itself appears to die. Grass withers and yellows from the heat and shortage of rain. Herds of cattle rest unmoving for days without end. Prior to our dreaded summer, praise Allah, Agra hosts a brief bout of springlike weather. We celebrate this respite as the Persian New Year.

  Normally, my mood would have been buoyant, for Nauroz lasts two-weeks and is embraced by all of our people, regardless of their religion. Moreover, Navroz features extravagant and massive parties, Chinese rockets and exchanges of gifts. Yet entertaining feelings of joy was impossible with the rapid approach of my nuptials. Indeed, I watched fireworks and ate sweets without really seeing or tasting anything but the bitterness of my thoughts.

  On the day of my wedding I rose early, though reluctantly. After a breakfast of melon, I bathed in waters laden with lavender and eucalyptus oils. Then servants rubbed lotus perfume into my skin as my hair was dried above a diminutive fire of rosewood. I was handed cloves, which I sucked until my breath smelled like cinnamon. Artists skilled in composition then addressed my flesh, wiping betel
leaf against my lips, numbing and coloring them crimson simultaneously. A russet paste of henna, lemon juice and oil was used to decorate my hands and feet with ornate patterns. Finally, attendants sewed strands of diamonds into my hair.

  My wedding unfolded in the Red Fort’s grandest courtyard, a square more than three hundred paces from side to side. Its sandstone walls each boasted forty archways, through which one could walk to adjacent gardens, bazaars and residences. Atop the walls, red banners fluttered restlessly.

  Hundreds of witnesses were gathered within the courtyard, mostly nobles who had arrived early to secure the most favorable positions. Surrounding the proceedings was a score of war elephants, some draped in English velvet, others in Chinese silk or Turkish gold cloth. The elephants’ tusks were swathed in black fabric that made the tusks’ tips even whiter. At the courtyard’s corners, gilded pens contained cheetahs. These fleetest of creatures had silver collars and vests of embroidered linen.

  Father had given me many jewels for the affair, and I glittered in rubies and emeralds. My clothes had never been worn before. An outer layer of silk was nearly invisible, except for a painter’s renderings of indigo irises. Beneath this robe lay a turquoise dress. Its fabric moved with the skin of my torso, tight enough that one might see the rhythm of my stomach as I breathed. The dress was much looser about my legs.

  The shell of my being must have looked grand, but inside I was suffering. Though Dara and I often spoke of duty, it seemed that duty now sought to smother me. All the dreams I’d harbored as a child were so distant. They were the dreams of another life, of a person I hardly recalled. She had yearned to find a lover, someone whose presence would quicken her pulse.