by John Shors
The man I desired, whoever he was, remained far from me today. In his place, grinning at my side, was Khondamir. A stout man, he hardly rose to my height and was more than twice my age. But he was a powerful silver merchant and had long opposed many of my father’s policies. Our marriage, Father hoped, would help to change his views. Father also greatly wanted to use Khondamir’s trading contacts in Persia to find friends north of our border. Father needed such friends to make peace with the Persians, which he had to make for the sake of the empire. Though he seemed to take little interest in me, Khondamir was eager for our coupling, as the arrangement brought him within touching distance of the Peacock Throne.
During the ceremony Khondamir’s eyes often wandered to my chest, which had swollen during the past months. I was painfully aware of his gaze and tried not to ponder my fate later that evening. Instead, I absently stared at my parents and siblings, who stood a step below me on a gilded platform. My two baby sisters, whom I last saw a moon ago, were swathed in gossamer silk and held by servants. Father wore his military casings, and the emerald-studded hilt of an ancient sword jutted from his hip. Mother might have been a rose. Draped in a thin green robe and a scarlet dress, she radiated beauty, somehow spreading it beyond my brothers, who filled indigo tunics and stood shoulder to shoulder between our parents. Dara seemed saddened by the day, whereas Aurangzeb grinned maliciously. Shah and Murad could have been asleep.
Our wedding, like all such tableaux, was long and dull. Prayers were offered to Allah and pleasantries exchanged. I’d wept after last night’s festivities and today sprang no tears. I smiled and bowed. I stood beside my husband.
When the ceremony ended, servants assembled an enormous feast. A dozen lambs were roasted over open flames. On gold and silver platters skewers of beef and vegetables steamed. Vast piles of rice, nuts and fruits were everywhere, and mounds of kulfi—a dessert fashioned with sugar, mango, lemon juice, cream and roasted pistachios—were served in marble bowls. Before eating, we reassembled under the shade of hastily erected red tents. After servants placed fresh linen atop Persian carpets, we sat and sampled morsels endlessly. Throughout the meal, attendants fanned my family, the breezes drying sweat and keeping flies at bay.
Imperial dancing girls entertained us while we ate. Their torsos were covered with the thinnest of fabrics, leaving little to one’s imagination. The girls moved like saplings amid wind and were accompanied by the trumpets, drums and stringed instruments. Beyond our tent, jugglers and acrobats competed to further amuse us.
When the feasting concluded we left the courtyard and proceeded outside the Red Fort. Father had suggested that a polo match be held to entertain the nobles and the general population. Polo had been invented by tribal horsemen inhabiting the plains to the east of Agra, and was one of our favorite spectacles. For my wedding day an immense stretch of open ground near the river had been groomed of weeds, and goals were erected at either end of the playing field. Surrounding it rose tents of the nobles, filled with more food, as well as wives and concubines. The largest tent shielded my family from the sun. We sat on wool carpets and watched the players prepare their mounts.
My brothers took to the field. Dara and Shah had changed into tunics and turbans of black, whereas Aurangzeb and Murad wore white. Father raised a water buffalo’s horn to his lips and blew. A guttural cry emerged from the instrument and the teams gathered on their respective sides. Horses, their manes combed and tails braided, pranced and neighed. Gold and silver bells about the stallions’ necks rung vigorously as the riders practiced swinging long poles. These were straight and true for more than the height of a man but curved at their bottom ends.
A rosewood ball was dropped upon the field and the game began. Khondamir, his bride suddenly forgotten, roared with the crowd. Mother tried to get my attention, but for the first time in my life I ignored her. Though my parents believed Khondamir would make a decent husband, and I believed I was performing my duty, I felt betrayed nonetheless.
I prayed to Allah that Khondamir was honorable, and I watched the match with fleeting interest. However, I could hardly fail to notice that Aurangzeb was by far the best rider of my brothers. The ball seemed to always be against his stick. Once, when only Dara was between him and his goal, Aurangzeb sent his mount careening into Dara’s stallion. Dara was flung from his saddle and Aurangzeb scored easily. When he raised his arm in triumph, many in the crowd cheered. Dara nodded to Aurangzeb before limping back to his horse.
Though Islam forbade alcohol, and many devout Muslims refrained from this vice, on my wedding day an abundance of wine flowed. I had my first taste of its sweetness sitting next to my husband, the only pleasant experience I was to know that afternoon. We drank from jewel-studded goblets and much liquor was consumed. Men and women normally bound by the strict rules of our society began to unravel. Khondamir actually smiled at me, a grin revealing yellowed teeth and swollen gums. I started to feel somewhat clumsy. My head seemed inordinately heavy, and my mind, usually so sharp, dulled. Yet I drank more, for I’d heard of men escaping in drink, and thoughts of escape occupied my mind. If wine could somehow save me, I’d sip it until no grapes remained in all of Hindustan.
I didn’t even realize when the polo game had ended, but dusk was falling when strong arms lifted me atop a palki, a short couch mounted on twin poles. Four men then carried my litter toward Khondamir’s home. A palace of sorts, the rambling structure stood far from the river. I’d only seen it from a distance and dimly recalled it to be a sandstone edifice encircled by palm trees.
Khondamir’s servants lit torches as they walked, surrounding my litter. My husband rode beside me on a gray stallion with black spots. When he saw me looking at him, he grinned, then removed something from a saddlebag and began to eat. My thoughts moved like slugs and I moaned quietly, pulling flowers from my hair and pocketing uncomfortable jewelry. The world seemed to spin in frenzied arcs that threatened to make me ill.
I dared to close my eyes. When I finally opened them I was being carried down a candle-lit corridor. A door opened and I was laid atop a sleeping carpet. I mumbled graciously to my bearers, staring at the revolving ceiling. Horns jutted from every wall, and somehow in my wicked state I deduced that Khondamir must have been a hunter.
When I saw him stagger drunkenly into the room, I pretended to sleep. At first I thought he might rest beside me, but then I felt his hands on my clothes. His fingers were greedy and ripped my precious robe. He peeled it from me with such strength that I was rolled to my side. Terrified, I continued to feign sleep, desperately hoping he would lose interest.
But when I sensed his breath on my bared chest I knew he wouldn’t. Suddenly his mouth was upon a nipple and I fought the urge to gag. Mumbling to himself, he attacked it like a piglet might suckle a sow. Though repulsed, I felt it harden, which seemed to fuel his passion even more. My heart raced as he licked and tasted my flesh. I trembled at his teeth, for they weren’t gentle. Nor were his fingers, which clawed and poked at my secret places.
I heard him spit, then sensed wetness between my legs. There came an unbearable weight as he pressed down upon me, his breath fouling my lungs, his belly slapping against mine. A sharp pain erupted when he thrust himself inside me. He was moving next, rising and falling, and suddenly I could no longer make any pretense of sleep and cried out. I thought my hurt might make him pause, but instead it served to motivate him further. His gyrations became more frenzied. His hands pinned my arms to the carpet, pushing down, holding me in place.
My body seemed to split apart. Mother had warned me of pain, but not such fire as this. I gritted my teeth as my husband licked my neck, cried as I tried to break free of his grasp. Though I knew nothing of lovemaking, I doubted it was meant to be so full of woe. I’d heard other women speak of it fondly, and believed Mother even enjoyed it. Yet here I lay, biting my lip until it bled, weeping as my husband battered away at me.
Soon Khondamir snored. Putting my forearms against his chest, I rolled him from me. Shedding silent tears, I hobbled to a corner, where I sat with my back against the wall. When I saw blood seeping from between my legs and a cut on my nipple, I cried harder. My tears seemed endless as I thought of all that had gone wrong, of the love I was sure to never find.
The night and I aged together.
The first days with Khondamir were dreadful. In light of my duty, I did my best to forget my wedding night. I moved forward, as Mother had always taught me. The wine must have clouded his senses, I reasoned. Surely he didn’t know he was hurting me.
Such thoughts consumed me as I sought to make Khondamir happy, sought to earn his affection. Alas, I quickly realized that he cared nothing for my feelings. I didn’t seem to exist in his presence and might have been a gnat in the corner for all the attention he gave me. However much I tried to be helpful, he was disinterested, at best, in my efforts. His indifference was upsetting, as I was accustomed to being taken seriously. Even my father, the most important man in the Empire, often paused as I tried to offer advice. Yet Khondamir, a fool if ever one lived, thought he’d married a dull-witted camel.
It became obvious that he’d wed me hoping that I might bear him a son. Despite his reputation as a hornet that sipped nectar from many flowers, he had never sired a child. Why he believed I’d produce one when so many others had failed was unfathomable to me. And frankly, even though I hoped to have children, I couldn’t imagine Khondamir as their father. I wanted no seed of his to take root within me, especially since I experienced too many nights like the first, nights when he stumbled home drunk and used me until he fell unconscious.
One evening he even hit me, a backhand slap that split my lip. Apparently, I had been unresponsive to his groping. While I trembled naked on a tiger’s pelt, Khondamir yelled at a servant to ride to the Red Fort and return with a practiced courtesan. My husband forced me to watch their gyrations, demanding that I surpass the woman’s wanton displays in the future.
He finished with me, and as he did I began to understand the concept of hate. Other emotions I grasped fully. I feared Aurangzeb. I loved Father and worshipped Mother. Beggars I pitied and children I envied. But hatred was a feeling I had never experienced, nor wanted to. Nevertheless, that night, as I bled and wept and hated, I contemplated fleeing this creature or, better still, slipping some poison into his rice. Surely the world would not lament his departure.
I missed my family terribly in those days. My parents sent me letters and gifts but were on a military campaign to the south accompanied by my brothers. Dara wrote of Aurangzeb’s bravery in the field, how he had left the safety of Father’s tent and joined our soldiers at the front line. There he killed his first man.
Though I possessed little interest in war, I’d have enjoyed being with them, exploring new lands and listening to officers argue. Such a fate was infinitely more desirable to wandering about Khondamir’s home, which had precious few books and mostly sullen servants.
As days turned to weeks I feared that my fate would be forever unchanged. Steeling my emotions as steadfastly as I could, I let my misery surface only in the darkness of night. Mother had never let any man rule her feelings, and I knew she expected me to be as strong. And so I resisted my tears. I endured until Allah finally decided to set me loose.
My taste of freedom began with a morning like any other. Khondamir expected me to join him for breakfast, and we rested on his terrace, eating yogurt and peeling pathetic little oranges. The wool carpet beneath our knees was badly faded, and stained from multiple mishaps.
I felt bold that day and asked if I might ride one of his horses.
“You?” he scoffed, his voice high-pitched for a man of his girth. “On a horse?”
“I’ve always—”
“Would you ride naked?” The image must have amused him, for he smirked, chunks of orange dropping from his ponderous lips.
I was accustomed to his crude attempts at wit and ignored him. “My lord, I’ve not seen my friends for weeks.”
“So? Weeks? Months? What does it matter? Why would I care for your friends?”
“Because I’m your wife.”
Khondamir belched, the fat on his face rippling. “You’re a whining child is what you are. Nothing more. Nothing less. Now why don’t you scurry somewhere and make yourself useful?”
“Why don’t you—” I stopped, suddenly afraid what he might do if I asked him to scurry off a cliff. “Why don’t you give me something to do?”
“Fine. Cook my dinner.”
I bit back an angry reply. Was this how husbands thought of wives, that they could do no more than boil rice? Eating the last of my yogurt, I sighed, looking about his estate. Though Khondamir was a rich man, made so by the silver mines he owned, obviously he spent little in the way of servants. The roof on his home needed repair, weeds choked his garden, his horses were thin, and the sandstone wall encircling his property bore innumerable cracks and gouges. I wondered where he hoarded his rupees and gold.
“Damn these oranges,” my husband said, his beady eyes shrinking. “Must they be so small?” Glaring at me, he added, “Must all my fruits taste so bland?”
I knew he referred to my listlessness in bed but pretended not to catch his meaning. “Perhaps your fruits,” I replied, “deserve more care.”
“Are you, woman, an expert in such matters? Is your experience so vast?”
“What matters, lord? I know only that your trees are dying.”
He turned in his chair to stare at his orchard. Many trees—mainly apple, orange, pear and cherry—dotted his land. Though summer was in full stride and each branch should yield a substantial harvest, all held sickly fruit and yellowed leaves.
“Do you have a gardener?” I asked, suspecting he was too tightfisted to employ one.
“What good are gardeners? How hard is it to water and pluck?” He belched again. “Too hard for you, I imagine.”
I rose from the table, my heart hastening. I had spent countless afternoons in gardens and believed I understood why his trees ailed. “If I tell you how to save them, my lord, would that be worth something to you?”
“How dare—”
“Worth a simple ride on a horse?”
He swatted at a wasp. “On a nag.”
“Then call your servants.”
Unlike servants found in other palaces, the men my husband hailed didn’t wear eye-pleasing tunics, but patched and moth-eaten garb. As they assembled by our table, I pointed to the smallest and sickest tree. “Please, pull it out.” They looked to their master for confirmation and he cursed them, motioning that they do as I commanded. The servants moved to the tree, which was no taller than they, and carefully withdrew it from the soil. “Come here, my lord.” I said, walking to the sapling. I knelt to the ground and inserted my finger into the wet soil. When I smelled my finger I was reminded of a decaying beast. “Do you smell that?” I asked, sticking my hand before his bulbous, vein-infested nose.
Khondamir grimaced, stepping back. “What does it mean?”
“It means, my lord, that you water the trees too much and that their roots rot.”
“Well, woman, must I put words in your mouth? What can be done?”
Isn’t it obvious, fool? I thought, savoring his ignorance. “Stop watering them. Stop for at least ten days. Then, if Allah smiles upon you, they should recover.”
Khondamir grunted before yelling at his servant
s for their ignorance. He told one to prepare the stable’s oldest horse. “Go,” he said to me.
Thrilled to be rid of him, I hurried to my room and changed clothes, opting for a simple brown robe. I also removed my jewels. Not trusting Khondamir, I lifted a brick from the floor, dug a small hole in the dirt beneath, and set my ornaments there. The brick I replaced and the dirt I dropped into a potted plant.
Not bothering to tell my husband good-bye, I walked to the mount, a ragged creature far along in years. Once, it must have been a fine horse. Though malnourished, the large mare still stood proud. I caressed her brow, then noticed that the servant had placed an expensive saddle on her.
“He said an old horse, my lady, but not an old saddle,” the man whispered.
I smiled, and climbed atop her. “Thank you. Thank you so much.” I handed him a coin, which disappeared into his tattered tunic. “Dry the trees well,” I added, “or I fear we’ll both be in trouble.”
He untied my mount and handed me the reins. “My lord always said to water them twice a day,” he replied, not hiding his glee.
I grinned, bade him farewell, and spurred the mare forward. She didn’t seem to mind my weight and sauntered down a well-beaten and dusty path that led to the Red Fort. Though my family was gone, I relished the notion of seeing Ladli. I had last spoken to her on the day of my wedding and I longed to hear of the happenings in her life, as well as in the Empire.
I passed many homes along the way. The most elaborate works were comprised of sandstone bricks. Poorer structures were bound with no more than mud, wood and thatch. The path itself was lined with palm trees and the occasional beggar. I dropped coins to several, though when too many ragged men followed me, I wished them well and urged my horse ahead.
The path turned into a road, which I soon shared with merchants, priests and soldiers. A column of warriors headed south, and I suspected they would rendezvous with Father’s forces. The men wore leather armor studded with short iron spikes. A few carried muskets, though most bore bows and quivers of arrows. Elephants plodded behind them, pulling carts laden with shields, helmets and other supplies. Black cannons, as long and thick as a man, trailed several of the beasts.
