Beneath a Marble Sky

by John Shors

  “What happens?” Father exclaimed, hurrying to the physician’s side.

  “The child is twisted, and too large for the birthing canal. He tears her and she bleeds to death.”

  Father staggered. “Then shed her of him now,” he wailed.

  Mother’s cries weakened. Her eyes started to wander. “Hurry, Father!” I shrieked. “You must do something!”

  Father pushed the old man aside and knelt before her. “Tell me what to do.” As the physician explained how to reposition the child, Father yanked off his rings and eased his fingers into her passage. He tried to be gentle, his face contorting with consternation. Father wasn’t able to turn the baby, but suddenly the child dropped free, the cord tight around his neck. He was bloody and beautiful and lifeless. Father carefully set him aside. “Make the bleeding stop,” he beseeched the physician, who applied clean linen to the opening. The cloth quickly reddened.

  “I’m sorry, my lord. She has little time left.”

  “No!” Father wailed. “You must do something!”

  “She is in Allah’s hands. Not mine.”

  Father fell beside her, weeping, and called her name. “Please, no!”

  Her eyes flickered, and then a spasm of hurt encompassed her. “Hush, love,” she mumbled.

  “Please, Allah,” he pleaded. “Please, please, please let her live. Take me instead. Please take me.”

  My tears mingled with his upon her face. “You must…you must stay with us, Mother.”

  Her head wobbled and she tried to smile. “I…fall asleep.”

  The physician and his midwives left the tent. I kissed her brow fiercely, clinging to her as I had to that log in the river. “Please don’t go,” I begged, my world dying with her.

  “Come closer,” she said, her lips scarcely moving.

  I leaned forward until my face was a hand’s breadth from hers. “Stay.”

  “I…need you.”

  “Me?” I asked.

  She tried to raise her head, and I bent even lower. Mother twisted so that her mouth was against my ear. “Watch over him,” she whispered faintly.

  “But, Moth—”

  “You are strong enough…more than strong enough.”

  “No, I want you here. You should be here.”

  “Please.”

  “You can’t leave!”

  “Please, Jahanara.”

  Her eyes were unguarded, and despite my overwhelming grief, I recognized her distress. I looked to Father, who knelt with his head upon her feet. “I’ll try,” I promised, my voice choked with tears.

  “I love you. And I’m proud, so very, very proud of you.” She motioned for me to kiss her. Holding her tightly, I touched her lips with my own, feeling the warmth of her, not wanting to let go. I finally withdrew for Father. He kissed her more gently than I, and when he eased away, she smiled. “My love?”

  “Yes?”

  “Will you…” She seemed to fade and return much weaker. “Will you grant me favors?” He could only nod. The power of speech seemed to have left him. “First,” she continued, “always…care for our children. And second, fall in love again.”

  “No, my love is with you.”

  She feebly shook her head. “Then build me something…something beautiful. And visit my tomb…on the anniversary of my death.”

  “I shall,” he said, weeping like a child.

  She seemed to gulp for air. “Let me die…feeling you…touching you.”

  He leaned down. Cradling her, he whispered, “I’ll always be with you, my love of all loves.” Her lips quivered, but no sound came forth. “Always, my love,” he whimpered. “Always.”

  Then he kissed her. He held her long and soon she did not stir.

  We cried together.

  And the sky wept with us.

  Part 2

  Those who believe in the Qur’an,

  And those who follow the Jewish scriptures,

  And the Christians and the Sabians,

  And who believe in God, and the Last Day

  And work righteousness

  Shall have their reward.

  They shall have nothing to fear,

  nor will they sorrow.

  —The Qur’an

  A cup of chai cools in my hands. A breeze gathers in the distance, unsettling tranquil waters. Though I am a hard woman with a barbed tongue, I’m still sentimental and prone to the welling of emotion. And breezes, especially those rising from beyond the Taj Mahal, can make tears bloom within me. For breezes remind me of kisses.

  And kisses can be eternal.

  “What happened, Jaha,” Gulbadan asks quietly, “after she died?”

  I force a memory aside. “My father,” I say, “locked himself in a small room and wouldn’t show himself to anyone. Not even me.” I pause, recalling how profoundly I had wanted to comfort him. Of course, I needed him also, for my sorrow was unyielding. I longed to sense his love for me, even if it were nothing compared to his feelings for Mother. “We heard him weeping and praying without end,” I add distantly, setting down my cup. “When he finally emerged after two weeks, his eyes were so red and damaged from weeping that from then on he had to wear spectacles.”

  “Truly?” Rurayya asks, her young voice cracking, her hand reaching out for mine.

  “Indeed, child. Father emerged from that room a changed man. Part of him was broken, and he would never love again.” I squeeze Rurayya’s fingers, stroking them with my thumb. As a young woman, I couldn’t have grasped the totality of Father’s loss. But I do now. For I feel that grief is the most potent of all emotions, save love.

  “But then he began to build,” Gulbadan offers.

  “Yes,” I reply, and my mind sweetens. “To build a monument fit for his love, he called upon the Empire’s greatest architect, a young man who could transform jade into flowers, marble into paradise.”

  “And who was he?”

  “Isa. Isa was everything.”

  Chapter 6

  The Truth of Dreams

  The Peacock Throne still glittered, but the man atop it did not.

  Sunlight slanted into the Diwan-i Am through its many windows. Yet dimness prevailed here, for no candles burned. The room was empty aside from Father, Dara and myself. Since Mother’s death, Aurangzeb had been given partial control of the military and now probed north into enemy territory, a masterless land that always encroached upon ours.

  We had so many enemies in those days. Northward flourished the dreaded Persians, who sought to expand their empire. Southward lay the Deccan, a part of Hindustan but governed by an iron-fisted sultan who fought for independence. Other foes nipped at our flanks—fierce Rajput clans to the west and Christians from beyond our shores.

  Aurangzeb fought them all.

  Father, meanwhile, was a shadow of the man I once knew. His white tunic, the color of mourning, was stained and his hair was unkempt. In the moon since Mother had died, the only thing he had done was to buy a colossal parcel of land near the river. Upon this land his wife would rest eternally.

  I still found it nearly impossible to imagine Mother as dead. I awoke each morning expecting to see her and, after recalling that she was gone, met the day reluctantly. I opened books but couldn’t read. I ate delicacies but didn’t taste. Each thought of her provoked a longing—an empty, lifeless ache that I’d never known. Her death seemed immensely unjust and I struggled to find meaning in her absence. But without her to guide me, I saw it in nothing.

  She had asked me to be strong, and so I endeavored to help Father, spending as much time as possible with him. We prayed together. We grieved together. And when our mood was right, we whispered of memories.

  “Father,” Dara said, disrupting my thoughts, “you must hold your sessions in court agai
n. The Empire can endure your absence no longer.” In the empty Diwan-i Am, his words reverberated eerily. “Besides, I need your help.”

  Father seemed unwilling to hear him. When he finally spoke I was somewhat surprised. “The nobles,” he predicated, “shall do as you say. They know you stand to inherit the throne, and they’ll flock to curry your favor.”

  “But my influence will swell with you behind me.”

  “And behind you I’ll be,” he replied forlornly. He adjusted his silver-rimmed spectacles before rubbing his nose. “Even a swan, though I’m told they mate for life, can’t mourn forever.”

  “The nobles—”

  “For now, Dara, I leave you to your own devices. You attend to their squabbles. You deal with your brother’s reports on the wars.”

  “But he tells me nothing.”

  “Jahanara,” Father said, “will help me with the mausoleum. Once it is under construction, she’ll oversee the project while I return to my duties.”

  Though sorrow still assailed me, I sought to brighten for his sake, and I was eager to help. “Where do we begin, Father?”

  A faint smile, so at odds with his demeanor, appeared. “Patience, my child.” He called out and a royal guard entered the room. “Bring in Ustad Isa.”

  Ustad means “master” in Persian, and I knew the man would be some kind of builder, perhaps a sculptor or a calligrapher. I expected a wrinkled figure to enter slowly, but when the doors opened a different apparition strode forward. My first impression was that of a hawk. The man’s face was narrow—but keen and not cruel. His eyebrows were arched, his eyes bold, and his nose slightly hooked. He had high, defined cheekbones that were obscured partially by a well-kept beard. A tall man, unusually so, he possessed a thin, tapered frame taut with muscles. He was not dressed in brilliant attire, as men of rank came before the Emperor, but wore the simple tunic of a laborer.

  “Welcome, Ustad Isa,” Father said, rising from his throne.

  The young man bowed. “I am honored, my lord.”

  Father waved dismissively. He slipped on his sandals and stepped toward our visitor. “The honor is mine. Your works grace my land and your fame precedes you.”

  “My fame, my lord, is fleeting,” the stranger replied softly. “Only the stones shall remember me.”

  Father shook his head so vigorously that for a moment I forgot about his sorrow. “This man, my children, is remembered by more than his stones. He creates mosques and forts that aren’t buildings, but tapestries of rock. And if my sources are correct, he’s been contracted to build the palaces of enough nobles to last him a lifetime.”

  “I’m blessed, my lord.”

  “Are you? Are you, indeed?” Father placed his arm around the man’s shoulders, an act I had never seen him commit. “But is a poet blessed if he owns no ink, or a musician blessed if he grasps no instrument?” The stranger started to speak, but Father continued. “Would you like, Isa, to build something grand, something that shall remain when your bones are but dust?”

  The architect turned to Father. “Might I ask…” he paused. Though he appeared confident, his voice was subdued, seeming to disagree with his disposition. “What might this something be, my lord?”

  “The Rauza-i Munavvara.”

  “The…Tomb of Light?”

  “I want you to build a mausoleum for my wife,” Father said, clasping his hands as he mentioned Mother. For a heartbeat I feared he might cry, but he straightened, overpowering his emotions. “When you finish, I expect it to be the most beautiful structure in the world, for she was certainly the most beautiful woman.”

  A silence rose. Pigeons cooed outside the room’s windows, which were an intricate stone lattice. I noticed that the stranger sweated. “Such a thing, my lord,” he replied, “would take years, perhaps decades, to create. It would demand thousands of men and—”

  “You’ll have your years and your men.”

  “And how would it look?” he asked quickly, and I sensed his budding excitement.

  “Most of Agra is red, but I’m weary of sandstone, for it’s the color of blood. No, this building shall be white, the brilliant white of marble. White and only white. And it should resemble a woman, capturing her grace, her splendor—the majesty of Allah’s finest creation.”

  “But what, my lord, of my contracts?”

  Father pretended to tear imaginary paper. “Nothing to me. I’ll buy them all.”

  “And where might this mausoleum rest?”

  “Here. On the old polo grounds.”

  Ustad Isa hurried past Dara to a nearby window. On the opposite end of our crescent-shaped city, directly upon the river, stretched a vast track of land where until recently only polo matches occurred. Our visitor tugged at his beard and I could almost hear him thinking. “I’d require twenty thousand men, my lord. Within three months.”

  “Can you build so soon?”

  “I’ll need a foundation, my lord. A structure to bear an immense load.” The architect eagerly whispered something before twisting again at his beard. I wondered if he had forgotten that the Empress was dead. He seemed far too pleased, considering that he had been summoned to build a mausoleum. “Before I can start,” he said softly, yet suddenly, “I require one more thing.”

  “And that is?”

  “A painting of your wife, when her beauty was the fullest.”

  Father’s smile was somewhat forced. “I can offer more. For my daughter, Jahanara, shall assist you on this project. And her face is a mirror of her mother’s.”

  While this compliment wasn’t quite true, I blushed nonetheless. Ustad Isa did me further honor by replying, “Then it will be a wondrous sight, for surely your wife must have made poets smile.”

  “Good,” Father proclaimed. “Jahanara will be the link between us, as unfortunately, I’ve an empire to govern. But listen to her counsel wisely, Isa, for she is as clever as a crocodile in a waterhole.” Most men would bristle at being told to listen to a woman, but the stranger only nodded. Father turned to me. “You’ll live closer to the site in the Red Fort until the mausoleum is complete. Naturally, you’re to visit your husband whenever possible.”

  It took me a moment to digest his words. As much as I rejoiced at the thought of escaping Khondamir, I was afraid of making my father an enemy of my husband. “Perhaps,” I said, “you should pay my husband for my services. A bag of gold should keep him pleased.”

  When Father next spoke, his eyes unexpectedly swelled with tears. “You see, Isa, how my wife lives in her?” Ustad Isa said something in reply, but I watched Father. “Oh, sweet Mumtaz Mahal,” he whispered, “how I miss you.”

  I had never heard him call her this before. It meant “Chosen of the Palace,” and I realized it must have been a secret term betweem them. As Father turned away and moved toward a window, Dara had the decency to signal us to follow him. Ustad Isa and I left the Emperor alone with his grief.

  Dara hurried to attend the nobles’ needs. The architect bade me farewell, and then, perhaps trying to memorize my face, stared at me until I grew painfully self-conscious. “It will be beautiful, my lady,” he promised. “As beautiful a sight as the world has ever seen.”

  I watched him stride down a crowded street, noting how tall he looked amid his countrymen. He started to twist around but must have thought better of it, for he turned instead into an alley and vanished.

  In the ensuing days my life gradually improved.

  As I expected, Khondamir was enraged when I told him I was to live in the Red Fort. He slapped me before I was able to withdraw a heavy gold necklace from my robe and drop it at his feet. I also tossed him a pair of rubies and an emerald-encrusted dagger.

  “He vastly overvalues your wisdom,” Khondamir said, picking up the items, unable to restrain his glee.

  “He is
the Emperor,” I mumbled, my cheek already throbbing. “Perhaps his judgment is keener than yours.”

  That remark earned me another cuff, but his vexation was worth the pain. He came to my bed with more violence than usual that night, but having guessed his intentions, I’d smeared goat’s blood between my legs. While he cursed my timing and ranted about his disgust, I smiled surreptitiously. How little such fools knew of women’s bodies, I thought.

  The following morning I wished him farewell. I was given an apartment high in the Red Fort, a sanctuary boasting a magnificent view of the river and much of Agra. The room was small, but its dimensions were somehow reassuring. I made it as comfortable as possible over the next few days.

  The second time I met Ustad Isa was near the river, upon the large swath of land Father had purchased. It was an ideal place to build the mausoleum. Palaces of the nobility bordered it to the east, west and south. To the north coursed the Yamuna River. Farther northwest sprawled Agra and then the Red Fort.

  Alone I made the long walk to the site, retracing countless steps I had taken with Mother. After passing beyond the Red Fort’s walls I entered a network of crowded streets. Single-story buildings bordered these passages, the buildings being the only objects present that didn’t walk, trot or hop. Aside from the usual sights, I witnessed a trio of Chinese traders heatedly arguing with the proprietor of a silk shop. Though the dark-skinned local towered over the Chinese and shouted so quickly that they had no possibility of understanding him, his hostility seemed to embolden the foreigners. Wearing yellow tunics and hats resembling overturned goblets, they pointed to bolts of fabric and spoke in broken and accented sentences.