Beneath a Marble Sky

by John Shors

  “For God loves those who do good,” the Qur’an says.

  In the wake of my beating, I’d never have named myself as a doer of good, but I liked to think that before I died, much decency would come of my life. And so I tried to offset my mistakes with notions of the good I’d create. Yes, I had endangered my friend for a selfish cause. And yes, the poor had benefited little from my presence.

  But I’d endangered Ladli only by having tried to save the boy. I had always treated the poor kindly, and in the future I’d seek to find them work at the mausoleum. For surely a man who has labored for his bread shall sleep better than a man who has been given his. And surely any man having worked on the mausoleum would feel closer, whether Muslim or Hindu, to Allah or his gods.

  I often explored such thoughts as I healed from Khondamir’s blows. Following that first night with Isa, I returned to the Red Fort and withdrew to my room. It was a fortuitous time to rest, because not two days after my beating began Islam’s Month of Blessing, known throughout the land as Ramadan.

  Some ten centuries before, during the ninth month of the lunar year, a caravan trader named Muhammad wandered the desert near Mecca while pondering his faith. One night the angel Gabriel whispered to him that he had been chosen to receive the words of Allah. In the following days, Muhammad found himself speaking the verses that were later transcribed into the Qur’an.

  Since the Prophet Muhammad’s enlightenment, Muslims have always celebrated Ramadan by forgoing any sort of indulgence. For instance, we renounce food and drink from dawn until dusk for the entire month. Allah, we knew through Muhammad’s words in the Qur’an, expected this sacrifice. Fasting, He said, made us appreciate the poor’s suffering, as well as learn the peace that accompanies spiritual devotion.

  And so I fasted and healed in my room. I recited one-thirtieth of the Qur’an each day until I finished the scripture. By the end of Ramadan, celebrated with the festival of Eid al-Fitr, I was fully recovered. While Muslims throughout Agra hung lanterns and decorations from their homes, and dressed in their finest clothes, I ate dates with Father and watched our city sparkle through the night.

  The very next day I revisited my duties. Despite the success of my ruse with Aurangzeb, I was careful in the coming months, because Khondamir never forgave me and punished me whenever possible. His beatings, praise Allah, were much less severe than what I’d endured that awful afternoon. I think Khondamir realized—though he’d drink boiling wax before admitting it—that I could have gone to my father after his assault and the Emperor would have made him disappear. Consequently, my husband treated me more like a slave and less like a criminal.

  As my scars faded into thin lines, the cool winds of fall transformed into the hot air of summer and then the driving monsoon rains. Only three seasons visit Agra. Each is sacred in its own way, though none more than the season of the monsoon, for these rains usher life to our crops. And it was during the monsoon of my twenty-first year that I found myself on a barge with Isa, Nizam, and a group of trusted craftsmen.

  During the previous months I had been forced to see Isa only at the site, as meeting elsewhere was simply too dangerous. Though Aurangzeb was rarely in Agra due to the fighting at our borders, I was certain he had spies among our workers. In fact, Ladli had told me so at a clandestine meeting. She didn’t know the names of our watchers but could say with certainty that several existed. They were ordered to record my actions, as well as document the expenses we incurred.

  It was no secret that Aurangzeb abhorred the amount of rupees spent on the mausoleum’s construction. After all, he wanted money for his army, money to expand the Empire. Yet the treasury was being depleted by the staggering costs of our project. Apart from the vast amount of materials necessary, we employed twenty-two thousand laborers. Aurangzeb, and many nobles, wanted to levy additional taxes on the Hindu majority to help pay for the mausoleum, but Father, at Dara’s insistence, rejected such a policy.

  My life became more complicated. Though I thought often of Isa and our night together, I was careful never to reveal my affection for him. Indeed, we spent innumerable days together overseeing work on the gardens, the main gate, or the immense marble platform on which the mausoleum would sit. Thousands of men constantly buzzed around us, and we could never be certain which eyes endeavored to dislodge our secrets.

  Fortunately, we did have a few craftsmen we could trust. These men —each a friend of Isa’s—had accompanied us to Delhi, where we were to fill our barge with a load of white marble. Immense teams of oxen had pulled our vessel, and six similar barges, upriver on the long journey. Loading these awkward boats was an arduous and dangerous process, and Isa wanted to be present so that he could train his men to safely conduct such undertakings. Fourteen workers had already died building the mausoleum, and Isa felt accountable to each of their families. I’d given the grief-stricken widows enough gold to last a lifetime but knew all too well that some things were irreplaceable.

  The trip was my first to Delhi, and I marveled at its sights. After visiting my sisters, I explored our northern city in earnest. A sprawling hub of commerce and religion, Delhi abounded with mosques and temples. The mosques were built to accommodate enormous congregations and boasted vaulted ceilings, domes covered in turquoise tiles and stone lattice windows. The temples were smaller and much greater in number, resembling piles of painted earth, often pink and covered with bright renderings of Hindu gods. The temples’ interiors were grotto-like environs where the sounds of bells and chants echoed eerily.

  The bazaars of Delhi were highly impressive, especially the new Chandi Chowk, or Moonlit Square. Though laborers hadn’t completely dressed the area with yellow sandstone, nor finished its decorative pool, Chandi Chowk already bustled with merchants, artisans and buyers. As the monsoon season was unpredictable, giant canvas awnings covered the square, sheltering its patrons from sudden cloudbursts. Beneath these restless canopies merchants hawked Chinese porcelain, sitars, bolts of velvet, cashmere carpets and weapons of all sorts. For the right price exotic animals could be purchased—monkeys and mynah birds, and even a baby white elephant.

  Artisans were showcased at Chandi Chowk, and their wares rivaled anything found in Agra. Jewelers offered brilliant settings of every stone. Silversmiths polished candelabras, mirrors, vases and platters. Masters of marble, gold, cloth, clay and wood also displayed their creations. Most prominent were painters, as no more revered a craft existed. These weathered men stood before easels and brushed lifelike images onto canvas. While the men were of average make and mold, their images of cranes, flowers, emperors, battles, festivals and lovers were magnificent.

  Unknown as a princess in Delhi, I walked through such squares like an ordinary woman. The experience was both exciting and illuminating. I haggled for the first time and bought fresh pineapple and wine for Isa’s men. They loved me more for the wine.

  It took seven days to load all the barges, seven days spent amid gentle rains and muddied skies. I was in charge of recording the amount of marble purchased and ensuring that we were never cheated. Isa showed me how to reject faulty pieces—marble that was cracked, marred with unsightly sediment, or weighed too little. I rejected perhaps one slab in five and the quarry’s owner soon took a dislike to me. Suspicious of his schemes, I focused on measuring the cuts of stone and not my proximity to Isa.

  At sunset each day Isa and I were able to dine alone. We wandered the streets of Delhi searching for new dishes. I liked few of the concoctions but found pleasure in sitting beneath marble pavilions with Isa at my side. Sometimes, after wine emboldened us, we flirted as a young couple might. We whispered and grinned and touched. We gazed. We longed.

  I wanted our time in Delhi to last forever. Though Muslim women were condemned to lives of subservience, no one I feared resided here and thus I could act myself. Some nights I imagined Isa as my husband. I pretended that only this world existed
, that Khondamir, duty and pain were but words without meanings. Alongside Isa, I could fool myself into believing such notions. He made doing so easy, for his presence fueled my mind with a fervent, buoyant energy that I hadn’t known before we met.

  What can I say other than he was one of those rare people who made everyone around him feel better? No, he rather made everyone feel important. If the most junior worker had a suggestion, Isa pondered its merits. If his most trusted mason had a complaint, Isa devised a resolution. Unlike almost all men of rank, Isa listened to those beneath him. He listened with immense care, as if your words carried weight, as if your thoughts were of consequence. And when he responded, his insight and sensitivity were sometimes startling.

  While most of Isa’s men embraced him for his utter lack of conceit, those with us in Delhi held him in even higher esteem. I did my best to befriend these men, these masons with their scarred arms and sharp eyes. Treating them as a mother might, I gently bound their wounds and cooked them hearty meals. I was next to worthless in the kitchen but overcame this shortcoming by serving ample amounts of wine before dinner. The workers sang and gambled, and I told them stories of life as a princess. By the third night they adored me, and I considered them friends.

  Nizam, who had been surrounded by women most of his life, also took to these men. They didn’t disrespect him the way the nobles he was accustomed to did. To his credit, he lent his considerable muscles to aid them whenever possible. Soon they joked with him about life in the harem and inquired as to which concubine might be burdened by its tedium. My childhood companion, always so guarded, lowered his defenses in their presence. Through these holes I caught glimpses of his true self.

  One afternoon, in the middle of prayer, I saw him smile. Later, I asked him why he’d grinned. He replied, “Because, my lady, I was thanking Allah for this trip.”

  “Thanking Him?”

  His gaze rested on me for a heartbeat, then traveled about the river. “This morning, as it rained, I walked along the water’s edge. I saw a pink lotus.”

  I imagined him studying the flower, savoring his freedom. “I’m glad, Nizam, to see you so happy. You deserve this much more than anyone.” He shrugged, but his eyes, when they finally settled on mine, hinted of agreement. Though his right eye was slightly oversized for his face, I saw beauty in its design. “Nizam,” I said quietly, thinking that I was undeserving of such a friend, “I’ll grant you freedom, if that’s what you want.”

  “Freedom?”

  “Yes. You can leave me now.”

  “But I’m a—”

  “Slave?” I interrupted. “No. You’re a man, a good man. And you’ve served me enough.” I paused, displeased with myself that I had waited so long to utter these words. What right had I to oversee a man like Nizam? “You should go,” I said. “There’s little for you here.”

  Nizam straightened, as if my suggestion had given him pride, an emotion he rarely experienced. “Thank you, my lady. But my place is by your side. There I have freedom.”

  “But not true freedom. For you may be free to come and go but many still treat you as a slave.”

  “Let them, my lady. I wasn’t born a slave. And I won’t die as one.”

  I suddenly wanted to hug him but knew he’d be embarrassed by the gesture. And so I bowed slightly. “But understand, my friend, that you can leave whenever you wish. I’ll give you a pouch of gold and you can disappear.”

  “Perhaps I will someday.”

  I smiled and left him. He seemed at ease that evening, and as we departed for Agra he sang a song that Dara had written, sang it in a voice as deep as distant thunder. The song told the story of Shiva, and our workers, mostly Hindu, hummed with him. They stuck bamboo poles into the river’s muddy bottom to his cadence, pushing our craft into the water’s embrace.

  The darkness thickened, despite the lanterns burning at our bow. Isa hadn’t wanted to leave so late, but the journey would take a full night and day, and tonight was cloudless—such windows were rare during the monsoon. Two men were stationed at the bow, and they occasionally stopped humming to shout warnings to our captain. He was a veteran of the river and knew its contours as if they were the faces of his children. The captain, who refrained from drink that night, often put his own weight against a stout pole connected to the steering rudder. The barge responded grudgingly to his motions, sagging with the frightful amount of marble.

  “Keep a good lookout, men!” Isa shouted over the length of the barge. “If we meet no snags you’ll have an extra day’s wages!”

  Someone cheered at the notion of more rupees for his pocket. Then the night stilled. I stood next to Isa and wordlessly he led me up the stacked marble until we were atop the pile. Below us burnt eight lanterns which silhouetted the figures of our men. No one slept that night, for we had to stay alert. Fortunately, the Yamuna River boasted a wide and deep channel for most of its length. Barring a mistake, we should encounter no mishaps.

  Isa unrolled a sleeping carpet and spread it on the marble. We sat, inhaling the fragrance of the air, which was fertile with fresh rain and damp leaves. A spattering of stars flickered above. Occasionally we passed a fisherman’s fire, or the silhouette of a home. For the most part, however, the only life we glimpsed was that of nature. Birds cried and fish splashed. Somewhere a tiger bellowed.

  I gazed at Isa, cherishing what I saw. He wore an unadorned yellow tunic, as well as a white sash and turban. He hadn’t trimmed his beard in more than a week, and it was quite unruly, contrasting with his face’s angular features. “Thank you for bringing me,” I said quietly. I sensed that he wanted to reach out to me, but because we hadn’t touched since that night in his bungalow, he held back. “What occupies your mind, Isa?”

  A star fell across the heavens, and I wondered if it was a good omen. “I was thinking,” he whispered, “that it would be nice to stay with you in Delhi. If not for the mausoleum, I’d surely be tempted.”

  “We would have nothing.”

  “Nothing, Swallow, or everything?”

  I edged toward him. “Tell me what we’d have.”

  He had never spoken of his yearning for me, though he had hinted of it many times. Even now, he hesitated, as if by revealing his feelings he might somehow dishonor me. “You’d have…my love. I could offer nothing more.”

  I shivered. I had longed to hear such words for so many months. I’d prayed to hear them but never expected to be so blessed. “Then let’s turn around, leave Agra forever.”

  “Would you do that?”

  I paused. “Truly? I don’t know. My father and brother need me. How can I place my…” I was fearful of hurting him, fearful of speaking the wrong words. “How could I place my love for you, as noble as it is, above my duty to them? To the Empire? And how could you leave your work, a project that’s far more important than I?”

  Isa put his arm around my shoulder and held me tight. “I do love you.”

  “And I you.”

  My heart quickened when I thought he’d kiss me. Instead, he looked to the stars. “Do you know, Jahanara, what I think of when I design? I think of you. I hold your face in my mind and seek to mimic its loveliness. I remember the shape of your body and try to equal its brilliance.”

  “You do?” I asked, immensely surprised.

  “I watch how the sun reflects off your cheek, and I build so that the sun will dance off the marble in the same manner. I survive your absence in my heart, not having you as the mother of my children, by shaping stone in your image.”

  “Not my mother’s?”

  “No,” he whispered, then sighed. “I can’t share my love with you as I’m supposed to, the way a man shares such love with his wife. And so I build. I build to honor you, because this is the only way that I can love you, by sharing my love with the world. The first stone I laid had your name chise
led into its underside and the last—please grant me this wish, Allah—shall carry both our names.”

  I kissed him. When our lips met he was so startled that he froze. But then, like the river around us, he swirled about me and I felt as if my world were spinning. His lips were soft against mine and his hands caressed my face. I muttered his name and he kissed my eyes, my forehead and my lips again.

  He groaned slightly before breaking away. The scent of him—a sweetness that might have been lemon juice—was gone. “This can’t be,” he said. “We have too much…far too much to lose.”

  I set my head on his shoulder, though I desired above all else to kiss him again. “I love you. I love you and I long for you.” I grew silent, wishing that thoughts of want didn’t mingle with those of fear. “And yet…”

  “What, Swallow?”

  “And yet I worry. I worry what our love might bring. I worry that we’re doomed.”

  Chapter 9

  A Sense of Love

  On the day that would ultimately serve to change my life, I stood staring at our creation. We were well into our fourth year of construction and the parcel of land was beginning to resemble something of beauty. To the far south stood the recently finished main gate. The height of thirty men, it was composed completely of red sandstone.

  Beyond the gate to the north stretched the ornamental gardens. Since the Qur’an described four rivers flowing within Paradise, Isa had decided to mimic Paradise’s loveliness by using two intersecting channels of water to create four identical sections of land. In the center of the four squares sat a round pool, made of white marble and containing koi. The surrounding plots of land were planted thickly with saplings, which would stretch into cypress and fruit trees by the time we finished the main structure. Under their canopies, flowers would blossom.