by John Shors
The tiles in Khondamir’s washing room needed replacing, but the floor and walls were clean. A servant girl brought me three buckets of warm water. She was a pretty child of less than fourteen and I considered whether Khondamir had bedded her. After all, men such as him never hired unattractive women as servants. And surely older and more versed servants could better meet household needs.
After soaking myself under a bucket of water, I scrubbed vigorously with a hemp cloth. How good it felt to clean the day’s grime from me. I had heard that Europeans never bathed and was repulsed by the notion, certain that they must reek like animals. Before slipping into a sleeping robe, I rubbed ambergris, a perfume created from the oils of giant whales, against my body. I also chewed cloves to sweeten my breath.
Finally ready, I sat on his thick carpet. I asked for a goblet of wine, remembering how it had dulled my senses during my wedding night. That eve already seemed distant, as if but the dream of a terrified girl. I recalled surprisingly few details, except for the feeling of fire between my thighs.
Khondamir returned home well past dusk. He grunted when he eyed me. “Well, woman, what brings you here? Run out of gold?”
I smiled, praying that my plan would work. “I was with my astrologer, my lord, and he said that tonight would be auspicious.” Though many Hindustanis were dependent upon astrology, Khondamir scoffed. He started to undress, carefully setting his jewels aside. I stepped closer to him. “Last night, my lord, I saw the lucky star of Canopus. My astronomer claimed it was a good omen.”
“For you to grow younger? To sprout fuller breasts?”
“For becoming pregnant,” I replied patiently, “because I was thinking about your son when I looked to the sky.”
Khondamir might have despised me, but he couldn’t easily dismiss the words of a court astronomer. “But you’re as barren as the desert. The driest, most lifeless desert in all of Hindustan.”
“True,” I agreed, trying to hide my distaste. “But later, I went to my doctor. When I told him what my astronomer said, he offered a remedy.”
“Am I to pour water on you?”
What a simple tadpole you are, I thought. “He told me that a meal of bull’s testicles would give your seed the strength it needed.”
Khondamir actually paused, his bloated face tightening with interest. “I’ve heard of this remedy. But could it work on such a dead womb?”
“He thinks so. And earlier today, I had the biggest bull in my father’s herd butchered. He had already sired many a calf.”
A glint of respect showed in my husband’s eyes. Or perhaps my mind was playing tricks, for the wine toyed with my senses. “You brought its balls?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“I’ll have my cook prepare them in the old way,” he said proudly, as if it were all his idea. “Then we’ll see if this astronomer of yours is worth the rupees you wasted on him.”
I sipped more wine as he disappeared. I tried to think of Isa but found that his memory was tainted by these doings. Knowing that I’d go to him tomorrow night and make love to him, I felt like a courtesan. Who but such an escort would bed two men in the space of a day? And how could Isa ever forgive my promiscuity?
These thoughts angered me, for men who warmed many beds were congratulated, while a husband could legally burn alive an unfaithful wife. Why had Allah, in all His wisdom, allowed this injustice? Did He truly create us as playthings for our mates? If not, how then had He allowed men to mold us, as if clay, into what they wanted?
Someday, I promised myself, Khondamir would respect me. Though I’d never be seen or treated as his equal, he would become an instrument of my design. While he slept with scores of young women, and treated me like dust, ultimately I’d control his house, his wealth and his mind.
Khondamir was quite drunk when he finally returned. “Pray, woman, that your astrologer was right,” he stammered. “Or I’ll leave you for more fertile grounds.”
I knew this threat was a lie, for he would never discard the Emperor’s daughter. “It shall work,” I said simply.
His breath, when it fell on me, reeked of his meal. Let it soon be over, I thought, sickened by him. Moaning to increase his desire, I closed my eyes and imagined I was somewhere else. The sun rose, and Isa and I stood before the Taj Mahal. Its face reflected the crimson light, glowing like a magical ember. Isa had his hand on my shoulder and I held our infant to my chest.
Even if the image were a dream—for we could never stand openly in such a manner—it comforted me. I no longer thought of the sweating, stinking man atop me, but of my lover and the child we might soon create.
Such a child was worth most any price.
· · ·
Over the next moon, I visited Isa almost every eve. Allaying my fears, he seemed to care little that I shared myself between two men. And, thankfully, encounters with my husband dwelt less in my mind as the days passed, for I rarely returned to his house. Though he remained in Agra longer than customary, he protested my absence with feigned vigor and I suspected that the servant girl pleased him well into the nights. Her young body was doubtless more responsive to his than mine.
I hoped I was still attractive, but men rarely looked at me at twenty-two years of age with the same lust as they’d exhibited when I was sixteen. Fortunately, Isa was another matter. He eagerly awaited my arrival each night and basked in my presence. We made love on many, but certainly not all, of our evenings together. Sometimes we simply spoke in the darkness, or worked by candlelight on his drawings. He explained architecture to me as if I were an equal, and I did my best to acquire his knowledge. I was always an apt pupil in mathematics and often surprised him with how fast I could calculate the weight a column might bear, or the amount of marble needed to dress an arch.
Those nights were precious.
We worried only slightly about the constant danger of discovery. Once, when I returned later than usual to Mother’s room, a servant had knocked, and not hearing me answer, became worried. When I finally returned, she was pounding on the door. Pretending that too much wine was within me, I staggered from my quarters. She must have thought me a louse, for she never came so early again.
Because of our nights spent talking, I was often tired during the day. I completed the tasks Isa assigned me, but still my energy lagged. Isa finally noticed my lethargy and forbade me to visit him for several nights. In his absence, I slept as a growing girl might, a dreamless slumber as thick as yogurt.
While the Taj Mahal continued to flow upward, I became somewhat less mindful of what transpired in the Empire. I did know that Aurangzeb and his bodyguard, Balkhi, continued to stir up trouble in the Deccan. Though my brother had successfully quelled the rebellion, he ruled the region with increasing belligerence. Stories abounded of Hindu temples being burned if taxes went unpaid. Women disappeared in the night and rioters were killed in the streets. It was a matter of time, I reasoned, until the Deccans revolted again. And secretly, however traitorous the thought, I’d enjoy seeing them drive Aurangzeb from their land.
Dara, meanwhile, occupied himself with the courts. In what limited idle time he possessed, he occasionally brought his young son, Suleiman, to the Taj Mahal. Suleiman was a bright child and built forts of square blocks that Isa had given him. He could play so for an entire afternoon, always under the watchful eye of a trusted servant.
His father devoted more of himself to studying the two religions that divided our empire. While Aurangzeb sought to drive a wedge between our peoples, Dara tried to bring us together. During the monsoon season of that year, he wrote The Mingling of the Two Oceans. This book aimed to ease the animosity among Muslims and Hindus by proving that the religions possessed similar philosophic foundations. While scholars praised the work, the more militant Muslims, especially Aurangzeb, hated Dara for the comparison.
Soon afte
r, I finally found myself to be pregnant. My monthly curse of womanhood stopped and I often became ill. How I longed to have Mother with me then, for she’d borne fourteen children and would have been a comfort. Father, needless to say, was elated by my whispers on the matter. And Isa, my sweet Isa, went to his home earlier than usual, so that he might follow the progress of my belly. Khondamir prayed to Allah each morning for a son, and I found myself praying ferociously for a daughter. A son would grow up in his father’s company, whereas a daughter would blossom in mine.
As the months passed my womb filled. My back started to ache and I spent less time on my feet at the Taj Mahal. Instead, I lay in Mother’s room and examined Isa’s designs. Occasionally I solved a problem that he’d no time to pursue. Once I even found a mistake in his calculations. While most men would be mortified at such a mishap, Isa delighted in my comprehension.
His delight swelled when we soon felt flutters within my belly, and later when we smiled at sharp kicks and pondered names. One night, as a fever wracked me, and nothing afforded me solace, he handed me a letter he had crafted for our child. He had intended to refine it further, to share it with me at some distant time. Yet due to my misery, I read it by candlelight. And my suffering eased.
On back of a sketch, a fresh rendering of a minaret, he had written:
Our child,
As I sit and stare at the Yamuna, you grow slowly in your mother’s womb. As barges and clouds drift before me, I ponder you. I want to share this moment with you, want you to hear the words that I now think.
I wish I could handle words as I do stones, for then I could truly speak to you as I desire. I could aptly explain how I long to meet you more with each finished day. I could express my love for you, which, like you, is already alive.
Though I do not yet know you, my understanding of your mother flows strong, and I am certain you will be quite extraordinary, as, indeed, is she. Of the dimensions of your disposition, I can only wonder. Shall you wield her benevolence? Her loyalty? Shall you share her impatient spirit? Perhaps you will possess my eye for precious sights, as well as my oftentimes misplaced optimism.
Assuredly you will inherit some of our traits, just as we inherited those of our parents. Yet you shall also create your own qualities, and these characteristics we will find most endearing.
I eagerly await your discoveries, your pleasure in their revelation. What mysteries will you unfold each day? What will you see that I do not? I will learn from watching you, learn what I have forgotten, or what I never had a chance to know. I hope to teach you as much, for earning an elephant’s trust, painting what is not present, and listening to strangers are more complex undertakings than some would have you think.
Know, our daughter, our son, that you are already beloved. You have blessed us, and I thank you for bringing such joy into our lives. I thank you for being who you are, and who you shall be. —Your father
My pain dissipated as I rolled his thoughts over in my mind. His words, cast unlike my father’s, but fashioned of the same passions, reminded me of the similarities between these men. They hailed from different origins, and often displayed contrary temperaments, but were less varied than a lion and a leopard. Like the great cats, they were majestic within their own skins. Unlike most men, they were at ease with themselves and secure in their sensitivities.
I saw Father frequently in those days, for he often visited me after his duties at the Peacock Throne. Without fail he asked of the baby and offered his thoughts on what methods Mother used to ease her discomforts. I posed him questions as well; my curiosity about the Empire’s affairs increased as my confinement lengthened. Soon I knew the doings of each noble and the thrusts of the Persians. Their boldness was mounting, and Father had sent Aurangzeb north to deal with them.
When Father and Isa were occupied, and I had no tasks to entertain me, I often yearned to see Ladli. Yet an encounter presented too great a risk. Nizam did convey a note from her, begging forgiveness for the vividness of our altercation. I burned her words and made Nizam promise to meet her secretly and say that I still loved her like a sister. He also told her of my pregnancy, though nothing was spoken of the true father.
As Isa had suspected, our child was as restless as I, and arrived early. The royal physician was so feeble and blind that he had to be carried to my bed by his young apprentice. Nonetheless, I felt comforted to have the aged master beside me, to hear him give the same commands as he had with Mother. Father was also present, though such participation was so uncustomary that he asked it be kept secret. Khondamir, naturally, wouldn’t be bothered by the birth. Still, a runner was to be sent to him immediately so that he could learn the sex of the child.
My labor was bittersweet. While excited about the prospect of becoming a mother, neither the man I loved, nor my mother or best friend held my hand. Isa’s absence troubled me the most, as it seemed that a child should hear its parents’ voices before any others. And so, as my moans intensified, I wavered between glee and sorrow.
My hips were slight and the pain raging between them made me writhe. I asked for something to bite on, and the young physician, whose hands trembled, placed a wooden spoon within my mouth. I thought then that I might split, like a pod tearing open as a pea burst forth. I tried to be robust before the men, but suddenly I was weeping. How it ached! How I longed to have Isa next to me!
Father knelt by my side and did his best to soothe me. He told me of Mother’s first labor, wiping sweat from my face as he spoke. I heard the nervousness in his voice, and he often paused to look toward Mecca. My prayers mingled with his.
When the child finally dropped I felt as if my innards were tearing. An almost unbearable pressure overwhelmed me, and I shuddered as my womb emptied. The old man chided his apprentice relentlessly, telling him to describe my baby’s condition, to make sure that it breathed. The nervous youth swatted the infant. He cleaned its mouth and face with a white cloth as I fell back against my cushions, inordinately weary. I fainted, and when consciousness returned my child was on my chest.
“A girl, Jahanara,” Father whispered blissfully. “A girl whose smile shall make flowers limp with jealousy.”
Her face, so magically small, was tethered in place by dark locks and a chubby chin. “She’s perfect,” I said, shedding tears as I thanked Allah. Father praised the physicians, giving each a thin bar of silver. After they left, he shut the door. Turning to him, I impulsively asked, “Father, might you…could you bring Isa here?”
I waited for his response, wondering how I could ask the Emperor, even if he was my father, to walk down a dark corridor and return with a man who wasn’t my husband. A part of me was humiliated; a part of me rejoiced that he shared our secret.
“You do me honor,” he said, rising from his knees. Once he found the key, he bolted the door to my room. “Will you be fine, child?”
I nodded. “Be careful of the trap.”
“I’m not so foolish as to deprive myself of my granddaughter.”
He quietly opened the closet, grabbed a candle, and disappeared into Mother’s robes. In his absence, I weakly raised my child. I was amazed that this astounding creation came from within me, and that she would, please Allah, grow into a mother herself.
My child let out a whimper. She raised a miniature fist in the air, as if to protest this harsh induction to our world. She’s already strong, I thought, bending down to kiss her fingers. They were impossibly small, and again I found myself in awe of her. Does every mother, I wondered, stumble upon this moment in time and discover that her life, however arduous, has import?
Robes parted and Isa and Father entered the room. A cobweb hung from Father’s jeweled turban, and I smiled at the sight. Father, always tactful, bade us good night.
“Thank you, Father,” I said.
He moved to the door. “Isa, lock this behind me,” he whispered. “
Your mother, Jahanara, would be proud. In fact, I know she is.”
Before I could respond, he shut the door. Isa secured the room and hurried to where I lay. His gaze paused on me, then rested on our child. I motioned that he should take her and, dropping to his knees, he lifted her from my chest. Even wrapped in a silk blanket she seemed hardly bigger than his hand. “A miracle,” he said in a voice so quiet I might have imagined it. “I see us in her. Not you or me, but us.”
My delight increased when he kissed her cheek. How lucky she is to have him as a father, I said to myself. Perhaps not so in name, but certainly in blood and in spirit. One day, when she’s old enough, I’ll speak of her true father. We’ll sip chai on the steps of the Taj Mahal and I’ll whisper the truth. And as much as she may hate me then, she shall come to understand why I lied for so many years. She’ll forgive me and soon share my love for him.
He kissed her again and dropped to his knees. “Thank you, Swallow,” he whispered. I grimaced as a spasm of pain pulsed in my loins. “Are you well, my love?” he asked tightly.
I nodded, though I did feel weak. “What should we name her?”
“So many to choose from,” he said, smiling, “but surely there can be only one.”
“Arjumand,” I offered, immensely pleased to name her after Mother.
He set her down beside me, then lay so that she was between us. “Our precious Arjumand.”
“Father shall be happy.”
“As am I, love. As am I.”
Chapter 12
Friends for Trade
