by John Shors
History books claimed that Europeans crossed boundless seas to reach Hindustan, and I shook my head in disbelief, impressed by such deeds. If Ladli were right, I thought, and we do lead many lives, perhaps in my next life I’ll be an explorer. I could name islands after my loved ones and maybe even a speck of land after myself. And why shouldn’t I? After all, the finest explorers always honored themselves.
But such adventures could wait, I decided gladly, for I had many more years to live in this body. I had a daughter for whom I must find a man, and a man I must hoard for myself. “Stop!” I muttered, for already I was plotting anew.
“Come in, Mother!” Arjumand shouted.
I shook my head but was warmed by her words. Any man would be lucky to have her. And though my mother was nearly perfect, and above criticism, unlike her, I’d ensure that my daughter married a loving man. It didn’t matter if he resembled a slug or a gold coin. As long as he treated her with decency, I’d help her catch him.
“I cherish you, my child,” I whispered.
The day was mostly done when we finally left the sea. As Nizam and Arjumand gathered our horses, Isa and I shuffled to the bungalows. We must have made an odd sight, but the owner seemed a kind man and welcomed us. We rented three rooms, and he asked that we share his supper. Naturally, we accepted.
His wife, a homely woman stooped over from a lifetime of mending nets, cooked us the strangest meal I’d ever encountered. She served thick soup brimming with curved creatures called shrimp and many-armed things known as squid. I half-expected them to start swimming in my broth!
We had brought some wine from Bijapur, which we shared with our hosts. Though the Qur’an was our Holy Book, and its words were my guides, the forbiddance of wine was something I couldn’t condone. For how it loosened tongues and enlivened conversation. Soon we were laughing and talking with these strangers as if they were childhood companions.
When all the strange little creatures were safely in our stomachs and the night and sea were black, we parted company and drifted to our rooms. In bed, I held Isa close. And his touch, which I’d dreamed about for so long, was achingly real.
The next three days were spent thus. We rode or took long walks on the beach. We laughed, chatted, even argued. One afternoon we saw monstrous leaping fish our host called dolphins. We sprang into the sea to chase them, and they didn’t flee but swam about us in dizzying circles.
We made many such discoveries while collecting spiral shells, chasing crabs and building cities in the sand. At one point, Nizam, who we thought had been napping, showed us a replica of the Taj Mahal that he’d crafted. Even if his minarets kept falling, the mausoleum itself was well proportioned and to our liking. Nizam was an easy man to read, and I was pleased for his pride. I knew that working on the Taj Mahal was his life’s grandest chapter. Anyone could fight or serve, but to shape stone into such beauty was an accomplishment worth remembering.
Our host carried us out each afternoon on his fishing boat, and we learned to set traps and throw nets. Isa took a surprising liking to this process. Though he couldn’t cast the nets as far as Nizam, his throws were better placed, falling on schools of fish that devoured bread we had discarded. The fish he hauled in were long or fat, brown or spotted with color. Some we ate for dinner. Others we threw back.
After returning from the sea, we swam at dusk, for dusk was when the waters receded and lessened in ferocity. Arjumand and I shed our robes, and wearing shirts and breeches intended for boys, we frolicked like sisters. As we swam, she told me of her building, in which she found great joy, and I spoke of Agra and her grandfather.
It amazed me to see what a convergence she was between Isa and me. Not only did her looks reflect our merging, but so did her temperament. She had a clever mind, which I believed she inherited from us both. Moreover, she was feisty like me, and she also possessed Isa’s youthful enthusiasm. This relentless good nature bound them strongly, and I knew, without remorse, that they’d forever be closer than she and I.
None of us spoke about our looming departure. Only the present moment mattered, and we endeavored to enjoy it to the fullest. We lived fiercely—laughing until our stomachs hurt, swimming until our arms were leaden weights.
Naturally, our last night was different. After drinking the remainder of our wine, the four of us made a fire on the beach. We spoke little and stared listlessly into the flames. Though we couldn’t see the waves, their crashing seemed louder than hitherto, and I found myself realizing how much I’d miss them.
“We’ll have to return to the sea,” I said. No one answered, and so I added, “Two years isn’t so long. Build it hard and build it safely. When my brother is dead we’ll meet in Delhi.”
Arjumand flicked a stick into the fire. “You make it sound so easy,” she said harshly. “But what if your precious plan doesn’t work? What if the Sultan betrays us?”
“He won’t, my child.”
“But what if he does? Will you abandon us for Grandfather again?”
I paused at these words, for I hadn’t known Arjumand harbored such resentment, though I could hardly blame her. Hating to see her so upset, I asked her to see the situation from my point of view. “What would you do, Arjumand, if your father were dying? Would you leave him and flee, or stay and make him well?” I stared at her, but she avoided my gaze. “Do you believe a single night passed in that awful cell when I didn’t think about you?”
Isa cleared his throat. “It was hard, Arjumand, for all of us. But what your mother did was right. You’ll understand that someday.”
“And now that I’m a child, I can’t?”
“You’re no child.”
“Yet you treat me as such!”
“Quite the contrary,” I interjected. “Your strength allowed me to stay behind. If you were a weak girl, I’d have been forced to leave my father and brother. And though my leaving might have served you, it would have been at their expense. Dara died less terrified because I was at his side. And Father I nursed back to health because I hadn’t fled south. So your strength, Arjumand, was a gift to me, and to them.”
“Do the strong…cry every night for a month?” she asked softly.
“When they need to,” I countered, clasping her hand. “Women, Arjumand, women are taught that there’s no strength in our tears. But why are tears powerless, if those tears lead to insight, or a sense of peace?”
“But I don’t want you to go, Mother. What if—”
“Your father kept his promise to you, didn’t he? The promise that I lived. And so I shall keep this promise, the promise that we’ll be together within two years.”
“We must be.”
“I know, my child,” I replied, stroking her arm. Nizam carefully placed a log in the fire, and I wondered where his thoughts lay. “I’m proud of you, Arjumand, for you’re strong. And yet, you’re also free.” I saw her eyes flicker away and I squeezed her elbow. “People, both foes and friends, will try to take this freedom. But never, ever, let them have it.”
“I’ll miss you,” Arjumand said, hugging me. “Be careful in Agra. Your brother won’t be happy that you escaped.”
I did my best to seem unruffled. “Aurangzeb’s like a wasp with no stinger.”
“Perhaps he may find it.”
“I’ve been stung before. And I suspect your old mother will be stung again.” I kissed her forehead. “It’s late, my child, and we have a long, long day of riding tomorrow. Will you rest?”
Arjumand said good night and Nizam accompanied her to the huts. Isa moved next to me, kissing my ear. “Your brother, Swallow, is far more dangerous than any insect. And he hasn’t lost his stinger.”
“But he won’t find me.”
“But why, why must you even return to Agra?” he asked. “It would be safer to live in Delhi or Lahore. Visit your sisters in Delhi. S
urely you’d enjoy their company.”
“I would.”
“Then go to them.”
I thought of my little sisters, wishing life hadn’t thrust us so far apart. “Our last word of them was that both were recently wed. Thus I can’t intrude upon their lives with their new families. Not now, at least.”
“I know your guilt about leaving him is overwhelming, but—”
“I shall be safe. And Father needs me…he needs me as much as he did when he was first imprisoned.”
“He needs you, yes, but would he want you to take such a risk?” When I offered no answer, Isa asked, “Then why do you take it?”
“Why? Because he gave me you. And without that gift I’d be loveless and childless. And what have I given him? I left him alone in a miserable cell, abandoned him when I should have demanded that he escape with me.”
“Jahanara, the worst pain you could ever cause him would be to get hurt. You should go—”
“I’d stay with you,” I interrupted, “if it were possible. But without you and Arjumand beside me, I must go to him.”
Isa’s frame loosened at these words. “You think you’re the sole owner of guilt?” he asked, his voice overshadowed by the breaking surf. “My father’s last wish was that I become an architect. And so I studied. I studied as he quietly fought his agony, studied as he died.”
“But how you’ve made him happy.”
“I’ve tried.” Isa’s gaze left the fire and found me. “But you’ve also brought happiness to your father’s heart. You need prove nothing more. Not to him. Not to anyone.”
“I can’t let him die alone in that cell, Isa. And I’ll be careful, quite careful, visiting him rarely, and only in disguise.”
“But why take the risk?”
I shifted atop my blanket. “I once made a promise, a promise to my mother as she died.”
“What promise?”
“That I’d care for Father in her absence.”
“And you have. You gave him five years of your life. Five years, Jahanara. Give the rest to yourself.”
A star plunged from the sky. I sat straighter, not wanting our last night here to be spent talking of duty and death. “Why do they fall?” I asked.
His eyes remained on me. “We’re not all clay in your hands.”
“But why, Isa, why should we obsess further about tomorrow? Will it do us any good? Will it give us solace? Believe me, my mind is consumed enough by such thoughts. And if I sit here and discuss them with you, then soon, when I’m alone, I’ll regret the time we lost.”
He sighed, glancing upward. Despite the sky’s shimmering brilliance, I watched only his face. “Perhaps they simply tire,” he finally replied. “It’s said that the same stars have been above us for centuries. And it seems to me, at least, that after so very long they simply go out, like a fire or a candle.”
“But fires never fall. Nor candles.”
“Maybe the sky is but Allah’s black robe and the stars are diamonds sewn onto it. When He moves, the diamonds sparkle. And sometimes, when He runs, they fall from their moorings.”
“And where do they fall?”
“Into the sea,” he replied, draping his arm about my shoulders. “It’s so full of diamonds that fish use them to build homes and palaces.”
“Allah doesn’t mind?”
“Allah, I think, has enough diamonds to last Him forever.” We edged closer to the fire, as the air was cooling. A breeze carried the water to us and we breathed deeply. “I’d like,” Isa said, “for us to return to the sea someday.”
“Shall we grow old on a beach together?”
“Very old.”
I picked up an unusual piece of coral, offering it to him. “What do you dream of, Isa, when night falls and you’re alone?”
“The future. Of what it will be like when you return.”
“Do you think of me often?”
He pointed at another dropping star. It flickered and was gone. “Sometimes, Jahanara, I draw your face with charcoal. I draw you while walking through a memory. Your face is pensive when I think of our first meeting. It’s joyful when Arjumand is born.” He pushed the finger-shaped piece of coral along the sand, creating curved lines within its grainy tapestry. A rough image of myself appeared. “I’ve drawn your face so many times. Because then, in some small way, I’ve felt as if you were with me.”
I kissed him, biting my lip so tears wouldn’t descend. “Isa?”
“Yes, love?”
“Would you draw your face, so that I might carry you to Agra?” Before he could respond, I continued. “I’d like it to be a happy face, for it’s your joy that endears me to you most.”
“I don’t know—”
“Draw yourself with Arjumand. One sketch is all I ask.”
He ran his hand through my hair, which that night bore no veil. “I’ve a price.”
“What?”
“That you keep your promise to her.” After I earnestly agreed, he nodded. “Then our faces shall accompany you to Agra.”
The fire dwindled. No more wood was at hand to offer it, so we watched the flames recede. Although I had no choice, the thought of leaving my family was worse than any physical pain I’d ever experienced. I had tried to hide that pain from everyone, including myself, save Isa. As he held me, I cried. “Build it quickly,” I said through my tears, “for there’s still so much to see together and I’m weary of the years slipping by.”
“As am I,” he whispered. “When the moon’s full, Jahanara, sit against the Taj Mahal and look skyward. As you do, know that I gaze at the same sky.” He kissed me lightly. “And when Allah sheds one of His diamonds and it falls to the sea, we’ll each see its flight and our thoughts shall mingle.”
Part 4
Know that the names of God,
the Most High,
are numberless
and beyond comprehension.
—The Mingling of the Two Oceans
It is late in the afternoon and the boats about us are alive with flopping fish. My eyes, not being quite what they once were, can’t distinguish the varieties of fish, only that they’re brown things that die with little grace. I think of all the beautiful creatures we hauled from the sea and conclude that Allah must have been much more inspired when He seeded its waters than when He created the Yamuna River.
“And so you just left?” Rurayya asks incredulously.
Before I can reply, Gulbadan responds, “She had to, Rurayya. Haven’t you been listening?”
I love these girls dearly, for I can see Arjumand in their faces. A trace of myself also exists, as does the narrow slant of Isa’s cheekbones. “No, Rurayya is right. I didn’t have to leave, and what I did was foolish.”
Gulbadan tugs at her veil. “Then why did you go?”
I lean forward to adjust her crooked covering, as Mother often did to me so many years ago. “Isa recognized how much I sought my father’s approval. But what he didn’t recognize is why I truly sought it. Nor did I, until recently.”
“Why did you?”
“Because as a young girl, I knew that I could…I couldn’t ever match my brothers. In the eyes of nobles and warriors and artists I’d always be a weak girl. I’d never be treated as they were, never be as cherished and encouraged the way a boy would. And so I tried, always tried, to show my father that I was truly worthy of his love. And he did love me tremendously and valued my thoughts as much as anyone’s. He praised me night and day. But sometimes I wondered if I truly merited such praise. That’s why I went back to him, to prove to myself that his love and praise weren’t misplaced, that he’d been right about me when my brother, my husband and so many others had been wrong.”
My granddaughters don’t respond. I see the sudden anguish in their eyes, and I gr
asp their hands. “You needn’t prove anything to anyone, including yourselves. If you take one message from my story, take that.”
Gulbadan slowly nods. Rurayya’s fingers work their way deeper into mine. “But what happened then, Jaha?” she asks.
“We returned to Bijapur. And Nizam and I left for Agra.”
“Did you meet Aurangzeb?” Gulbadan wonders.
“Doesn’t a cat finally meet its fleas?” I answer, thinking of Ladli. “Many terrible things happened upon my return to Agra.” I force away a memory that I wish didn’t exist. “You see, my children, I imprisoned myself, and I set Nizam free.”
Chapter 22
Allah’s Desertion
It took us a full month to ride back to Agra. Though it felt disheartening to return, I was comforted by knowing that my loved ones were safe and that I would see them again. After renting a room far from the Red Fort, I used the few gold coins remaining in Nizam’s saddlebags to buy an expensive, oversized robe and a long necklace of pearls. I carefully used makeup to age myself, going so far as to dye my hair silver. Then I went to the Red Fort as a noblewoman might—rudely ignoring beggars and walking silently past inquiring guards. Though quite uneasy about returning to Father’s cell, my fears were softened by rumors placing Aurangzeb to the north, warring against the Persians.
I proceeded directly toward the octagonal room that had housed me for so long. After entering the corridor leading to it, I was surprised to see that the number of guards had tripled. They asked me of my business, and, my heart quickening, I pretended to be a noblewoman from Lahore visiting the dethroned Emperor. The guards, perhaps accustomed to bullying women about, refused me passage. Only when I handed their captain a silver coin did he finally swing open the big door.
