Beneath a Marble Sky

by John Shors

  “Yes, though the Sultan of Bijapur was less fortunate.”

  It took me a breath to digest her words. “The Sultan’s dead?”

  “A cannon knocked his head clean off.”

  I clapped my hands together excitedly, for this was the most welcome news I’d heard in years. Ladli looked at me in confusion and I quickly told her the story of Isa and Arjumand’s imprisonment. “His death changes everything,” I whispered, tapping my foot in sudden glee.

  “But who would let them go? The Deccans despise us.”

  “Not Shivaji!” I countered, then explained my dealings with him. “He’s Hindu, Ladli. And a good man! He’ll free them because only then can he use the tunnel to assassinate Aurangzeb.”

  “Somehow you’ll have to escape and ride south again.”

  I shook my head vigorously, for everything was finally as it should be. I’d send Ladli south, with Nizam. “No, my friend. It has to be you. For one thing, you’re Hindu, and so Shivaji will trust you more than me.

  “But what would I say to him?”

  “Say that the tunnel shall be unlocked. You’ll unlock it before you leave Agra. Tell Shivaji of how the tunnel begins at Isa’s home. Tell him everything he needs to know. And then, after he has honored our agreement, come north with Isa and Arjumand!”

  “But I can’t travel to Bijapur alone! Has your mind turned to mud?”

  “You won’t go alone. I know someone, the stoutest of all warriors and the kindest of men. He’s been there many times. He’ll guide you safely.” She started to protest, and I held up my hand. “You were going to leave anyway, Ladli. You may as well go south. There are mountains and rivers—and the sea, if you’re lucky enough to swim in it, is something you’ll never forget.”

  “But I… ”

  “Find yourself on the trail, Ladli. You said that you’ve grown fearful and weak. What better place to rediscover your strength than in the desert? Go there, and return north as your old self.” I glanced at Father, who tried his best to ignore us, leaning against the door. “I can’t leave him again,” I whispered.

  “I know.”

  “Please, please do it for me.”

  “But what of the rest of the plan? Once I reveal the secret and have Isa and Arjumand safely with me, what will you do?”

  “Once Shivaji’s assassin has done his work, I’ll be free.”

  A hint of slyness returned to her face. “And where, my conniving little friend, will we meet?”

  I searched for a solution, my excitement so overwhelming I thought my heart might burst. Though we had planned to meet in Delhi, suddenly it felt too close to Agra. Allah only knew what chaos would befall both cities once Aurangzeb was dead. “The best course, I think, would be for you to travel east from Bijapur, across to the other coast. I’ve heard that Calcutta’s a fine city. We could meet there, then go wherever we wish.”

  “Where in Calcutta?”

  I bit my nails as I pondered where to meet. “At its largest mosque. Send Isa to pray there every eve at dusk. I’ll find him.”

  “It’s a half-baked plan at best.”

  “Can you think of anything better?”

  “No, but be careful, Jahanara,” she whispered. “Aurangzeb’s not right in the head. He’s lashing out at everyone.”

  “He always has.”

  “True. But not like these days. He’s as paranoid as a virgin in a brothel.”

  “But with Khondamir dead and the threat of my assassin gone, he shouldn’t be.”

  “The fool created a new tax upon anyone not of his faith, Jahanara. For any infidel, as he calls us. Those he can’t force into Islam he punishes by taking half their crops. Half! He feeds his war elephants our grain while our people starve. And when our people riot, he sends those same elephants against them. Dozens are trampled each week. And if the tax isn’t insult enough, he forbids Hindus to build new temples; we’re not even allowed to repair those that age. For every one that we secretly mend, his followers desecrate a dozen more.”

  I wondered silently how my brother could be so imprudent. The tax Ladli mentioned was in fact quite old, though it had been abolished for many decades. It was known as the jizya. “How many attempts have there been on his life?” I asked.

  “The man has more enemies than leprosy, despite the disappearance of anyone he deems a threat. You only live because he thinks you’re bested. He’s vanquished you, he’s killed your husband, and he lets you breathe just to remind him of his victory.”

  “What should I do?”

  “The worm takes joy in your misery, my sister. So continue to give him that joy. Let him think you’d prefer to die, and you’ll live. Pretend to lose all spirit, and when his guards tell him that you’re a defeated woman, he’ll trumpet like a copulating elephant.”

  “Really, Ladli!” I replied, happy to see that our scheming had fueled her old fire.

  “I don’t jest, Jahanara. Only if he thinks you’re defeated, will you live to defeat him.”

  I nodded. As we hugged again, I whispered to her of where and when to meet Nizam. Naturally, I made no mention of his name, for I wanted my friends to be surprised. I’d tell Nizam tonight of my plan, and he’d rejoice tomorrow upon discovering that Ladli was to be his traveling companion.

  I carefully repositioned Ladli’s veil so that only her dark eyes showed. “Thank you, my friend.”

  “Thank me in Calcutta, you little fox.” She playfully pinched my cheek, as she had so many times as a child. “Better pray that I don’t steal your man on the return journey.”

  “Never,” I said, stifling a laugh.

  “And why not?”

  “Because you’ll steal another.”

  She pretended to spit. “I’d sooner steal sand.”

  “I love you,” I said, kissing her brow. She was about to answer, but I continued, “So be careful in the Deccan. And when we meet next in Calcutta, we’ll be young again together.”

  Chapter 24

  Passages

  I followed Ladli’s advice and let myself drop into disrepair, fasting for a week after her departure, drinking only juice and water. Flesh dwindled from my body until I lacked the strength to stand. I ignored my hair, my face. I wore unwashed clothes and went barefoot. In all such matters, I pretended to be vanquished and in mourning.

  I didn’t let myself venture too far into delirium, yet dreams often visited when I was awake. Visions of my childhood, the building of the mausoleum and my nights with Isa entertained me. As time passed, I began to relish these sights. They transported me from my cell and I lived again in less troubled days.

  Father and I deteriorated together. He didn’t want me tending to him in my weakened state, for surely such nurturing would betray my act to our jailers. After all, how could I care for him when I couldn’t care for myself? Normally, I might have fought Father over his decision, but nursing him was impossible when simply rising from the floor made my head spin. Moreover, we both knew he’d rather be with Mother in Paradise than with me in this cell. And so he wasted away.

  Aurangzeb came to our room a month after Ladli had fled. He smirked at the sight of me, called my feebleness pathetic and asked Allah to forgive my sins. I ignored my brother’s words, acting as though unaware of him. But my ears were keen that day, as were my eyes. And I saw how his face twitched, how he seemed ill at ease with himself. Clearly, in some strange way he had loved Ladli, and her betrayal wounded him grievously.

  Had I been defiant, he’d have killed me. Had I smiled, he’d have struck me down. But my friend was right. And he left our cell a slightly less morose man than when he had entered. Though he had gripped his sword hilt apprehensively, as if assassins might attack him at any moment, I think Father and I made him feel victorious. Here we were—his two keenest adversaries—broken and nea
r death.

  As the moons successively waxed and waned, I waited anxiously for news of my brother’s assassination. No such word came forth. The silence tormented me, and I worried that my plan had gone awry. Did my friends fail to reach Bijapur? Had I misjudged Shivaji? My desperation rapidly mounted as the days passed, for I possessed no answers. In my darkest moments I prayed for Aurangzeb’s death, believing that the end of his life would be the only thing that would restore my own.

  My time in prison gave me one invaluable gift, however. It gave me Father. Though Father and I had always shared a bond, during those long years in confinement this bond grew one hundredfold its original strength. When I fasted and was too weak to play games or even stare out the window, all we did was whisper. He told me every story he could recall about Mother. I entertained him with tales of Isa and Arjumand; what I imagined they were doing, what we did when last I saw them. Father and I taught each other many things. I learned of forgiveness, faith and poetry. He learned of women’s woes in Hindustan, and of the sea.

  On our last night together we spoke of Mother. By then his pain was such that he must have known he was about to leave me, for he had me ask for wine, which we’d last wetted our lips upon a full change of seasons ago. The wine was sweet, as were the figs we sucked.

  “How do you think she shall appear, Jahanara?” he asked feebly. “As she did when we first met, or when she left me?”

  I raised his damp head higher on his pillow, so that he might look out the window and see the stars. “Perhaps,” I said, “she’ll come to you as she did when you were first married.”

  He sipped from the goblet I held to his lips. “I’d like that. But then, I think the glow…I think the glow of motherhood made her beauty brighten.” Pain swept through him and he gripped his side. When it finally passed, he asked for more wine. “Don’t weep for me,” he whispered, though his own eyes swelled with water. “I’ve always been lucky, as lucky as a boat on your sea.”

  My tears came suddenly. I didn’t fight them. “But I’ll miss you.”

  “Yes, but you’ll have Isa, and your beautiful daughter.”

  I traced the contours of his weathered hand. “Please, tell Mother that I love her, that I tried to live my life as she’d want. I tried to honor her memory.”

  “And you did, Jahanara. You did. But she’s no memory, child, for she lives in you. I see her now. She touches me as I speak.”

  “She loves you, Father. She loves…” I paused, wondering what he might like to hear. “She loves you as words love a poet.”

  The corners of his mouth rose. “Perhaps I live in you also.”

  “You do.”

  He tasted wine again. “I don’t know…how a father could cherish a daughter more. I’m ready to go in all regards, but for leaving you.”

  I whimpered then and he held my hand. Somehow, even as he died, it was he who soothed me. “Is there anything you’d like, Father, before you go?” I asked, my voice beneath even the wind.

  “Grant me one promise,” he said, “so that I might die in peace.”

  “Anything, Father.”

  “I want you to be happy. Go to your sea and…and live there as a child might. Swim and eat and drink and love and dream. Do all these things for me, and I shall be content in Paradise.”

  He moaned again and asked for more wine. He didn’t sip now, as he always had, but took a deep gulp. “Set Akbar free,” he muttered, nodding toward our silent companion. “He’s a good friend.”

  “As are you.”

  His face brightened. I saw joy and sorrow in his smile. Something else lingered within him. Something he hadn’t felt for many years. I think it was hope.

  “How I love you, my child,” he whispered.

  I responded in kind and pulled myself closer to him. I found warmth in his arms and was taken back to a time when I was but a girl and he was the man of all men. He comforted me then and he comforted me now.

  We spoke, cried, grinned once or twice, and much later watched a diamond fall from the sky.

  He traveled with it, for when I again turned to him, he was gone.

  I learned later that news of Father’s death spread throughout Agra like fire amid thatch. The city’s inhabitants—be they Hindu or Muslim; man, woman or child—wore colors of mourning the following day. No task was undertaken, no squabbles pursued. Indeed, Agra itself appeared to grieve. The city teemed only with silence, not the elephants, horses and merchants that usually inundated its streets.

  Aurangzeb decided to hold an immense funeral at the Taj Mahal. Nobles of every rank were welcome to attend the ceremony, which was to ensue at dusk. After a public viewing, Father would be laid to rest beside Mother. They’d then be left forever in peace.

  Initially I was puzzled by my brother’s magnanimous gesture, for I knew he would rather bury Father in a pauper’s grave, as he had Dara. But the more I pondered his path, the more obvious it became that Aurangzeb had no choice but to honor his father. If he spurned the former emperor—who was suddenly revered again in light of Hindustan’s recent woes—what little support Aurangzeb retained would vanish.

  My vile guards told me that I was to attend the event, that Aurangzeb wanted me at his side, smiling and looking my best. Evidently he thought my presence would ease any tensions regarding Father’s imprisonment and death. I cursed my jailers as they relayed this message. And I cursed my brother until a guard’s cool blade pressed against my throat. Since I was too weak to walk properly, Aurangzeb’s men placed me on a litter and carried me to the royal harem. At its gates they ordered the harem’s keepers to ensure that I was presentable by mid-afternoon. I was to be bathed, my hair and nails cut, my body dressed in the finest clothes.

  Four female servants carried me toward the harem’s innermost reaches. Deep within this labyrinth, I was left alone in a communal bathing room, which sparkled like an immense jewel. Thousands of miniature mirrors adorned its walls and ceiling. No windows were present, and with the door tightly shut, light from a solitary lamp was reflected and magnified by each mirror. A marble channel carried fresh river water into the room, and in my dazed state I lay on a granite bench and watched starlike images flutter atop diminutive waves.

  The door opened and a number of seasoned women gathered about me, women I had not seen for many years. They were artists who once entertained my parents but were presumably ignored by Aurangzeb. The oldest and most powerful concubines remembered me well. Though I never thought they had liked me, they now fawned over me as if I were a child of their loins. They trembled at my appearance, for I was gaunt, filthy and aged.

  These women asked of Father and I told them that he had died peacefully. Then came queries regarding my wishes, and with freedom seemingly so near, I wept, knowing Aurangzeb would send me back to prison after the funeral. The thought of a solitary life in that cell was almost more than I could shoulder.

  What happened next, as my clothes were removed, caught me unaware. These women, whom I never gave much acclaim, started planning on how to free me. While they scrubbed my body with soap and hemp, they spoke of bribes and unwalked passages, of boats and horses and men. Their tongues were so quick that I could barely follow the exchanges.

  My eyes sought their faces as they dressed me in simple but clean garments. Each woman, I recalled from my childhood, had rarely left the harem. They never spoke of politics and power, but laughed, lounged and refined their crafts. I had once believed them weak and now begged their forgiveness. How wrong, how foolish I’d been. To my surprise, the concubines told me to still my words. They cackled as old women do —each chatting, none listening. I asked why they were willing to risk so much to free me.

  “Many of us within these walls, my lady, were saved in some manner by your mother,” said the most outspoken woman of the group. Her face was horribly disfigured, as if it were a wax
mask that had started to melt.

  “She saved you?” I asked weakly.

  “My mother once stitched your robes,” she replied, tenderly combing my locks. “Stitched them for your brothers as well.”

  “Did I know her?”

  “You were but a girl. I was hardly older when fire swept through our home, stealing my parents from me. I’d have died on the streets if your mother hadn’t brought me here. She paid for me to learn music. And learn I did. Of course, with my face I could never play for most lords, but in time, I taught younger girls my art. And I performed for your family on occasion.”

  “I remember,” I said, recalling nights by the Yamuna, wonderful nights when a scarred girl played her sitar beautifully. As I slipped deeper into the past, two eunuchs entered the room, quickly stripping off their fine robes. One of the women smeared grease on their faces as the diminutive men stepped into filthy clothes.

  “We all have such stories,” a younger concubine added.

  “But you risk too much,” I said. “My brother will—”

  “He doesn’t frighten us, my lady, for he knows nothing of our world,” the musician interrupted. “And freeing you will make your mother happy. It will do honor to her memory.”

  Before I could think what to say, the eunuchs placed me again on the litter and carried me from the room. I cried out my thanks as the concubines disappeared from sight. An ancient eunuch then appeared, draping a thin blanket over my body and face. He set a reeking, bloody sack of what must have been decaying flesh between my feet before covering me with a foul carpet.

  In this newfound darkness I heard only footsteps. Though the stench made me gag, I purged it from my mind. Breathing through my mouth, I prayed fiercely to Allah to protect my saviors, who had spoken of spreading dozens of rumors about the harem, each tale offering a different version of my escape. Some stories had me faking my frailty and darting outside the cloistered walls. In others, a fictitious servant or concubine rescued me. If the women created enough confusion, as I suspected they would, Aurangzeb might never learn the truth. He’d be enraged, certainly, but without proof, I didn’t believe he would punish those responsible for my escape. His hold on power was far too precarious to upset nobles who patronized these women.