Beneath a Marble Sky

by John Shors

  Our happiness lasted until one bright afternoon. We were standing on the shoreline when a horrifying pain burst into Isa’s head. He cried out, falling to the sand. In the dawn that followed, his body, even his miraculous hands, went limp. He lingered for three days and I never left his side. On our last eve together, I slipped into bed with him and held him tightly. He couldn’t return my embrace, but his eyes spoke of his love and our tears were many.

  How do you say good-bye to someone you love so? Is there a word, a look, or a touch that can quell the pain in your hearts? I have known so many things in this life, but I’d read no books that taught me of such separation. I wanted to be strong, for the sniffling of a woman wasn’t what he should hear as he began his journey. Yet my emotions were impossible to still.

  “Stay,” I muttered, “please stay.”

  “You’ll find me,” he whispered. “You’ve always…found me.”

  I felt the life slipping from him and I hugged him tightly, as if my hands might stop him from leaving. “Will you take me with you?” I asked, kissing his tears, tasting him. “Please, please take me with you.”

  “You are…with me. You always have been.”

  His voice was weakening and I leaned closer. “Are you cold, my love? Hot? What can I do for you?”

  “Kiss me.”

  I did as he asked, wishing we could leap three decades back in time, wishing we were once again young. I stroked his hair, which was now white. “Thank you, my love, for making me feel so whole.”

  “You made yourself.”

  “Perhaps. But without you there is only me, and with you there is us,” I whispered, my tears falling on his chin. His eyes fluttered and he mumbled something. “I shall find you,” I said. “I’ll find you covered in stone chippings and help you build in Paradise.”

  “Promise?”

  “I do. And we’ll live together again as one.”

  He fixed his gaze upon me. “I love you, Swallow.”

  And then he left me.

  It is dark by the time I finish my story. My granddaughters cry and pose many questions. They ask of Shivaji, who perished in a landslide but two months after freeing my loved ones. I suspect that our secret died with him, though I once heard a rumor of assassins in the Red Fort. My granddaughters also wonder if I am fearful of Aurangzeb discovering me.

  “Two days is enough here,” I reply. “Tomorrow I’ll return to the sea.”

  “So soon?” Rurayya asks, rubbing her tear-stained cheeks. When I nod, she adds, “Can we come? Father misses it. And Mother misses you terribly.”

  “Then you should join me.”

  Gulbadan stares at the Red Fort. “But why, Jaha, why not confront your brother?”

  “Because revenge is hollow,” I say. “I won and he lost. His empire crumbles, his people despise him and thoughts of assassins steal his sleep. He’s grown weak in his hate and I’ve grown strong in my love.”

  They offer more questions.

  But my mind is elsewhere.

  Perhaps the Hindus are partly right, for I do think we lead many lives. Yet these lives aren’t separate, as they believe, but one. My lives were simple. I learned as a child. I explored as a girl. And I bled and loved as a woman.

  Now that I am old, I see many lives in my life. They’re as different as stones, and yet they’re connected. When I look back on them I wonder sometimes if they were but dreams.

  I kiss my granddaughters good night as Nizam rows us to shore, where their father awaits. I then bid my friend farewell, though he follows me as I shuffle toward the Taj Mahal. It is as I remember. I see Mother’s grace in its arches and Isa’s brilliance everywhere.

  As a child I was taught that Muslims don’t believe that the soul remains upon the land, but that after death we’re carried to Paradise—where we walk among friends and feast upon our favorite foods, and where our happiness blooms eternally. But now, as I sit with my hands against the marble that Isa once held, I’m struck profoundly by the sense that a part of him lingers here. It’s almost as if I can feel him.

  Is it love I feel? Or a oneness surpassing even love? For love is a human emotion, and what I sense now is beyond anything of this Earth. It’s too perfect to have been conjured by mortals. For Isa is with me, and as my face tightens and tears come forth, I see only him. He laughs. He cries. He holds me and we whisper, as candles burn low.

  “How I miss you,” I say to the rock. “Will you come to me, in my dreams?”

  Even if no answer is offered, I know he shall. Allah might have taken Isa’s body, but he isn’t truly gone. We speak sometimes in the night; talk of our Taj Mahal, or our child. He still calls me Swallow.

  My hands touch the marble and again I feel Isa. He is here. Mother sits with him, as do Dara and Father. I feel Ladli as well. Their mood is gay and they’re as young as the seasons. Soon I will join them.

  Many fear death. But I do not. For I’ve tasted this oneness we call love. Death cannot steal it. Nor temper it.

  No, I’ll take my love with me, wherever I travel.

  And it shall endure.

  You know, Shah Jahan, life and youth, wealth and glory,

  they all drift away in the current of time.

  You strove, therefore, to perpetuate only the sorrow of your heart.

  Let the splendor of diamond, pearl and ruby vanish.

  Only let this one teardrop, this Taj Mahal,

  glisten spotlessly bright on the cheek of time,

  forever and ever.

  —Rabindranath Tagore

  . . .

  Bibliography

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  Harvey, Andrew. Teachings of the Hindu Mystics. Boston: Shambhala, 2001.

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  Nou, Jean-Louis; Okada, Amina; Joshi, M.C. Taj Mahal. New York: Abbeville Press, 1993.

  Shikuh, Prince Muhammad Dara. The Mingling of the Two Oceans (Majma-Ul-Bahrain). Calcutta: The Asiatic Society, 1998.

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  For readers wishing to experience something of the Taj Mahal’s architectural marvels, the author recommends an online virtual tour, “Explore the Taj Mahal,” at www.taj-mahal.net.