The Feast of Roses

by Indu Sundaresan

  Yet Dowager Empress Ruqayya—a woman who was not even Jahangir’s mother, but merely his father’s favorite wife—had a palace.

  When Mehrunnisa entered, Ruqayya was lounging in her usual pose on her divan, puffing at a hukkah and watching the antics of a Chinese lapdog someone had presented her. The water pipe gurgled as she drew on it, and smoke swirled blue around the room, laced with the sweet smell of opium.

  Ruqayya saw Mehrunnisa at the doorway—it was hard to ignore her presence, for all the maids had risen to bow and there was a general bustle. But Ruqayya turned her attention to the dog, putting down the hukkah to clap with the delight of a child, then calling the ugly little animal to her to pet it. A few minutes passed thus, with Mehrunnisa standing at the door, waiting, and Ruqayya busy with the dog as it pranced around her, filling the now-silent room with little yips of barks.

  Finally the Dowager Empress turned to one of her eunuchs. “Well, here she comes, after all this time. One would think she grew horns of pride when she married the Emperor. Some people forget I have been Empress for a long time, longer than them.”

  Mehrunnisa laughed and bent in front of Ruqayya in a well-executed taslim, touching her right hand to her forehead and bending from the waist. “How could I forget, your Majesty? Even if I were to do so, you would not let me.”

  She straightened and watched Ruqayya try to maintain the frown on her face. Then she gave up and laughed in return, her plump face creasing into well-run lines. “Ah, Mehrunnisa, it is good to see you. Does it take two months to visit an old friend? Has the Emperor enamored you this much?”

  Mehrunnisa sat down next to her. “Only a little. I hear it is said in the zenana that I am the one who has enamored him. Not just enamored him, but used sorcery to cast a spell on him, to keep him by my side. I am a simple woman, your Majesty. Where would I have access to such guiles?”

  Ruqayya laughed again, a rich, deep laugh from inside her throat. “You simple? Nothing has ever been simple about you, Mehrunnisa. Not since you were nine and refused to cry when the concubine slapped you.”

  “And you saved me then by scolding her.”

  “True.” Ruqayya’s beady eyes took on a shrewd look. “That was a small thing, but this, your becoming an Empress, was also due to me. Remember that always, Mehrunnisa.”

  Mehrunnisa shook her head. “I will not forget, your Majesty. There are few things I forget, this is certainly not one of them.”

  A servant brought a copper and silver hukkah and set it near Mehrunnisa. Ruqayya leaned forward on her divan, balancing her weight on one elbow. “Will you not smoke some opium?”

  “No, your Majesty. I am here to talk. Did you hear of the jharoka this morning?”

  Ruqayya nodded. “Everyone knows of it. Wait.” She snapped her fingers, and the slaves and eunuchs bowed and left the room, taking the dog with them. When they had gone she continued, “Was that wise? A woman’s place is in the harem, behind the zenana walls. Even I never asked Emperor Akbar for such a favor.”

  “But you asked for other things, your Majesty,” Mehrunnisa said softly. “Khurram, for one.”

  Prince Khurram was Empress Jagat Gosini’s son. When he was a year old, Ruqayya, who had no children of her own, demanded custody of the prince from Jagat Gosini and got it, for Emperor Akbar rarely refused her anything. So Khurram had grown up with Ruqayya, thinking her to be his mother and Jagat Gosini some subordinate princess. The transposition in power in the harem had not changed Khurram’s affections, though he was now twenty and knew Jagat Gosini to be his mother and Ruqayya his step-grandmother; he still called Ruqayya “Ma.” So Jagat Gosini would not forgive Ruqayya.

  The Dowager Empress stared unblinking at Mehrunnisa, then her face cracked into a smile. “You are wicked, Mehrunnisa. But no matter, I think I taught you to be wicked. Here is another debt you owe me. And be wary of Jagat Gosini; she is still the Padshah Begam.”

  “I know that, your Majesty. Today, I went to the jharoka. Tomorrow, who knows, perhaps even that title will be mine. Only time will tell.” Mehrunnisa picked two cashews from a silver bowl from the Dowager Empress’s side and popped them into her mouth. “But this is what you have always wished for, isn’t it?”

  Mehrunnisa watched as Ruqayya leaned back and drew on the hukkah, spinning lazy circles of smoke in the air above her. This was what Ruqayya had recently wanted. But once, the Dowager Empress had supported Emperor Akbar’s decision to give Mehrunnisa to Ali Quli, even though Jahangir, then a prince, sought after her. One word from Ruqayya might have changed the shape of things . . . but there was a streak of cruelty in the Dowager Empress that made her sometimes turn even on those she loved.

  But when Mehrunnisa had come back to the capital, widowed after Ali Quli’s death, Ruqayya had taken her into the zenana as a lady-in-waiting, against Jagat Gosini’s wishes. And it was Ruqayya who had engineered the meeting between Jahangir and Mehrunnisa at the Mina Bazaar. This was what the Dowager Empress wanted her to remember. She was saying, in effect, Don’t forget who put that crown on your head, Mehrunnisa—if it wasn’t for me, you would still be a maid in the imperial zenana.

  Which was why Ruqayya called her by her old name, Mehrunnisa.

  But she was here for another reason.

  “Your Majesty, tell me Mirza Mahabat Khan’s story,” Mehrunnisa said.

  Ruqayya sat up. “Ah, you angered him at the jharoka.”

  Mehrunnisa nodded. “Why is he against me? I can be no threat to his position. Yet I hear he was opposed to my marriage to the Emperor. Why?”

  “I am not sure,” Ruqayya said slowly, chewing on the tip of her hukkah. “But I have heard it comes from Jagat Gosini. She has never wanted you in the zenana, this you must know. I wonder if it is possible she enlisted his support in the matter. But what argument did she use to convince him? That she was apprehensive of your intelligence? Of your beauty? Would a powerful minister listen to such reasoning? Hmmm . . .”

  And so the two women sat and talked late into the night. The Dowager Empress’s memory was almost perfect. She recalled for Mehrunnisa incidents from the Emperor’s childhood when Mahabat had said or done something unusual. She told her of his hold over Jahangir, of the deep affection the Emperor had for Mahabat that sometimes blinded him to his faults. Mehrunnisa listened, wanting to know everything about him.

  As the night lengthened and the palace slept around them, Ruqayya suddenly said, “It is late, why are you not by the Emperor?”

  “He needs his sleep, your Majesty.”

  Ruqayya grinned. It was a knowing grin. She reached out to touch Mehrunnisa’s face. “You know this will not last.”

  Mehrunnisa moved away. “My face, or my relationship with the Emperor?”

  “Both, my dear. You have to have much more. So be wary. Watch your face for signs of aging, watch your mouth too. Emperor Jahangir does not like a woman who is too witty or too intelligent.”

  Jahangir’s Empress kept her expression immobile, but inside a sharp anger flared to life at Ruqayya’s words. She could have said much to Ruqayya about the Emperor, much she did not know or willfully ignored. The Dowager Empress was prejudiced for many reasons, most of which hinged on Jahangir’s rebellion against his father when he was a prince—a rebellion that in Ruqayya’s mind, had hastened Emperor Akbar’s death. Mehrunnisa did not say anything, because she was fearful also that perhaps, just perhaps, what Ruqayya said was true. No other woman in the zenana had enjoyed such favor from Jahangir. . . . And so came the little pestering doubts Mehrunnisa tried to keep at bay, as they always did when she talked with Ruqayya.

  The Dowager Empress was again lying back on the divan, watching Mehrunnisa with cunning eyes. “Go now,” she said. “Go back to your apartments and to bed. You need to sleep.”

  As Mehrunnisa kissed Ruqayya’s hand and rose to leave, she said, “It was good to be with you again, Mehrunnisa.”

  Mehrunnisa bowed to the Dowager Empress. At the door she turned. “I now have a new tit
le, your Majesty, I am no longer Mehrunnisa.”

  “Be careful, Mehrunnisa. Be careful of how you talk to me. Remember what I have done for you.”

  Jahangir’s newest Empress shook her head. Two months ago, Ruqayya’s words would have cowed her, but things were no longer as they once were. “I will never forget the debt I owe you. But I am now Nur Jahan. Perhaps I will allow you to call me by my old name. But I am no longer Mehrunnisa. You must not forget that.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  But there was one fatal flaw in her. She was a woman. . . . And in the prejudice of the age, women had no public role, and ambition was the prerogative of men.

  —ABRAHAM ERALY,

  The Last Spring:

  The Lives and Times of the Great Mughals

  Even as Mehrunnisa and Ruqayya sat talking through the night, a man neared the inside doorway of the Hathi Pol, the Elephant Gate on the western side of the Agra Fort. He stood for a moment watching the two guards leaning in sleep against spears dug into the hard ground—stringless puppets silhouetted against the looming sandstone walls. The man coughed and the guards sprang awake. One stumbled back to level his spear at the man’s chest, the honed tip a few inches from the zari-embroidered front of his coat. “Identify yourself.”

  The man raised both his hands. His well-oiled hair, long to his nape, caught a midnight glint in the light of the lamps. “Mahabat Khan,” he said simply, letting his voice and his name do the rest.

  The guard let his spear fall, then bowed deeply. “Mirza Mahabat Khan, I beg your pardon, I did not recognize you,” he said, tripping over his words in distress. “But how . . . I would have thought you had left the fort by now . . .”

  Mahabat shook his head gently, with the indulgence of a man not accustomed to interrogation. “Such solicitousness on behalf of the Emperor is commendable. But you must know whom you question. Open the door for me.”

  “Of course, of course, Mirza Khan. I beg your pardon. I only meant . . .” He rushed to the side door near the huge gates and pushed it open. The rest of the guard’s explanation was lost as Mahabat Khan let himself out of the fort. He walked away with carefully measured steps, the soles of his leather boots crunching on the dirt path.

  Mahabat’s hand rested lightly on the dagger tucked into his cummerbund. His eyes wove through the shadows in the streets, skimming over the snoring drunks in the corners, waiting for a twitch that signaled danger. The stench of arrack and old wine ambushed him. As Mahabat passed, the pariah dogs sniffed and growled, nostrils quivering. But no one, man or beast, came to threaten him. No voice raised itself in intimidation, no hand commanded the thick string of pearls around his neck or the marble-sized ruby in his turban. It was as though they all knew that Mahabat Khan was Emperor Jahangir’s favorite minister, his trusted confidant. Mahabat walked through the streets, his steps leading him to Muhammad Sharif’s house.

  The mansion lay well back from the main street in Agra, along the Yamuna, in the shade of ancient mango trees. Its roof was flat, the front surrounded by a deep verandah of peach-colored limewashed pillars. Mahabat climbed the front steps and knocked on the heavy wooden door, plated with embellished silver leaf. A servant boy, who usually slept on the floor with his back against the door, opened the latches and peered around the door. He bowed when he saw the minister.

  “Please come in, huzoor.” He lurched back to allow Mahabat in. “I will inform the master that you are here.”

  “No need to do that,” Mahabat said. “Tell me where he is.” As he spoke, the low dull throb of a tabla came to him from within the house. There was no music in accompaniment, just the sound of the drums.

  “The inner courtyard,” the boy replied.

  “Asleep?”

  “No, sire.”

  So Sharif could not sleep either. Mahabat slipped off his boots and found his way through the maze of corridors and courtyards to the private sanctum. Sharif’s wives were not there with him, or the slave boy would have mentioned this, and Sharif would have come out to meet Mahabat. He entered the courtyard, stopped, and then leaned against a pillar looking at Sharif.

  The Grand Vizier of the Mughal Empire was lying back on a divan, head pillowed on a cushion, arms resting on his chest. His short, stocky legs barely reached the end of the divan. Everything in his posture suggested repose and ease, even sloth. His eyelids were hooded, he looked indolent, but Mahabat knew that this was merely a pose with Sharif.

  A slave girl, clad in thin muslin skirts, bodice, and veil, swayed to the rhythm of the tabla’s beat. The tabla player sat behind one of the courtyard pillars, out of sight, the sound of his drums filling the heavy air. Slow, insistent, compelling. The girl was slim, not particularly pretty, her nose spread over her face. But what nature denied her, cosmetics embellished to something akin to beauty. Her eyes were outlined with kohl, giving them depth and breadth, her lips were reddened with carmine, henna flowers tattooed her hands and feet. Her body hardly seemed to move, yet the cadence of the drums filled her gestures. The sound surged around Mahabat. His breath wedged in his chest as her hand touched the front of her bodice, her fingers undoing one wood button, then another, then a third, sliding against raw blue silk. She turned away from the Grand Vizier, and as she did, she saw Mahabat.

  She stilled, then, her hips still swaying lightly, her gaze holding his, she pulled off the flimsy piece of muslin that covered her breasts, slipping her arms out of the sleeves. Young as she was, she had been taught her skills well. Mahabat laughed out loud, his voice hoarse with relief from the building tension. Under the bodice, the girl wore yet another piece of muslin barely covering her breasts. He could see it; Sharif, more intent on watching the girl’s baring back, could not. Mahabat clapped his hands. “Well done! You had me wondering too.” He looked at Sharif. Sweat dotted his forehead and shone on his upper lip, drenching the quill-thin line of hair he liked to call a moustache. Sharif’s nostrils flared at the interruption, and when his eyes swung to the cause of it, they were already glazed with the anger that was quick to come to him. Then he saw Mahabat, and his face settled into smooth lines.

  “Mahabat,” Sharif’s tone was reproachful. “In another minute—”

  “You would have seen nothing, my friend,” Mahabat said. He went up to the girl and turned her around, his hand warm on her shoulder.

  Then he dug into his cummerbund and flipped her three gold mohurs, the coins arcing through the air. Her hands flew, swift with practice, palms enclosing the coins, one after another. She bowed to the two men.

  Muhammad Sharif waved her away. “Do not go too far.” He turned to his friend. “And what brings you here?”

  Mahabat Khan crossed over the marble tiles of the courtyard and sat down on the divan next to Sharif. A goblet of wine appeared at his elbow. He dismissed the attendant with a hand, then nodded in the direction of the tabla player. The music stopped as the servants bowed their way out on soft feet. Mahabat picked up the goblet and stared into the wine.

  “Is this new Empress cause for concern, Sharif?”

  Surprise and amusement lit in quick succession over Sharif’s face. “A woman? Cause for concern? Surely you jest, Mahabat.”

  “You saw what happened at this morning’s jharoka. She stood in front of us, brazenly, like a woman of the streets. You saw this, and you do not think we need to worry?”

  Muhammad Sharif lifted himself on an elbow. “Ah, you are upset because her Majesty denied one of your petitioners. Her presence at the jharoka was surprising, that is all, most likely the result of a night of pleasure for the Emperor, Mahabat. It will not happen again.”

  “I am not upset about anything, Sharif,” the minister said, bitterness in his voice, though, for he was uneasy. If not for that low, soft word in Jahangir’s ear, Mahabat would not be thinking thus. “What you do not see is that this marriage is different. Emperor Jahangir married her for love.” His mouth twisted. Women had their uses for Mahabat, true, but love was not an emotion he would bestow upon them. �
��This Empress has no royal blood in her.”

  “She is the daughter of the diwan of the empire, Mahabat. Ghias Beg is responsible for even our salaries as part of his duties as a treasurer. He is well liked, and for the most part, known to be an honorable man.”

  What Sharif said was true. Ghias Beg had come to India as a penniless noble fleeing his Persian homeland. Emperor Akbar had taken him into his court, and when Akbar died, Jahangir made him treasurer of the empire. The Emperor’s new wife was Ghias Beg’s fourth child, born on his journey from Persia to India thirty-four years ago. To Mahabat, she was an old woman; he barely glanced at any woman over thirty. It was like marrying a mother, or an aunt. Yet the Emperor was enamored.

  “What is her attraction?” Sharif asked, echoing Mahabat’s thoughts.

  In reply the minister reached into an inner pocket of his qaba and pulled out a scroll of paper. Untying the red satin thread that held it together, he unrolled it and laid it in front of Sharif, watching as the Grand Vizier caught his breath and expelled it audibly. The portrait was done in watercolors. The background was of shimmering gold, real gold flakes. The woman in the picture sat with her head turned in half-profile, looking into a jeweled mirror held high in hands as delicate as closed lily buds. Her wrists were slung with jade bangles. She wore a small choli covering her breasts and a full-skirted ghagara, her waist bare between the two. Her bare back was swathed with the cascading darkness of her hair. But it was her face, her expression, that caught their attention. Her eyes were a lovely blue in the mirror’s reflection, deepening to almost indigo.

  She had not, however, a beauty classic of their time. She was too thin, her arms too slender, and not voluptuous enough. And her face was too strong, her cheekbones too pronounced. It was, Mahabat thought, almost a man’s face in its intensity, in its concentration of energy. It lacked softness. Yet something made their gazes linger.