Sharif slowly traced the curve of her face, his finger tarrying longer than necessary over her shoulder. His touch was light, as though the picture was newly finished, the paint not yet dry.
“This is the new Empress? Is it a true rendition?”
“I think so. Yes, it must be. This is how she looks under the veil,” Mahabat replied, watching his friend. Now things made some sense to him, why the Emperor had married her, what her physical charms were. The rumors of her beauty, almost elevating her to a goddess-like stature, had been based on truth. If this portrait was to be believed.
Sharif’s voice was quiet. “How did you get this?”
Mahabat did not look at his friend. “The less you know the better. Emperor Jahangir would not forgive me for . . . er . . . borrowing this portrait. But I wanted you to know, Sharif. I wanted you to see what she looked like.”
“You stole this portrait?”
Mahabat nodded. “Just now. I went to the painters’ atelier in the fort. I wanted to see too.”
Sharif watched as Mahabat rolled the portrait carefully and slipped it inside his qaba. “She is still just a woman.”
“I wonder,” Mahabat said, exhaustion crumpling his sunbrowned face. The stubble of his unshaven beard was flecked with white. Age had come to Mahabat too, in the graying of his hair, in the lines on his face, only it did not matter so much. For he was a man, and his importance was not based on his physical appearance or the ability to bear children. Mahabat had the advantage of Emperor Jahangir’s ear. Now Mehrunnisa, Jahangir’s twentieth wife, had it too. He leaned back onto the divan. “Do you remember that Empress Jagat Gosini did not want her in the imperial harem?”
They were silent, looking up at a low crescent moon still hanging over the horizon, stubbornly refusing to fade. Empress Jagat Gosini, Jahangir’s second wife, had met with Mahabat in secret, several times over, in the past few years, flaunting the rule that she not be seen by any man from the outside world. Mahabat had not actually seen her, although he had been close enough to touch her, to smell the essence of camellias in which she bathed, to see the flash of a smile under her veil. Every single meeting had been about Mehrunnisa.
“How many years have passed since the Emperor first saw her?” Sharif asked.
“The first time? Seventeen, I think,” Mahabat said. “She was seventeen then, not yet married to Ali Quli, although her betrothal had been finalized.”
Sharif rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “The Emperor tried to dissolve that betrothal. And did not succeed.”
“And years later, he tried to invalidate her marriage.”
And that was when Empress Jagat Gosini had come to Mahabat Khan for help. Mahabat, curious and intrigued at the summons, had responded. He had needed an ally in the imperial harem, for he knew that in fatigue or moments of weakness, a woman could get anything she wanted from a man. So Mahabat had gone to see what the Empress had had to say.
The command had been a simple one. Make sure the Emperor forgets Mehrunnisa. He must not bring her into the royal harem. Mahabat had almost smiled that first time, thinking Jagat Gosini absurd, thinking himself half-witted to have agreed to meet her, risking disfavor from Jahangir. And all this over a romantic alliance; Mahabat had thought he was being commanded for some other reason—a political one, or something related to court matters—something in which he could be of use. Then he had paid heed as grants of land had been bestowed on Ghias Beg, for he was Mehrunnisa’s father. He had seen Jahangir’s unwavering resolve to marry Mehrunnisa even after her husband had killed Koka.
Mahabat, Sharif, and Koka had grown up with Jahangir, brought into the imperial zenana to provide the young prince with male companionship. They had played together, slept in the same room, shared food from the same plate, untiring of this constant intimacy as only children can be. They were Jahangir’s closest friends, and when he had become Emperor he had rewarded them for their loyalty with governorships and ministries. Koka had wanted to go to Bengal as governor, and there, he had died at the hands of Mehrunnisa’s husband. To Sharif and Mahabat’s astonishment, it had only seemed to make Jahangir more determined to have her.
Sharif, his eyes shut, asked softly, “Empress Jagat Gosini was right in not wanting her in the imperial harem?”
“She said Mehrunnisa would be a threat even to us.”
“Yet the Empress allowed this marriage to take place.”
“Four years after her husband died, who could have foreseen that the Emperor would see Mehrunnisa in the palace bazaar and that he would marry her?” Mahabat smiled, though with a touch of cynicism. “His Majesty is not known for constancy, Sharif . . . so we grew slack too.”
Sharif touched Mahabat’s chest with light fingers where the picture lay in the inner pocket. “She is beautiful. Beautiful women are too impressed by themselves, spend too much time impressing others. They can easily be stupid.”
“I wonder,” Mahabat said. Then he shook his head. “No, her presence at the jharoka was not foolishness, Sharif. Even if she were inclined to stupidity, she has a father and a brother who thirst for wealth and power.” He rubbed his cheek, feeling the rasp of unshaven skin against his fingers. “I see trouble ahead. In what shape, I do not know.” He rose from the divan and stood looking down at his friend. Over the years they had been together, he had always been the one who saw the dangers, who made plans to demolish them, who goaded Muhammad Sharif to greatness. Sharif viewed things differently, of course, thinking of himself as the voice of reason, and Mahabat the willful, impulsive one. “I must go home now. It would be better if you gave this matter some thought too, Sharif, instead of lolling around with a slave in your courtyard.”
Muhammad Sharif’s eyes gleamed. Very few people in the empire would dare to talk to him like this, and Mahabat was one of them. They were both intrinsically fearless men, born to cruelty. It was simply a mishap of nature that they had no royal blood. Even in early childhood they had known their alliance with Emperor Jahangir would bring them prosperity, so they subdued their instincts, willing to wait for successes they thought were rightfully theirs. Now that they were two of the most powerful men in the empire, a woman would not, could not, take that away. So Sharif would not bother to give Mehrunnisa much thought.
Mahabat knew this. He shook his head again and turned away. Sharif snapped his fingers. The slave girl, who had been sitting leaning against a pillar in the courtyard, beyond comprehension of their voices, came up to the Amir-ul-umra. When he patted the divan cover, she sat down next to him.
“This history of wanting, Mahabat,” Sharif said slowly. “I have learned this much. It is better to want than to have a desire fulfilled. Once it is . . . it has little importance. So it will be for the Emperor.”
“Perhaps,” Mahabat said, walking away. “And, if not . . . what then, Sharif?”
Sharif pulled at the skirts of the slave’s blue silk ghagara, fanning them around her with gentle hands, as though she were a child.
Mahabat had reached the outer door to the courtyard when Sharif’s voice came floating to him. “She is but a woman, Mahabat. Remember that. There is little they are good for.”
Mahabat turned again to see Sharif strip the girl’s bodice off her shoulders. His meaty hand lightly touched the slope of her breast, one stubby finger trailing against a rouged nipple, his eyes intent on her. She did not look at him. All her earlier bravado seemed to have fled—the dancing, the gestures, the glances from eyes languorous with seduction, these she had been taught. For this, the ultimate result of those lessons, there had been no advice, no teaching. Her lower lip trembled, tears filled her eyes, her face drooped. Still, she did not flinch as Sharif loosened the tie of her ghagara. The bow broke easily, knotted for a lover’s hand.
Mahabat left Sharif’s house, his heart lightened somewhat at being able to share his thoughts with his friend. But worry still lingered. In their world, Jahangir was omnipotent. Their power came through him. So why not Mehrunnisa’s? If Sharif was wro
ng, if the Emperor did not tire of this latest wife. If Jahangir allowed her power. If she came to hear of his—Mahabat’s—own involvement in Jagat Gosini’s attempts to stop the marriage. This last point gave Mahabat the most pause, for there were no secrets in the imperial zenana; sooner or later, everything was revealed. If Mehrunnisa wanted, if she was vindictive . . .
Mahabat knew what Sharif would say, languid and dismissing, “There are too many ‘ifs,’ my friend.” And yes, there were too many uncertainties. But there were times, rare enough, when they all came to pass. And if they did . . . Mahabat shuddered. If they did, the new Empress could very well decimate Mahabat’s and Sharif’s standing at court.
• • •
Empress Jagat Gosini paced the rich Persian carpet in her palace in short, quick strides.
She had waited patiently these last two months for Jahangir to visit her. Each day the reception room of her palace was swept clean, the rugs taken out and dusted, the shades drawn over windows by ten in the morning to keep in the night’s cool. Each day her eunuch went to the royal kitchens to command the Emperor’s favorite dishes made afresh—kheers with new milk, coconut burfis flaked with thin foils of silver, or rice biryanis cooked in mutton broth. Wines waited in gold flasks, and the hukkahs grew warm with live coals. The Empress knew Jahangir’s desires to the littlest detail. And until this marriage, he had never failed her yet. Within a week of his other marriages, Emperor Jahangir had come to her palace to pay a visit, acknowledging her place in his zenana. It had been years since Jahangir had spent a night in her palace, slept by her side, years since she had woken to the sight of him first. But this total lack of attention was unprecedented.
Besides, the other wives also called upon Jagat Gosini. She made sure that they knew, even as they stepped into the harem, in whose hands the real power in the zenana was vested. It was easy to do. A word dropped in their ear by the slaves. Or if they would not heed the servants, a visit from an aunt or a cousin. But Mehrunnisa had ignored her. She had deliberately stayed away. This much Jagat Gosini knew for sure.
The Empress stopped at the window and looked out. The monsoons were here. Since yesterday, rain had battered the city of Agra, coming down in thick sheets, until the Yamuna River outside her palace was a roiling sea of water. Jagat Gosini would have been happy at this break in the heat, happy that she could breathe again without drawing dust into her lungs, but now she leaned against the windowsill, shaking with anger. She had heard about the jharoka. Who had not in the empire? Mehrunnisa had actually dared to stand by the Emperor during his morning audience. Did he not know, did she not have any sense of how highly unbecoming it was to the dignity of a Mughal woman to show herself thus in public? How could Jahangir allow this?
Jagat Gosini wrapped her hands around herself and with both hands pinched the soft underside of her arms, just below the sleeve edge of her choli, until the pain brought tears to her eyes. Why had she not thought of asking Jahangir to let her stand beside him at the jharoka? Why had she not even thought of this? Because this she had not been taught. How could she have dared to think that it was even possible? And why was it Mehrunnisa who had claimed this privilege, and not another woman in the zenana, one she hated less?
Jagat Gosini had not wanted Mehrunnisa in the harem ever since she had first met her in Ruqayya’s gardens that summer afternoon in Lahore. Then, Mehrunnisa must have been only sixteen or seventeen. Jagat Gosini had gone to visit Khurram during Ruqayya’s afternoon siesta. With the Empress napping, she had thought she could spend some time with her son. He had been alone, with only Mehrunnisa to look after him. And she had sent her, Jagat Gosini, away with a sly, “The Empress will soon awaken, your Highness, and ask for the prince. You must go.” Then she had let her hand fall possessively to Khurram’s curly head. As though he had belonged to her.
All the rage she had not dared direct at Ruqayya had gone to Mehrunnisa. A few days later Jahangir had been mooning about Mehrunnisa like Majnu, as if she, Jagat Gosini, had been nothing. As though she had not borne him Khurram. She had tried to step back from this rage. As a princess should. As a daughter of one king, and the wife of another, should.
So Jagat Gosini had bided her time. Years passed, and she consolidated her position as Padshah Begam, during which time her spies kept her informed of Mehrunnisa’s activities. She embroiders, reads to her child, weeds the imperial gardens. Harmless activities, she had thought. Let her spend time in the sun, it will age her.
But it had not aged Mehrunnisa. If anything, now that she was older, there was a certain loveliness about her that time brought to only some. Jahangir remained entranced, talked of bringing her into the imperial harem. Jagat Gosini suggested he take her as a concubine, thinking that if Mehrunnisa was going to have a place in Jahangir’s life, at least it would be a lowly one. The Emperor simply said this, “She will be my wife, nothing else.”
At those words, after fighting against it for many years, a deep sadness came over Jagat Gosini. She was defeated.
Jagat Gosini had always known she would be Padshah Begam of Jahangir’s zenana. She had worked hard for the position, kowtowing to senior princesses, learning of their power so she might have it one day. She studied with the mullas so she could talk intelligently with Jahangir. She learned to shoot and use the bow and arrow, for he was fond of hunting. Most importantly, she had given him Khurram. Beautiful, bright-eyed Khurram, who would one day wear his father’s crown. And as his mother, she would rule too. But she had kept her power in the zenana, not interfering too much in court politics or appointments. How could she have foreseen that this commoner would nudge her, Jagat Gosini, daughter of a raja, from her position?
Shaista Khan, her new eunuch, coughed at the door to attract her attention. She turned from the window, rubbing her arms. She could already feel pits in the flesh where her nails had pinched. She pulled the sleeves of her choli down her arms.
“What news?” she asked sharply.
“Your Majesty,” he hesitated, “it is not good.”
“Go on.”
“The Empress was not a silent spectator at the jharoka. The Emperor turned to her for advice on decisions regarding the petitions and the gifts. True, she did not speak aloud in public, but her influence was visible. And your Majesty, Mirza Mahabat Khan begs an audience.”
The Empress bowed her head, only half-listening to Shaista as she fought not to let anger overcome her. Matters had gone too far out of hand. Mehrunnisa had to be stopped somehow. “You may go now.”
Shaista Khan bowed and left the apartments, tripping over the edge of the rug on his way out. Jagat Gosini clicked her tongue in irritation. Shaista was a new eunuch, and she was unused to his ways. She missed Hoshiyar Khan, head eunuch of the harem, who had been at her side for twenty-five years. Hoshiyar was an extremely intelligent man, gentle in his ways, smooth in his talk, cruel when necessary. Jagat Gosini remembered when Hoshiyar had knifed a dog. The dog had barked half the night, and she had sent him out to silence it. The Empress had only meant for Hoshiyar to take the dog away to another location. Instead, he had calmly held its diamond collar and sliced its neck, stepping fastidiously out of the way when the blood spurted out. The next morning, the princess who owned the dog had cried out for justice, but when she had found it was Hoshiyar who was responsible, she had kept quiet. The Emperor never heard of the incident. In this harem of women, Hoshiyar Khan was the silently acknowledged master.
There was only one woman he had listened to, one woman he had respected almost as much as he respected himself. Empress Jagat Gosini. Together, they had been powerful, for Hoshiyar could go where she could not go, see things she was not privy to. And then, a week before Jahangir’s twentieth marriage, he had slipped out of her apartments with a small apology. “The new Empress commands me, your Majesty.”
He had gone to Mehrunnisa and left her with the idiot Shaista Khan.
Jagat Gosini had let him go, knowing it would be useless to complain to Jahangir. Hoshiya
r was powerful in the harem, true, but she would show them both who was more powerful.
She clapped her hands lightly. Shaista Khan, never too far from his mistress, immediately came to the door.
“When does the Emperor go hunting next?”
“In three days, your Majesty. He is going to take the new Empress with him.”
Jagat Gosini spoke slowly, enunciating each word, for the eunuch was sure to mistake her command if she did not do so. “Take a request to the Emperor asking if I may be allowed to join the royal hunting party.”
“At once, your Majesty.”
Jagat Gosini watched him leave with a small smile. The Emperor was excessively fond of hunting. Jagat Gosini was an excellent shot. In fact, she was the best in the zenana. There was little possibility that Mehrunnisa could have her skill with the musket.
She had not forgotten Shaista’s other message. So Mirza Mahabat Khan wanted to see her? She would meet him. Now more than ever, she needed Mahabat Khan, but of course, he would never fully know that.
• • •
It was midafternoon, and Jahangir was taking a nap when the message came to him from Jagat Gosini.
Shaista Khan was stopped at the entrance to the royal apartments by the guards. They were two hefty women of Kashmiri origin, known to be extremely brave and fiercely loyal to the Emperor. For years, the women of Kashmir had guarded the inner apartments of the Emperors of Mughal India, for no men were allowed into the zenana except for the eunuchs.
One of them stepped forward, towering over Shaista, and pointed a spear at the eunuch’s chest. “What is your business here?”
“I come with a message from the Empress Jagat Gosini.”
The guard looked at her companion and she nodded. She recognized Shaista Khan.
“The Emperor is asleep and is not to be disturbed,” the guard said. “Come back in two hours.”
The Feast of Roses Page 4
