The Feast of Roses

by Indu Sundaresan

  “Surely his Majesty will take a message from his chief Empress?” Shaista asked.

  The guards snickered. “Take the message to the new Empress’s palace. She will answer it.”

  Shaista backed away. “No . . . it is better I relay it to the Emperor personally.”

  One of the guards backed him against a wall and pinned him down with her spear. “Go to Empress Nur Jahan’s apartments if you are fond of your life, you fool,” she hissed in an undertone. “Go!” She pushed him away.

  • • •

  A troubled Shaista Khan presented himself at Mehrunnisa’s palace. His mind worked slowly, but methodically. If he disobeyed the guards, the Emperor’s new favorite would wreak vengeance upon him, but if his mistress came to know . . . he shuddered. He had no wish to be caught between the two women, but even he knew who was fast gaining ascendancy in the harem.

  Besides, Shaista was curious. There had been much gossip about Mehrunnisa. She was beautiful, she was cunning and sly, she had a charm no woman could match. How could that be, he thought. She was thirty-four. There were many younger women in the zenana, slim of figure, lithe of feet, with a rippling laughter that even made his toes curl. How could the Emperor love this woman, who had a child by another man? It was incomprehensible to him. But he would find out for himself.

  The Empress was taking her bath when Shaista Khan was announced. The hammam was a room set high in the palace on the top floor, with open verandahs on one end decorated with arches and sandstone screens. A gentle breeze whistled through the chamber, picking up coolness from the Yamuna below. The room was bare with white marble floors polished to a dull shine. In the center was a black slate tub, carved out of one piece of stone.

  When Shaista entered, the room was silent except for a child’s little voice. She was seated at the edge of the tub, fully clad, her ghagara gathered around her knees. Her feet were in the water, and she had a book of poems open on her lap. He stood to one side and watched as the girl turned a page and said, “Here is one by Hafiz. Shall I read it?” Then not waiting for an answer she went on, “Harvest. In the green sky I saw the new moon reaping,/ And minded was I of my own life’s field: What harvest wilt thou to the sickle yield/When through thy field the moon-shaped knife goes sweeping?”

  It was read in a breathless voice, with no pause for effect. The girl looked at the woman in the tub and said, “This is too hard. What does it mean? What is a moon-shaped knife? A knife is a knife, the moon the moon. What does he mean by putting them together? Finish your bath, Mama, let’s go play outside. I am tired of reading.”

  Shaista looked at the child again. So this was her daughter. She was small, with bony arms and legs and a thick head of hair plaited down her back, swinging over the edge of the tub. She sat like a queen, back straight, an imperious look on her face. What an ugly little thing she was, Shaista thought. He had never liked children, thankfully they grew into passable adults. How old was she? Six? Seven? Something like that. And the lady in the tub, she must be the Empress. Just then, his arm was seized by a tall eunuch.

  “What are you doing here?” the eunuch hissed. “This is the Empress’s private sanctuary. How did you get past the guards?”

  Shaista backed away and bowed hurriedly. This was the great Hoshiyar Khan. In the zenana, Hoshiyar’s reputation had taken on almost mythical proportions. Shaista had not seen him before, only heard of him. He wanted to be what Hoshiyar was to the Emperor, to Jahangir’s favorite, whoever she may be, and to the zenana. They all, all the eunuchs, aspired to be Hoshiyar. Shaista spoke with gravity, with the right amount of respect. “I beg pardon, huzoor. I come from Empress Jagat Gosini with a message for the Emperor.”

  The grip on his arm loosened just a little as Hoshiyar glared at him. Then he let him go. “You may approach the Empress.”

  Mehrunnisa looked up and watched as Shaista, still aware of Hoshiyar and hoping he was watching, performed the taslim.

  “Why is he here?” she asked.

  “Your Majesty, Shaista is Empress Jagat Gosini’s eunuch. He has a message for the Emperor.”

  Mehrunnisa raised an eyebrow.

  “Your Majesty—,” Shaista stammered. “The Empress wishes permission to be present at the hunt.”

  Mehrunnisa dipped her hand in the cool water and let it run through her fingers, her diamond rings glittering bright in the afternoon light. Rose petals, freshly picked that morning with the kiss of dew still upon them, floated in the scented water. Ladli turned her bright eyes on Shaista briefly, then she turned away, already losing interest.

  But Shaista Khan was watching the Empress in fascination. He had never before been close to her; he could see why Jahangir was so enraptured. She lay back in the tub, eyes closed, head resting against a jeweled cushion. Her hair streamed behind her, tumbling to the floor in a single ebony sheet. The water lapped gently above her breasts, and her skin shone like pearls. One graceful foot, toenails painted red with henna, peeped out from under the water.

  He held his breath as Mehrunnisa lifted her head and smiled at him. Where were the lines painted by the hand of time? Her face was almost perfect. Her eyes were undimmed by age, the clear blue of a washed monsoon sky. A gift from her Persian ancestors.

  “The Emperor will be glad to have Empress Jagat Gosini at the hunt.” Her voice was low. “It will also give me an opportunity to meet my sister. Give my compliments to the Empress.” She waved a hand in languid dismissal.

  Shaista bowed.

  As he was leaving the room, Mehrunnisa’s voice stopped him. “You have done well in coming to me with this message. Remember, the Emperor cannot be bothered with trivialities, it will perhaps be better if you come to me from now on.”

  “I understand, your Majesty.”

  “Hoshiyar, give the man fifty rupees. He is a good servant.”

  Fifty rupees! That was five times his month’s salary. Shaista performed the taslim four times, in gratitude for many things—for having been able to see her, for being brought to Hoshiyar Khan’s notice—before he backed out the door.

  Mehrunnisa lay back and closed her eyes again. So Jagat Gosini wished to be at the hunt. Why? What had she planned? It would have been churlish to refuse the request, and there was no good reason to do so. Yet she couldn’t help the sudden flood of apprehension. So far they had not met. But that could not continue. As a new wife, she should have paid her respects to the reigning Padshah Begam, but Mehrunnisa had not cared to do this. At first it was because of the Emperor, because so much time was spent with him. And then it was because she recognized the summons for what it was—a command and not a request. An order for obedience from a woman who had not wanted her within the zenana walls.

  If she was to arrange for her presence to be felt in the empire, it had to start from here, from the inside. As long as Jagat Gosini was considered Jahangir’s most important wife, as long as she had possession of the Emperor’s seal, Mehrunnisa would be inconsequential, no matter how much time Jahangir spent with her. The title of Padshah Begam, the seal that was so powerful that even the Emperor’s word could not revoke its orders—these were the real bastions of authority in the harem.

  Mehrunnisa had gone to the jharoka again this morning. Today she had said nothing, merely watched. There had been more men in the courtyard below than yesterday, some eyes had been curious, some guarded and wondering if this was to be a common practice from now on. As much as they had been unaccepting and disbelieving of her presence yesterday, today they had at least been resigned. Tomorrow, in a few days, a few months, they would welcome her.

  “Mama!”

  Mehrunnisa opened her eyes and looked at her daughter. “What is it, beta?”

  “Don’t fall asleep, Mama. Finish your bath and come out to play.”

  A pout decorated Ladli’s face. Mehrunnisa picked up her hand and kissed the little palm. At one time, she had thought there would be no children from her marriage to Ali Quli. It had hurt, dreadfully, for the longest time,
subsiding into a dull ache that flared up when she saw some other woman’s face light up at the sight of her child. Questions were asked constantly, prying, intimate questions about her childlessness. How did one reply to them? That slave girls in the house gave birth to children who were possibly sired by her husband? That he visited her at night yet there was no sign of a child? Then eight years into the marriage came Ladli, the night they reached Bengal, sent into near exile by Jahangir. It had not mattered that she was a girl child, that after eight years of being barren she had had only a girl. Ali Quli had been disappointed, but not Mehrunnisa. Hence her name. Ladli. One who was loved.

  Ladli pulled her hand out of Mehrunnisa’s grasp and said again, “Let’s go, Mama. Hoshiyar, help Mama out.”

  Mehrunnisa smiled. She already acted like a princess, ordering Hoshiyar around. “I have something to do now, beta. Go to your quarters, Dai will play with you there.”

  “But—” Ladli’s face screwed up, as if to cry.

  “No buts, beta.” Mehrunnisa smoothed the hair from her face. “Go now. Mama has to do something. I will come to you in the evening.” She nodded to Hoshiyar and he came and lifted Ladli out of the tub, her feet dripping water. Then he wiped her legs and handed her to another eunuch. Ladli squirmed out of the eunuch’s arms to the floor. At the door she turned and asked in a small voice, “Will you come, Mama?”

  “Yes,” Mehrunnisa said, but her thoughts had already escaped elsewhere.

  When Ladli left, Mehrunnisa sat up and snapped her fingers. Hoshiyar Khan came up and pulled the plug on the tub. Mehrunnisa watched the water whirlpool from the tub, rose petals rushing to clog the drain. A slave girl brought her a robe. As she rose to slip into it, she looked at Hoshiyar Khan. He had his eyes averted.

  Here was one man who could tell her about Jagat Gosini. So far Hoshiyar had been useful in telling her of the Emperor, of his moods, what pleased him. Yet she would not ask him about the Empress. That would be revealing a weakness. She would not ask. One day, he would tell her.

  “How much time until the Emperor rises, Hoshiyar?” she asked.

  “Another hour, your Majesty.”

  Mehrunnisa allowed herself to be led to a cotton mattress on the floor. The slave girls poured out musk oil on their palms and gently massaged her body. When they were finished, they oiled her long, black hair and coiled it around her head like a crown. Little white jasmine flowers, her trademark, were woven into her hair, contrasting its darkness.

  Next came the makeup. Kohl was used to rim her blue eyes and darken her eyebrows. Carmine was painted on her lips. Her hands and feet were already decorated with delicate patterns in henna.

  The Mistress of the Wardrobe entered with five slave girls, each carrying an outfit. Mehrunnisa considered for some time and finally decided on a ghagara and choli made of flimsy muslin, the green of unripe limes, so transparent that her legs were visible as she walked. She had already made up her mind about what to wear even as the slaves came into the hammam. But the appearance of deliberation—this Mehrunnisa had learned from watching Ruqayya—was important, to emphasize that she had a choice, the right to exert her will. The Mistress of the Wardrobe then put out a veil to match the outfit and went out of the room as the slaves helped the Empress dress.

  She came back presently with three eunuchs. The eunuchs opened the caskets they bore, and jewels of every color spilled out. Mehrunnisa carefully chose a set of sunset-pink pearls. A broad belt studded with hundreds of pearls went around her slender waist. Armlets were tied at the ends of her sleeves. A round gold disc, encrusted with pearls hanging from a slender gold chain, was pinned to her hair, the disc dangling in the center of her forehead. Ten pearl bangles went on each wrist, and finally a small, beautiful, perfect pearl was put in her pierced nose.

  A eunuch silently brought in a gold tray bearing paan. Mehrunnisa slipped it into her mouth and chewed. The entire operation had taken over an hour, and all the while, without Ladli there to distract her, Mehrunnisa had been thinking. The hunt would be important, even decisive.

  For it was time to meet her biggest rival in the imperial zenana.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Once Jahangir went ahunting accompanied by both Jagat Gosain and Noor Jahan. . . . Both the ladies sat by his side. . . . Suddenly a lion came in roaring.

  —MOHAMMAD & RAZIA SHUJAUDDIN,

  The Life and Times of Noor Jahan

  The imperial hunting grounds were vigilantly guarded all through the year, and except for partridges, quails, and hares, which were caught by nets, no one was allowed to disturb the wildlife within the grounds. Consequently game abounded; antelopes, blue oxen called nilgau, and lions roamed freely. The land encompassed forests with tall grasses, sometimes reaching eight feet in height, which would conceal even a man seated on a horse.

  For two weeks, the keepers had stalked out a lion for the Emperor. They followed the animal to its favorite resting spot, a clearing in the forest under a patchwork of sunlight. They did this for a few days, blending into the undergrowth with clothes of green cotton, river mud smeared over their skins to keep their smell from the lion’s nostrils. When the lion left the spot, the men brought a donkey into the clearing and tied it to a stake in the ground. Then they waited, pendant on branches of the trees, upwind from the lion. The first day, the lion stood at the edge of the clearing, suspicious of this meal that came so easily. And for the first few hours, the donkey brayed, twisting its neck this way and that, almost strangling itself when it saw the lion. Then the lion approached, carefully, skirting around the donkey. It neared. It swiped at a haunch, ripping through flesh and drawing blood. By this time, the donkey was silent, its brays abandoned in fear and trembling, knowing it was to die.

  This happened day after day, and the lion turned too slothful to stalk its prey. It came leaping out of the undergrowth in one bound to fall upon the donkey, which had no time to even let out a sound, and no chance to even lose courage before it died.

  The day of the hunt came bright and clear. The clouds had broken for a brief respite, leaving an earth lavish with green after just a few days of rain. The palaces of the fort at Agra stirred well before sunrise, as the hunt had to begin before the day became too hot.

  On the morning of the hunt, the donkey was led to the stake as usual. But today its throat was forced open, and two handfuls of opium were shoved into its stomach by the keepers. The lion would come again for its free meal, and again it would pounce on the hapless donkey, slashing through the soft flesh of its belly first, eating the undigested opium. An opium-drugged lion was easier to hunt.

  At sunrise, three thousand soldiers beating drums formed a circle around the forest. They were carrying large nets made of a thick jute fiber. As they walked inward, all the game within the forest fled toward the center. Once the circle had been narrowed to a few miles in diameter, the royal party would enter the forest and there find the game waiting to be slaughtered.

  Mehrunnisa was in her apartments, getting ready for the hunt. There was a hush in the room as the slave girls moved around on bare feet, straightening the sheets, laying out her clothes, talking in whispers. She stood in front of a long mirror, looking at her reflection. A sudden gust of early morning breeze swept through the room, sending the oil lamps wavering, bringing goose bumps up her arms. Jahangir had not been hunting since their wedding, but it was one of his favorite occupations. She did not want to disappoint him today.

  For most of the night, Mehrunnisa had lain sleepless, rising to stand at the windows of her apartments. In the inner streets of the forts, the night guards had appeared and ebbed into shadows, clad in soft-soled boots so as not to disturb the palaces. In the early dawn, before the first light escaped from the horizon, she had been in the balcony of her apartments, leaning over the edge. On the farther bank of the Yamuna was the dhobi ghat, where the dhobis washed the laundry. Little pinpoints of light from their lamps had bobbed in a line as they had picked their way to the edge of the water, and then the
re had been the rhythmic slap of cloth against stone. And just as she had been able to make out their figures, hunched over, hands busy, the slave girls had come in to wake her for the hunt.

  Hoshiyar Khan entered, carrying a musket bagged in red velvet, its snout poking out of the wrapping.

  “With his Majesty’s compliments. He wishes for you to shoot with his favorite musket.”

  Mehrunnisa reached for it. The weight took her by surprise, and for a moment her hands fell and then settled around the iron barrel. She read the Persian verses engraved over the barrel, etched into the metal. This was a hunting musket, not a war musket—the verses lauded the chase. She held it up to her shoulder, as Ali Quli had once taught her, and put a finger in the trigger. The musket was not loaded, and the trigger pulled back smoothly with a well-oiled click. She handed the musket back to Hoshiyar and wiped damp palms on the silk of her pajamas.

  “It is a sign of great favor, your Majesty.”

  She turned to the eunuch. “I know.”

  His face was bland. Mehrunnisa opened her mouth, then closed it. No, this was not the time to betray her fears. There was never a time to betray her fears. Not even to Hoshiyar. With him especially, she must be careful.

  Hoshiyar said quietly, “It is time to go, your Majesty.”

  The sun rose in the eastern sky as the royal party assembled in the main courtyard of the fort. As Mehrunnisa came into the courtyard, she saw Jahangir and Jagat Gosini standing close to each other, conversing in low voices. It had been many years since Mehrunnisa had seen Jagat Gosini in anything other than passing glimpses. The Empress was only a few years older than Mehrunnisa, but she had more to show her age—the rule of Jahangir’s zenana for six years, a child who was now a twenty-year-old man, a marriage that had lasted even longer. And yet, when she smiled at the Emperor, she became youthful, flirting, her hair brilliantly black in the morning glow, her eyes the same shining ebony as black slate.

  They talked and then did not. When Jahangir turned to instruct one of the grooms, pointing to the jeweled blinders of an Arabian horse, she turned too, said something, and Jahangir nodded. It was all done in comfort, without hesitation, talk that flowed from twenty-five years of togetherness. Mehrunnisa’s toe jammed against a paving stone and she stumbled, clutching Hoshiyar’s arm to steady herself. How could she compete with this, what they had? It would come with time, but no matter what, Jagat Gosini would always have had more time with him.