The Empress said something, and Jahangir put back his head and laughed. Mehrunnisa stopped at the sound of that laugh, a hundred questions in her mind. How long had they been here? Where had the Emperor spent the night? With the Empress? For he had not been with Mehrunnisa. She knew she did not have claim to all of Jahangir’s waking hours, or even his sleeping ones. This she had known before she had agreed to be Jahangir’s wife—that she would have to share him. No Emperor could devote himself to just one wife, when there were courtiers, diplomats, wives, concubines, sisters, aunts, and mothers, all wanting a slice of his attention.
A warm hand touched the skin of her back, between her short choli blouse and the start of her pleated pajamas. “Come, your Majesty. The Emperor will wish to start on the hunt soon. He will be happy if you are content too,” Hoshiyar said softly, bending to catch her ear. Mehrunnisa nodded. She started to walk toward them again.
The Emperor turned at the sound of Mehrunnisa’s footsteps. “There you are. I was wondering what happened to you.”
Mehrunnisa gracefully performed the konish in greeting; her right hand went up to her forehead and she bowed. “I took some time getting ready, your Majesty.” She indicated the musket in Hoshiyar Khan’s hands. “Thank you for the gift.”
“It gives me pleasure, my love.”
Mehrunnisa then took a deep breath and turned to Jagat Gosini. They were meeting for the first time as equals. All these years, Jagat Gosini had always been a notch above her. Her position made her so. But even so, at one time, when she had had the care of Khurram, Mehrunnisa had had an upper hand. It must have hurt, she could not imagine giving up Ladli to anyone. But Jagat Gosini was still powerful, still an Empress, still, in this zenana world of theirs, the Padshah Begam. Silence settled thickly around them as they stood watching each other carefully.
Eunuchs and slave girls froze in their places. The grooms, who had been busily adjusting the saddles on the royal horses, stopped and stared. And they waited for some movement, some speech, something other than the breeze that lifted the edges of the two Empresses’ veils with gentle fingers.
Mehrunnisa bowed to Jagat Gosini, but she did so stiffly, her head barely bending, her eyes not leaving the Empress’s gaze. “Please accept my compliments.”
A flush bloomed on Jagat Gosini’s face. It was a simple statement, but an insult. In the first place, Mehrunnisa should have performed the konish or the taslim; secondly, it was not her place to speak first, and then to speak without respect . . . it was a slap on the face.
“And mine,” Jagat Gosini replied, enunciating carefully, the weight of her anger underlining each word.
Mehrunnisa turned to Jahangir. He stood watching, giving away nothing of his thoughts. The Emperor did not have a tremendous amount of affection for Jagat Gosini, but he would not countenance a public display of disrespect. Although he had never explicitly said anything, he did not like fights within his zenana. This much Mehrunnisa had understood from her years of living within the walls of the harem. She could have been more polite, but she had not wanted to be.
“We should leave,” Jahangir said. He spoke in a low voice, but at his words the activity in the courtyard resumed in a frenzy, as though the pause had not occurred. Every person there had heard the exchange between the two women, knew that etiquette had been ruffled, and saw that Jahangir had done nothing in retaliation. Glances stole at the new Empress with admiration—in so few words she had diminished Empress Jagat Gosini. How brave she was, how proud, what a noble bearing for a woman born to a Persian refugee. There would be much to talk about after the hunt.
The mahout brought the imperial elephant forward. He caught hold of one of its ears and slithered off its neck, pendant for a moment like an earring, before he fell on his feet. He then knocked his stick against the elephant’s trunk and commanded it to kneel.
The imperial howdah had been strapped onto the elephant’s back. It was a canopied seat made of wood plated with gold. A thick mattress covered with satin reposed on the howdah. Cushions, buttoned with rubies, were strewn around for comfort. Four thin gold pillars held up the silver cloth canopy fringed with pearls and diamonds.
Jahangir climbed into the howdah first, and Mehrunnisa followed. None of the eunuchs present had dared to assist Jagat Gosini in after the Emperor. In a small way, the hierarchy was being broken. The muskets were handed in, and the mahout jumped on top of the elephant’s neck. It lifted to its feet slowly, forelegs rising first, the howdah tilting back and then forward. As the elephant lumbered out of the courtyard, the two ladies pulled their veils over their heads.
Outside, the Emperor was joined by five hundred Ahadis. They took up positions on the sides, in front, and behind, forming a tight net around the royal elephant. The rest of the court rode behind with their soldiers, all heavily armed with muskets and spears.
The sky grew pink as the imperial party progressed through the streets of Agra. As usual, almost the whole city had turned out to watch the Emperor. The crowd stretched their necks to catch a glimpse of the two women in the howdah. People shouted praises as they passed, and Jahangir threw silver rupees into the crowd, pleased with their adulation.
Suddenly a child yelled out, “Which one is the beautiful Empress Nur Jahan?”
Mehrunnisa smiled under her veil and waved a graceful hand at the little girl. The crowd roared its pleasure, and Jagat Gosini became more furious. The people had never commended her in such a manner.
Jahangir handed Mehrunnisa the gold brocade bag. “Throw some silver rupees to the little girl, my dear.”
Mehrunnisa dipped her hand in the bag and threw the coins into the crowd. The crowd roared even louder. They certainly approved of the Empress now. The elephant moved slowly through Agra, stopping at places while the guards cleared the roads.
Finally, the imperial party left the city and proceeded toward the hunting grounds. The keepers had by this time beaten the lion into its retreat in the center of the forest. As the Emperor approached, the Mir Shikar, Master of the Hunt, came running up to the royal elephant and fell to his knees in salutation.
“The lion awaits, your Majesty.”
Jahangir threw the man some rupees, showering silver over his head. He scrambled in the dust for the coins and counted them surreptitiously. Fifteen rupees! It would feed his family for a few months.
The elephant carried the Emperor and his wives into the forest. When they had reached the soldiers guarding the enclosure with their nets, the Emperor signaled them to move on inward.
The forest was thick and dense with vegetation, overhead the trees formed an awning from the rising sun. It was cool and damp in the shade, redolent of rotting leaves. All was quiet except for the sound of twigs and grass crackling under the feet of the soldiers as they moved forward. A quail flew out of the grass, squawking, a group of gazelles flew nimbly across an open expanse. Muskets rose to shoulders and then fell. The lion was the prey.
Jahangir leaned back on his cushion and closed his eyes. He would normally be alert, watching for a sign of the lion, a flash of a golden mane in the green of the forest. But today, the two women who sat ahead of him, their backs rigid, leaning over the edge of the howdah, were the hunters. Since Mehrunnisa had come to him, he had been filled with happiness. If he could rub her shoulders now, take away the tension, he would do it. But there were other women in his harem who had a claim on him, as Jagat Gosini was demonstrating. He knew that Mehrunnisa wanted the royal seal, and the title of Padshah Begam, but she would have to earn it. Jahangir would not interfere in the matters of the zenana, even though he had the power to give Mehrunnisa anything in the world.
Mehrunnisa swayed with the rhythm of the howdah. She breathed in the smells of the forest, listened in the unnatural stillness for sounds of game. Her palms became clammy, and the musket slipped from her hand. She wiped her hands on her pajamas and picked up the gun again. She did not look at Empress Jagat Gosini. They had not talked since their greeting. Words were us
eless, for they each knew what they wanted. And only one of them would get it.
By her side, Jagat Gosini sat forward, her eyes moving through the shadowed and lit undergrowth with practiced ease. Her hands gripped her gun, right finger loosely curled around the trigger.
The breeze shifted direction imperceptibly; the women did not notice it. But the elephant twitched its long trunk, moving it up and to one side, then the next. It stopped, and the mahout said over his shoulder, “It senses the lion, your Majesties.”
The two women tensed, bringing up their muskets. But the grasses lay still, unruffled, nothing to indicate that an animal moved within them. The elephant started to quiver, and they felt the vibrations that shuddered through its large body. The lion was close, that was for sure, but where? And they waited, the soldiers quiet behind them, the elephant trembling, the Emperor watching them.
Then they heard the voice of the lion, to the right of the royal elephant, there, at the rear of a large rock. It was not a loud roar but a questing one, yet it fractured through the silence in the forest. Drugged, its senses dull, the lion had not seen them yet, or heard them, or smelled the scent of their skins. It came around the rock and froze where it stood. It saw the elephant, the humans atop it, the humans around it. All the soldiers had their muskets raised by this time, sighted steadily on the lion.
Mehrunnisa flinched. She had seen a lion once, in the royal zoo. Then it had looked so scrawny, so pallid, pacing its cage. This one was three times the size of the royal lion, gold-tufted and heavily muscled. This was a lion in the wild? She watched, mesmerized, as the lion shook its head to clear its drugged brain, then leaped through the air, going for the royal elephant.
The elephant immediately reared back, trumpeting in fear, lifting its forelegs and almost displacing the howdah. As the howdah tilted, Mehrunnisa jammed her shoulder against one of the posts and willed her hands to lift the musket to aim it at the lion.
A shot reverberated through the forest, coming fast at the edge of the lion’s roar and the elephant’s cry. The lion lay at the feet of the elephant. The shot had caught it in midleap, through its heart. Its head was askew, neck snapped in the fall. A small round hole blossomed under its ribs, trickling blood on the dusty ground.
The soldiers let out a cry. “The Empress has shot the lion!”
The drummers beat their drums loudly, and the silent forest echoed with the noise of human voices and laughter.
Mehrunnisa sat still, her hands trembling around the musket, her finger still pulling the trigger back. Jagat Gosini pulled herself upright; the elephant’s rearing had thrown her to the back, against Jahangir. Lying thus, half across her husband, her musket pulled up to her, the metal lodged under her chin, she had fired. Mehrunnisa’s gun lay cold, Jagat Gosini’s smoked in wisps and whorls. Her face, her hands, and even Jahangir’s hands, for he had held her as she had shot, were peppered with black flakes of gunpowder. The Emperor rubbed Jagat Gosini’s face free of the gunpowder, and she smiled at him, a little smile showing she was grateful for the action.
“You have done well, my dear wife. The lion could have killed us. You are indeed an excellent shot.”
He then turned to Mehrunnisa. She put her musket down, its weight suddenly heavy on her shoulder. It had all happened so fast, without warning. One moment the lion was in front of them, flushed out of its hiding place, the next it was dead. And not because she had shot it.
“See how brave Jagat Gosini is,” Jahangir said. “I am very proud of her. What other king can claim such a markswoman in his harem?”
“You are right, your Majesty. The Empress has done us all proud,” Mehrunnisa replied. Still she did not look at Jagat Gosini. As the acrid smell of freshly burned gunpowder bittered the air, she sensed a brief smile on the Empress’s face.
The hunt went on. Antelopes and nilgau, wild blue oxen, were flushed out of the tall grass and killed expertly by the accompanying nobles. At noon, the royal party returned to the fort, dragging behind them the carcasses from the hunt.
Mehrunnisa sat hunched in her place in the howdah. All morning, Jahangir had praised Jagat Gosini for her skill, her valor, and her bravery in the face of danger. It was all true. Not one of her own shots had found its mark. The nobles had laughed openly when she had missed. Even the Emperor had smiled, showing her how to hold the musket, how to pull back on the trigger, how to cushion the recoil against her shoulder. And he had pointed out Jagat Gosini’s skill. Watch her, my dear, see how she takes aim.
When they came back to the fort, dusty and tired, Jahangir left them without a word. Before he did, even as they descended from the howdah, needing the aid of eunuchs now, a slave girl stood near with a silver tray in her hands. Jahangir lifted the satin cloth covering the tray. On it, on a bed of velvet cloth, lay an exquisite necklace of gold and pearls. The Emperor lifted the necklace and clasped it around Empress Jagat Gosini’s bent neck, over her veil. The ends of the necklace captured her veil around her head, the pearls glowing like the moon in the afternoon sun. Then, as they all bowed, Jahangir left. He had said little during the hunt, now he walked away without even looking at Mehrunnisa. Jagat Gosini’s entourage settled around her like a flock of pigeons, exclaiming at the necklace, praising her, and they moved out together. She did not speak to Mehrunnisa either.
Mehrunnisa stood alone in the courtyard watching her husband leave, listening to Jagat Gosini’s unsaid words. What else could you expect of woman not born to royalty? Not aware of royal etiquette or pastimes? You are common, Mehrunnisa. Nothing but common. Mehrunnisa was wearied from the hunt. She was hot, her skin blistered from the sun. Her lips were cracked, and wetting them with her tongue had only made them more dry. She felt her hold on the Emperor slipping.
“Come, your Majesty,” Hoshiyar Khan said at her ear. He led her away, and she let him, leaning on his arm as though she was suddenly very, very old.
• • •
There were to be celebrations all evening in Empress Jagat Gosini’s apartments. Preparations had started even before the royal party returned from the hunt, even as the bullet left the Empress’s musket and fled in search of the lion. For among the soldiers behind the elephant were Jagat Gosini’s stewards. They waited only to see who fired the shot, and then ran back to the palaces in the fort with the news. Twenty minutes behind them were the imperial runners, sent on to the treasury in search of the pearl necklace, for it had to be waiting for the royal party when they returned.
So the whole zenana knew of the hunt, knew who had killed the prey, who was to be lauded upon her return and who to be ignored. The harem was aflutter with gossip. Mouths worked busily. Those envious of Mehrunnisa and predicting the demise of Jahangir’s affections for her, those in Jagat Gosini’s camp, those hateful of Dowager Empress Ruqayya—and these last went to her as she woke to tell her the news. So unfortunate. You have put so much faith in Mehrunnisa, your Majesty, and it seemed as though that faith was to be justified. But the Emperor—and here there was a sigh, long and theatrical—he enjoys women who are brave, who can shoot.
And so it happened that when Mehrunnisa returned from the hunt, she found Ruqayya in her apartments, waiting for her, the ever-present hukkah against her mouth. Mehrunnisa was surprised at this visit; Ruqayya never went to anyone, people came to her. They talked for some time as Mehrunnisa’s bath was prepared, and then Mehrunnisa went to bed to sleep away the afternoon. In the evening, Ruqayya said, with Hoshiyar Khan by their side, they would really talk.
As Mehrunnisa slept, so did Empress Jagat Gosini. But she did so after having given orders for the night’s feast. In the royal kitchens, fifteen cooks were commandeered for the Empress. They went by foot to the outskirts of the city to the slaughterhouse. There they picked out a goat, chickens, and ducks and watched as they were slaughtered, washed, and put into sacks. In the kitchens, water-carriers poured river water out of leather bags into earthenware jars, which were sealed with white cloth until the cooks were ready to use the wate
r. Every single ritual was supervised by the Mir Bakawal, the Master of the Kitchen.
The rice for the pulav was rinsed three times and let to soak for twenty minutes, until it plumped up to a pearl softness just like the Empress’s new necklace. Cardamom, cinnamon, cloves, coriander seeds, fenugreek, anise—all sorts of spices and herbs were ground, wet and dry. When the cooks were ready to put the dishes together, they washed their hands well, and wore thin white muslin masks over their noses and mouths, and white cloth caps over their hair. Not a drop of sweat could sully the Emperor’s meal. In one corner, the Mir Bakawal watched, and if a cook sneezed he was sent out, the food he was cooking thrown away, and another cook would take his place. Jahangir’s favorite foods were prepared—he had many—and that afternoon, fifty-one different dishes simmered, stewed, steamed, roasted, and boiled over the wood fires of the kitchens. The Emperor could not possibly eat every one of the dishes, perhaps he would not even taste all of them, but if he wanted something special, it would be there.
When the food was ready, it was packed into gold and silver vessels, porcelain and earthenware vessels, brought out every day from a storage stronghold. The dishes in gold and silver vessels were wrapped with red cloth, the others in white cloth. They were then sealed with the imprint of the imperial kitchens, and in his neat hand, the Mir Bakawal spent one hour detailing the contents of each dish and attaching it with a piece of paper to the top of the seal. When the Emperor and Empress Jagat Gosini were ready to eat, the Mir Bakawal would break the seals himself and stand aside, waiting to be commended for his work.
The Feast of Roses Page 6
