The Feast of Roses

by Indu Sundaresan

  “All right.” Khurram got up in exasperation, pushing the girl off his lap. His mood was spoilt in any case. The slave would just have to wait for his favors.

  “Call for help,” he said to the slave girl, then he turned to Ladli. “Where is this cousin of yours?”

  Ladli marched back to the bush, leading a reluctant Khurram by the hand. Meanwhile, Arjumand had been listening to the conversation with horror. The brat. She would whip her as soon as she had a chance. Now she had to feign an injured ankle.

  Khurram and Ladli came around the bushes. Arjumand sat there, her head bowed and her face blooming with blushes.

  “There she is!” Ladli announced triumphantly.

  Khurram knelt down next to Arjumand. “Have you hurt your ankle?”

  “Er . . . yes, your Highness.” Arjumand flashed an angry look at Ladli, who promptly winked back at her.

  “Which foot is it?”

  Arjumand reluctantly pointed to her right leg. Khurram moved her skirts slightly, noticing the little slivers of thread where the silk was torn, and lifted her foot. Such a perfect foot, the prince thought, such slender ankles offset by gold anklets and henna. He ran his fingers over the skin, but he could detect no swelling. Khurram looked up at her face to see if she was as beautiful. Her eyes were not lifted to his. He saw a clean scoop of chin, skin radiant and flushed from the heat, long lashes lying against her cheeks.

  “Does it hurt very much?” Khurram’s voice was low; his caressing hand sent thrills through Arjumand.

  She nodded dumbly, mesmerized by him. When she finally looked at him, he was smiling. Ladli stood aside, watching them both. They seemed to have forgotten that she was there, but Khurram would not easily forget her cousin now.

  The prince lifted Arjumand and carried her back to the palace. Because he told her to, she put an arm around his shoulder, stunned by his nearness, by his aroma, by the sound of his heart so near hers. She could not speak, and did not want this moment to end. Khurram asked her name, and Ladli helpfully told him who she was.

  Hoshiyar Khan came running out of Mehrunnisa’s apartments and gathered Arjumand in his arms. He looked at her ankle—like Khurram, he could see no swelling—but, unlike Khurram, he was suspicious. The eunuch glared at Ladli, and she grinned back at him.

  “Take good care of her, Hoshiyar,” Khurram said.

  “I will, your Highness. I will take her directly to the Empress,” Hoshiyar said, swinging around to carry Arjumand away. Ladli followed them both, skipping, and turned to wave at the prince. “Thank you, Khurram.”

  He looked at her bemused, but all thoughts were with this creature he had held in his arms. Mehrunnisa was beautiful, but another such as her in the same family? They had been blessed; there was no doubt of that. How had she escaped his notice thus far? And how could he get her?

  Prince Khurram turned away, pondering this, and then he turned back and ran up the steps that led to Mehrunnisa’s apartments. Once he thought of something, he wanted it to happen immediately.

  • • •

  Khurram entered the darkened room. It was cool inside; heavy curtains had been drawn across the windows to keep out the afternoon heat. He stood at the door for a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness, until he saw Mehrunnisa. She lay on a divan, a hand propping up her head.

  “What is it, Khurram?”

  “Your Majesty,” Khurram spoke rapidly. “I have met a most wonderful woman. I want to marry her.”

  “What’s stopping you?” Mehrunnisa raised an eyebrow. “Why come to me? You should go to the Emperor.”

  “Your Majesty, she is your niece.”

  “Oh?” Mehrunnisa mentally ran over all her nieces. Which one was Khurram talking about?

  “Arjumand Banu.”

  The Empress threw back her head and laughed richly. “You want to marry Arjumand?” She grinned at the bewildered look on Khurram’s face.

  “Yes, your Majesty, please . . . don’t tell me she is already betrothed,” Khurram said in despair.

  “She is already betrothed, Khurram.”

  “Oh.” The prince bowed his head. How could he have not thought that she would already be taken? Such beauty and grace. Such a lovely woman.

  Mehrunnisa watched him curiously. “You have no idea who she is, do you?”

  “I just met her today, your Majesty.” Khurram raised his eyes. “Is the engagement of a long standing? Is the man of a good family? Is he worthy of her?”

  “Yes to all the three questions. You really do not remember, do you?”

  “Remember what, your Majesty?”

  Mehrunnisa was silent. She had been aware of the pact made between the Emperor and Abul, that each would give his child in marriage—this Abul had taken great pains to remind her of before her own marriage to the Emperor. But in the last year Mehrunnisa had done nothing about this matter. Her own affairs had kept her busy—getting the seal, courting Khurram to her side, giving importance to Bapa and Abul and their mother, to say nothing of spending time with Jahangir. But there was also the hope that they might have a child too. And if they did, and if it were a son . . . his needs would have to be met, his future wants looked after. How would bringing a culmination to this other tentative alliance affect her child?

  “She is betrothed to you, Khurram,” Mehrunnisa said finally. It had to be said, and it was better she said it, for Khurram would find out anyway.

  “To me?”

  “Yes, your Highness.” Mehrunnisa smiled. “The engagement ceremony was performed at my father’s house five years ago.”

  Now he did remember the betrothal. But his mother had told him then not to expect much out of it, and Jagat Gosini had also said that the girl had the face of a pig and limbs as heavy as iron. Khurram had tried to look at her during the ceremony, through two layers of curtains, one that parted the men of the family from the women and the other the veil that covered her head. And then he had forgotten about it. He had been fifteen that year, shy and embarrassed at all the attention from everyone. A wife was an inevitability; he knew this as a prince. And not just one wife, but as many as his father thought necessary—for the good of the empire. For the heirs they would bear, for the alliances they would bring to the royal family. Marriage was for the good of the empire. Besides, with the description Jagat Gosini had given him, Arjumand had passed from his mind.

  “She is so lovely,” he said with wonder. And she was. Could his mother have been mistaken? Shown another girl at the betrothal instead of this one? Or perhaps Arjumand had changed over the years? “I had no idea, your Majesty.”

  Mehrunnisa watched Khurram carefully. “She is lovely, yes. She will make you a good wife.”

  He looked at her with awe, his eyes shining with pleasure. Suddenly he was very young and hopeful, in the first flushes of love. Khurram knelt by Mehrunnisa and kissed her hand fervently. “Can I hope for the marriage to be arranged very soon, your Majesty? I shall be ever grateful if you would talk with my father about this.”

  She patted his hand. “It will be so, Khurram. I shall talk with his Majesty tonight. And soon, very soon you shall be a part of our family.”

  The prince literally floated out of the room in happiness. When he had gone, Mehrunnisa lay back on the divan and closed her eyes. Any fear she had felt, any sort of discomfort at the idea of Khurram and Arjumand’s marriage evaporated. Instead of driving them apart, it would only bring them together. They would all be tied now in bonds of marriage and blood. Through Arjumand—if Khurram’s devotion to her already was any indication—she would have Khurram’s support. This much Mehrunnisa knew, that Arjumand’s loyalties lay with her aunt and with her father.

  As for the child . . . she touched her stomach lightly. There was still no sign of her monthly blood, but she did not know this for sure, for there had been other times when she had not been regular. The fatigue was there though, forcing her to rest in the afternoons, to sleep even for a few hours when the sun was at its peak in the sky.
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  • • •

  The wedding ceremony was performed at Ghias Beg’s house. For days before, presents flowed from the imperial palace to the bride’s house. The groom had to send her the wedding dress, for she would leave her father’s house so completely upon her marriage that even the clothes she wore would mark her as now belonging to her husband. A henna party took place in Mehrunnisa’s apartments, where the women sang songs and painted thin pipes of henna paste on their hands and feet. Even Khurram came for this, allowing his hands to be painted in the same colors that decorated his wife’s.

  The presents were lavish—pearls, rubies, emeralds, and diamonds wrapped in black velvet; silk and satin embroidered ghagaras and cholis; casks of wine and liquor; sweets on huge silver platters. The imperial treasury doled out vast sums of money for the cooks and cleaners, the musicians and other entertainers, and the shamiana awnings that would cover the courtyard.

  The entire empire rejoiced at Prince Khurram’s wedding. News had already gone to every town and village of the beauty of his new wife, more importantly of her relationship to the Empress, and her father and grandfather’s position at court. What could be more natural than this alliance?

  Emperor Jahangir was happy too, because he saw how contented Mehrunnisa was. This marriage had focused attention on Mehrunnisa, for everyone involved was pleased—Ghias that yet another woman from his family was getting married into the imperial family, Abul that his daughter would no longer be sad, Khurram because he was in love with Arjumand. This match had nothing but advantages.

  Any doubts Mehrunnisa might have had were now vanished. She had other things to occupy her, for she was now certain she was with child. She told Emperor Jahangir the night before the wedding. Almost at once he began thinking of a name for the boy—for it was to be a boy, of course—which mulla he would study with, and whether he would look most like Mehrunnisa or him. In another month, they would have to announce this to the empire; for now, it was their secret to know and keep and cherish.

  So Mehrunnisa joined in prayers the next morning along with the qazi who was officiating at the ceremony. She thought no one could possibly be as happy as she was then, and how could she grudge even a fraction of this to her niece?

  But Mehrunnisa did not know then, would never know, that by giving her blessings to this marriage she had set into progress a chain of events that would eventually erase her name from history’s pages.

  Or that Arjumand would become the only Mughal woman posterity would easily recognize. Docile, seemingly tractable and untroublesome Arjumand would eclipse even Mehrunnisa, cast her in a shadow . . . because of the monument Khurram would build in Arjumand’s memory—the Taj Mahal.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Her abilities were uncommon; for she rendered herself absolute, in a government in which women are thought incapable of bearing any part. . . . NoorJehan stood forth in public; she broke through all restraint and custom, and acquired power by her own address, more than by the weakness of Jehangire.

  —ALEXANDER DOW,

  The History of Hindostan

  Thomas Best stood on the deck of the Red Dragon, feet firmly rooted, hands on hips. The ship pitched in a wave and he moved easily with her, crouching low on his knees with the practice of many years, until the swell passed. Best raised one hand to his eyes and squinted at the burning Portuguese pinnace, Ozeander, silhouetted against the dark night sky like a candle. A slow smile spread over his face. Best saw her men throw lifeboats overboard and then jump out into the dark waters. They fell in quiet splashes, and across the expanse of the sea. Best could hear their curses and shouts. It was tempting to send his crew after those men, but he knew that too much time would go to waste. Even standing here admiring the death of the Ozeander was wasteful, but Best could not resist it.

  “Captain, we should retreat before the Portuguese send reinforcements.”

  Best turned to his first helmsman, a short, swarthy young sailor, seventeen winters old, whose skin had been burned almost black from the sun at sea.

  “Yes, weigh anchor and move into open sea. We will wait out there.” Best turned back to the burning ship. A loud boom signaled that the fire had reached another barrel of gunpowder. Fresh tongues of fire wrapped around the Ozeander’s keel, and she listed to one side.

  The message was passed on to the rest of the fleet, and they quietly weighed anchor. A slight wind blowing from the east helped billow the sails, and the ships moved out into the Gulf of Cambay.

  Thomas Best had arrived at the mouth of the Tapti a few months ago. As he had sailed up the river to Surat he had not known of Sir Henry Middleton’s reception in Gujrat or the consequences of his ill treatment of the Indian ships in the Gulf of Aden, or even that Middleton had harassed them. Best had already left England, and there was no hope of hearing from fleets of the East India Company before they arrived back home—in the open seas England’s few friends were rarely met, while enemies were more, and more often to be encountered.

  Best had immediately sent out word for Jadu, the Indian broker used by both Hawkins and Middleton. Jadu had come, bowing and scraping to the English merchant, with a letter from Middleton. In it, Middleton had outlined his disgrace at the hands of Muqarrab Khan, the governor of Gujrat, and his subsequent decision to return to England. As for the rest, the stories from the Indian ships, these Jadu had provided him. Best had been perplexed. Should he return to England without trying to get a trading agreement? Was India to be given up as a lost cause?

  He had decided to take a trip into Surat to survey the situation for himself. Armed with a circle of guards, one hand on the dagger in his belt, Best had walked through the streets of the busy town. Paths had cleared for him in the crowds, and not just because he had towered over the men in the streets. Merchants and local traders had called out greetings to him and bowed, as though in fear. They had seemed to know who he was, know also of the mighty Red Dragon, which had been anchored fourteen miles away in open sea, off a sandbar in the bay; Best had traveled inland to Surat on the Tapti River in just a little boat. In a few days, he’d realized that Middleton, in his short and unfruitful stay at Surat, had terrorized the natives. Where diplomacy had not succeeded, aggression had. Best had quickly gone to work, accosting Muqarrab Khan and persuading him, with the help of ample bribes from his cargo, to sign a formal treaty allowing English trade with Gujrat.

  It was a weak agreement, flowery with phrases that said little and meant even less, but it was something. For the first time the East India Company had legitimacy in India. What Hawkins and Middleton had failed at—and the fortunate Hawkins had been the Emperor’s favorite companion at one time—Best had achieved.

  Best smiled grimly. The consequence of that trading agreement had been an attack by the Ozeander. He had been warned of this, of course. By Hawkins and Middleton, and even by Jadu, who had not thought to mention the Portuguese until Best’s gold coins were safely tucked into his cummerbund. The treaty in his shirt pocket, Best and his men had fled down the Tapti, back to the Red Dragon and the rest of the fleet. A day after they had been on board, the pinnace Ozeander had come up the gulf from the south, hoping to send Best, the Red Dragon, and the scroll of paper he possessed to rot in the deep waters off the bar.

  Best turned to look back toward land. The Ozeander was sinking slowly, still aflame. Of her men, Best could see nothing; like the rats from the ship, they too were doubtless headed to the shore.

  A Happy Christmas to all, Best thought wryly as the burning boat lit up the dark eastern sky like a Christmas tree. He should have been home in England now, with the Yule log burning in the fireplace, a mug of apple cider by his side, snowflakes settling gently outside the casement windows. Instead he was here, in this infidel land, fighting off an old European enemy.

  Even here, so far out from the sight of land, it was deadly hot, even at night. The air was damp with moisture, the wine he had drunk at the Armenian wine houses in Surat came pouring out of his pores, and the
sun burned his skin in blotches and bleached his hair. But the discomfort was nothing, would be nothing when he returned to England with the treaty—surely the Company’s directors would award him with a rich purse?

  If he returned to England with the treaty. Best was not stupid. He knew that the Portuguese Viceroy at Goa would immediately send reinforcements up north to try and drive the English away. That was why he had moved his fleet into open sea—it gave him more room for maneuvering, and, God forbid, if they lost, they could flee without being captured.

  Sure enough, the next day, the watch at the bird’s nest high atop the Red Dragon yelled out a warning. Five Portuguese warships, armed and weighted down with cannons and guns, came into sight. The battle lasted two days, and both sides suffered heavy losses. But the Portuguese were bested, and they sent frantic messages back to Goa. A few days later, another fleet came to the aid of the floundering Portuguese ships, and the English fleet successfully defeated them too. The Portuguese limped away, their ships damaged and smoking from fires they put out with difficulty.

  Best, knowing that they would need time to recuperate, guided his fleet back to the bar off Surat. There he set foot on land again for the first time in three weeks, and he gave those of his men for whom fatigue was the only injury from the skirmish leave to indulge themselves as they pleased in Surat. He stayed back, overseeing repairs on the fleet’s ships and the wounds of his men.

  • • •

  Each day since Prince Khurram’s wedding, soothsayers and seers had come to Empress Jagat Gosini’s palace. The lines grew outside the zenana walls: ash-covered mystics, with iron spikes pierced through their cheeks; old, toothless hags who claimed to read the head by just touching it; and priests who cast her horoscope over and over again, drawing out the houses and mapping the configuration of the stars at the moment Jagat Gosini was born.

  Shaista brought these men and women who promised wonders, and the Empress allowed him. She had not moved out of the palace for days, not since she had forced herself to go for Khurram’s marriage ceremony. With each ritual, Khurram had been absorbed more into Ghias Beg’s house and his family, and Jagat Gosini had watched her son slip away from her as surely as though he had been pulled from her arms again. The pain was the same as when Khurram had been taken away first by Ruqayya, only perhaps more intense. As soon as Empress Jagat Gosini had heard the talk of Khurram’s betrothal to Arjumand being consummated at last, she had sent for her son.