The Feast of Roses

by Indu Sundaresan

  She put her hand under her, to her belly. But even as she lay there, she knew the dampness between her legs was unnatural. For the first few days there had been some bleeding, it was inevitable, the hakims had said. But even now . . . tears came sliding down her cheeks, soaking into the silk of the pillowcover. Even now it had not stopped. Her stomach cramped, her insides felt raw, the life inside her had been beaten out like clothes on a stone on the banks of the Yamuna. Why, Allah? Why did this have to happen? Why did this have to happen again?

  “Mehrunnisa.” Emperor Jahangir put down his book and slid up to her. He knelt by her side and put his face into the curve of her neck. Then he wiped away the tears that came as fast as he could extinguish them. “It is all right. Shhh . . .”

  Jahangir did not know what else to do, what to say to her. The hakims had told him that the only way for her to let go of the sorrow was to let it escape. That she must cry, that the pain would eventually wane. But it had been days and this had not happened. And when Mehrunnisa cried, as she did almost each time she woke, it broke everything in him. He was helpless. He watched her, he murmured words of comfort, or what he thought were words of comfort, he held her to his heart. And she cried on. Jahangir put his face to hers again and felt the jut of her cheekbones in his skin. She had no will for anything anymore, she looked at him, dim and uncomprehending, as though he were a stranger.

  He climbed up on the divan next to Mehrunnisa and put a leg over her. This time, she turned into him, grasped the collar of his nadiri coat, and in a few minutes her sobs weakened and then shut down until he could just hear her breathing. Jahangir smoothed her hair from her forehead; it lay in dank strands, thick with sweat, and dulled from not having been washed.

  “Your Majesty . . . ,” she said, and looked up at him with a question.

  The Emperor shook his head. “No. There has been too much bleeding.” He was terrified that she would give in to the sorrow again, that it would take her from him, that this wretched illness would be her death. But he would not lie to her; she did not expect it from him, so he would not lie.

  But she did not cry again. “I see . . . how did I slip?”

  This was the question Jahangir most dreaded. But again, he would not lie. “The verandah floor had been oiled, Mehrunnisa, with sesame oil.”

  “Ah . . . someone did it then.” For the first time in days, anger reared itself. Mehrunnisa could not stop the trembling that beset her. How did they dare this? Who had dared this? It had been hard enough for her to keep a child inside her—Ladli was a gift from Allah, a miracle after so many other miscarriages. Someone had oiled the floors, that was why they had gleamed on a night with no moon, that was why she had been left with the smell of sesame seeds just before escaping into unconsciousness.

  “Who?” she asked, a fire in her eyes.

  Jahangir shook his head. “But it will not happen again, Mehrunnisa. I promise you this.”

  She pulled away from the Emperor and tried to sit up, but her limbs were too heavy, too unused from lying down all these days, and she fell back.

  “Rest, my dear,” Jahangir said. “I am here to watch over you. Will you eat something?”

  “Yes.” Mehrunnisa did not feel like eating, but she did feel like living. She would hunt down the people who had done this to her, have them buried in the ground in the summer sun so that the heat could broil their brains in their heads, so they would die knowing that Empress Nur Jahan was not to be trifled with.

  When the food came, she ate obediently, sitting up to lean against Jahangir as Hoshiyar fed her with his hands. Then the Emperor ordered her to sleep again, and she slept, because she needed it to gain strength, not because she feared being awake.

  Mehrunnisa slept through the rest of the day and the night, and Jahangir stayed by her, leaving only for his own night’s meal. Hoshiyar came and went from the room, no one else was allowed in. The Emperor watched his wife by the light of the evening oil lamps. Her breathing was even, she did not move in sleep unless it was to shift her head to a more comfortable position. She slept as she should, from fatigue and not from illness.

  When the muezzins from the mosques around Agra called the faithful to the last prayer of the day, Jahangir laid out his prayer rug facing west toward Mecca. Allah-u-Allah-u-Akbar. There was peace in their liquid voices during this last prayer, when the sun was setting, the skies painted with gold and orange, fires for the evening meal filling the streets of Agra with the scent of woodsmoke.

  When he finished, he stayed kneeling on the rug, his hands resting on his thighs. For the last few days, he had stormed about the zenana palaces in a rage. Every single woman in the harem was questioned, where she had been that night, who she had talked with, who her visitors were for the past month, who had sesame oil as part of her toilette kit. There were many of the latter, of course, but Hoshiyar had asked each of them for samples of the oil, and they had been compared with the one on the floor. Jahangir had been disbelieving at first. Who would have dared to try and harm his wife? Who had done this? Why had no one seen this happen? Someone had actually taken a bucket of oil and mopped the floor with it—this was the only way it could have been done.

  Jahangir had not slept in many nights. And he made sure every single person in the harem—wives, concubines, slaves, eunuchs, and guards—did not have a second of rest either. He slashed all their incomes in half, so they would feel pain. Not the pain Mehrunnisa felt, but still. He tripled her income—gave her more jagirs and districts as she lay on the divan, ordered three more ships to be built in her name in the dry docks at Surat. Jahangir did all of this openly, advertising his favor for Mehrunnisa.

  He rose from the prayer rug and rolled it up. Then he went to sit by the window, looking out at the wedge of the moon in the sky. Where had it been the night Mehrunnisa had most needed it? Where had he been? Asleep in his apartments, thinking her asleep near him too. He had failed in his duty to look after her. He had promised her this, and he had failed. But it would not happen again. He bent his head. Thank you, Allah. Thank you for bringing her back to me.

  The Emperor went to lie down by Mehrunnisa, and in sleep she turned to him. His eyes closed, his heart was light for the first time in days. There was to be no child. The hakims had said there would be no more children.

  But he had Mehrunnisa. And that was enough.

  • • •

  “Where is her Majesty?”

  “She has gone to visit her mother,” the guard replied.

  Mahabat Khan felt a glow of exultation. Surely, this was a good omen. With Mehrunnisa out of the palace, he could more confidently present his case to the Emperor.

  “You can go in now,” the guard said, opening the doors to Jahangir’s apartments.

  Mahabat entered and performed the konish. When he straightened, he noted with surprise that Jahangir looked healthier than he had seen him before. This was his first private audience with the Emperor in months. Once, Sharif and he had had free leave to come and go from Jahangir’s apartments as they had wanted. They had not needed permission to visit. Mahabat stood where he was, watching his Emperor. Jahangir had not looked up from his book yet.

  The Emperor’s face had a hearty glow, not the sickly red of too much opium; his eyes shone bright from under bushy eyebrows, for once not unfocussed by liquor. Mahabat hesitated, already unsure of himself. If Mehrunnisa was capable of regulating Jahangir’s intake of wine and opium, she was indeed capable of performing miracles. What chance did he have against such an adversary?

  “Al-Salam alekum, your Majesty.”

  “Walekum-al-Salam,” Jahangir replied, and then he raised his eyes. A smile lit his face. “Mahabat, I am pleased you are here.”

  “Your Majesty commanded my presence?”

  “Yes,” Jahangir said. “Come in, dear friend, and sit down. We have much to talk about.”

  Mahabat quickened his steps. The Emperor spoke to him with such affection, as he had before. And to be asked to sit in his pr
esence was a great honor indeed. This meant a long talk. He bowed again and sat down on the edge of the divan.

  “How have you been, Mahabat?” Jahangir asked.

  “Well, your Majesty,” Mahabat replied. “And you are looking well too, with Allah’s grace. It has been hard to tell this from the jharoka or the Diwan-i-am audiences, and I am grateful for these summons.”

  Jahangir bent his head. “I have much to thank Allah for. These are joyful days, Mahabat. Her Majesty has recovered.”

  “Your Majesty, the empire rejoices with you,” Mahabat said cautiously. He spoke with courtly etiquette, but inside Mahabat a little spurt of fear reared its head. What would he say? Was it better not to say anything, as Sharif had suggested? Guilt came to nag him at the thought of Sharif, for the Amir-ul-umra did not know that Mahabat planned to disregard his advice yet again.

  “I have been neglectful of my duties, Mahabat,” Jahangir said, “which was why I commanded you here. Have you heard the latest news of the affairs in the Deccan?”

  “I have, your Majesty. Ambar Malik has successfully repulsed all efforts to recapture Ahmadnagar,” Mahabat Khan replied.

  Ambar Malik had been an Abyssinian slave in the service of Chingaz Khan, the conqueror of Berar, south of the border of the Mughal Empire. He had risen in the ranks and proved himself to be a soldier of astonishing capability and bravery. Ever since Jahangir ascended the throne, he had made surprise attacks on the Mughal army guarding the southern border of the empire.

  The threats were inevitable. With the empire as vast as it was, a change of the crown from one head to another seemed to provoke every enemy king into action. They sent messages of congratulations, of course, writing with one hand while the other rested on a sword. They searched for a weakness in the new regime, a wavering on the part of the new Emperor, anything that would expand their borders. And so it had been a year after Jahangir’s coronation on the northwestern frontier of the empire. The Shah of Persia had called Jahangir “brother” and written him a cloyingly sweet letter while his governors had raised their war standards on the boundary. So Jahangir had sent a mighty Mughal army on a “visit” to the border town of Kabul, merely, he had suggested to his brother the Shah, to recuperate and be put through their training.

  With Ambar Malik in the south, however, no such diplomatic tactics worked. He did not just threaten; he actually came roaring into battle, forcing a retaliation.

  Two years ago, Ahmadnagar had fallen to Ambar Malik. The Khan-ikhanan, Abdur Rahim, who was commander-in-chief of the imperial army, had been sent to the Deccan to look after matters there. But Abdur Rahim had surrendered Ahmadnagar to Ambar Malik. Then, the Khan Azam had boasted that he would recapture the lost territory in two years, if only he was given command of the imperial forces. Jahangir had agreed and had sent the Khan Azam Salabat Khan to the Deccan to replace Abdur Rahim.

  “The Khan Azam has bragged of his skill in commanding a victorious army. I see no signs of victory against that wretch Malik,” Jahangir said.

  “That is true, your Majesty. Malik is a formidable enemy. His resources are not large, but there are rumors that the kings of Bijapur and Golconda are supporting him with provisions and an army.”

  “Yes, but the imperial army has to defeat Malik once and for all. His very existence is a scourge to us. The reason I have summoned you here is to command the Khan-i-khanan to return to the Deccan and relieve the Khan Azam of his duties. Send Abdur Rahim on his way immediately. Let him regain what he lost if he wishes any patronage from the court again.”

  “As you wish, your Majesty,” Mahabat said happily. This was a sign of favor. Jahangir could just as easily have sent a message to Abdur Rahim himself, but he had chosen to convey it through Mahabat. He leaned on Mahabat yet again, came to him for support. As it once had been. As it should be again. Sharif would be glad too. He would also show the Emperor that he had his well-being, and that of the entire royal family, always at heart. So Mahabat said, “It is also advisable to have someone in the Deccan to oversee Prince Parviz. Your Majesty must have heard of his behavior.”

  “Yes, yes.” Jahangir waved a hand irritably. “My son is a drunkard. I know that. But the Khan-i-khanan has not proved himself to be an able guardian. Should we send someone else to look after Parviz, Mahabat?”

  The minister shook with pleasure. He had been right! He would tell Sharif of this, and Sharif would have nothing to say in return. Another request from the Emperor. “Perhaps you should strongly reprimand Abdur Rahim to look after the prince, your Majesty. A word of caution from you will make him more diligent in his duties.”

  “I don’t want to see Abdur Rahim. Tell him he has to try and wean Parviz from wine.” Jahangir nodded dismissal and picked up his book.

  Mahabat Khan bowed low and slowly backed out of the room. At the door he hesitated. “Your Majesty . . .”

  Jahangir looked up from his book.

  “It is a rather delicate matter. If I may presume . . .”

  “Of course, come back here, Mahabat.”

  Heartened by Jahangir’s tone, Mahabat walked slowly toward the Emperor.

  “Your Majesty, I speak for most of the nobles in the court. Please, do not take my words amiss. I speak from a deep loyalty and love for you. You are my Emperor, my king and my lord. My concerns and cares are for your health and well-being—”

  “Yes?”

  “It is regarding Empress Nur Jahan.” Jahangir’s face shut down, and he closed his book with great deliberation. Mahabat hurried on, “It is unseemly to leave the entire supervision of an empire so large in the hands of a woman. The whole court is shocked that so wise an Emperor as your Majesty should leave affairs of administration under the supervision of an Empress.” He stopped and waited, but there was no response. So Mahabat said, “We are all very unhappy about her Majesty’s recent illness. Please do convey our condolences to her for her womanly troubles. But as unfortunate as the recent past has been, perhaps had she concerned herself with only zenana matters, it might have been avoided.”

  Mahabat had no more to say, at least for now. He waited, his eyes on the ground, for Jahangir to speak.

  “Your concern for me, for my zenana, is admirable, Mahabat,” Jahangir said. Mahabat listened to his voice, leaning forward to catch an inflection of distaste or even sarcasm. But no, the Emperor was actually commending him. And now words came flooding from his tongue. Had Sharif been there, he would have forcibly dragged Mahabat out of Jahangir’s presence, but Sharif was not there, and even the echo of his warnings had long died from Mahabat’s ears.

  “Your Majesty,” Mahabat raised his voice confidently. “Your rule has been wise and just. You have shown yourself more than capable of carrying on the responsibility left to you by your gracious father. How can you now give up that responsibility? Is it to be said that the great Emperor Jahangir was ruled by a mere woman? I beg your pardon if I have insulted her Majesty. But the facts speak for themselves, we all wish to be under your able guidance so the empire may flourish once more.”

  Mahabat Khan stopped and looked at Jahangir. He had dug past the Emperor’s imperial facade to his most vulnerable points. There were two things Jahangir wished for most. One, following in the wake of his father, Jahangir wished to feel himself worthy of the throne. Now Mahabat was giving Jahangir the assurance that not only was he as capable as Akbar but he might in certain points supersede his father if only he divested himself of Mehrunnisa’s influence.

  Second, Jahangir had a need to be known as a kind and just Emperor, not only while he lived but also to posterity. He wished for the citizens of India to laud him as a great king, many years after his death. There again, how would posterity view him? As a man ruled by his wife?

  “Mahabat,” Jahangir said quietly, “do you wish to be given command of the army in the Deccan?”

  “No, your Majesty,” Mahabat said, surprised. “But . . . of course . . . if your Majesty wished for it, I would obey immediately. But, if I may pre
sume to say so, I have no such wish.”

  “I see. You may go now, Mahabat. I thank you for your advice, you can be certain that it will be well considered.”

  Mahabat Khan bowed and backed away to the doorway, and once there, he bowed again before letting himself out. He had been right in talking with the Emperor. Everything, especially Jahangir’s offer of the Deccan command, had indicated this. He almost ran with happiness to Muhammad Sharif’s house on the banks of the Yamuna. Along the way he did not forget to send a message to the Khan-i-khanan, Abdur Rahim, to return to the Deccan campaign at his Majesty’s orders.

  But Mahabat had talked to his Emperor as no man should have talked with his sovereign. In his frustration, he had crossed an invisible line—one that separated the king from the common man.

  Mahabat Khan seemed to have suddenly grown less fond of his neck.

  CHAPTER NINE

  . . . during the rest of the reign of Jehangire, she bore the chief sway in all the affairs of the empire.

  —ALEXANDER DOW,

  The History of Hindostan

  Once an accusation has been made, however damning it may be, doubt begins to blot the hearer’s mind. And so it was with Emperor Jahangir. At first he was deeply furious with Mahabat. When the minister left, he picked up his book to read again, but the words made no sense, the language did not engage him, and a red haze swam in front of him. Jahangir almost called out to Hoshiyar twice, to command Mahabat’s body relieved of the burden of his head by sundown, and then stopped himself. What purpose would it serve?

  He did not sleep that night, the bed beside him empty of Mehrunnisa’s presence, and he turned and tossed and thought. How did Mahabat have the audacity to come to him with such a proposal? They were childhood friends, yes, but only in infancy had Mahabat, Koka, and Sharif been allowed to forget that Jahangir was royalty and they mere commoners. Their friendship had very loose ties indeed. Blood did not bind them, and neither did marriage or any other bond. This the three men had never let out of their sight, and if they had had the temerity to do so, even by suggestion, Jahangir had reminded them who he was. He was their Emperor. In him was vested their well-being, their fortunes, their titles, their very lives. They could not question him. It was as simple as that.