The Feast of Roses

by Indu Sundaresan

  The qazi opened his mouth, but the words would not come. Mehrunnisa waited for the sound of his voice, for that dreadful word of death. She leaned over the balcony’s edge.

  “Your Majesty.”

  At the shout, the courtyard turned to the old woman at the back. She ran through the men and went down on her knees before the Emperor.

  “What is it?”

  “If I may, your Majesty.” Cunning lit up Nizam’s mother’s face. Her yellowed teeth flashed in a groveling smile. “The Empress’s death will do me no good. I have lost my son; he was to look after me. What will I do now?”

  Jahangir leaned over the balcony. “Shall I then suggest a fine instead of the punishment? Empress Nur Jahan will be ordered to pay you two thousand silver rupees as blood money.” He waved his hand at the qazi in dismissal. “Your services are no longer necessary. As you can all see, the woman herself does not demand the Empress’s life.”

  There was silence in the courtyard. No voice spoke.

  Mehrunnisa drew back. Money instead of her life. Two thousand rupees only. Her outfits cost more. What was happening here?

  “Come, my dear. Let us retire to our apartments.” The Emperor put an arm over her shoulders and pulled her away from the balcony.

  When they were gone, the nobles began clapping again. It had all been so skillfully orchestrated, like a well-cued play. The qazi with his flapping mouth and his sweaty palms. The old woman who had cursed and demanded Mehrunnisa’s blood just the day before. Jahangir’s ready acceptance of her terms. Who had told the woman what to do? Hoshiyar Khan. At the Emperor’s behest. Dignity was secured on all ends. Nizam’s mother would get more money than she could ever spend—two thousand was an enormous fortune. The Emperor would not lose his title of the Just Emperor. And Mehrunnisa would not lose her head.

  In his corner, Khurram turned away in disgust. He had heard of Mehrunnisa’s offer to Khusrau and had heard that his stupid brother had refused her. But it still bothered him.

  What if Khusrau now agreed?

  • • •

  “How was it?” Coryat demanded. “What did the great Mughal say?”

  “Hush, Tom. You speak in jest, I know, but others may misunderstand you. We are here to make peace with the empire,” Roe said, pushing Coryat aside to enter his house.

  Coryat laughed and followed him inside. Thomas Coryat had started his career as a court jester and then entered Prince Henry’s household as a personal fool. A few years ago he had traveled all around Europe on foot and was now in India as part of his Eastern travels. When Roe met Coryat in Mandu, he had already walked across Constantinople, Bethlehem, Jerusalem, Damascus, and most of Turkey. He planned to walk from India up to Samarkand in Uzbekistan and there kiss the stone on Timur the Lame’s tomb before heading home to Odcombe in Somerset. Coryat was writing of his travels in the Eastern countries, but his memoirs were so large that he had been forced to leave a part of them with the consul at Aleppo before proceeding to India.

  At home in England, Roe and Coryat would have found little in common, but here they sought each other’s company, aliens in an alien land. Coryat was now living in Roe’s house.

  “Pani lao Sahib ke liye,” Coryat yelled to the native manservant.

  “What did you say?” Roe asked.

  “I told the heathen to bring you some water to wash your hands.”

  Roe shook his head. Coryat was fluent in most of the native languages of India. He even looked like a native. His skin had been burned nut brown during his travels, and he wore Indian clothes and sandals. He had let his hair grow long to his shoulders and looked like a fakir. Coryat pulled Roe into the courtyard.

  “Ahh . . .” Roe sank into his chair. “It feels good to actually sit on furniture. I cannot imagine how these natives sit on the ground all the time.”

  “It’s easy.” Coryat sprang out of his chair and sat on the floor cross-legged.

  “Get up on the chair, Tom. No more fooling around,” Roe said. “Where is the man? I wish to wash the dust off my hands.”

  “What happened at court? Did the Emperor receive you well?”

  “Very well. He was polite and extended every courtesy to me. I could not have asked for a better reception. In all”—Roe slanted his head to one side in thought—“I would have to say that it went well. I did not expect the Emperor to be so gracious again.”

  “Never mind the Emperor.” Coryat waved his hand. He was still sitting on the ground. “Did you catch a glimpse of her? Did she speak at all?”

  “Who?” Roe asked in surprise.

  The manservant came in with rose water. Roe rinsed his hands and dusted off his coat. Two chilled goblets of lime sherbet were brought in. Coryat took a long draught of his sherbet and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Empress Nur Jahan.”

  “Isn’t she the one who was recently arrested?”

  “Yes.” Coryat leaned forward, smiling into his beard. “It was a sham, Roe. The Emperor is far too enamored of his wife—she practically runs the empire, makes all the decisions. He is but a pawn, a fool in her hands. If you want your precious treaty, she is the one to approach.”

  “Really?” Roe was disbelieving. He had heard these rumors from Jadu and others. But Roe had seen no evidence of this himself. If this Empress was really so powerful, why had she not commanded him to her presence? The veil, yes, he understood a little of how the imperial harem worked. But did the veil also not restrict her movements? How much could a woman speak, and expect to be heard, if her face was not seen?

  “Did you bring gifts for her also?”

  “I cannot say,” Roe said doubtfully. “There was some fine lace and women’s hats . . . the Emperor specially requested those hats from England. You think that it was the Empress who commanded them?”

  “Undoubtedly. If the Emperor expresses dissatisfaction at your gifts you can be sure that she is the one who does not like them.”

  Roe rubbed his chin. Here was something new to think about. Abul Hasan had visited Roe the previous day, just a courtesy visit, he had said. But he had said much more, telling Roe of Jahangir’s complaints about the gifts. The Emperor liked the coach very much and used it often, but the other gifts were so mean, so unworthy of a king of England. After Abul left, Roe had written to his Company’s directors and told them to send richer presents on the next ship out to India. If Roe remembered rightly, this noble, Abul Hasan, was the Empress’s brother. The same woman who so skillfully evaded death. Roe had been sick for a week after his first audience with Emperor Jahangir, and too busy thinking about that audience to pay attention to the ebb and rise of Mehrunnisa’s fortunes. He thought back to his recent darbar. There had been a screened balcony to the Emperor’s right. It was said that the ladies of the zenana sat behind the screen watching the proceedings at court. But they had not spoken during the darbar.

  “Just how powerful is the Empress?” Roe asked.

  “Very. Even more than the Emperor, her word is law. If you paid any notice, you would have realized that the Emperor did not resolve a single matter at court today. The nobles petition the Emperor, but all decisions are made by the Empress in the zenana.” Coryat flopped on the ground and looked up at the clear, starred night sky. “It is beautiful here.”

  “Yes . . . ,” Roe said absentmindedly. A servant came in and coughed to attract attention.

  “What is it?”

  “Sahib, there is a messenger here from the Emperor.”

  “Send him in.” Roe rose from his chair and straightened his coat.

  A tall eunuch, slightly tending to fat, came in and bowed. “Sahib, his Majesty requests that you send him your letter of commission.”

  “Who are you?”

  “This is Hoshiyar Khan, Roe, the head of the royal harem, and, if I am not mistaken, personal eunuch to her Majesty, Nur Jahan Begam.” Coryat’s voice was languid.

  Hoshiyar bowed in his direction. “You are right,” he replied politely and then turned back to Roe.
“About the letter . . .”

  Roe reached into his breast pocket and drew out the official commission. He turned it over in his hands. “This is the original. I don’t have any more copies. If this is lost . . .”

  “Do not worry, Sahib,” Hoshiyar said. “I shall take good care of the letter. His Majesty . . . ah . . . wishes to read the letter again, that is all. It will be returned to you tomorrow.”

  “Very well. But please see that it comes back to me tomorrow.” Roe handed the letter to Hoshiyar. The eunuch bowed and left the courtyard. As soon as he had departed, Coryat stretched out on the cool stone floor.

  “It has already started, Roe. Watch out for the Empress.”

  “What does she have to do with this?”

  “Hoshiyar is her head eunuch. He came from her. The Empress is checking up on your credentials, Roe. She wants to make sure that you are who you say you are, an official ambassador. Unfortunately, our former countrymen have also styled themselves as ambassadors, so the Empress is suspicious of you.”

  The next morning, as promised, Hoshiyar brought the letter of commission back to Roe. A faint aroma of Attar of Roses came from the sheet of paper, which confirmed Coryat’s suspicions. The Empress had carefully studied the letter and inspected the seal of the king of England to ascertain Roe’s authenticity.

  Sir Thomas Roe came to understand the truth of Coryat’s words about Mehrunnisa. If she were placated, the Emperor’s hand would sign the treaty. He asked for silk scarves, more hunting hats in felt decorated with gold braids, lace shawls, anything he considered a woman would like. He had once thought the veil would hinder Mehrunnisa, but he was the one hindered. When he could not see her, or even hear her voice, it was hugely frustrating. Here was an unknown antagonist.

  And so Roe plodded on, drafting and redrafting the treaty.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  But, beeing to depart, he nor his Party thought not themselues secure if Sultan Corsoronne (Khusrau) remayned in the handes of Annarah: that in his absence the King might be reconciled, and by his liberty all the glory and hopes of their faction would vanish . . .

  —WILLIAM FOSTER, ed.,

  The Embassy of Sir Thomas Roe to India

  In March, Nauroz festivities began, and Roe was at Mandu to witness the magnificence of the Mughal court. A massive tent was erected in the center of the darbar. The ambassador saw with some surprise that one wall of the tent was adorned with portraits from England that he had brought over—those of the king and queen, the countesses of Somerset and Salisbury, and the governor of the East India Company, Sir Thomas Smyth. Frances Howard, countess of Somerset, held a place of honor in the middle of one wall, since she was very beautiful. But the countess and her husband, Lord Somerset, were even then awaiting trial in England for the murder of Sir Thomas Overbury. The Emperor did not care, Roe thought, about the vagaries of the countess’s fortunes, it was enough that she pleased his eye.

  Gift giving was a large part of the Nauroz festivities, and Sir Thomas Roe dug into his meager supplies to impress the Emperor. He gave Jahangir a long, double-linked gold chain with a large emerald carved with the form of Cupid drawing his bow. Jahangir was delighted with his gift. He summoned all the court painters and jewelers and demanded to know if they had ever seen such craftsmanship before. It was the first time Roe had given the Emperor something he had liked so much, so Roe was hopeful. Perhaps he could talk of the treaty soon? The chain and emerald belonged to Roe himself—he had long given up expecting any rich presents from the East India Company.

  Roe asked the Emperor, this time not flirting around the topic. Would his Majesty be pleased to sign a treaty? There was no such thing as immediacy, Roe realized. The Emperor issued various farmans and edicts providing protection to the English from the Portuguese and the Indian customs officials in Surat and Ahmadabad, but that was as far as he was willing to go now. Stay a little longer, Sir Thomas Roe, Jahangir said to him again and again. Stay and enjoy our country. We can always discuss business later.

  With Mehrunnisa, Roe had a little more luck. She asked Roe for English protection in the Arabian Sea for her ships. In return, her brother took him to court more often. That was all.

  The Emperor began to talk of returning to Agra. As preparations for the trip were being made, news came to Mandu that the bubonic plague had struck down Agra. It had first been brought to the western Punjab from central Asia, and during the winter months it had spread fleetly to Delhi, Lahore, and Agra. The first sign of the plague was a rat running through the house to dash itself madly against a wall. If it died on the spot, all the inhabitants fled, leaving everything they owned. And only thus could they be spared the sure death that the plague brought. Agra was not safe anymore. Hundreds died every day. There was seemingly no cure for it. Nothing to do but wait it out.

  So Jahangir and Mehrunnisa stayed on in Mandu. And Roe stayed with them, his hopes shriveling.

  • • •

  The sun set into the winter sky over Mandu, painting it in shades of corrugated pinks and reds. On the other side of the empire, the plague raged, sweeping through whole districts. Houses were shuttered, and the stench of rotting flesh, human and animal, hung in the air. No one was allowed into Mandu, for fear that they might be carrying the plague with them.

  Rubbish fires burned throughout the city, sending plumes of blue-gray smoke spiraling into the heavens. The walls of the city purpled, and then took on the hues of the night, black and blue and indigo. For a brief instant of twilight, the skies glowed golden. The air was pure and sharp, ethereal, touchable.

  Mehrunnisa jabbed her spade into the lush soil, and a jolt of pain shot through her arm. She shook her hand and dug around carefully. A small, smooth-faced stone showed itself. Mehrunnisa pulled it out of the earth and flicked the dirt from the stone. It was curiously shaped, an oval, maroon in color with white streaking lines around its base. She flung the stone to a pile on one side and continued digging.

  “Mama!”

  Mehrunnisa lifted her head with a smile. Ladli stood in one of the verandah arches. “Here I am,” Mehrunnisa said.

  Ladli lifted the thick skirts of her ghagara and walked across the lawns to the garden. Mehrunnisa watched her near, a feeling of peace and love filling inside her so deeply she could not breathe for a moment. Where had the years gone? Gone while she was not watching? Ladli was now seventeen, no longer that impetuous child who had demanded her attention while Mehrunnisa worked in the gardens. She drifted over the lush green grass, her feet hardly seeming to touch the earth. Ladli was a woman, with long, thick hair that came down to a tiny waist, a gentle curve of hips, elegant shoulders. It was, Mehrunnisa thought, like looking into a mirror that erased the years. Ladli even had the same skin upon her face, unblemished and lightly tinted with a saffron glow.

  “Can I sit with you, Mama?” Ladli asked.

  “Yes.” Mehrunnisa smiled up at her daughter. “But where? There is only mud here, and you do not like getting yourself dirty.”

  Ladli shook her head, the colors of the dying sun catching in her gray eyes for a moment. “I do not mind.” She looked around for a rock, dusted it with her hand, blew on her hand and sat on it, her knees drawn to her chest.

  “What is it?” Mehrunnisa asked gently. She shifted her weight on her haunches and sat back, looking at her daughter.

  “Nothing,” Ladli said, her head drooping. “Why do you garden, Mama? Why not let the malis do their job?”

  “I always have, remember?” Mehrunnisa pulled a dandelion out of the ground, her fingers closing around the stubborn plant and yanking at it slowly, until a long line of root hung from the bottom. She threw it into a jute basket and dug into the soil with her fingers. The mud was cool to her touch, climbing under her fingernails and into the creases of her palms.

  “But you are the Padshah Begam, Mama,” Ladli said. “Why do you have to do this?”

  “I do not have to do anything, Ladli. I wish to.” Mehrunnisa looked at Ladli’s sl
ight figure again. She had drawn the edges of her veil around her shoulders to keep away the cool evening air. Mehrunnisa did not feel this coolness, all the bending and digging had brought sweat to dampen her armpits and trickle down her neck into the opening of her choli.

  “Do you always do what you wish to, Mama?” Ladli’s voice was disconsolate. She yanked her plait over her shoulders, undid the last few inches, and then expertly plaited the hair again. And then undid it again. It was a sign of dissatisfaction, Mehrunnisa knew. She herself walked many miles—even within the enclosed space of her apartments—when she was worried. Ladli fretted with her hair.

  “Come here,” she said softly. Ladli almost flew from the rock and flung herself into Mehrunnisa’s arms. Mehrunnisa sat back on the ground, Ladli half in her lap, her head in the curve of her mother’s shoulder.

  “Tell me,” she said. “If you do not tell your mama, who will you tell?”

  For a long time Ladli was silent. Her ghagara was now soiled with dirt, but she had not noticed. Another sign that she was troubled. Ladli was always fastidious, always graceful, bringing elegance into everything she did.

  Ladli lifted her head and looked into her mother’s eyes. The deep blue of Mehrunnisa’s had faded somewhat, but her eyes were still brilliant. “I miss you, Mama,” she said.

  Mehrunnisa tightened her arms around her daughter. She rocked her as though she were a child. “Where have I gone away that you must miss me? I am here, will always be with you. You know this. What is going on, beta?”

  In response, Ladli drew back and went to her rock again. From there, she asked, “Mama, is Khurram going to go to the Deccan?”

  Mehrunnisa picked up her spade again and began to dig around the gourd vines, turning the earth up to show its rich and loamy face. “That has not been decided yet. The Emperor and I have to talk about it.”

  News had come from the warfront in the Deccan. Ambar Malik, the Abyssinian slave who had long established himself as a superior military commander, had disregarded the terms of his latest pact with the empire. Malik would never be king, no matter how many kingdoms he conquered, or lands he reigned over, for his ancestry would always keep him a commoner. So he was content with establishing kingdoms, putting puppet heirs on the throne, and ruling from behind and through them. Now he had formed an alliance with the kingdoms of Bijapur and Golconda. The Mughal army lost vast acres of land from the southern fringe of the empire as they eroded away into Malik’s capable hands. Parviz was still in Burhanpur, of course, ostensibly commanding the campaign. But neither Mehrunnisa nor Jahangir could fool themselves into thinking that Parviz was any good at being a commander. He was at Burhanpur because he had to be somewhere. If he were not there, he would be here, where the royal court was.