The Feast of Roses

by Indu Sundaresan

  • • •

  But Itibar Khan had been hard at work. The battlements of the fort were strengthened with plaster and stone. The main gates were bricked up, there was no sign of wood anywhere. Cannons stood guard on the ramparts, gaping blackly at Khurram’s army, and soldiers in full armor stood behind.

  Khurram and his men loaded their muskets and shot at the soldiers, but the cannons answered, extinguishing vast pockets of his army in flares of explosion. They uprooted a tree and used it as a battering ram, but the brick would not give way. Finally, late into the night, as fires burned in the fields beyond the fort, as the smell of charring human and horse flesh rose into the air, as most of his men lay broken, crying and dying on the earth, Khurram whipped his horse around and led the remaining army away.

  He could barely keep upright in his saddle; a bullet had winged its way through the skin of his arm, and a tourniquet of cotton was tied around to staunch the flow of blood. Khurram was exhausted, as were his men, holding onto their horses’ necks as they pounded away from the fort. They went into hiding north of Agra. The fort at Delhi would be next assaulted. Khurram would not flee to the Deccan without something to show for his journey. But he did not know that his father’s entourage, along with the bulk of the imperial army, had already arrived at Delhi.

  • • •

  Abul was brought into Mehrunnisa’s apartments in shackles, chains binding his wrists together and swinging down to encircle his ankles.

  “What is this, Mehrunnisa?” he yelled. “What is this outrage? Why am I treated like a criminal?”

  Mehrunnisa was making paan. She did not look up at her brother, and Abul did not come nearer. When he moved the first time, Hoshiyar’s firm hand descended upon his nape in an unfriendly manner. “Stay here, Mirza Hasan.”

  She sat on her divan, the silver plates of betel leaves, betel nuts, lime, raisins, and sultanas in front of her. Mehrunnisa dipped a heart-shaped betel leaf into a bowl of water, rinsed it, wiped it dry, and piled the center with the contents of the plates. Then she meticulously folded it into a square parcel, tightly bound, and kept the folding in place with a clove stuck in.

  Abul shivered in his place. His wrists were on fire, the iron cuffs chafing against his skin. What was Mehrunnisa going to do to him?

  “Mehrunnisa,” he said pleadingly, and this time she looked up. There was no expression on her face, no anger or hatred, nothing. She opened her mouth, put the paan in and chewed, and she did not take her eyes away from her brother. It was Abul whose gaze dropped.

  “Who told Khurram about the moving of the treasury, Hoshiyar?”

  Abul’s head whipped up. “I did not, Mehrunnisa. You have to believe me.”

  “How did he know then?”

  “I do not know.” Abul said this without flinching. He started to tremble again though, setting the chains clanking.

  “Take those off, Hoshiyar,” Mehrunnisa said, leaning back on the cushions. She cleared the plates away and put them on the carpets. “Come here and sit, Abul.”

  Abul massaged his wrists, bent down and rubbed his ankles, and hobbled over to sit by his sister. “Do you believe me? Mehrunnisa, Khurram is on his way to sack Delhi. You must let the Emperor know.”

  Mehrunnisa raised an eyebrow at him. “Is this true?”

  “Yes. I heard of it yesterday.”

  “Then will you command one of the armies against Khurram, Abul?”

  He did not hesitate for even a second. As soon as she finished her question, Abul Hasan said yes. He looked her in the eye when he said this. He thought she believed him.

  Mehrunnisa sent him away. He stumbled out of the room. No harm was done, she thought, in bringing him to her like a prisoner. Now she knew that Abul would never be at her side, only at Khurram’s. He would battle his son-in-law, though, and if Abul gave any sign of fleeing to Khurram, she would leave orders with the commanders that he must be killed before he was even halfway there. The prince was on his way to Delhi, Abul had told her this as though it were something new, something to take away her suspicions of him. But Mehrunnisa already knew, of course. Not just what his plans were, but where he was right now.

  She called Shahryar away from Qandahar. Abul would command yet another army. Who would lead the third? Khurram had two men with him whom Mehrunnisa would have dearly liked to see at the helm of the imperial army—Raja Bikramjit and the Khan-i-khanan. She thought for a while and then remembered the man who had stood up against her time and again in those early days of her marriage. The man who had boldly gone to Jahangir to complain about her. He had shown courage and, in some ways, a loyalty to the Emperor few other men had.

  Mehrunnisa wrote a letter to Mahabat Khan at Kabul, offering him release from the governorship there if he would come and join the imperial army. She wrote as though she asked a request, but it was a command. There was no question of Mahabat having a choice. So Mahabat Khan accepted. Actually, he desperately grabbed at the chance. He had spent ten years away from the imperial court and had aged twenty in that time. There had been nothing to spend his energy on, his duties in Kabul had been light. But here finally was the opportunity to return.

  The three imperial armies headed by Mahabat, Shahryar, and Abul met Khurram’s army south of Delhi. The conclusion was preordained—there was no way Khurram’s men could stand up to the might of the imperial forces. The prince fled to his home in the Deccan by nightfall, and Raja Bikramjit was dead. His head was cut off, stuffed with grass and hay, and hung on an upturned spear on the ramparts of the Delhi Fort. The Raja’s family had had in their possession, through many generations, a pair of perfectly matched pearls the size of small cherries. These Bikramjit had worn in his ears. When his head adorned the spear, it was without its ears, which had been sliced off for the family heirlooms.

  Khurram ran away to the Deccan, but of course he was not to be allowed to go away so easily. Mehrunnisa gave out gifts to all the nobles who had participated in the battle, and she left out Abul. He was to stay with her at court, though; she could not trust him anywhere but near her. She sent a message to Prince Parviz, pulling him out of his life of drink and sloth. He was to come to Delhi, and from there pursue Khurram in the Deccan.

  Mehrunnisa gave Mahabat Khan charge of the campaign along with Parviz. The Emperor had taken to his bed with yet another illness; he could not rise to give the orders himself, but he listened when she talked with him. Jahangir suggested that they travel to Ajmer and wait for news of Mahabat Khan and Parviz’s pursuit of Khurram.

  So the royal entourage moved to Ajmer. Once Mehrunnisa and Jahangir had come here to support Khurram’s siege on Mewar. Now they came here hoping to hear of his demise.

  • • •

  Khurram fought Parviz’s army outside of Burhanpur, or rather he fought Mahabat Khan’s command. He was easily defeated, and the prince fled again, heading south to the Tapti River. This time he took Arjumand and their sons with him. The party that left with him was sadly depleted—Mahabat, exercising his diplomatic skills to the utmost, had sent secret letters to the nobles of Khurram’s court, promising them amnesty from Jahangir’s wrath if they defected to the imperial side.

  • • •

  The rain spewed down steadily and in torrents. The crash of the downpour was thunderous; it blotted out every other sound. Lightning forked across the sky and lit up the caravan trudging slowly down the muddy hillside.

  Khurram rode at the head of the procession, wiping the streaming rain from his face. He could not even look up; the water lashed into his eyes if he did, so he bent down over his horse’s neck, praying that it was surefooted. The horse plunged into the mud on its hind legs, lifting Khurram in the air, and then it painfully extricated itself from the sludge and moved on. Khurram looked back at the lead palanquin and wondered how Arjumand was doing. She must be drenched through also, he thought. The palanquin cover and curtains had been ripped to pieces in the monsoon winds, modesty was thrown away, and Arjumand clung to the skeleton f
rame of the conveyance, her veil bunched and wet around her neck. Khurram cursed under his breath. Here he was, a royal prince, forced to flee like a common fugitive. Suddenly someone shouted out aloud, and Khurram reined in his horse.

  One of the elephants had dropped into the soft mud, the ground not being able to support its weight. The animal struggled wildly to extricate itself, trumpeting in fear as it sank deeper.

  An attendant rode up to the prince. “We shall have to leave the animal, your Highness,” he said, leaning into Khurram’s ear.

  “Do so, and quickly,” Khurram shouted, lifting his voice over the clamor of the rain. He watched as the baggage strapped onto the elephant’s back was unloaded and distributed to the other already sorely burdened horses and elephants. Khurram looked away into the wet darkness as a shot rang out. The elephant’s cry stopped in midtrumpet, and it fell back on the ground with a thud.

  It was two days since Khurram and his party had forded the Tapti. The river was swollen with rain waters, and the crossing had almost been a disaster. Entire barges with their belongings had been rushed away down the angry Tapti; they had just barely made it to the other side. The monsoons had begun just as Khurram had left Burhanpur, but he could not have waited for the rains to subside, he had had no time. Even now, as they struggled toward the southern frontier of the Mughal Empire, the imperial army was but a two-day march behind them.

  They moved forward again, the animals protesting against the extra weight and lack of food or rest. Khurram was determined, at all costs, not to be taken prisoner by the Emperor. He had witnessed Khusrau’s fate and knew his own would be worse. He raised his hand and pointed south. “Let us go!” he yelled.

  Arjumand huddled in one corner of the palanquin, seeking shelter and warmth from the pouring rain. She was feeling nauseous. It was a familiar feeling, and the princess’s heart plummeted as she realized that she was pregnant again. What sort of a life would this child have, born to fugitive parents who were fleeing from the wrath of the Emperor? For that matter, what sort of a life would all her children have? At one time, it had seemed certain that Khurram would be Emperor, but now . . .

  There were no more mishaps that night, and by afternoon, Khurram and Arjumand slipped over the southern border into the kingdom of Golconda. Once, Khurram thought, he had led an army to fight the Golconda king. Would he be given shelter here?

  • • •

  Behind Khurram, Mahabat Khan moved doggedly through the blinding rain. He had been drenching wet for three days now. His barge had turned over in the Tapti, throwing Parviz and him into the shallow end on the other side. They had clung to some tree roots until the rest of the army had been able to pull them out of the water. Mahabat was weary too. He was no longer young, no longer able to ride on campaign for the hours and days it took to achieve victory. But Jahangir had commanded this of him.

  Mahabat Khan lifted his balding head to the rain and opened his mouth to drink the sweet water. When he captured Prince Khurram, he would be celebrated as a hero. Jahangir would give him his place in court again, next to Sharif. They would be friends and companions again, as they once were. He dreamed thus in his saddle, his horse stumbling through the wet and dark night. The same lightning that flashed to show Khurram’s party lit the skies above Mahabat. He saw his army clearly defined in that light, soaked and miserable, cold from the constant dampness, their lungs clogged, coughs racking their thin bodies. Mahabat let his mind wander again. Sharif and he had written letters to each other, fewer as the years had passed, for Mahabat had burned with jealousy at all Sharif’s accounts. The garden parties, the festivals, the imperial weighings on birth days. He had seen all of these in tremendous detail, reading through Sharif’s casual sentences. The Amirul-umra had kept his place in court because he could, and did, keep his mouth shut. Mahabat knew he would not have been this complacent at Mehrunnisa’s jharoka audiences, at the effortless way in which she, from behind the veil, nudged and bullied the nobles and princes into doing what she wanted. Reading Sharif’s letters, Mahabat had often thought he was better at Kabul, away from the temptation to fight with Mehrunnisa, rather than at court resisting it every minute of every day. But his place was with the Emperor. And surely, he could return now?

  Mahabat’s horse trudged through the rain. He kept his head bowed, seeing glory for himself in the dark wetness. The shivers that beset his body, the ache in his thighs from so long in the saddle, the constant hunger for sleep, none of these mattered.

  His army followed the path Prince Khurram had taken; they stumbled upon the dead elephant drowning in the rains upon the hillside, then came to the edge of the empire. Here the tracks from Khurram’s entourage moved into Golconda. Mahabat and his army rode around the perimeter looking for further marks, hoping that the original tracks were false, and that Khurram had moved off the road in another direction. But no, he had gone into the enemy kingdom with his wife, his children, and his army.

  Mahabat stayed at the border for two more days, and then turned back to Burhanpur, dragging the ever-complaining Prince Parviz with him. It was a victory of sorts. Khurram would not be a threat anymore—and so he wrote to Mehrunnisa and Jahangir in a letter sent by runner immediately upon his arrival at Burhanpur. And there, between the lines, he implored to return to court to give a personal accounting of his campaign.

  A few months later, Khurram sent his father a letter begging pardon. He did not want to live in exile anymore, though the Golconda king had been welcoming, even generous, to an old enemy. But Golconda was not home; the empire was.

  From Lahore, Mehrunnisa set harsh terms for his surrender.

  Khurram had to send a million rupees to the imperial treasury. Two of his sons were to be escorted to the imperial court as security against further rebellion. Khurram had to give up any claims on the forts of Asir and Rohtas. The prince agreed and took his family to Nasik on the Arabian Sea. He was officially in exile, although still on the empire’s soil.

  News of Mahabat’s defeat of Prince Khurram spread all over the empire. Mahabat Khan was fifty-five years old and had routed a prince about half his age. He was a brave soldier. Once, when Jahangir had first come to the throne, people could not take the Emperor’s name without saying Mahabat and Sharif’s too in the same breath. Mehrunnisa had changed all that. Now Jahangir was synonymous only with his twentieth and most powerful wife.

  • • •

  A gray, ghostly dawn chiseled at the edges of night on the eastern horizon over Lahore. In this thin light, the city sweepers began their work, washing down the cobbled stones with water, using thick jute brooms to swirl the dirt away. Milkmen brought their cows to doorsteps to rouse sleepy maids, and they gushed sweet, frothing, warm milk into earthenware jugs. An hour later, the lamplighters would arrive to douse and clean the streetlamps.

  The many palaces of Lahore Fort slumbered densely in the cool of the early morning. Lights flickered here and there, in verandah arches, in niches set in the sandstone walls, at the western entrance to the fort, the Hathi Pol, and along the ramparts.

  In one palace, the sesame oil lamps had been lit early the previous evening and still burned fervently, fed through the long and tiring night.

  Ladli wailed, the cry drawn from deep within her. The sound curled through the lushly appointed apartment, bounced off the mirrorwork-embellished walls, and flew out the open windows into the coming dawn. Blood flooded her face as she gripped her eyes shut, breath knocked out of her lungs, her lower body straining. Then she sank back on the divan. “Mama.”

  “I am here, beta.” Mehrunnisa leaned over her daughter and rubbed her face gently.

  Ladli clutched at her hand, grinding her fingers in a tight vise. “It hurts, Mama. It hurts.”

  “I know, beta,” Mehrunnisa said. She put her head against Ladli’s, wishing she could take away this pain. Sweat drenched Ladli’s skin and lay her hair in strands across her skull. If it had cooled during the night, neither noticed, for the room was fetid with th
e smell of perspiration and the blood that soaked through the white satin sheets of the divan under Ladli. The birthing had started hours ago, so many hours ago now, Mehrunnisa thought. At first it had been almost easy, a deepening ache in Ladli’s lower back, and the happy anticipation of the child who was to come. They had talked and laughed, who would he look like? How much hair would be on his head? There was going to be a new life, one that would belong to them. In these early hours, Mehrunnisa felt the crushing weight of the past few months rise from her. Khurram was forgotten, the empire even forgotten, although the worrying letters from Burhanpur lay on her lap.

  Ladli ate ghee-roasted cashews, pistachios, and sultanas by the handful, drank new milk from a water buffalo, all to help her keep her strength. Midwives flitted in and out of the chambers, and Hoshiyar stood in one corner, so proud and upright that he might have been the expectant father. Mehrunnisa remembered Ladli’s birth, how hurried and frightening that had been, how much she had ached with yearning to see her child after all those miscarriages. How fierce that want had been. Some of that yearning returned now, but it was pleasurably so, for a boy was to be born. A prince, a future Emperor.

  And then Ladli’s pains started to come faster, nearer each other. Mehrunnisa put down the letters from Burhanpur and sat by her daughter. She shouted at the midwives huddling around the bottom of the divan. What was happening? It is all the process of birth, your Majesty, nothing to worry about. The night progressed, and Ladli screamed, over and over again, drowning out Jahangir’s coughs in the nearby apartment, until Mehrunnisa could only hear her voice, could not think of Burhanpur, or the hacking, terrible sound of her husband’s lungs.

  Another contraction came ripping through, and Ladli jerked off the divan to sit upright, knees pulled against her chest. She shouted with pain, almost into Mehrunnisa’s ear, unwilling to let go of her mother’s hand.

  Above her screams, Mehrunnisa yelled at the midwife, “Do something!”