The Feast of Roses

by Indu Sundaresan

  The woman cowered but found voice enough to say, “It is not for me to do something, your Majesty. The princess has to push, the baby is stuck.” She reached between Ladli’s legs, her fingers slipping over the smooth black head showing there. Why would the child not come out? It should have been relatively simple at this stage. A few pushes and the baby should be out. But the head stayed where it was, and Ladli’s belly swelled and ebbed as her body strained to release the child.

  Another plume of blood gushed out and blossomed on the sheets. The midwife, old and gray from this lifelong work, stupidly raised her bloodied hands in the air.

  “I cannot get my fingers around the child, your Majesty,” she said, trembling at the fire in Mehrunnisa’s eyes. “Please ask the princess to remain seated, it will help bring him out.”

  Mehrunnisa lunged over Ladli at the midwife, waving wildly to tell her to put away her hands, but it was too late. Ladli had seen the blood. She started to cry, in huge sobs. “Oh, Mama, I am going to die. Look, I am going to die.”

  “Get her out,” Mehrunnisa said to Hoshiyar, and he unceremoniously dragged the midwife from the room. Another midwife took her place; she was younger, but with a wise face.

  “What are we to do?” Mehrunnisa said to the midwife.

  “The princess must sit, your Majesty. But in a moment . . .” She bent to prod and pull against Ladli, then with her hands still down, she looked up and nodded.

  Mehrunnisa and Hoshiyar hoisted Ladli up and put a few cushions under her back. When the next contraction started to blight her face, Mehrunnisa put an arm around Ladli, leaned close to her ear, and said, “Now, beta. Try as hard as you can. I am here. So is Hoshiyar, nothing will happen to you. All right?”

  Ladli nodded, looking only at her mother, and heaved inside. Through the pain and wrenching of her body, she could feel the child’s shoulders slip through, and then the torso, and then, finally and with relief, the legs.

  The midwife expertly cut the umbilical cord and cleaned the child while Ladli lay back, breathing heavily.

  Mehrunnisa turned to the midwife. “Is the child alive?”

  “Yes, your Majesty,” the woman mumbled, still swabbing at the baby. She held it upside down, away from Mehrunnisa, and slapped it lightly on the back. A massive, healthy bawl filled the room. Hoshiyar shouted with laughter, his bushy moustache swinging up to his ears. Ladli clung to Mehrunnisa, one arm around the eunuch, tears flowing from her to wet her mother’s choli. They put their heads together and prayed, laughing and crying at the same time.

  “Thank you, Allah,” Mehrunnisa said. “Thank you for that glorious sound.” Then, she said, “Bring him here, so we can see him.”

  The midwife wrapped the child in the red cotton cloth offered by another slave, and held the child up. Her arms trembled. “It is a girl, your Majesty.”

  For the next few minutes, no one spoke. Ladli, still sobbing with happiness, had not heard, but Mehrunnisa and Hoshiyar were still. The midwife shivered, holding in her arms the child no one reached out for yet. The baby was well swaddled, her dark and lush hair visible above the cloth, her cries stopped.

  And so long moments passed. This was a trick, Mehrunnisa thought, she had misunderstood the midwife, or she had not seen the child properly . . . but no, the midwife would not dare make such a mistake, not when her life depended on it. It was a trick though; fate had tricked her out of a male grandchild.

  “I want the child.” Ladli put her arms out.

  Mehrunnisa watched as Ladli touched the child’s face with wonder, her fingers light and questing over a perfectly formed ear, over the sweep of hair still wet from the womb, the thinly traced eyebrows, the pink mouth, and a funnily stubborn chin. The baby’s eyes were a dark blue—she had Mehrunnisa’s eyes. One little hand, fingernails long, clutched the end of the cloth, and when Ladli uncurled the fingers, they wrapped around hers. She laughed with delight.

  “Look, Mama,” she said, her face lit from inside with such joy that Mehrunnisa could not help laughing with her. As she did, tension drained from the room, let out through the windows into the now golden glow of the morning. Ladli unwrapped the child carefully, and then smiled again. “A beautiful little girl. I shall call her Arzani. What do you think, Mama?”

  “A lovely name, beta. A lovely name.” Suddenly exhausted, Mehrunnisa kissed her daughter on the cheek and laid her lips against the soft skin of the baby’s feet. She then rose and went from the room, Hoshiyar following her out to Emperor Jahangir’s apartments.

  Mehrunnisa crawled into bed next to her husband and put her head against his chest. With her ear so close to his lungs, she could hear his breath march in and out in loud, rhythmic rasps. But at least sleep had come to rest his body and his mind. Mehrunnisa did not sleep, though. So much hope had lain with that child. Every dream of hers, every wish for the empire, for her life . . . now none of those would come true.

  For Shahryar too, of course. Shahryar had little importance on his own. He had gone to Qandahar and tried to regain the city, but the Shah of Persia now had a strong foot in it and was not shaken off. If the Emperor died now, or soon, no one would turn to the nashudani. Now there was no male heir to give Shahryar prestige.

  “They are still young, Mehrunnisa.”

  She looked up at Jahangir, her vision blurred. She knew it was stupid to cry for this, but the wanting had made her weak, she could not help herself.

  He rubbed away the tears from her face. “There will be other children,” he said.

  “How do you know?”

  “The slaves came to me,” he said. “But there will be other children, and soon, a son for Ladli and Shahryar.”

  “Yes, your Majesty.” Jahangir was right. Now her hopes must rest on future children.

  “Did you read the letters from Burhanpur?” he asked.

  Missives had come from the southern border of the empire, one after another. Most were filled with praises for Mahabat Khan’s victory over Prince Khurram. Even here, at Lahore, Hoshiyar bent time and again to fill Jahangir and Mehrunnisa’s ears with tales of what was being said of Mahabat Khan.

  Mehrunnisa wondered whether bringing Mahabat back had been such a good idea after all. Most disturbing was a letter from an obscure commander at Burhanpur. Mahabat and Prince Parviz, who was nominally at the head of this last campaign, had become . . . close. Parviz, for all his ineffectualness, his drinking, his dependence—or perhaps because of these qualities—had the astonishing ability to attract the benevolence of powerful ministers. First, the Khan-i-khanan, Abdur Rahim, and now, strangely, Mahabat Khan. Neglected at court, Parviz invariably found champions in his guardians. Mahabat was too friendly with Prince Parviz, the letter said, perhaps he was grooming him for the empire?

  Being so recently rid of Khurram, Mehrunnisa and Jahangir had never considered Parviz to be a threat to Shahryar’s claim on the throne.

  “I find it hard to believe this letter, your Majesty,” Mehrunnisa said slowly.

  Jahangir laughed, the sound of his voice rumbling into her ear. “Mehrunnisa, where the crown is concerned, every rumor, however flimsy its source, must be heeded. Mahabat can no longer stay in the Deccan with Parviz. Together, they will grow too strong. Prepare a farman commanding him here to court.”

  “But we did not ask for him to come before, your Majesty, when he begged for permission. What excuse can we give now?”

  The Emperor rubbed his chin. “Hoshiyar, call for the barber,” he said, raising his voice. Then he said to Mehrunnisa, “Any excuse . . . did the letter not mention infractions of some sort?”

  “Yes . . . ,” Mehrunnisa said. She rose from the bed and knotted her hair at the nape of her neck, smiling at her husband. “Are you feeling well today?”

  “Yes,” he said, rising too. “After a long time. Where is Hoshiyar?”

  “Gone to do your bidding, your Majesty.” She kissed him on the cheek, lightly, her lips scraping against the day-old stubble. “I must go write to Mirza Mahab
at Khan.”

  Then Mehrunnisa ran out of the apartment to her writing table. She paused for a moment to look into the little mirror on her thumb ring. Held so close, she could see sections of her face—an eyebrow, the dark circles under her eyes that bespoke a night not slept, the curving lines around her mouth. She was a grandmother today, blessed with a healthy grandchild, and a happy and content child. A husband who adored her. And finally, an empire at her command.

  She wrote to Mahabat Khan. She had heard that Mahabat misappropriated funds for the Deccan campaign to line his own coffers. And that he kept the captured war elephants for his own stables. Was this true?

  So Mahabat had an invitation to come to court finally, couched in phrases of insult and disrespect.

  But both Mehrunnisa and Jahangir had forgotten that Mahabat Khan loathed her for various indignities, real and imagined, for being, quite simply, a woman with power in a man’s world. As much as Mahabat wanted to come to court, as much as he had languished in boredom during his ten years at Kabul, his pride had not broken. And neither had his hatred for Mehrunnisa.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Mohabet had a great many enemies: his sovereign had but little firmness. The abilities of the former had raised envy; and nature had given to the latter a disposition too easy and pliant, to be proof against misrepresentation.

  —ALEXANDER DOW,

  The History of Hindostan

  In March of 1626, Mehrunnisa and Jahangir decided to leave Lahore for Kabul. Summer was upon them, and they retreated to the cool and verdant gardens of Kabul this time, instead of Kashmir. Before Kashmir was conquered, Kabul had been the summer resort of the Mughal kings, and Babur, the first Mughal Emperor and Jahangir’s great-grandfather, was buried there. The royal entourage was encamped on the eastern bank of the Jhelum River when news of Mahabat’s arrival in the area reached them. The minister came to pay his respects to the Emperor with an army of five hundred Rajput soldiers and two hundred war elephants.

  Jahangir was outraged at this show of force. He sent Mahabat a message—he was to leave his army behind. If the charges against him were false, that could be easily proved; the truth would defend him.

  Mahabat consented to the Emperor’s demands, anxious to clear himself. He sent his son-in-law Khwaja Barkhurdar as an emissary, along with his two hundred elephants, to the Emperor’s camp on the Jhelum. He was willing to even hand over his wives and children as a pledge of his loyalty, but he would not allow himself to be dragged in front of the Emperor like a common criminal.

  • • •

  Khwaja Barkhurdar was ushered in to see Jahangir and Mehrunnisa. He bent low in the taslim and, still with his head bowed, presented Mahabat Khan’s letter. The elephants were arrayed in the outer courtyard of the camp, standing in a solid line of gray, their tails twitching in the heat to whip at the throng of flies.

  The Emperor read the letter. “Why is Mahabat not here, Barkhurdar?”

  “He will be, your Majesty,” the young man replied. He kept his gaze pinned on the carpets below, not daring to look at Mehrunnisa, though she was veiled. “When you have forgiven him.”

  “This is a strange way to ask for forgiveness.” Mehrunnisa’s voice was sharp. It had taken them six months to get Mahabat Khan from Burhanpur. He had disobeyed her orders the first time, or rather, Parviz had written and requested that Mahabat stay with him. He had grown used to Mahabat’s guardianship, the prince had said.

  And all through these six months of waiting for Mahabat to present himself, Mehrunnisa had had spies send her daily missives of Mahabat’s doings in Burhanpur. The reports had worried her, he was clearly procrastinating. But why? Finally, she had sent Parviz another guardian because he could not be without one, he had said, and she had commanded Mahabat to leave Burhanpur immediately.

  “Your Majesty,” Mehrunnisa said quickly, putting a hand on Jahangir’s arm. “Before you decide anything in Mahabat Khan’s favor, you should know who his emissary is.”

  Jahangir turned in surprise to her. “Who is he?”

  Mehrunnisa told him. Abul stood behind her and filled in what she did not know about Mahabat’s son-in-law. Who his father was, what his position was at court, and other details about their jagirs and holdings in the empire. Abul Hasan was with Mehrunnisa at this meeting because she had called him here. She knew that Abul disliked Mahabat Khan, and that this dislike went back to the early years of her marriage to Jahangir. For as her power had grown at court, so had Abul’s. He was her brother and had been part of the junta that had taken away Mahabat and Sharif’s importance. As much as Khurram drove them apart, Mahabat brought them together.

  “A fine young man,” the Emperor commented. “The two families are fortunate in the relationship.”

  Barkhurdar was nervous. He tried to hold himself still as etiquette demanded, but he could not. Something was not right, he thought, but what?

  “No doubt, your Majesty, but . . .” Mehrunnisa hesitated. “The marriage was not sanctioned by you.”

  “Is that right?”

  It was a Mughal custom that all courtiers had to get royal permission to contract any marriages in their families. Consent was perfunctory but nonetheless required, for ritual had to be followed. Mahabat Khan, left to languish at Kabul, so far from the imperial court, had forgotten to ask Jahangir for permission before he married his daughter to Khwaja Barkhurdar.

  “Your Majesty, Mahabat Khan insults you by sending this man as an emissary, knowing well that you did not consent to the marriage,” Abul said, bending to Jahangir’s ear.

  “Throw him in prison,” Jahangir said. Whether Mahabat meant it as an insult or not, the Emperor could not, after having been made aware of Barkhurdar, react any other way.

  Barkhurdar moved suddenly, his hand on his dagger, but the Ahadis pounced on him and dragged him away. The young man’s property, especially the dowry he received on his marriage, was confiscated and added to the imperial treasury.

  • • •

  In his encampment, a few miles upstream, Mahabat Khan paced restlessly up and down the thick Persian rug. He went to the main flap of the tent, lifted it, and gazed out. There was no sign of his son-in-law.

  Mahabat let the flap fall back. What was taking Barkhurdar so long? He could have talked to the Emperor twenty times by now. Horse hooves came clipping up the riverbank. Mahabat ran out of his tent and waited there with his soldiers. The rider was too far away, awash in a cloud of dust. When he neared, they saw that it was one of the imperial mahouts.

  “What happened?” Mahabat demanded, even before the tired man could dismount.

  “My lord, the Emperor has imprisoned your son-in-law,” the mahout said as he fell out of the saddle. He was not used to the discomfort of a horse’s back.

  “Why?”

  “You . . . you did not request permission for the marriage. The Emperor has confiscated all his property.”

  “Is he safe?”

  The mahout nodded, still gasping. “Safe enough. He tried to fight, but they put him in irons. He is alive, though. I saw him.”

  Mahabat turned away, enraged. He would have to see the Emperor personally and explain all of this. It was a misunderstanding. But he needed to see Jahangir alone, not with Mehrunnisa present. And where she was, her hated brother would be too.

  “I will go to the Emperor immediately,” he said. “Saddle my horse.”

  “No, my lord. That would not be judicious. The Ahadis have been ordered to arrest you on sight,” the mahout said. “And most of the camp moves today to the west side of the Jhelum, my lord.”

  “Where will the Emperor be?” Mahabat asked, with a glimmer of hope in his voice.

  “Here, on the eastern side, with the Empress. He is too unwell to travel tonight.”

  If most of the camp moved, the imperial guards would move too. Mahabat turned to his soldiers, plotting in his head, and they listened when he spoke.

  • • •

  The soft, dark night stole
upon the Jhelum River, turning its waters indigo. The advance camp was just settling down on the western bank under Abul Hasan’s supervision. Earlier in the day, he had escorted the royal zenana, the officers of the court, the baggage, the arsenal, and the imperial treasury across the bridge. The treasury resided with the camp now; after Khurram’s attempts at storming it, it had been commanded from Agra to the Emperor. A few hundred Ahadis and Rajput soldiers were left on the eastern bank to guard the Emperor and Mehrunnisa.

  When the last of the sun died, lights glimmered on both banks of the river as the camps prepared dinner. The aroma of roasting venison from the day’s hunt and thick gravied curries mingled with the smoke from the cooking fires. The night was clear, with a cool edge in the air. Stars littered the clear sky.

  Horse hooves, muffled in cotton cloth, pounded up the eastern riverbank to the Emperor’s tent.

  “We are almost there,” Mahabat Khan said softly to one of his commanders. “Take two hundred soldiers and go to the bridge on the Jhelum. Make sure that no one is allowed to cross from the western bank. If they attempt to, burn the bridge.”

  The commander nodded silently and signaled to his troops. They rode off into the night. Mahabat and his men waited in silence for an hour. The bridge would be secure by now. He then yanked at his reins and rode to the entrance of Jahangir’s tent.

  The royal guards were drowsy, sleep heavy upon their eyelids. They had eaten well at the night’s meal, and drunk many goblets of wine. There was no threat to the Emperor, so a short nap would surely not be amiss. The men woke to see sword tips pointed at their throats. They dropped their spears, muskets, and daggers to the ground and raised their arms.

  From within the royal enclosure, an attendant wandered out to smoke a beedi. He saw Mahabat and yelled, “Mahabat Khan is here! Inform the Emperor!”

  As he fled back into the tent, a soldier flung a dagger at him. It hissed quietly through the air and caught him between his neck and his shoulders. The attendant fell, and the soldiers trampled over his body into the tent. The Ahadis had scarcely heard the shout; they had moved, hands to sword hilts, but the Rajput soldiers were in front of them. It was too late to fight.