The Feast of Roses

by Indu Sundaresan

  Nonetheless, he hoisted it to his shoulder and pointed at the stag standing in front of him. He hit it in its right hind leg, and the stag stumbled away.

  “Go after it!” Jahangir yelled, his eyes feverish with excitement.

  An attendant ran behind the stag. As he passed the nearby cliff his foot slipped. He seemed to hesitate there, aslant in the air for a moment, and then he plunged over the cliff into the ravine. His thin, keening wail of distress came rising up to them.

  “Rescue the man,” Mehrunnisa cried.

  A few servants ran to the edge of the cliff and looked down. They turned back to the royal couple and shook their heads. Jahangir started shivering. “This means I am to die now, Mehrunnisa.”

  “It was an accident,” Mehrunnisa said. She signaled to the attendants, and they lifted the chair and took Jahangir back to camp. On the way there, she laughed and talked, a little too much, turning his face to hers with an insistent hand. She did not allow him to dwell on the omen. It meant nothing, your Majesty. You will become better, and then we can return here for another hunt. Mehrunnisa gave him wine to drink, but Jahangir could barely keep it in his mouth, let alone let it slide down his throat. An hour later, a fever came to catch him, and he became delirious.

  That night, as Mehrunnisa sat by his side, Jahangir said one lucid word. “Water.”

  She poured some water into a goblet and held it to his lips. He drank and fell back. Jahangir slept, his breathing no longer harsh, and Mehrunnisa stayed by him. She watched his face in the light from the lamps. Memories came to her then, and through the long night. She remembered them both young, that first kiss outside Ruqayya’s apartments when he had shattered her heart with wanting. Their wedding, a quiet one upon her insistence. Their fights, some torridly physical; their coming together after those fights as though no one else mattered. And no one else had, Mehrunnisa thought. Her whole self was vested in this man. After him . . . well, even before him, there had been nobody else.

  In the early hours, attendants flitted around the tent with messages, but Mehrunnisa allowed no one inside. Outside the Emperor’s tent, the imperial court gathered. The nobles came to stand there in clothes of white, for mourning. They were silent. They watched the flap of the tent. They could not hear Jahangir’s voice anymore.

  As the night fled to give way to a pale gray dawn, Jahangir took one more deep breath. His body jerked, his lungs fought for air, and he put out his hand with his eyes still closed and let it fall upon Mehrunnisa’s. His fingers closed upon hers.

  Emperor Jahangir did not breathe again.

  It was October 28, 1627. He was fifty-eight years old that year.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  The will of Jehangire had been opened immediately upon his demise. He had, at the instigation of the Sultana, named his fourth son Shariar, as his successor in the throne; but that prince had, some weeks before, set out for Lahore.

  —ALEXANDER DOW,

  The History of Hindostan

  Mehrunnisa sat there as Jahangir’s hand grew cold in hers. His fingers were still wrapped around hers, the ring with the areca nut-sized ruby rubbing chill against her palm. Akbar gave him this, she thought, when he passed the crown onto his son. She bent to gently put her face against his. Wake, my lord. Wake and speak to me. Who will I talk with now? She could not bear this massive hollowness inside her. This body lying here was her husband of sixteen years, the man she had loved beyond all else for much longer, since she was eight. How would she now live without him?

  She put her arms around his cold neck and laid her head on his chest. The embroidery on his white kurta’s front scratched against her cheek. It was strange to lie like this and not hear the familiar heartbeat, or the rasping of air in his asthmatic lungs. If only he would talk once more, Allah, just once more, that was all she asked. Mehrunnisa lifted her head and smoothed the hair from Jahangir’s forehead. When had his hairline receded so far over his head? When did this intense white come to catch his sideburns? Without life in his body—in his smile, his eyes, his ability to touch her— all this suddenly became so visible to her. She touched the pearls he wore in his ears that had become such a fashion now, which he had first donned after an illness. There was so much about him that people must not forget. Jahangir had been a just Emperor, he had been kind and generous to his people, more willing to listen to them than any other before, even his father. This . . . no one must forget.

  Mehrunnisa raised herself tiredly. She did not cry, she could not cry, something inside her took away that relief. She turned his hand over, traced a line over the nails, the hair on the back, the imperial ruby ring that was Akbar’s, then Jahangir’s, and now . . . She looked away. She must get to Shahryar, and send him a message soon. He had to be crowned as soon as possible. Mehrunnisa kissed her husband’s hand a last time and rose from her place. She grabbed one corner of the blue chiffon veil lying on the divan near her and flung it into the air and over her head. She lingered by the tent flap, willing strength to come back into her again. Her voice must not shatter, her back must be straight, her chin high, all these if she was to convince the court outside that Shahryar must be heir. Then she went out of the tent.

  A low mist hung over the camp, touching every face, turban, and chest with dampness, but all the nobles still tarried around Emperor Jahangir’s tent. They stood waiting as though they were in the Diwan-i-am, their arms folded across, fingertips splayed just right on elbows. Etiquette was followed here too—the nobles were arranged according to ranks, titles, and mansabs, the more common ones falling to the very back, so far from the tent that only Emperor Jahangir’s red and gold flag, with its crouching lion in front of a rising sun, was visible.

  Hoshiyar Khan cleared a path for Mehrunnisa. She faltered for just a moment, and as he had so many years ago, he said to her so no one else could hear, “Courage, your Majesty.”

  She stepped out then into the morning mist. Coolness came to cover her gently, welcome after the stifling warmth inside fed by coal braziers. The courtiers were all dressed in white kurtas and pajamas, their heads were bare; in that dim light they looked like silent ghosts. Around them, the night torches still burned, though low now, wisping blue smoke upward. Mehrunnisa stood in front of the men, her hands clasped at her waist, under her veil. Somewhere in the distance a horse whinnied, and she waited for it to quiet.

  “The Emperor has departed from this world to the abode of paradise.”

  The men sighed. In the morning hush, it was like a breath of errant wind, here now, gone in an instant. Some eyes filled with tears, but no one dared to raise their hands and wipe their faces. Seeing those tears, Mehrunnisa felt the beginnings of a sob catch inside her, and she stifled it. Did she give them confidence, she wondered, standing here in front of these men who towered over her, who had fought battles without fear for anything, least of all their lives, who would give those very lives to Emperor Jahangir if he so much as hinted it? Would they do this for her?

  She spoke again, her voice clear and resonant. “His Majesty wished for Prince Shahryar to be crowned Emperor. I am here to ask for your fealty on behalf of his Majesty.”

  Still not one person moved. At her first sentence, there had been a little flutter, an almost imperceptible shake of heads, but she rushed on to say that this was what Jahangir wanted. What were they thinking? She looked at them intently, but faces were shuttered to her. Mehrunnisa knew she was asking for something difficult—Shahryar had not, could never, inspire confidence as an Emperor. But she would help him. He would have her strength, her power behind him. Mehrunnisa met each gaze without flinching. These amirs were all warriors, as all nobles in the empire had to be, but bereft of their swords, daggers, muskets, and bows, they were now statesmen. She turned finally to the man standing closest to her.

  “Abul,” she said, “will you come within the tent with me?”

  Abul Hasan bowed. “Yes, your Majesty.”

  He came up to her, and Mehrunnisa allowed herself to l
ean on his arm as they went into the tent. She wanted the nobles to see her thus too—as a woman wanting support in this time of need, when it was not just Emperor Jahangir who had died, but her husband.

  Hoshiyar Khan let the flap of the tent fall down behind them and stood guard outside. For a few minutes, the nobles stayed where they were, then hands moved to brush away tears, and they glanced at one another. It was at this time the empire was most unstable, their lives had no direction, they did not know to whom they were to bow their heads. They looked toward Hoshiyar, but the eunuch’s face was impassive.

  Mehrunnisa led Abul to Jahangir. There, he touched his forehead to Jahangir’s bare feet.

  “His Majesty is at peace now, Mehrunnisa,” he said.

  She drew the veil from her face. “Abul, we must leave here for Lahore as soon as possible. Shahryar must wear the crown before the week has passed. I want you to make the preparations.”

  “Of course,” he said quickly, almost too quickly for Mehrunnisa. “Leave the arrangements to me, Mehrunnisa. You should stay here, by the Emperor, while the body is prepared for interment. This is the role you must play now.”

  Mehrunnisa nodded. In the brief minutes she had been outside, she had realized this too. The nobles paid heed to her words, but she felt them move away somehow. It was as though her voice had no strength if it did not call out from behind the Emperor. Abul was right, a grieving widow who kept her mouth and face concealed from the outside world was who she should be now. Ah, if only Shahryar were here and not at Lahore. He was only a two-day journey from his dead father, but it might well have been a thousand miles. And of all the people, she had to turn to Abul, to use his man’s voice to give her countenance. Abul, who had constantly betrayed her with Khurram. Thankfully Khurram was more than a thousand miles away now. Before he could be anything close to menacing, the imperial turban would reside on Shahryar’s head. Still . . .

  “Will you betray me, Abul?” she asked.

  He shook his graying head, his eyes meeting hers without fear. “I will not, Mehrunnisa. You and I, we are of the same blood, I will not betray you.”

  Mehrunnisa went to the wood trunk in one corner of the room, unlocked it, and took out a palm-sized cloth bag. She pulled loose the drawstrings that held the bag together, and took out two mud-colored seeds.

  “Promise me on the datura, Abul,” she said, holding the deadly seeds out to him.

  “All right,” he said. Then, in a repetition of what she had once said to him fifteen years ago, “Is this wise? We could die, and all your plans would be frittered away.”

  She dug around along the bottom of the trunk and took out a mortar and pestle. “It will be worthwhile even so, for now I want your fidelity, Abul, not the crown. If I have your loyalty, we will not die.”

  “All right,” he said again. He watched as she pounded the seeds to a thin white powder.

  And so, standing there, across Emperor Jahangir’s body, they each wet their right index finger, dipped it in the datura powder, and filled their mouths with the thickly bitter taste of the datura.

  “Thank you, Abul,” Mehrunnisa said as he turned to go.

  Within the tent, Mehrunnisa retched uncontrollably into a silver bowl, kneeling by Emperor Jahangir. She laid her sweating face against her husband’s cold hand. “It will be as you wanted it, your Majesty.”

  But she did not know that though Abul had dipped his index finger into the datura, it was his middle finger that had gone into his mouth and come out clean for her to see.

  • • •

  Outside, Abul called his attendant, Iradat Khan, and ordered a guard around Mehrunnisa. She was not to be allowed to talk to anyone or send messages to Shahryar—if she did, the twenty men around her tent would not live to see another day.

  Abul walked away, wiping the datura on the silk of his kurta. There was no question of giving Shahryar the crown, and it was to his advantage that the prince was not here at Bairam Kala; if he had been, Abul would have found it difficult to stop him. This bought him some time.

  He called for his swiftest runner and sent him to the Deccan with a message by mouth—Emperor Jahangir was dead, Khurram was to head for Lahore immediately.

  But how could he keep the throne empty for three months? The empire would disintegrate in a civil war. Abul thought hard about the other claimants to the throne. Bulaqi, Khusrau’s eldest son, was also in line for the crown, and Bulaqi was here, in the royal encampment. So were Khurram’s eldest sons, of course—he had sent them as surety against his rebelling many years ago. But Abul would not put either of Khurram’s sons on the throne; they would have to wait their time, after his death. It had to be Bulaqi.

  • • •

  The day passed into night. Attendants bowed their way into the tent to carry out Jahangir’s body to prepare it for the burial. Mehrunnisa let them. She did not ask for Ladli to come to her, wanting to be alone for a while to think. She did not allow herself to doubt Abul, and this took a tremendous amount of willpower, for everything inside her said that her brother was untrust-worthy, but she had no other option. Their father was dead; with Shahryar in Lahore, there was no other man she could turn to. And in this world of hers, when kings died or were born or crowned, men were the most visible, most involved in every public ritual, so she must stay hidden for now.

  As night came she rose exhausted from her divan to go outside. Abul should have brought her news about Shahryar by now. Where was he? She lifted the tent flap and stepped outside. The twenty men around her tent jerked upright and formed a tight circle of guard.

  “What is this?”

  One man stepped ahead, his spear held across his chest. “Please go inside, your Majesty. You are not allowed outside your tent.”

  “On whose orders?” Mehrunnisa asked.

  “On Mirza Abul Hasan’s orders. Please go inside now, or we will be forced to carry you in.”

  Ah, Abul, Mehrunnisa thought, so you are a traitor. A base, cowardly man who pledged upon blood and poison not to betray your sister and then did. She saw then that she should not have taken the time to mourn, not allowed Abul or the other nobles at court or the priests to preach to her about a woman’s duties. Cursing Abul would not help now. She beckoned to one of the guards at the back row. He was really still a boy, his face untouched by the barber’s razor, little wisps of hair on his upper lip.

  When he moved, the first guard came between them. “You are to talk to no one, your Majesty.”

  Mehrunnisa tilted her head upward and met his eyes. “I want to send a message through this guard to my brother. Be careful of how you talk to me, or your life will be worth little.”

  The guard hesitated and then allowed the boy to follow the Empress into her tent. Mehrunnisa took off three rings. The soft golden light from the diyas and braziers set fire to the diamonds, rubies, and emeralds in the palm of her hand.

  “Take a message to Prince Shahryar at Lahore.”

  The youth moved back. “Your Majesty, I cannot. Mirza Hasan will have my head if he finds out.”

  “And I shall have it if Shahryar becomes Emperor,” Mehrunnisa said harshly. “Be reasonable. Do you really think Mirza Hasan will win? Prince Khurram is miles from here. Before he gets to Lahore, Prince Shahryar will be on the throne. But I cannot do that without your help.”

  The boy demurred, his eyes lighting greedily upon the rings.

  “Think about it,” Mehrunnisa continued. “You will be instrumental in putting Prince Shahryar on the throne. Think of the mansabs and jagirs—”

  The guard cut into her words. “I will do it, your Majesty,” he said. “What do you want me to say to Prince Shahryar?”

  Mehrunnisa scribbled a letter in two minutes, for she did not want to keep the boy in her tent longer than was necessary. But her orders to Shahryar were explicit. The prince was to secure the fort at Lahore and gather an army to fight Abul Hasan. More importantly, Shahryar was to write to Qasim Khan, the governor of Agra, and warn him of wha
t was happening. A large chunk of the imperial treasury had been moved back to Agra a few years ago, and Qasim Khan was in charge of it. They needed to be sure that the treasury was secure from Khurram—without the weight of it behind them, the throne, the crown, the imperial turban, were all worthless.

  When the boy left, Mehrunnisa sat down to think. Who else could she appeal to? Which nobles would help her, which had she given prominence to during the past few years?

  As the night wore on, she prayed too, slipping down to her knees, facing west toward Mecca. Allah, let Shahryar prove that he has a spine, and if he does, he will be truly worthy of the crown. Let the letter reach him at Lahore.

  The guards watched their Empress’s figure through the cloth of the tent, highlighted by lamps. They watched her pray, they watched her pace. They had their orders to keep her confined, but they felt that though she might be physically here, Empress Nur Jahan had a reach that went beyond a mere mortal’s ability.

  • • •

  The next day last rites were performed for Emperor Jahangir. This was an important step in the succession, for until the last rites were performed, Jahangir’s reign was not officially at a close. Abul commanded the Emperor’s body taken to Lahore for burial. Mehrunnisa, still under heavy guard, followed the bier. But they left a day after Abul and Bulaqi. To Abul’s surprise, Mehrunnisa did not protest, or even try to send him a message through the guards.

  Worried now, Abul crowned Prince Bulaqi Emperor of Mughal India at Bhimbar as soon as the last prayer was completed over Emperor Jahangir’s body. The khutba was read in his name, officially pronouncing him sovereign of his grandfather’s empire. It was October 29, 1627, one day after Jahangir’s death.