The Twentieth Wife

by Indu Sundaresan

  As she sat there the first pain came. Just like the others, it stormed down her lower back and belly, like a hand gripping her in a vise. Mehrunnisa closed her eyes as the pains flooded through her. Now she would not have to make up an excuse for not attending Manija’s wedding. Now Maji would not ask why she did not come. She clutched her hand to her front, doubling over on the floor, her face flat against the cool stone. Another child gone, barely inside her, barely alive, now gone. It could not be so. It was unimaginable—this life without a child, this life Ali Quli had sketched out for her as the barren wife of a common soldier.

  Her lips moved in a soft prayer, even as tears blurred the room and her breath stuck in her chest. Please Allah, not again, let me keep this one. Please.

  But then there was the warm swamp of blood between her legs.

  • • •

  BY THIS TIME, 1599, the Mughal empire stretched vast across the map of Hindustan, embracing Qandahar and Kabul in the northwest, Kashmir in the north, Bengal to the east, and south to Berar. The khutba, the official proclamation of sovereignty, was read before the noon prayers every Friday in the melodious voices of the muezzins from mosques around the empire. All hail Akbar Padshah, lord most mighty. In Central India, the Emperor had managed to subdue even the Rajput kings, valiant warriors and a fierce, proud race. As each kingdom was conquered, its daughters, sisters, cousins, and nieces were given in marriage to the imperial family, cementing newly formed alliances and ensuring against further rebellions.

  One kingdom still held out. Udaipur lay southwest in Rajput land—a rugged, harsh land of low-lying mountains, bare plains, and scrub. Water and rain were a distant memory; the scorching Thar desert lay to the north. But Udaipur, under a brutal burning sun, stood on the banks of the Pichola lake. Around it, replete with the waters of the lake, the land was fertile, green, and lush, surrounded by the bare hills of the countryside. Here Rana Pratap Singh had ruled with a stubbornness and arrogance that could only come from being a Rajput—proud of being from an unconquerable people, and angry at the presumption of anyone, even a great Emperor, at thinking of his land as part of a larger empire.

  Rana Pratap Singh died in a hut on the banks of the lake. Through the windows of his shack he could see the brick and mortar walls of the palace a previous Rana had commenced building, but during his reign there had not been enough peace to complete the palace. His sons stood around him as he lay on his hay-stuffed mattress, vowing to continue Pratap Singh’s fight against Akbar, swearing that until every last breath left their bodies they would not give up their land to be swallowed by the widespread Mughal empire. As the eldest of his seventeen sons and his heir apparent, Amar Singh, came through the doorway to pay his last respects to his father, his turban caught on one of the slats of the roof and was wrenched off his head. So Pratap Singh, that mighty Rana who had staved off the Mughal Empire, died with this image in his mind: that his son, turbanless and so relaxed, would live a life of ease. That he would not rule for very long. That he would lose this beloved kingdom.

  • • •

  EMPEROR AKBAR SAT by the window in Ruqayya Sultan Begam’s apartments, the leather-bound and gold-embossed copies of the Akbarnama in his lap. He touched the raised surface of the engraving on top. Abul Fazl had said that the three volumes covered his reign, the first two consisting of the history of his rule, the third—the Ain-i-Akbari—an account of daily life. His fingers skimmed over the unfamiliar letters of the first page. Akbar’s grandfather had written the Baburnama. His father’s reign was covered by his aunt Gulbadan Begam’s Humayunama. Now this: a first-hand account for posterity of his rule. Flowery, full of praise, and sometimes pompous in his attempts to please, Abul Fazl had yet managed to capture the essence of his life.

  Outside the windows, the palace guard walked through the night, his melodious voice singing out the hour. “Two o’clock and all is well!”

  The Emperor laid the Akbarnama next to him on the divan and slowly unwound his turban, wrapping the piece of embroidered silk into a ball as he did so. It was late and time for him to sleep. Tiredness crept over him as he undressed slowly, unlacing his qaba, replacing his silk pajamas with cotton ones and a loose, white cotton kurta.

  He blew out the oil lamp by the window. When his eyes had adjusted to the darkness, he went up to the bed and stood there, looking down at the two shapes. Empress Ruqayya slept aslant on the bed, and Prince Khurram had his little arms tight around her neck. The cotton sheet that covered them had slipped off, so the Emperor bent and pulled it over them gently.

  Murad. His son’s name flashed through his mind, and he sat down, letting the tears come for the first time since he had heard the news. After all those years of wanting sons, being blessed with three, now he was left with only two. Murad was dead.

  Akbar had sent Murad a few months ago to oversee the campaign in the south, hoping and praying that command of the imperial army would take his mind off drink and drugs. But that had not happened. Like Daniyal before him, Murad was a weak leader, unable to control the men. Petty fighting had broken out among the army commanders. Then news had come to Akbar that Murad was very sick and dying from excessive drinking. So the Emperor had sent Abul Fazl, head chancellor of the empire, to nurse him back to health. But Fazl arrived too late. Murad had fallen into a coma, and on the fourth day after Fazl’s arrival, on the second of May, 1599, he died.

  Fazl found the imperial army scattered, the men disillusioned and weary. The Emperor, with scarcely any time to grieve Murad’s death, had appointed Fazl chief commander, to give him the authority to rally the forces. And now, Fazl had written to Akbar requesting his presence in the Deccan.

  Akbar bent his head. There was always so much to do and so little time to think. Only during the nights did he have the privacy and silence to allow those thoughts to come. Unlike Salim, he had not known either Murad or Daniyal well. They had come to him in their childhoods guarded by nurses and ayahs, whisked in and out of his presence during ceremonial occasions. He had paid careful attention to their upbringing though, but from afar, giving them the best tutors, the best nursemaids, the best of everything a royal prince should command. Yet, both Murad and Daniyal were too fond of drink and the women of their harem. Now Murad was dead. Salim disappointed him. Daniyal drank too much.

  He was an Emperor with three heirs, two left now, in neither of whom he had much confidence.

  As he sat there a gentle hand reached out and rubbed the side of his neck.

  “Come to bed,” Ruqayya said softly.

  Akbar leaned into her hand, breathing in the essence of santuk, which Ruqayya used on her skin. He turned to her, his face still wet with tears for his son. She was sitting up in the bed.

  “Come,” she said again, holding out her arms to him.

  The Emperor rose and went into her embrace. They stayed like that for a long time, his head against her breast, his tears coming fast now. She rocked him, smoothed back his hair from his forehead, wiped his tears. Then they lay down together on either side of Prince Khurram, arms still wrapped around each other, Khurram in the warm circle they formed.

  “We must leave for the Deccan, Ruqayya,” Akbar said softly, comforted by her as he always was. He had known her all his life. Ruqayya was his cousin, daughter of his uncle Hindal. They had grown up together, knowing they would marry one day. From her he had had no expectations. When she had not borne him children, it had not mattered. For it was Ruqayya he always wanted, not any child she might give him. Therefore, when she asked for Salim’s third son, Akbar had gladly taken Khurram from Jagat Gosini and given him to her, not asking why this son, why not another, why now after so many years. What Ruqayya wanted from him, she got. It was as simple as that. And now Khurram was seven, too old to sleep in Ruqayya’s bed. But he wanted to, and she wanted him to; so when Akbar came to spend the night with Ruqayya, all three of them slept in the same bed.

  Khurram shifted in their embrace, moving his little body to a more comfortable po
sition. In his sleep, he clutched with one hand the front of his grandfather’s kurta and with the other a stray lock of his step-grandmother’s graying hair, pulling them closer to him.

  Ruqayya leaned over Khurram’s head and kissed the Emperor’s cheek. “If Mirza Abul Fazl has requested your presence in the Deccan, your Majesty, then you must go there. He would not ask for you if it were not important. Bijapur and Golconda, if you were to conquer them, would be valuable additions to the empire.”

  ‘Yes,” Akbar said, still softly, not wanting to awaken Khurram. “We have been on campaign there for five years, with no success.”

  “It will happen, your Majesty. At least the Uzbeg menace that had brought us here to Lahore has now ceased to exist with the death of King Abdullah Khan. There are no responsibilities anymore at the northwestern front of the empire.”

  Akbar turned to lie on his back and stare up at the shadowed ceiling. “What about Udaipur? Rana Pratap Singh is dead, and his son Amar Singh is now Rana. He is still getting used to his new obligations. If we strike now, Udaipur will be part of the empire before long.”

  “Perhaps you should wait for a more opportune moment to lay siege on Udaipur, your Majesty,” Ruqayya said.

  Akbar looked at her, seeking her eyes in the darkness. “We cannot wait too long, Ruqayya. It has been two years since Rana Pratap Singh’s death. Any longer, and Amar Singh will have an opportunity to establish himself too well.”

  “You respected Rana Pratap Singh.”

  “He was a brave man, a king worthy of the title,” Akbar said somberly. “Udaipur is the only Rajput kingdom we have been unable to conquer. We admired Rana Pratap Singh for that. To be able to withstand the imperial army time and again . . . but as much as we admired him and kept away from annexing Udaipur after the death of Pratap Singh, the time is now right to do so. It is not just for political reasons. You know that, Ruqayya. Amar Singh’s men regularly plunder and loot trading caravans carrying goods from the east to the western ports. At least within the empire, our subjects must travel freely and without fear. As long as Udaipur remains independent, that will not be so.”

  “And who will you send to command the Udaipur campaign, your Majesty?”

  “Raja Man Singh. He will be a good leader.”

  Ruqayya put a hand to Akbar’s face. “Send Salim, your Majesty.”

  “Without Raja Man Singh?”

  “No, with him. Let Salim have primary command of the imperial army. He needs the responsibility.”

  A long silence stretched between them. Then Akbar said slowly, “Will Salim be capable, Ruqayya?”

  “There is only one way to find out, your Majesty. If he is to be Emperor after you—and Allah forbid it happens too soon—he must be prepared. After the Humam incident, his value has dropped among the nobles of the court. They must have confidence in him. Without confidence, they will not support him when he comes to the throne,” said the Empress.

  A deep sadness came over Akbar at her words. He had tried very hard these last eight years not to think of the poisoning incident. He had never talked even with Ruqayya about his fears that Salim might somehow have been responsible for it. Now he did, finally. “And were we right to dismiss the hakim?”

  “Yes, right about the hakim. But about Salim, we will never know, your Majesty. Yet, you must not think he does not love you, has little affection for you. In some ways, he was still a child, easily led by his supporters, unthinking of consequences. I cannot believe he wished for your death. You must not think so. These past years have shown his repentance. So send him to Udaipur and show him you trust him. From that will come a new friendship between you.”

  Akbar pulled Khurram closer to him, feeling his little body warm in his arms. “Salim gave us Khurram. This little child brings us so much joy, Ruqayya. As Salim did when he was born.” He looked at his wife. “How is it you are so wise? Where does that wisdom come from?”

  She laughed softly in the dark night, pulling the sheet to cover them all: Emperor, Empress, and Prince. “From you. Because of you. Salim is our child too; we must nurture him, cherish him, and, if he has done wrong, forgive him. Now you must sleep, your Majesty.”

  So they slept, wrapped around each other. Before his eyes closed, Akbar prayed silently that Ruqayya was right. He was heartsick at Murad’s death, at the prospect of a deteriorating relationship with his two remaining sons, at the little time he might have left on this earth to consolidate his beloved empire and hand it safely into the hands of Salim.

  A few weeks later, the imperial court and the zenana moved to the Deccan with the Emperor. Ghias Beg and Asmat left with the court. The bazaars emptied, and most of the traders moved with Akbar. The nobles shut their houses and followed the court.

  Ali Quli was sent to Udaipur under Prince Salim’s command. He chose not to take Mehrunnisa along. She was left alone at Lahore.

  SEVEN

  At the time when he (Akbar) went in prosperity to the provinces of the Deccan, and I was ordered against the Rana, he came and became a servant to me. I gave him the title of Shir-afghan (tiger-throwing).

  —A. Rogers, trans., and H. Beveridge, ed., The Tuzuk-i-Jahangiri

  THE TWO MEN RODE SIDE by side ahead of the army. They were mounted on frisky Arab steeds, one black with ivory socks, the other dark gray with a startling white mane. Prince Salim turned to his companion, jerking his horse to obedience with one hand.

  “That is a fine horse.”

  Ali Quli bowed from the saddle. “I bought it from an Arabian trader, your Highness. It comes from good stock. If you wish for my horse, I would be honored to present it to you. Please, take it if it pleases you.”

  Salim looked appreciatively at the strong lines of the steed, with its sleek muscular flanks and lustrous white mane. It was certainly unusual. How had Mehrunnisa’s husband acquired this animal?

  “If my brother Daniyal were here, he would have immediately appropriated your mount. He is very fond of horses.”

  “Your mount is spectacular, too, your Highness,” Ali Quli said. “You have excellent taste in horseflesh.”

  Salim nodded, wondering at Ali Quli’s effusiveness. Why was he tripping over himself to be so obsequious? Salim had asked for the soldier to be part of his army, wanting to see for himself the kind of man Mehrunnisa had married. And he had picked him from the ranks to accompany him on the last leg of their journey. He pointed into the distance with his jeweled whip. “We are almost there.”

  “Have you decided on a plan of action, your Highness?” Ali Quli asked.

  “Yes. As soon as we are settled, armies will be sent to establish outposts. I thought of Untala, Mohi, and Chittor as starting points. From there, the lieutenants will send out sorties on sudden raids. We must mount a continuous barrage on the Rana, to tire him out and force him to surrender.”

  “The Rana’s forces will not withstand the imperial army’s assaults. Your Highness,” the soldier hesitated for a brief moment, “have you found commanders for the imperial outposts?”

  “Not yet.” Ah, that was why Ali Quli was being so unctuous. Salim turned to look at him. “I can see that you wish to go.”

  “I do, your Highness,” Ali Quli said eagerly. “I shall make you proud.”

  “Doubtless,” Salim said. “Your military exploits are legendary. But you please me with your company, Ali Quli. I wish for you to remain here. Other commanders will be found for the imperial forces.”

  “As you wish, your Highness,” Ali Quli said.

  Salim watched disappointment write lines over his face. Another question lingered on his tongue, but he held himself back. It had been a long time, many many years, but he could still remember how laughter had built inside him when Mehrunnisa released the pigeon during the Mina bazaar. No one else would have dared to so do in his presence. But she had let the bird go, her slender hands singing in the air as they followed its flight, and then she had looked at him with a mocking glance. Now what, your Highness?

&
nbsp; Salim looked away. To the east a slow wind kicked up brown dust in puffs, engulfing the trees and shrubs in its path. He pulled the cloth of his turban over his nose and mouth. Mehrunnisa. It was a lovely name, fitting her in every way. He had been with her for only brief snatches of time, yet it seemed like a lifetime. He did not even think of her all the time. Only her name was etched in his memory; her face came to him in dreams, slipping away before he woke. There were so many women in his zenana, from so many countries, and yet none was like her. And this man who rode by his side was her husband. He went home to her every evening. Did he treat her well? Did she love him? An unexpected pain flared through him at the thought.

  “Do you have children, Ali Quli?” he asked suddenly.

  “No, your Highness. Allah has not seen fit to bless me. My wife is barren.”

  Salim turned away from him, bile rising to sour his tongue. A lot of men talked like this about their women. This was the man she was married to, so callous about her with a stranger? “It cannot be all that bad,” Salim said. “Perhaps you should take her to a hakim. They can do wonders.”

  Ali Quli stared at him insolently. “Unfortunately not for her. She is very beautiful, your Highness. A lovely woman, but one, it seems, incapable of giving me children. If only you could see her . . . but it is forbidden, alas.”

  Salim tightened his grip on his reins, yanking at his horse as he did so. He itched to whack Ali Quli in the face and wipe that sneer from his mouth. He said through clenched teeth, “You must not talk thus of the woman who graces your home, Ali Quli. It is impolite.”

  “But perhaps,” the soldier turned to Salim with a speculative gleam in his eyes, “your Highness has already seen my wife before.”

  Salim whipped his head around. “Why do you say that?”

  Ali Quli shrugged. “Just a thought, your Highness. Mehrunnisa used to visit with Empress Ruqayya in the imperial harem.”