The Twentieth Wife

by Indu Sundaresan

  “There has been a plot to capture me. I barely escaped with my life,” Salim said.

  A frown crossed the princess’s face. “By whom? Who would dare plot on your life?”

  “Khusrau,” Salim said wearily as he sat down on a divan.

  The servant appeared, bearing a large silver tray with a wine flask and goblets. Jagat Gosini waited quietly while Salim drank his wine. She was troubled. If Khusrau had the arrogance to attempt to capture his own father, what would he try to do to Khurram? Her son was still at the fort in Agra. Ordinarily the Padshah Begam Ruqayya would have looked after him—this much Jagat Gosini admitted only in her private thoughts—but with the Emperor ill, all of the Empress’s attention was centered on him.

  “Your Highness, Khurram is with the Emperor. Do you think . . .” She hesitated. “Do you think he is safe there?”

  “Khusrau would not do anything to hurt his own brother,” Salim said.

  The princess shook her head slowly. If Salim posed a threat to Khusrau’s bid for the throne, Khurram did too. He was also a royal prince and had as much claim on the throne as Khusrau.

  “But still . . . ,” she said, persisting, “I would feel more secure if he was with us.”

  “Send for him, then,” Salim said. “Leave me now. I wish to think.”

  “Yes, your Highness.” The princess went to her rooms, had her writing materials brought to her, and wrote to her son.

  Khurram steadfastly refused his mother’s command. He insisted upon staying with his grandfather in his last days, and nothing she could say would change his mind. When Jagat Gosini received his reply, her heart hardened briefly. This was all Ruqayya’s doing, as usual. If the Empress had let her bring up her son, as was natural, he would have listened to her now. One day she would pay back the Empress, and that day would come, no matter what.

  • • •

  MEANWHILE, MIRZA AZIZ KOKA was not idle. He had the informant killed as soon as Salim fled and then, realizing that he could not capture the prince, called Raja Man Singh. One attempt had failed; the two men knew they would not be given another. Something else had to be done. The two courtiers decided to hold a conference, to which they invited all the nobles of the court. There, they put forward Khusrau as the heir to the throne and asked for support. It was a bold move, but the only thing they could do now. Everything had to come out into the open.

  While the conference was taking place, a spy at Agra fort came running to Salim with the news that the cannons atop the ramparts were pointed at his palace and were being made ready to fire. Salim panicked, the assassination attempt still fresh in his mind. In a hurry, without thinking, he ordered his effects to be packed and the horses readied for an immediate departure to Allahabad. It took all of Koka’s, Abdullah’s, and Mahabat Khan’s persuasive abilities to get Salim to stay back at Agra. A departure at this juncture would prove fatal. Akbar could die at any time, and if Salim was not on the spot, Khusrau would immediately be crowned Emperor. Finally, Salim saw reason in their arguments. He had been temporarily overcome by fear. For all he had done and felt in his life, Salim had never been afraid. Now he knew fear, and it came coupled with a deep pain at Khusrau’s actions. The attempt on his life brought a sudden and sobering realization that Khusrau was serious about his bid for the throne.

  Salim agreed to stay at Agra, but he would not let Mahabat, Koka, and Abdullah convince him to send emissaries to the conference to court the nobles and persuade them to his side. He had done all he could. Now, if he were to be Emperor, it was in Allah’s hands.

  Meanwhile, the conference was progressing badly for Khusrau. While some of the nobles were still uncertain as to where their loyalties lay, one group was particularly vociferous in dissent. The Barha Sayyids, an ancient Mughal family connected with the imperial house, loudly protested the accession of Khusrau. They argued that Salim was the natural heir to the throne and that to promote Khusrau was to interfere with the laws of Chagatai succession. The Chagatai Turks determined their ancestry through Gengiz Khan the Mongol. The current imperial house was descended not only from Timur the Lame but also from Gengiz Khan.

  In the face of such stiff opposition, the conference broke down. The Barha Sayyids were an important powerful family; to oppose them would have been dangerous. So the nobles refused to support Khusrau, and Sayyid Khan Barha, the head of the clan, rode to Salim to inform him of the outcome.

  Mirza Koka now realized his tenuous position and hastened to Salim’s palace to beg his forgiveness. Salim, magnanimous in victory, forgave Mirza Koka. But while Khusrau’s father-in-law deserted him, his uncle Raja Man Singh was not deterred; he secreted Khusrau out of the fort at Agra and went into hiding. The plan was to take him by boat to Bengal, where Raja Man Singh had his estates.

  • • •

  THE MESSAGE CAME in the middle of the night. The searing, breathless summer days had finally broken as dense indigo clouds rolled over the horizon. A cool, welcome breeze swept through the brick-paved streets, and windows were thrown open to the evening. Sluggish pariah dogs in the bazaars lifted their heads up to gulp down fresh air. In the gardens, lawns glowed and flowers bloomed. Even the earth seemed to smile. Finally, after so many months of dry heat, the summer monsoons had arrived. As night fell, the hot, pale moon that had hung motionless in the sky was blotted by clouds. Charpoys and cots were dragged to outside verandahs and rooftops for the night’s rest. The city slept in anticipation of waking to a drenching, life-giving shower.

  But even as dreams were colored by the rains and relief from the heat, a lone messenger pounded his way through the silent streets, riding hard to the palaces of Prince Salim. An hour later, Salim rode into the main courtyard of the imperial palace. He pulled up his horse, jumped down, and threw the reins to the waiting groom. As he raced through the corridors to the Emperor’s apartments, Salim noticed that the servants and slaves lining the way seemed to bow much more deeply than they had before. His heart pounding, Salim burst into Akbar’s room and stopped at the door, staring at the silent, still figure on the bed in the center of the room.

  Two oil lamps flickered in the soft midnight breeze by the Emperor’s bed. The windows and doors to the outside had been thrown open, and muslin curtains surged inward gently. In the shadows were people—many people; Salim saw them from the corner of his eye. A tinkle of bangles drew his attention to the far corner of the room, and he recognized the round shape of Ruqayya’s head. Next to her, bent over the cushions of the divan, soft sobs escaped from another of Akbar’s wives, Salima Sultan Begam.

  Just then the Emperor stirred.

  “Has the prince come?”

  Salim’s heart wrenched at the rasp in his father’s voice. He went up to the bed, grasped Akbar’s hand, and kissed it.

  “I am here, Bapa.”

  “Shaiku Baba.” Akbar’s eyes swam with unshed tears. He shakily reached out for Salim’s head and smoothed his hair.

  Salim stared back at his father, forcing back tears himself. Akbar had always called him “Shaiku Baba” as a child. It had been many years since his father had called him by any term of endearment, especially this one.

  “Rest now, Bapa,” Salim said softly. “I will be here till you fall asleep.”

  Akbar smiled. “Now there will only be the eternal rest. But before that, I have to do something. . . .” He turned to his attendants.

  Two eunuchs came forward with the Emperor’s robes of state and his scimitar. At a signal from him, the robes were wrapped around the prince, and Akbar’s scimitar, the Fath-ul-mulk, was girdled around his waist. Then the Emperor relaxed back onto the pillows.

  Salim fell to his knees, buried his face in his hands, and began sobbing.

  “Do not cry, Baba,” Akbar said with an effort. Then, drawing in a deep breath, he continued: “We entrust in you the care of the people of this great empire, all the wealth in the treasury, and its administration.” The Emperor’s voice died to a whisper, and Salim leaned forward to hear his fa
ther’s words. “Take care of your mothers. All the harem ladies now depend on you . . . look after them.” Akbar waved his hand around the room at the weeping attendants. “Take care of the servants; they have attended us well. Fulfill your responsibilities—” The Emperor fell into a fit of coughing.

  “I will, Bapa,” Salim said, tears coursing down his face. “I will do whatever you tell me.”

  They stayed like that for a few minutes, Salim with his forehead against his father’s hand, the Emperor lying back on the bed, peace written over his face. Then the prince rose and circled his father’s bed three times. For all their differences, no one had loved him with as much devotion as his father had, and Salim felt a brief pang for the many years they had spent estranged from each other.

  He sat there by Akbar’s side all through the cool night, holding the Emperor’s hand. When the monsoon clouds finally let loose their burden of rain and a feeble sun broke over the eastern horizon, Salim felt his father’s breathing slow to nothingness and his father’s hand cool in his.

  • • •

  THE NEXT DAY, Salim watched as last rites were performed for Akbar. His body was washed twice, once in pure water and a second time in camphor water, and covered with a clean white cloth. Three more shrouds were wrapped around the Emperor, and then he was laid in a sandalwood coffin. The Emperor had, a few months ago, commenced building a tomb for himself at Sikandara, six miles from Agra. Here he would rest for eternity. The tomb was as yet little more than a clearing of land. Only the first level had been built. It was square, with arched verandahs, the central arch towering thirty feet from the ground.

  It rained all morning when the Emperor’s body was taken on foot to the tomb. The paths were heavy with mud and sludge. Salim went with the funeral cortege, barefoot and bareheaded like the other mourners. For the last few kilometers, the prince replaced one of the official pallbearers. He carried his father’s bier on his shoulders and watched as it was deposited in its final resting place. Salim knelt to kiss the cold marble covering Akbar’s grave. After the mourners had left, he stood outside in the rain, the water mixing with his tears. When the tomb was completed, it would stand as a monument to his father’s greatness. Years from now, the people of Hindustan would come here to pay their respects to a great Emperor. And he, Salim, would look after this cherished empire as well as he could. Future generations would deem Akbar’s choice of heir the right one.

  A week of mourning was ordered for the Mughal emperor.

  Finally, after almost fifteen years of yearning for the throne of India, Salim was crowned Emperor at the fort in Agra.

  He gave himself the title Nuruddin Muhammad Jahangir Padshah Ghazi.

  Posterity would know him as Emperor Jahangir.

  ELEVEN

  By the boundless favours of Allah, when one sidereal hour of Thursday, Jumada-s-sani 20th, A.H. 1014 (October 24th, 1605) had passed, I ascended the royal throne in the capital of Agra, in the 38th year of my age.

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

  THE MORNING SUN PEEPED OVER the rooftops, lighting up the street with shimmering bands of light. White turbans gleamed, silk ghagaras glowed, and jewels glittered as the crowd pressed forward eagerly past the row of soldiers. They had been waiting on the streets all morning, some even since the previous evening. It had rained again at night and the people had taken shelter under jute mats and cotton umbrellas. For many of them, this day, when an Emperor first made his appearance in public, would come only once in their lives. They were willing to wait for the moment, come what might. Finally, their patience was rewarded as the royal entourage turned the street corner.

  “Padshah Salamat!” the crowd roared. “Hail to the Emperor!”

  Emperor Jahangir smiled. He sat upright on his magnificently appointed horse, which wore a bridle of pure beaten silver, a saddle of deep blue silk studded with rubies, and a white plume of goose feathers on its head. The Emperor was followed by two of his sons, Prince Khurram and Prince Parviz, and behind them Koka, Abdullah, Mahabat Khan, and Sharif, his most important ministers of state.

  As Jahangir rode slowly through the street a shower of jasmine and marigold flowers came down upon him from the house balconies overhead. The petals swirled in the washed morning air, spreading perfume around him. Jahangir dipped his hand into his saddlebag, drew out a handful of silver coins, and threw them. The people roared appreciatively as they scrambled for the money, pushing against the soldiers who were trying to keep them in control.

  All this was for him, Jahangir thought triumphantly. The people loved him. He was their Emperor.

  A sudden hush came over the crowd as the sun glanced off their Emperor’s person. He wore a long brocade qaba studded with ruby buttons, tight silk trousers, and jewel-encrusted shoes. A gold cummerbund encircled his waist; from it hung an emerald-and-pearl-studded dagger. Rubies, emeralds, and diamonds glittered on his hands. On his head sat the turban of state, fringed with milky white pearls and plumed with heron feathers held in place by a large diamond the size of a pigeon’s egg. This was majesty in all its glory, and here was the Emperor of what was possibly the richest kingdom of the time. The crowd looked on in awe.

  Jahangir smiled in delight. This was his first public appearance since his father’s death. The coronation had been a short, hurried affair, partly because he was still in mourning and partly because of the threat from Khusrau, who was still in hiding with Raja Man Singh.

  But now, finally, he was Emperor of Mughal India. The royal entourage passed slowly through the city of Agra, entering the fort at the Amar Singh gateway through three gates, each at sharp right angles to the other to confuse an attacking army. They rode up the steep ramp past the last gate bordered by sheer sandstone walls into the courtyard of the Diwan-i-am. The Emperor reined in his horse and stood for a moment, looking up at one of the balconies. It was filled with veiled ladies clad in colorful muslins. One lady stood apart from the others and to the front, a jeweled turban adorning her head. A slight breeze molded her veil to her face, and Jahangir saw a slow, proud smile widen her mouth. Jagat Gosini bowed deeply to him, and when she lifted her head, Jahangir bowed back from the saddle at his chief Empress.

  Ruqayya was not at the balcony. She chose to spend her days in her apartments, still in mourning for Emperor Akbar. And since Ruqayya was not there, neither was Mehrunnisa.

  Jahangir and Jagat Gosini looked at each other across the breadth of the courtyard. The imperial orchestra started to play. The leather-headed dholaks resonated with loud booms. The gold tassels on the musicians’ trumpets fluttered in the wind. Large brass cymbals clanged in tune with the music. The sun danced off the sea of jewels in turbans and shimmered on the gold embroidery of qabas and sashes. “Long live Emperor Jahangir!” The cry resounded around the walls as the assembled nobles punched their fists in the air. “Hail to Empress Jagat Gosini!” the women in the balconies cried out in unison. Both of them raised their right hands to their foreheads and bowed, again and again. Jahangir smiled at Jagat Gosini, dismounted, and led the way through the courtiers to his throne.

  • • •

  COURT WAS IN session at the Diwan-i-am in the royal fort at Agra. The Emperor’s throne, at one end, was set in a small balcony raised five feet from the ground, enclosed in a verandah held up by marble pillars. Two huge wooden elephants adorned the front of the balcony, on which stood slaves with fly switches. The nobles were assembled around the throne in three groups, each distanced from the Emperor according to its rank and status.

  “Call Mirza Ghias Beg!” The Mir Tozak’s voice rang out in the silent courtyard.

  Ghias Beg came forward and performed the taslim. Earlier that week, Mehrunnisa had visited his house, and father and daughter had sat together in the garden after lunch in a companionable silence. Ghias had looked at her intently, wondering why a little smile lit up her eyes every now and then. Ah, she was beautiful, this child of his. More beautiful and kind and gentl
e than his other children—a fact he would not admit to. If only he could wipe away the sudden, fleeting sorrow that came upon her every now and then. Was it because she had no child? Ghias was a man, not used to gossiping in the women’s quarters of his house or to hearing gossip about women’s doings, but Mehrunnisa’s childlessness hurt him deeply, because it must surely cause her pain.

  “Tell me,” he commanded, leaning over to kiss her forehead.

  “Remember to perform the konish properly, Bapa,” she replied. “I know”—she waved away his objecting gesture—“I know you have done the konish many times, and to the great Emperor Akbar himself. But these are new times, and with new times will come new honors, new rewards. Oh, Bapa, how wonderful this all is for you.”

  “We can only hope,” Ghias murmured, smiling nonetheless.

  Then they both sobered, thinking of Ali Quli. Mehrunnisa’s husband had openly supported Prince Khusrau, who was now in deep disgrace. Ali Quli’s follies would not touch Ghias, but they would affect Mehrunnisa as his wife. Only time would tell how.

  The rectangular overhead punkahs in the Diwan-i-am swished back and forth, pulled by a rope on the ground. Ghias felt their cool breeze fan the back of his neck as he straightened up from the taslim in front of Emperor Jahangir. He remembered when, so many years ago, there had been such madness between Salim and Mehrunnisa. If anything had come of it, his daughter would have been an Empress. He waited for his emperor to speak.

  Jahangir looked down from his magnificent throne. “Mirza Beg, I am pleased with your service to the empire and to my esteemed father.”

  “I only did my duty, your Majesty.”

  “And you did it well, Mirza Beg,” Jahangir said, “From this day, you will be diwan of the empire along with Wazir Khan.”

  Ghias Beg felt his knees go weak under him. He had expected a new title, yes, but diwan? Allah must have smiled on him. He thought back to twenty-eight years ago, when, standing on a busy bazaar street in Qandahar on the outer fringe of the Mughal Empire with only four precious gold mohurs tucked in his cummerbund, he had wondered how he would support his family. Now he was treasurer of that empire. “Thank you, your Majesty. It is a great honor.”