The Twentieth Wife

by Indu Sundaresan

  Jahangir nodded. “You will also be called Itimadaddaula.”

  “Pillar of the Government.” Ghias bent his head, glorying in the moment. It would be hard to focus on the rest of the darbar after such an honor. Silently, he bowed again to the Emperor and backed to his place.

  Jahangir turned and nodded to the Mir Tozak.

  “Call Muhammad Sharif!”

  Muhammad Sharif came forward. Sharif had been left at Allahabad as governor when the Emperor returned to Agra to be by his father’s side. Sharif was made the chief minister of state and given the title of Grand Vizier and Amir-ul-umra.

  Bir Singh Deo, the rebel chieftain who had murdered Abul Fazl on Jahangir’s orders, now came out of hiding. He was given a mansab of three thousand horses and the title Raja. The Emperor did not forget even him. Fazl’s death had been necessary to his plans, even though it had caused his father much pain. Part of being royal was making those decisions; who would live and who would die.

  Finally, it was time to deal with the dissenters.

  A hush came over the court as the Mir Tozak’s voice rang out again. “Call Ali Quli!”

  The courtiers parted and made way for Mehrunnisa’s husband. A truculent Ali Quli came forward and performed the taslim.

  Jahangir looked at him thoughtfully. What was he to do with this man? Ali Quli had deserted him at Agra and had joined up with the Khusrau faction. Should he put him to death for disloyalty? That would free Mehrunnisa. The thought came out of nowhere, with no warning. Now that he was Emperor, she could be his. He looked down at his hands, at the ruby and diamond ring Akbar had worn and then given to him. So many years had passed since that evening in the verandah outside Empress Ruqayya’s apartments. They had both been young then—children really. But it was impossible that she remembered. Too much time had passed. He looked up to meet Ali Quli’s unflinching gaze, aware that the whole court watched them. He had given this man the title of Tiger Slayer because he had saved his life in the forests near Mewar. It was a heavy debt to bear.

  “I have decided to overlook your misdeeds, Ali Quli,” Jahangir said. “You were misled by dissident elements in my empire, but your long years of bravery in the battlefield and your services to me speak on your behalf. You are granted the jagir of Bardwan in Bengal. Prepare to leave for your estates tomorrow.”

  A surprised chatter broke out in court. The Emperor had in effect pardoned Ali Quli. Jahangir nodded to himself. He had done right; Akbar would have approved.

  “Silence in the court!” the Mir Tozak shouted.

  The nobles quieted as a servant approached the Mir Tozak. They had a whispered conversation. The Mir Tozak went up to Jahangir.

  “Your Majesty, Prince Khusrau begs an audience.”

  At his words, the whole court drew in a breath of surprise again. The new Emperor’s first audience was proving to be unpredictable and exciting. The courtiers would have a lot to talk about tonight at dinner. Tomorrow the news would fly all over the empire.

  Jahangir smiled to himself at the reaction. Only a few people knew that Khusrau had been captured and brought into custody. He had wanted it thus.

  “Command him here.”

  Raja Man Singh and Khusrau entered the Diwan-i-am. Khusrau slunk in behind the raja, his face red, unwilling to meet his father’s eyes. Uncle and nephew quickly paid obeisance to their new Emperor.

  “Come here, Khusrau,” Jahangir ordered.

  Khusrau approached his father diffidently. Jahangir rose, descended from his throne, and embraced his son in front of the court. The nobles murmured their approval. The Emperor stepped back, still holding onto Khusrau’s stiff shoulders. What was he to do with this son of his? Now that he had the crown firmly on his head, Khusrau no longer posed an open threat to him—but could he ever be completely sure? He looked at his son, and just for a moment Khusrau met his eyes with a look of pure malevolence. Then the prince looked down.

  Jahangir recoiled, let go of his son, and went back to his throne. He forced his voice to be neutral. “You have betrayed me,” he said aloud. “The empire has witnessed a son’s disloyalty to his father. Your actions have shamed you, and now you are here to beg forgiveness. I shall grant you that forgiveness; after all, you are my son. Let the court be witness to the love and affection I bear for you despite your treachery.”

  The nobles nodded appreciatively.

  Jahangir looked around at the Mir Bakshi, the Paymaster of the court. “Give Prince Khusrau one hundred thousand rupees and a house to live in.”

  Khusrau fell to his knees and mumbled, “Thank you, your Majesty. Your generosity knows no bounds. I am truly ashamed of my misdeeds and beg forgiveness if I have caused you any distress.”

  Jahangir then turned to Raja Man Singh. The old general looked up at the Emperor from under white bushy eyebrows, holding himself upright with pride.

  Man Singh had originally secreted Khusrau away from the fort with the intention of taking him to Bengal, but once Jahangir had been crowned Emperor, he realized that the effort was futile. Besides, the two had found all roads closed to them. Jahangir had positioned guards along the Yamuna river and on the way to Bengal, and Raja Man Singh and Khusrau had been politely turned back. They had not been arrested, however, but Man Singh took the hint and brought Khusrau back to Agra to plead mercy from Jahangir.

  The Emperor knew that he could not publicly shame Raja Man Singh as he had done Khusrau. It would be better to placate him now. He needed Raja Man Singh in Bengal, which was a hotbed of dissident activity and still a stronghold of Afghan rebels. The climate was damp and unhealthy and seemed to foster discontent among the locals. Consequently, the governor of Bengal had to be a strong statesman and a brave warrior. Man Singh was both, and so was Ali Quli. Although the two had previously collaborated on Khusrau’s behalf, they could do little to further his son’s cause in Bengal while Khusrau was at Agra under Jahangir’s custody.

  “Raja Man Singh, I forgive your role in Khusrau’s revolt. It was understandable, given the nature of your relationship to him. As a sign of my pardon, your mansab will be raised to two thousand horses, and you will continue your post as governor of Bengal,” Jahangir said, as the Mir Tozak brought forward the charqab, a sleeveless vest, as a robe of honor, and a jeweled sword to present to the Raja.

  “Thank you, your Majesty.” Man Singh bowed to the Emperor and moved back to his place in the court.

  Court was adjourned for the day.

  • • •

  JAHANGIR LAY ON his royal bed, staring up at the golden canopy. The first day of duties had passed.

  Emperor! With a sudden shiver Jahangir realized once again the word pertained to him. With Khusrau in custody, he was undisputed Emperor. And he would stay so. It was an obligation that thrilled him, yet unnerved him. He would guard the responsibility well. As soon as Jahangir arrived back to the harem he had sent for his Grand Vizier, Muhammad Sharif.

  “Muhammad, I want a twenty-four-hour guard posted around Prince Khusrau’s apartments. No one shall meet him without my permission. Also, I want spies put in his service. Khusrau has not yet given up his quest for the throne; I could see it in his face at court. See to it that he is cut off from any communication from the outside.”

  “It shall be done, your Majesty.” Muhammad Sharif’s face broke into a malicious grin. His cold eyes suddenly gleamed. Muhammad and Prince Khusrau had been at odds even before Khusrau’s revolt, and he was happy to have charge of the prince’s custody. Jahangir could not have chosen a better jailer.

  Now, alone at night, the attendants and wives dismissed, Jahangir said his title out aloud: “Nuruddin Muhammad Jahangir Padshah Ghazi.” Nuruddin meant “Light of the Faith,” Padshah denoted “Emperor” or “head of the house of Timur,” and Jahangir meant “World Conqueror.”

  Jahangir smiled. He was Emperor of the world, like the sun to his people. They depended on his bounty just as the farmer depends on sunlight. And he was the head of the house of Timur, the ultimat
e symbol of independent sovereignty.

  The day had been very satisfactory indeed, Jahangir thought. All of his supporters had been publicly rewarded, and the dissidents had been punished . . . all except one: Mirza Aziz Koka, Khusrau’s father-in-law. Jahangir clicked his tongue. Khusrau, always Khusrau. Something would have to be done about Mirza Koka. He could not reside here at Agra with Khusrau so near. Something would be done about Mirza Koka.

  Jahangir closed his eyes as the room blurred into a haze.

  • • •

  “MIRZA AZIZ KOKA, Emperor Jahangir commands your presence.”

  The doors at the far end of the Diwan-i-khas swung open silently on well-oiled hinges.

  The nobles parted to make way for Khusrau’s father-in-law. Mirza Koka marched into the court, his head bowed, his cheeks burning.

  Mahabat Khan and Muhammad Sharif, standing closest to the Emperor as a sign of their status in court, smiled slyly at each other. Behind the throne, the zenana ladies crowded in the balcony, hidden from view by a latticework marble screen. Mirza Koka, foster brother to Akbar, had grown up in the royal harem. He was a great favorite of the ladies, and they had turned out in full force to witness his trial.

  Mirza Koka’s footsteps echoed in the silent court. As soon as he was under the throne, he saluted the Emperor with the konish and waited, his eyes on the ground, for Jahangir to speak.

  Jahangir looked at him, his nostrils curling with dislike. Mirza Koka had actively championed Khusrau’s cause, and unlike Raja Man Singh, he had no merit as a soldier and therefore was of no use to the throne.

  “Mirza Koka, you have greatly displeased me with your actions.”

  “I have begged for and been granted your Majesty’s pardon,” Mirza Koka replied, raising his eyes.

  “Nonetheless, you have been summoned here for the council to decide your fate,” Jahangir said sharply.

  In Mughal India, the monarch was the absolute and immediate power, and everyone assembled knew that Jahangir was looking for an excuse to retry the old statesman. Everyone also knew why.

  Jahangir turned to Mahabat Khan. “Mahabat, what would be a fitting punishment for the crime that Mirza Koka has committed against his Emperor?”

  “There can be only one, your Majesty, and that is death,” Mahabat replied. “Mirza Koka is indeed guilty of a serious crime. The punishment should fit the deed. By that you will indicate to others who might be contemplating the same sin that they would be wise not to try and rebel against your august person.”

  “You are right. Mirza Koka”—the Mirza looked up at Jahangir— “I have decided your fate. You have been inconsistent to the monarchy. You have tried to put on the throne a callow youth, one who would have been unable to rule, all to further your own interest and power. You are guilty of a greater sin: you have alienated a father and son, you have interfered in the sacred relationship between me and my son Khusrau—”

  “Your Majesty!”

  A gasp went around the court. Who would dare to interrupt the Emperor? Rigid etiquette demanded that everyone remain silent when the Emperor spoke, and never raise their eyes to the throne unless directly questioned. The interruption surprised Jahangir too, and he stopped in mid-sentence, the words dying in his mouth. Mahabat Khan pointed silently to the zenana balcony.

  “What is it?” Jahangir forced his voice to be pleasant.

  “Your Majesty, all the Begams of zenana are here for the purpose of intervening for Mirza Koka. It will be better if you come to us; otherwise we will come out to you,” a voice called out.

  The voice was that of Salima Sultan Begam, his father’s widow and one of his stepmothers. Next to Ruqayya, it was Salima who had held a special place in the late Emperor’s heart. So Akbar had never reined in her impulsiveness, and it was too late to control her now anyway. Jahangir thought for a while. He would have to go to the zenana balcony; otherwise Salima was sure to make good her threat and come down. It would be the first time in an imperial Mughal court that a member of the royal zenana was seen by the nobles. And knowing Salima, she might also come down unveiled. That thought, more than any other, made the Emperor rise quickly from his seat.

  As Jahangir got up, Mirza Koka breathed a sigh of relief and glanced up at the balcony. He could make out one of the ladies waving to him, and he smiled weakly in gratitude.

  Jahangir entered the zenana balcony. The ladies bowed to him as he sat down.

  “Your Majesty, you cannot sentence Mirza Koka to death,” Salima Sultan Begam started.

  “I can do what I want,” Jahangir said gruffly and then added, “dear Maji.”

  Salima smiled at him. “Your Majesty, Mirza Koka is like an uncle to you. Although you may not be of the same blood, the late Emperor considered him dearer than a brother; they both drank the milk of the same mother. And when his mother died, the Emperor himself carried her coffin on his shoulders to show his respect for her. His Majesty would have wanted you to treat Mirza Koka gently.”

  Jahangir flushed. Would he ever be as good an Emperor as his father? It was perhaps natural that comparisons would be made at the start of his reign, so soon after Akbar’s death. Even from the grave, Akbar reached out to influence him through the women he had left behind. They expected him to behave as his father had, to make the same decisions, issue the same commands. But he was not his father. . . . He bent his head. Ideally, Mirza Koka should die. There was no doubt about that. The fewer supporters Khusrau had in the empire, the better it would be. But Salima had asked him for a favor. . . .

  Without looking at the Dowager Empress, Jahangir rose and went back to the court.

  “Mirza Koka, the ladies of the zenana have supported your cause. Although I am not fully convinced of their reasons, they seem to have much love and devotion for you. For their sake,” Jahangir looked up at the balcony, “and for the sake of my revered father, who had great love and respect for you, I shall grant you your life.”

  Mirza Koka fell to his knees. “Your Majesty is very kind.”

  “You shall be stripped of all your lands, your power, and your dignity. The city of Agra no longer welcomes you, Mirza Koka. Lahore is where you should be. I shall allow you to retain your title.”

  “Thank you, your Majesty.” As the Mirza bowed again, Jahangir gazed at him thoughtfully. No, this was not a man he could ever trust again.

  Jahangir left the Diwan-i-khas, and the hall emptied of nobles. In the zenana balcony, the ladies of the harem returned to their palaces, chattering excitedly among themselves. One woman stayed until everyone else had gone. Her veil still covered her; she had pulled it over her head when Jahangir had so unexpectedly come to the balcony at Salima Sultan Begam’s demand. Mehrunnisa rose slowly, her body heavy and tiresome, and went over to the divan where Jahangir had sat. She touched the cushion against which he had leaned. Then she turned and went out of the balcony.

  • • •

  THE CARAVAN WOUND its way slowly along the banks of the Yamuna, following its curves of glistening silver. Ali Quli rode in front, mounted on his favorite Arabian steed. Behind him, twenty horses and camels followed, laden with goods and household articles. He looked back at the palanquin carried on the shoulders of four strong men, who jogged along in an internal rhythm all of their own, in perfect step with one another. Only thus would they not easily tire during the many hours they carried their burden. The curtains of the palanquin fluttered in the breeze, and a delicate hand came out to close them.

  Mehrunnisa drew the curtains and leaned back against a cushion, feeling its feather-stuffed comfort in the small of her back. It would be a long journey to Bardwan in Bengal—longer still for her, as she was heavy with child. After so many years of marriage and so many miscarriages, she had again become pregnant. As though in response to her thoughts, the baby kicked, and she put a soothing hand on the spot.

  A child at last. After all the waiting. When she had met with Bapa just before the Emperor’s first court appearance, she had known of the child, four
months inside her. But she had not wanted to tell him—not yet, not until she was certain. Maji, with her wise, womanly, motherly ways, had known—and had not insisted that everyone else know. Mehrunnisa was grateful for that. After the miscarriages, it was as though this child, if it were to come, was wholly hers. So for the first few months she told no one, washed the cloths of her monthly blood as though the blood had actually come, so the servants would not talk. This time, too, the pains had come to plague her in the early months. She had been miserably sick and nauseated, but Maji said it was a good sign. Mehrunnisa had slept a great deal during the days and nights, living in a semiconscious state for months, for when she was awake, her fears choked her. But the child, thank Allah, had stayed inside her. Then she had told Ali Quli.

  “A son!” he had said.

  “Maybe,” Mehrunnisa replied, hoping and praying fervently that it would be so.

  She peered out of the palanquin at her husband. He rode his horse well, his back military straight. Years of army training had left their mark on his physique; he was as trim and healthy as the day they had been married. But now, when they were to share the responsibilities of parenthood together, the age difference between them yawned wide. Mehrunnisa was twenty-eight, Ali Quli forty-five. And more than age separated them; their minds were distanced, too.

  As she lay back on the silk cushions her thoughts drifted to the scene in their house when Ali Quli had come back from court after the Emperor’s first public audience.

  The minutes had ticked by as Mehrunnisa waited in her room, a piece of satin cloth in her hands. Ostensibly she was embroidering, but for hours she had not put in a stitch. Then there were sounds of arrival in the outer courtyard. Mehrunnisa pulled her veil over her head and ran to the balcony. She watched as Ali Quli dismounted and came into the house. He looked relieved, happy, and discontented all at once.