The Twentieth Wife

by Indu Sundaresan

  “You will have to escape before you are sent to the tower. The next day is your grandfather’s birthday, your Highness. Perhaps you could request a pilgrimage to Emperor Akbar’s tomb in Sikandara. I will be waiting with a large army on the way, and we will rescue you from your captors.”

  Khusrau shook his head slowly. “I don’t know that it will be that easy to escape my guards, Abdur Rahim.”

  The Khan-i-khanan looked shrewdly at the young prince. “You will have to try, your Highness. This is the best time. The Emperor will be away. It will be many hours before he gets the news of your flight and takes action. The guards are already lax in their duties; I was able to come here undetected.”

  “What about the princess?” Khusrau asked suddenly, looking at Khalifa.

  She shook her head from behind the veil. “You must go alone, my lord. You will travel faster that way. The Emperor will do me no harm, especially . . .” She touched her belly.

  Khusrau nodded and turned to Abdur Rahim, his face troubled. “You must make arrangements to bring the princess to me once we have reached . . . where will we go?”

  “To Lahore.”

  “Lahore?” Khusrau asked in surprise. “Why not Bengal? My uncle, Raja Man Singh, will help us.”

  “No, your Highness.” Abdur Rahim shook his head firmly. “Your uncle and Mirza Aziz Koka have barely escaped the Emperor’s wrath with their lives. Even now, spies are posted on them. The Emperor would know immediately if we set out to Bengal, and we would be captured on the way. If we proceed to Lahore and manage to capture the fort, we shall have a stronghold to work from. Once Lahore is ours, we can send for Mirza Koka and Raja Man Singh. Besides . . .” Abdur Rahim hesitated.

  “Besides what?”

  “If we do not succeed at Lahore, we can take refuge farther north. The Shah of Persia will not refuse aid if you ask him. We will have nowhere to go from Bengal if we are defeated there.”

  “You are right,” Khusrau said, as the logic of Abdur Rahim’s argument impressed itself on him. “Go make the arrangements.”

  The Khan-i-khanan bowed to the prince and then slid out the back door.

  Khusrau turned to Khalifa. “Will you manage without me, my dear?”

  “I shall be all right, my lord. Go with Allah; I will pray for your safety.”

  • • •

  THE EASTERN SKY turned pink with dawn as Khusrau peered over the windowsill. In the distance, he could see dust swirling in the wake of the imperial party. They had left early in the morning while it was still dark. Although it was only April, the approach of summer made the days already very hot, so early mornings and late afternoons were the only times any physical activity was possible.

  Khusrau turned from the window, his heart pounding with excitement. It was time to act. The guards would soon be arriving to escort him to the tower. He glanced quickly around the empty room. Khalifa had been sent to the royal zenana for the night, as was usual when Khusrau went to the tower. He strode up to the door of his apartments and knocked.

  A sleepy guard cautiously opened the door. “Yes, your Highness?”

  “I wish to go to Sikandara to pay my respects to my grandfather,” Khusrau ordered imperiously. “Have the grooms saddle my horse.”

  “But . . . your Highness . . . the Emperor has not sanctioned any excursions . . . ,” the guard stammered. “I must go ask the other guards—”

  “Enough,” Khusrau yelled, in his best imitation of an irate royal. “I will not hear excuses from a menial. The Emperor will have your head if you do not allow me to proceed on this holy pilgrimage. I shall complain to his Majesty of your disobedience.”

  “But, your Highness, this is not possible,” the man said again. “I cannot let you go like this—”

  Khusrau made a slicing movement with his finger across his throat. He said in a quieter voice, “Your life seems worthless to you. Is that so?”

  “Your wish shall be obeyed, your Highness,” the guard said, frightened. “Please excuse me.”

  Khusrau waved a gracious hand. “All right. Now go obey my command.”

  When the guard had left, securing the door behind him, Khusrau sank into a heap on the floor, sweat beading his forehead. Was it too much? Had he overacted? Did the guard believe him, or would he return with the Grand Vizier to question him further? A chill came over him. That should not happen, please Allah, he prayed silently, still seated on the floor. Once Muhammad Sharif came to the door, probably furious at being roused at this early hour, he would throw Khusrau into the tower immediately. When a soft knock sounded on the door, Khusrau jumped up, trembling, to await his fate. The guard stood there, his face drawn with fright.

  “The horses are ready, your Highness.”

  The palace was still stirring from the night’s rest as Khusrau ran to his horse. The waiting guards were his regular guards, appointed by the Grand Vizier. Khusrau glanced at them briefly, wondering if they knew they had less than an hour of life.

  Sikandara, the site of Akbar’s tomb, lay six miles from Agra. On the way, Khusrau’s guards were set upon by Abdur Rahim’s men and killed. Disposing of their bodies on the roadside, the prince rode to Sikandara with three hundred and fifty horsemen. There, he met with Husain Beg and Mirza Hasan. Against their protests, Khusrau stopped briefly at Akbar’s tomb, knelt down, and offered prayers for the success of his mission. Then he mounted his horse and the rebels rode away north, heading for Lahore.

  • • •

  “DO MY SHOULDERS.”

  The slave girl obligingly moved up. Jahangir relaxed as her skillful hands kneaded out knots from his tired muscles.

  The Emperor reached out for the goblet and took a deep draught of the wine. He set the goblet down and closed his eyes. The hunt had been very successful. Only two of his shots had gone awry; all the rest had found their mark. Here was another advantage of being king. The empire was now his empire, and the hunt seemed all the sweeter for it.

  Nearby, a huge brass bath had been brought into the royal apartments. Eunuchs carrying copper and silver jugs brought hot water and poured it into the bath. When the massage was over, the Emperor would soak in the delicately scented warm water for a while and then dress for the evening’s entertainment.

  A hesitant cough caught Jahangir’s attention. He opened a languid eye. Hoshiyar Khan stood at the door. The eunuch had served him well over the years, Jahangir thought. He knew that Hoshiyar wielded great power in his zenana and that he was especially respectful to Jagat Gosini, who was now his Padshah Begam. Although the Emperor rarely interfered in harem politics—he never had even when he was a prince—he was aware of what went on around him.

  “What is it, Hoshiyar?”

  “I beg your pardon, Majesty. But the Grand Vizier is in the outer hall. He wishes for an audience,” the eunuch said.

  “Tell him to wait an hour. He can talk to me during the entertainment.”

  “It is of grave importance, your Majesty. The Vizier insists it cannot wait.”

  There must be news from the Deccan. Jahangir had restarted Akbar’s unfinished campaign, determined to carry on his father’s legacy. But surely there could not already be good news from the war front? He got up, his heart thumping at this possibility of an early victory in a battle at which his father had spent so many unsuccessful years. He pulled on his red silk robe and quickly walked out of the royal apartments to the outer hall. Only men from the royal family were allowed into the zenana, so the Emperor went out to meet all visitors.

  Muhammad Sharif was pacing the floor as the Emperor entered. As soon as he saw him, he went down on his knees and performed the konish.

  “I see I have disturbed your Majesty’s bath. I beg your pardon.”

  “What news? Have we won a victory in the Deccan?” Jahangir asked eagerly.

  Muhammad Sharif lowered his eyes. “No, your Majesty. I come bearing ill news. . . .” He hesitated. “Prince Khusrau has escaped.”

  “Escaped!” A sudden fear grabb
ed at Jahangir’s heart. “How? Did I not order you to post a twenty-four-hour guard around him?”

  “Yes, your Majesty.” Sharif was contrite. “But he has escaped. This morning, while you were away hunting, the prince demanded his horses on the pretext of paying respects at Emperor Akbar’s tomb. There he was joined by the Khan-i-khanan, Husain Beg, and Mirza Hasan. At last count, they were accompanied by about four hundred cavalry.”

  “Why wasn’t I told before now?” Jahangir thundered.

  “I only found out a few minutes ago, your Majesty. The lamplighter went to the tower to light the lamps and found it empty.” Sharif bowed his head.

  “This is all your fault,” Jahangir said. Khusrau was gone. When? Where? He had only been on the throne a short time; was he to lose it already?

  “Yes, your Majesty. I am willing to take any punishment you will bestow upon me. Only . . . I beg one favor. Allow me to go in pursuit of the prince and bring him back to you.”

  Jahangir’s gaze softened as he looked at his childhood companion and friend. He pulled himself up mentally. This was not the time to panic. Plans had to be made, and only he could give the orders. “Very well. You shall redeem your mistake by capturing Khusrau. Make plans to go to Bengal at once. Khusrau is definitely headed to his uncle Raja Man Singh’s palace.”

  “I shall leave immediately, your Majesty.” Sharif bowed and backed to the door.

  “Wait,” Jahangir commanded as Sharif was about to leave, his voice gaining strength as he spoke. “Send the spies out to check Khusrau’s route. He may not after all be going to Raja Man Singh. Leave tomorrow, after the spies have confirmed Khusrau’s intentions. Once you know, I want you to pursue Khusrau relentlessly. Bring him back to me, dead or alive. I will not countenance any more rebellion from my son. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, your Majesty.” Sharif smiled. Nothing would please him more than to bring Prince Khusrau’s head on a golden platter to his Emperor. “May I leave now?”

  Jahangir nodded absently. He watched Sharif back out of the room again. Suddenly a thought struck him. What if Khusrau refused to give himself up to the imperial forces? What if he fought with them instead? Khusrau was now supported by the Khan-i-khanan, the commander of the imperial forces, a seasoned soldier and veteran of many wars. What if Muhammad Sharif was killed in the fray?

  “Muhammad,” Jahangir said sharply, stopping Sharif for the second time. “Send Shaikh Farid Bukhari instead. Ihtimam Khan should accompany him as the scout and intelligence officer. I wish you to remain with the court; your presence is necessary here.”

  Sharif flinched. He would not be given the opportunity to pursue the prince. “But, your Majesty—,” he began.

  “I have decided, Muhammad,” the Emperor said sharply. Then he added, more gently, “You must understand your importance to me. We will leave together once Khusrau’s destination has been ascertained.”

  “As you wish, your Majesty.” It was useless to argue with Jahangir once his mind was made up. Muhammad Sharif bowed to the Emperor and left the harem.

  Jahangir went back to his unfinished bath. He lay thoughtful in the warm water as the slave girls soaped his shoulders. Had Akbar felt this same pain, this betrayal from Jahangir? During one reconciliation at Agra, when Jahangir was at Akbar’s side when he was ill, reading to him, the Emperor had stopped him. Putting a hand on the page, he asked, “Tell me, Salim, is the crown so important?” The question had come so suddenly that he could only stare at his father, thinking without saying so that the crown already sat on Akbar’s head, that he had felt its weight for forty-nine years. How could he possibly know what it was like to hunger for the throne? Akbar had allowed the silence to stretch between them, then pointed to the page. “Start from that paragraph.”

  Now, Jahangir thought, looking down into the soapy water, he knew what it was like to be Emperor and to have a son who wanted desperately to be one. Jahangir had been king for a very short while. The crown was rightfully his. He was determined to protect his claim.

  Spies were sent out in all directions to gather information about Khusrau’s route. By the middle of the night, news was brought to the palace that Khusrau was headed toward Lahore. Shaikh Farid Bukhari departed in pursuit. The evening’s entertainment was too much for the Emperor. He left halfway through it and toppled into bed. While Jahangir slept, slaves and eunuchs packed furiously. The imperial army at Agra was roused and ordered to prepare for a march.

  The next morning, at sunrise, Jahangir left Agra at the head of an army. Less than twelve hours after the news of Khusrau’s flight had been brought to the Emperor, he and his army were in pursuit of the errant son.

  THIRTEEN

  They rode through the dead nobles, who filled both sides of the road . . . Mahabat Khan, was seated behind the Prince, in order to introduce the head to Khusrau, and tell him their names. And as the corpses were dangling or swinging on account of the wind, he said to Khusrau, “Sultan, see how your soldiers fight against the trees.”

  —B. Narain, trans., and S. Sharma, ed., A Dutch Chronicle of Mughal India

  THE WARM, HUMID NIGHT SWEPT over Bengal in a rush. It had rained for five days, in a heavy, muffling downpour that clogged everyone’s lungs. The houses in Bardwan reeked of mildew and damp clothes. Mosquitoes came out in droves, humming about people’s ears, seeking blood and flesh with a persistence that no amount of smoldering neem leaves could diminish. Gossamer-thin white mosquito nets lay draped like ghosts over cots and mattresses. Mehrunnisa lay on her bed, staring up at the slow-moving rectangular punkah suspended from the ceiling. It faltered, then stopped, the pull rope hanging slack under the doorway. She waited as the humidity settled around her like a living presence, then said softly, “Nizam.”

  Outside her room, the slave boy awoke with a start and, still half asleep, began again to swing his leg from side to side, setting the punkah, whose rope was tied to his toe, into motion again.

  Mehrunnisa turned to Ladli, sleeping by her side, and peeled her head away from where it lay pillowed on her arm. Sweat matted the child’s head and glistened on Mehrunnisa’s skin. She wiped her arm and blew on her daughter’s hair. Ladli sighed and flipped over, arms and legs askew. Mehrunnisa raised herself on an elbow and looked down at her daughter. The heat of Bengal seemed not to bother her. Ladli slept blissfully, her mouth open, her breath coming in a whistle, for her nose was blocked by a summer cold.

  Mehrunnisa touched her lightly, her fingers not lingering long enough for the contact to draw sweat. She skimmed over Ladli’s rounded calves and thighs, over the dimples on her knuckles, over the smooth skin of her chin. In the beginning, when Ladli had just been born, Mehrunnisa would stay awake nights just to watch her sleep. She had thought that need would soon wane. But now, six months later, it woke her sometimes with the same intensity. The wonder of her child never seemed to cease. Thank you, Allah. She leaned over to kiss Ladli’s nose. Still asleep, the baby put her hand on her mother’s head, and her tiny fingers curled tight around a lock of blue-black hair. Mehrunnisa smiled and gently disengaged the fingers.

  The punkah on the ceiling creaked and then stopped again. Nizam must have fallen asleep again, Mehrunnisa thought. She looked up as the punkah started more furiously, swirling the air in damp circles around the bed. What was the boy doing? Just as she was mustering the strength to move, a figure loomed in the doorway. Ali Quli hesitated, then came rushing in, his footsteps loud in the almost silent night.

  Mehrunnisa put a finger to her lips and pointed at Ladli.

  Ali Quli stopped and beckoned to her. Mehrunnisa rose from the bed and slid out from under the mosquito net, lifting it just enough to let herself through. She tucked the net under the mattress again and then went to her husband. They stood at the window together, looking down at the garden below. The moon was on the wane but still shed enough silver light to let them see. Ali Quli pulled out a letter from the pocket of his kurta.

  “News from Bapa?” Mehrunnisa asked, re
aching out.

  “No. From the imperial court. Prince Khusrau has escaped.”

  Mehrunnisa stared at him, her eyes darkening in the moonlight. “What?”

  “You heard me. Prince Khusrau has fled to Lahore.”

  “To Lahore . . .”

  “And not here, where his uncle Man Singh is. Stupid boy!”

  “But the Emperor would seek him here first,” Mehrunnisa said automatically. “It stands to reason that he went in the opposite direction. How did he get away? I thought he was under heavy guard.”

  Ali Quli grinned. “The Emperor sent most of the prince’s supporters away, but he forgot the Khan-i-khanan. Mirza Abdur Rahim managed to rescue the prince from his guards. They are now on their way to Lahore.” Ali Quli’s voice rose as he spoke.

  “Softly, my lord,” Mehrunnisa said. Nizam was outside the door. Like all their servants, he had elephant ears. He could not be trusted. She turned away from her husband as thoughts flew across her mind. Khusrau had escaped with the Khan-i-khanan. The commander-in-chief of the imperial army was a man of much influence and had powerful supporters. Could he possibly pull off this coup? Was Jahangir so soon to lose the crown that had barely rested on his head? How had he taken the news?

  “What has the Emperor done, my lord?”

  “He has left Agra for Lahore with the imperial army. But they will never catch up with the prince. Khusrau travels light, with only his men. Lahore is right now without a governor. The city will be easily taken. Once it is secure, the northwest will be ours, and then”—Ali Quli laughed, not bothering to keep his voice low anymore—“and then the whole empire.”

  Mehrunnisa’s heart plummeted. What he said was true. The Emperor had just dismissed Lahore’s governor and sent another noble from court to take his place. He was still on his way. How would a leaderless city defend itself from an army led by the Khan-i-khanan himself? The Emperor should have dismissed him upon his coronation, not forgiven Abdur Rahim’s role in Khusrau’s revolt and reinstated him as Khan-i-khanan. Suddenly, another word Ali Quli had just spoken stood out in her troubled mind.