The Twentieth Wife

by Indu Sundaresan

  The captain of the first English ship to anchor off India’s shores, William Hawkins of the Hector, was an erudite man. He spoke good Turkish, the language of the courts. Mehrunnisa, in the zenana balcony with Ruqayya, could remember being impressed by him on the day he was presented to the Emperor. But, fluent in Turki or not, Hawkins was a mere merchant. In any case, the English had yet to prove their worth to the empire if they wished to be granted any special privileges. Right now, the Portuguese Jesuits held too strong a position at court. They had been in India for many years.

  Mehrunnisa drummed her fingers on the windowsill, childhood fretfulness overwhelming her again. When she was young she had been aware that only the ladies of the imperial zenana could break the rules this society imposed on women. Now she was a member of that zenana and realized that just being here was not enough. Even here, only a handful of the women had power—those married to the Emperor, those related to him, or those who were his favorites. Oh, that she had been born a man and could take her place at court. English presence in the empire had put the Jesuits in a quandary, and if Jahangir had a skilled advisor, he would know how to set the two sides off against each other, to the advantage of the empire. But here she was, doomed to spend her life in the zenana, with no hope of marriage to the Emperor, no excitement of court life and political intrigues in her future.

  The eastern sky lightened as Mehrunnisa turned away from the window. While she had been immersed in her thoughts, the night had passed. She crawled slowly into bed and shut her eyes tightly. She needed to sleep; in a few hours it would be time to rise and attend to her duties.

  • • •

  “HERE SHE IS. What took you so long?” Ruqayya demanded.

  Mehrunnisa bowed to the Dowager Empress. “I beg pardon, your Majesty. I overslept.”

  “Again?” Ruqayya raised an eyebrow. “You really must sleep better at night, child. Now help me dress. Khurram is on his way to visit me.”

  For the next hour, Mehrunnisa tried her level best to please her mistress. Outfit after outfit was held up for Ruqayya’s approval and discarded. No, it could not be this one; she had worn it twice. Were her ladies-in-waiting fools to think she would be seen in something she had worn twice? Why hadn’t it been thrown away already? Not that one either, it was blue; today was not a blue day. As for that one—until the zenana jeweler brought her new rubies set with diamonds, that simply would not look good. Finally the Empress decided. The ladies-in-waiting heaved a sigh of relief and went to work. As Mehrunnisa was pinning the Empress’s veil on her head, Prince Khurram entered. All the ladies bowed.

  Khurram went up to the Empress and kissed her papery cheek.

  “How are you, Ma?”

  “Fine. And would be better if you came to visit me more often,” Ruqayya said in a petulant voice.

  Khurram grinned with good humor, having heard this complaint frequently, and sat down next to her. He knew how to twist his grandmother around his little finger very well and make her forget her anger. Mehrunnisa smiled as he reached over for a burfi from a silver dish next to the divan and fed it to her, wiping his ghee-smeared hands on a silk towel. The first time she had seen the young prince, Ruqayya had fed him a burfi with the same affection. He was unconsciously imitating her after all these years.

  “Inshah Allah, your Highness,” she said.

  “Inshah Allah, Mehrunnisa.” Khurram ran an appreciative eye over her.

  “Khurram,” Ruqayya laid a hand on his arm, unwilling to let his attention slip from her for even a second, “what have you done with yourself this last week?”

  The prince turned to his grandmother, and Mehrunnisa looked at him. He had grown into a fine young man at nineteen years of age, and everyone was speculating that he would be the next heir to the throne. Lucky Arjumand, Mehrunnisa thought, and then realized that although her niece and Khurram were officially engaged, four years had passed since the day Jahangir had seen her at the engagement. Her family had fallen into disgrace one by one, starting with—Mehrunnisa flinched, the memory still raw—Ali Quli’s murder of Koka. She wondered whether the marriage would ever take place. Her family was technically no longer in dishonor, and her father had even managed to regain the Emperor’s good graces. But Jahangir seemed to have forgotten about the engagement. So also, it seemed, had Prince Khurram.

  She smiled as he gave her a furtive wink without stopping his narrative. Ruqayya was lying back on the divan, her eyes closed, her hand still clutching Khurram’s arm possessively.

  “Will you be attending the Nauroz festivities?”

  Mehrunnisa turned to the prince. “Yes, your Highness.” The New Year was right around the corner.

  “What about you, Ma?” Khurram asked Ruqayya.

  The Dowager Empress put out a hand and fondly stroked Khurram’s hair. “I will be there too, darling. Mehrunnisa will be attending to me.”

  “Give her some time to herself, Ma. The bazaars will be magnificent this year. I plan to spend all my time there—after paying my respects to the Emperor, of course,” he added hastily.

  “Don’t forget to present yourself to his Majesty every day,” Ruqayya warned. “He will be very upset if he doesn’t see you.”

  “I will.” Khurram nodded. “My mother said the same to me. I do know what etiquette demands, Ma. Why do both of you insist on telling me what to do?”

  About halfway through, at the mention of Jagat Gosini, Ruqayya’s back had begun stiffening until she held herself straight as a plank. Slipping behind the Dowager Empress, Mehrunnisa desperately tried to divert Khurram’s attention, but he went on, switching the topic. “And what about Mehrunnisa? Will you allow her some time so that she can wander around the bazaar? How is she ever going to find a husband if you keep her locked up here with you?”

  But the Dowager Empress stared straight ahead of her and said in carefully measured tones that echoed years of hatred and hurt, “If your mother tells you what to do, then you must certainly listen to her. Why listen to an old woman who has no say in anything around here anymore?”

  With great reluctance, Ruqayya had relinquished her title as Padshah Begam to Jagat Gosini upon Akbar’s death. Ever since then, the two women had met in icy silence, barely bowing to each other. Ruqayya thought the whole situation unfair, but Mehrunnisa knew how cruel Ruqayya had been to a young Jagat Gosini when she had demanded and taken her son from her. Now, at the receiving end, Ruqayya hated her situation. It galled the Dowager Empress to be pushed aside for—as she put it—a mere chit of a girl. But it was Ruqayya Khurram called “Ma.” That word was a constant reminder of the past to both women—a reminder that made Ruqayya gleeful and Jagat Gosini furious.

  Much as she had disliked Jahangir’s wife earlier, Mehrunnisa had pitied her for losing Khurram during his formative years, just as she now pitied Ruqayya. But Mehrunnisa’s dislike for Jagat Gosini had not waned. Over the past few years she had come to learn just how much the Empress had tried to keep Jahangir from marrying Mehrunnisa. In the imperial zenana, nothing was secret.

  Mehrunnisa knew also that Jahangir never came to visit Ruqayya because of her own presence in the Dowager Empress’s apartments. If she could have, Jagat Gosini would have dismissed Mehrunnisa, but Ruqayya had insisted upon her services. Jagat Gosini let the matter go, knowing better than to annoy the Dowager Empress, for she would certainly create enough of an uproar to attract even the Emperor’s attention. And the last thing she wanted was Jahangir’s attention focused back on Mehrunnisa.

  Now Khurram went down on his knees next to his grandmother and put his cheek against hers, his arms around her plump shoulders. “Who wouldn’t listen to you, darling? You know how important you are to me, don’t you?”

  “Really?” Ruqayya’s sour mood was fast disappearing. Khurram could charm her out of her worst tantrum.

  “Really,” said Khurram, kissing her loudly on both cheeks. “Now tell me, what is Mehrunnisa going to do at the bazaar tomorrow?”

  Ruqayya threw ba
ck her head and laughed. “Why the sudden interest in Mehrunnisa’s marital status? Why don’t you marry her yourself?”

  “Ma,” Khurram protested mildly. “You know I cannot do that. Although . . .” He turned to look at Mehrunnisa with a speculative gleam in his eyes. “She is beautiful.”

  Mehrunnisa stood uncomfortably under Khurram’s keen gaze. This was too much. Even if Khurram wasn’t aware that his fiancee was her niece, at least she was. Sometimes Ruqayya’s mischievous side went too far, and she didn’t know when to stop.

  “Your Majesty,” she complained. “It is highly improper to talk of such things. Please . . .”

  “All right.” Ruqayya waved a hand, bored with the little game. “Go, Khurram. I will see you at the celebrations tomorrow.”

  Prince Khurram bowed and left the room with a wide grin on his face. Mehrunnisa went to the wardrobe and began folding the Empress’s clothes, her cheeks still flushed with embarrassment.

  “You know, Khurram is right.”

  Mehrunnisa turned to the Empress.

  “If I let you go out more often, someone or the other will want to marry you.” Ruqayya’s eyes twinkled in her lined face. “You must go unveiled in the bazaar. The only men there will be from the royal family. Who knows—the Emperor may see you.”

  At those words, Mehrunnisa’s heart seemed to stop. She turned away from Ruqayya, her eyes bright at the thought of seeing Jahangir again face to face after so many years.

  Ruqayya watched her carefully, seeing the slim curve of her back, the mass of heavy hair at the nape, the slender fingers folding silk, and she remembered the Emperor’s madness for Mehrunnisa. She had some power over him that no other woman in his zenana could match. A thought began to form in Ruqayya’s active mind. Mehrunnisa’s beauty must not be wasted within the imperial harem. Jahangir had once been enamored of her; perhaps—just perhaps—he still would be. A little push in the right direction . . . and she, Ruqayya, would reap the benefits of any union between the Emperor and Mehrunnisa. But more importantly—Ruqayya smiled a sly little smile—that would really upset Jagat Gosini, wouldn’t it?

  EIGHTEEN

  The king, who was deeply in love with her, sent an order to the governor of the city of Patana (Patnah) that as soon as Sher Afgan should arrive there with a letter he must be slain. This was done, but the valorous soldier, although taken unawares, killed five persons in defending himself. . . . She was a woman of great judgement and, of a verity, worthy to be a queen.

  —William Irvine, trans., Storia do Mogor by Niccolao Manucci

  “ARE YOU READY? CAN WE go now?” Ladli jumped up from the stool and pranced around the room, her eyes bright with excitement. “Will we see the Emperor? Why are we waiting? When can we go?”

  Mehrunnisa smiled at her daughter’s impatience. “Soon, beta. We have to wait for your Dadi.”

  “When is she coming? Why isn’t she here?”

  “She is.” A chuckle came from the doorway. Asmat Begam opened her arms; Ladli flew into them and hugged her tightly.

  “Let’s go, Dadi.” She pulled away and tugged at the skirts of Asmat’s ghagara.

  Mehrunnisa went over to her mother. Through all their trials, Asmat had held steady. She had taken Ghias Beg’s fall from grace with courage; in her was an implicit belief that her husband was right, that he was always right, even when he faltered. There had to have been a reason for the embezzlement. When Mehrunnisa had met her parents upon their return to Agra, she had not known what to say to her Bapa. But Asmat had taken her aside one day and said simply, “He is your Bapa. He gave you life; he taught you what you know. In many senses you are what he made you, beta. If anything has gone wrong it is because he misjudged the situation. You know how open-handed your Bapa is with his money, how no one in need is turned away from our door even if we have little at home. Now go back to him. Your silence pains him deeply. It is not for a child to forgive her parent. I cannot believe your Bapa is wrong; you must not do so.”

  Now, looking at her mother, Mehrunnisa smiled at the memory of that conversation. With her Bapa, her relationship had always been open; they had talked, joked, even argued on occasion. Asmat was more silent, more thoughtful; but with her gentle hand she guided her as she had that day. So Mehrunnisa went to see Ghias in his room. He was at work on some treasury ledgers and lifted tired eyes when she entered. Mehrunnisa sat down next to him and leaned her head against his shoulder. Then they talked for many hours, sitting like that, their voices weaving new life through the shattered pieces of their relationship. And things were all right between them because her mother, always in the background, had stepped forward this one time.

  “Aren’t you coming, beta?” Asmat asked Mehrunnisa.

  “Not yet, Maji. I will join you later,” she replied.

  Asmat nodded and ushered Ladli out of the room. A few minutes later they disappeared from the doorway, and Mehrunnisa could hear Ladli’s delighted squeals as she skipped down the corridor.

  She walked slowly to the balcony outside her room. Benign cotton-ball clouds strolled lazily across the blue sky, the sun playing hide-and-seek behind them. It was late in the afternoon, and the golden, slanting rays had lost their strength to burn. Mehrunnisa’s gaze drifted down to the courtyard, where the Mina bazaar was in full swing. Sounds of laughter floated up to her with the delicious aroma of golden-brown jalebis sputtering in hot oil.

  The bazaar had been set up in the courtyard adjacent to the Mina Masjid in the fort at Agra. Stalls lined the four sides of the courtyard, gaily festooned with fresh flowers and colored paper flags. The vendors sold everything: flowers, jewelry, silks, satins, even vegetables and spices.

  The ladies of the imperial harem—for whom the bazaar has been specially commissioned—enjoyed themselves enormously, pretending to be normal housewives out to buy groceries for their families. The vegetables and fruits they bought at the bazaar were sent to the imperial kitchens, and the cooks prepared dishes from them for the night’s meal.

  Mehrunnisa looked down at the array of fresh vegetables in one of the stalls: plump tomatoes, green mangoes, cabbages, creamy cauliflowers, carrots, cucumbers, long white radishes, slim snake gourds. A eunuch stood guard as the lady of the stall chopped the carrots, cucumbers, radishes, and gourds into neat slices and arranged them in a row. When that was done, the eunuch nodded and wandered on. So much for freedom in the zenana, Mehrunnisa thought. Even the vegetables were cut up so that the ladies could not misuse them.

  The Emperor had a harem numbering three hundred women, which included wives and concubines. The women were lucky if their lord visited them at night at least once or twice a year and if one of those visits resulted in a child, preferably a male one. Through that came power—the ultimate power in a zenana filled with women—of being the mother of a potential heir to the throne. Wives and concubines all vied for that privilege. Yet, many of them spent their entire lives without ever seeing the Emperor, and after they reached thirty years of age, neither the Emperor nor any other man saw them again.

  The zenana still held a charm for Mehrunnisa despite its disadvantages. Through it she, a mere woman, could become rich and perhaps even bear an heir; she could become powerful in this world of men. But she was thirty-four, her mind told her sadly, and no man would find her attractive, let alone the Emperor.

  A slight cough attracted her attention, and she whirled around. A eunuch stood at the doorway. “Her Majesty commands your presence,” he said.

  “I shall come immediately.”

  The eunuch nodded and left the room, slinking out as softly as he had come in. The zenana was always thus: prying eyes everywhere, whispered conversations in the air. To try and escape it was futile. The only thing to do was to live with it as best as one could—alert, vigilant, for ignoring it was also dangerous. When Asmat and Ghias returned to Agra they had tried to convince Mehrunnisa to come home to them with Ladli. She was their daughter; where else could she live? But Mehrunnisa had wanted this small
bit of independence. Here she had work as the Dowager Empress’s lady-in-waiting. And all the skills Asmat had taught her—to paint, to sew—came in handy in making clothes for the ladies of the zenana. Mehrunnisa was paid well for these skills. In all, living in the imperial harem with its rooms of glass walls still had its compensations. Nowhere else could she have found this excitement, this intrigue, this basic instinct for survival in a gilded cage.

  Mehrunnisa went to her bed and picked up a veil. She pinned it on her head and stood back from the mirror to look at herself. Her white choli and ghagara were embroidered with gold thread, and around her neck and wrists she wore thick gold chains. Her armlets were of milky white pearls, and two huge pearls dangled from her ears. The outfit contrasted with her hennaed hands and feet and with her blue eyes blazing from a delicately tinted face.

  A slow smile spread over her face. No woman over thirty would dare to wear white; it symbolized purity and virginity. But the reflection in the mirror proved that she could wear it well. She took a deep breath, smoothed down her ghagara, and went in search of Ruqayya Sultan Begam.

  The Dowager Empress was holding court in one corner of the bazaar, surrounded by eunuchs, her ladies-in-waiting, and Prince Khurram.

  Mehrunnisa approached Ruqayya. “Your Majesty wished to see me?”

  “Yes,” Ruqayya said, her round face creasing into deep smile lines. “Go to the Emperor and tell him that I request his presence here.”

  “To the Emperor, your Majesty?” Mehrunnisa stammered, the command taking her by surprise.

  Both Ruqayya and Khurram were watching her intently, their faces mock serious. They were up to something. Some plot had been hatched, some snare set. What was it? A plan to humiliate her? Surely, Ruqayya would not do that to her. But Mehrunnisa knew that Ruqayya, much as she was fond of her, was quite capable of playing a small, cruel trick on her every now and then. She stood hesitantly at the Dowager Empress’s side, one part of her mind telling her to go—that this was a brilliant opportunity; what did she have to lose?—and the other holding her back.