Brother and sister looked at one another in silence. Then Jahanara said, ‘I’ve never told anyone this, but in Burhanpur, while our mother was lying in agony waiting for our father to come to her, she made me promise that if she died I would watch over him and keep him from harm. I wasn’t sure what she meant or what I could do. But I believe she understood his character – that without her guidance and support, and in particular her insight into human nature, for all his strength and courage, all his wealth and power, he would be rudderless – a vessel adrift from its moorings. We must rescue him from himself and anchor him back in the world, Dara … for his sake and for the empire’s. The question is how.’
Thousands of coloured lanterns hanging in the trees lit the main courtyard of the Agra fort. In the centre stood the vast tent of maroon velvet that workmen had laboured for a week to erect for the eighteen-day Nauruz – the New Year festival introduced by Akbar. Inside, every surface was covered with thick, soft silk carpets and brocade hangings embroidered with gold, pearls and precious stones. Each night since the festival’s start Shah Jahan had either held court in the tent, receiving the gifts and good wishes of his nobles, or visited their own resplendent pavilions pitched nearby. This evening, though, would be different. It was the night of the Royal Meena Bazaar, when the wives and daughters of the nobility spread stalls with trinkets and lengths of brilliant silks and played at being traders. It was one of the few occasions when the women of the court dropped their silken veils and men could gaze openly on their faces.
He had first seen Mumtaz at a Royal Meena Bazaar on a warm night just like this … Standing beneath the gold awning of the imperial tent he began to regret allowing Roshanara to persuade him to allow the bazaar to take place once more, arguing that it was the most important event of the year for the women of the royal household. The Meena Bazaar recalled too many bitter-sweet memories perhaps best forgotten … how the fourteen-year-old Mumtaz had looked standing behind her stall, pearls and diamonds shining in her hair … the sweet smell of the white jasmine growing on the wall behind her … the bright golden mohurs he had tipped into her hand in payment for a small vase.
But he must do his duty. The emperor’s tour of inspection was the official start of the Royal Meena Bazaar. He climbed into the gilded palanquin waiting for him and it rose shudderingly into the air as eight muscular female Tartar haram attendants raised it to their shoulders. Then, preceded by the khawajasara bearing her carved ivory staff of office, and escorted by smooth-faced eunuchs, he began his tour, smelling the attar of roses made by Jahanara to a recipe invented by her Persian great-grandmother and tasting sweetmeats of sugar and butter prepared by elderly royal matrons.
As he reached the less prominent parts of the courtyard where the wives and daughters of his courtiers and officials had their stalls and went through the motions of praising the wares and pretending to bargain, it was the women not their goods who increasingly caught his attention. He recognised some but others he’d never seen, like a tall woman in a purple silk robe whose plaited hair was interwoven with marigolds. She was broad-shouldered for a woman but had a slender waist. Her black eyes looked boldly into his as, play-acting the role of stallholder, she beckoned to him, urging the claims of her wares over the other women’s.
‘Who is that?’ he asked the khawajasara.
‘Kalima Begum, wife of your governor in Lahore. He married her while you were in the Deccan but she is not his favourite. He has another wife he wed five years earlier whom he has taken with him to Lahore, leaving Kalima behind. Do you wish to inspect her stall, Majesty?’
‘No. But I want you to send her to me tonight.’
‘She is a married woman, Majesty …’
‘That isn’t your concern. So long as she herself is willing, do as I have ordered.’
Why had he done it, Shah Jahan asked himself an hour or two later. It was one thing ordering the khawajasara to select him suitable women from among the occupants of a haram he’d taken no interest in for over twenty years, quite another to ask her to procure him the wife of one of his governors. What could have possessed him? The hope of assuaging his grief by a coupling as meaningless and crude as a dog mounting a bitch in the street? … No … He would tell the khawajasara that he had changed his mind.
He reached for the enamelled bell to summon an attendant, then paused. No one could ever replace Mumtaz in his heart … every time he bedded a woman it only left him feeling more bereft. Yet the feel of a woman’s body beneath his brought a fleeting comfort. Also, making love to other women demonstrated their imperfections in mind as well as body compared with Mumtaz, proving yet again the perfection and uniqueness of their love.
What would be in Kalima’s mind now as the khawajasara prepared her for his bed, he wondered. That assumed, of course, that she was willing, but recalling the look in her eyes he didn’t doubt it. Would she be nervous or perhaps already planning how to turn the situation to her advantage? And what about himself? He was intending to use his power to take another man’s wife, just as David had stolen Bathsheba. Was that the act of an honourable man? Probably not, though if Kalima were willing to make love with him it would prove she didn’t deserve whatever love her husband had for her. He would be robbing neither husband nor wife of anything that mattered, like the love that Mumtaz’s death had robbed him of.
Shortly before midnight he heard a gentle tapping at the door and the khawajasara entered, the taller figure of Kalima close behind enveloped in a cream robe, its deep hood concealing her face. ‘I have brought Kalima Begum, Majesty,’ said the khawajasara. ‘Should I return to the haram until you send for me again?’
‘No, wait outside.’ Now that the woman was before him, Shah Jahan’s doubts had returned and he wondered afresh why he was doing this. As soon as he was alone with her, he stepped towards her and gently pushed back her hood. This time, instead of being tightly plaited, her hair was loose about her shoulders, shining and luxuriant. She smiled at him as confidently as she had at the Meena Bazaar. Her right hand went to her throat and she started to undo the silver clasp securing her cloak.
‘No, not yet.’
‘Majesty?’ Her hand dropped.
‘Why do you think I sent for you tonight?’
‘Because I please you. I saw you watching me at the bazaar.’
‘What about your own feelings? Will you willingly give yourself to me?’
‘Of course, Majesty.’
‘But you’re married. What about your husband?’
‘I haven’t seen him for many months. Anyway, I mean as little to him as he does to me. He married me for my dowry – my father’s lands adjoin his in the Punjab – and he has another wife whom he prefers to me.’
‘Isn’t it your duty to be faithful to him?’
‘Isn’t it also my duty to obey my emperor when he calls for me?’
Smooth words came easily to her, thought Shah Jahan. She was no better than the courtesans of the imperial haram who had instructed him in the arts of love when he had been a young prince, ignorant of women and fumblingly eager to learn.
‘Take off your robe.’ Shah Jahan watched her undo the clasp and let the cream robe slide to the floor. She was naked, her skin shining with scented oil, save for a gold chain hung with tiny golden leaves about her waist. ‘Turn around for me.’ She revolved slowly, the golden leaves shivering as she moved. Her square shoulders were more like a boy’s than a woman’s; so were her tapering back, high, rounded buttocks and long, muscular legs. She was striking enough but far from beautiful – at least not to him. As she turned to face him once more, he was about to order her to pick up her robe and cover herself. Then, unbidden, she raised her hands and throwing back her head ran them through her glorious hair. The gesture was achingly familiar. How often had he watched Mumtaz do the same? An urgent, unexpected desire possessed him.
‘Lie down over there.’ As she walked across to the low brocade-covered divan he undid the coral buttons of his own robe. Lo
wering his body on to hers, he sought her nipples with his lips. Moments later, as with his right hand he parted her lean thighs – so different from Mumtaz’s soft, yielding flesh – and began to caress her, Kalima began to whimper with pleasure – simulated or real, he couldn’t tell – and then to cry out, sharp-nailed hands clinging to his back. Yet it wasn’t her voice he heard but Mumtaz’s gentler one, urging him on and whispering her eternal love for him.
Two hours later, Shah Jahan sat up, body soaked with sweat. He put his head in his hands, grateful for the comforting darkness, though through the casement the paling sky told him dawn wasn’t so far off. He had dismissed Kalima as soon as he had slaked his desire but her scent still clung to the bedding. He reached for a silver ewer on the marble table beside him and poured a cup of water, emptying it with a single gulp. His body was still shaking with the horror of the dream from which he had just awoken, and which had nothing to do with Kalima. He had seen Mumtaz’s tomb rising up ghost-like on the banks of the Jumna, perfect in its marble purity. He’d stood at the gateway marvelling at the beauty of his creation but then the sharp, rigid outline of the white dome had begun to soften and tremble – no longer a piece of cold inanimate stone but the warm mound of a woman’s breast, Mumtaz’s breast. Suddenly, before his horrified eyes, bright red blood had begun spurting from the tip of the dome, running down in scarlet rivulets …
The tomb had faded to be replaced by other visions – Mumtaz in the agonies of labour, soaked in blood and sweat, screaming for the baby to come and for relief from her pain … then more blood, this time dripping from the executioner’s blade as the head of his half-brother Shahriyar rolled across the floor … then a different scene: Jani, stricken with grief at her husband Khusrau’s death, approaching a brazier of burning coals with tongs … gazing into its red-gold glowing heart … carefully selecting a small, single coal … lifting it out … feeling its scorching heat on her face as she brought the tongs closer … closing her eyes and opening her mouth to receive it … her screams as she swallowed it. Then, certain he could smell Jani’s singeing flesh, he had woken, shaking and confused.
There had been so much death and destruction within his family. What had the Moghuls done to deserve it? God had allowed them unbounded power and wealth but denied them the peace and harmony that even the humblest family had a right to expect. His name meant ‘Ruler of the World’, yet as he sat there, alone in the darkness, the words seemed to mock him.
Shah Jahan shifted his position a little to get more comfortable. The Turkish concubine, with her wiry dark hair and startling amber eyes, had departed at dusk back to the haram. She had exhausted his body but his mind was restless. He had not slept for several nights. He must tonight. Standing, he went over to a locked chest on a low table and turning the key took out a small bottle of wine, into which he dropped a pellet of opium. He knew Mehrunissa had damaged his father with such potions but he must sleep. Soon he was drifting into a world of sensual, soft-scented dreams. He and Mumtaz were lying beneath a jasmine-covered arbour in the garden of their first mansion in Agra, bodies close. He touched Mumtaz’s cheek and, seeing her answering smile, pulled her gently to him. Slowly he began unfastening the emerald buttons of her choli, marvelling at the velvet swell of her breasts beneath the tightly fitting silk.
‘Please, wake up … the cloth has been spread for the evening meal and we’ve been waiting for you … had you forgotten?’
A voice – a woman’s voice – was intruding into his idyll. Opening his eyes he tried to focus but the pink-clad figure in front of his divan was only a blur. Even when she came closer and knelt beside him, he still couldn’t distinguish the features, half hidden as they were by a sweep of dark hair. Slowly he sat up, confused. Was it Mumtaz? Yet how could it be if she was lying beside him? But as the figure leaned yet closer he caught the scent of orange blossom – one of Mumtaz’s favourite perfumes which she distilled herself. It was her after all. Reaching out, his fingers touched the yielding smoothness of her breast and began to caress it.
‘Stop it! What are you doing? … Please don’t …’
As she tried to pull away, he gripped the breast harder and with his other hand felt for the mound between her thighs. Through the soft fabric of her clothes her flesh felt firm and warm and welcoming, contradicting her words, which she couldn’t mean … Mumtaz had never denied him anything. This was just a teasing game to heighten his desire …
As she continued to struggle, Shah Jahan relinquished her breast and putting his arm round her neck pulled her down beside him, breathing in the fragrant scent of her body. ‘You know what you mean to me …’ he whispered, feeling her heart beating against him. She had always responded to him. From their very first night she had known how to give and to receive pleasure and so it would always be between them. But as he moved closer, she suddenly twisted away and scrambled off the divan, hair tumbling about her face. ‘Where are you going? Don’t go …’ Shah Jahan leapt up but as he reached for her she grabbed a brass bowl and flung it at him, catching him on his right temple. Blood streamed down his face and he felt dizzy. Gasping with pain he gripped a pillar for support and for a moment shut his eyes.
‘Father!’
Opening his eyes again, he saw Jahanara, the front of her choli ripped open, revealing her breasts. What was happening? He shook his head as if that motion could drive away the clouds in his mind. As he stared at his daughter … saw the shock and revulsion on her tear-stained, kohl-smudged face … he began to grasp what he had tried to do. ‘Jahanara … I didn’t mean …’ He took a step towards her but she backed away, the breeze blowing in from the terrace behind her ruffling her pink muslin skirt.
‘No … don’t come any closer!’ Her voice sounded strange – hoarse and high-pitched – and he saw her glance towards the doors leading from his apartments, but he was blocking her path. He let go of the pillar and was about to move aside when he stopped. How could he let her go like this? He must make her listen to him … ‘Let me explain …’
‘No!’ She stared at him, then without warning turned and darted out on to the terrace.
‘Jahanara …’ Shah Jahan staggered outside. At first his eyes couldn’t focus as he peered into the soft light of the oil lamps and wicks burning in their saucers of oil, but then a noise told him where she was – near a stairway at the far end of the terrace that led directly down to the haram. ‘Wait …’
For a moment she looked back at him, then gathering her muslin skirt she turned and ran towards the stairs. Suddenly she lost her footing and tumbled forward, putting out her hands to try to save herself. As she came crashing down, the hem of her skirt brushed a naked flame. Shah Jahan watched in horror as a tongue of orange fire spread into the fabric and his daughter began to scream.
Shah Jahan half ran, half lurched forward, but before he could reach Jahanara female haram attendants who must have heard her cries ran up the stairs. Seeing what was happening, two dropped to their knees beside Jahanara, one trying to beat out the flames with her bare hands, the other trying to remove the burning skirt. They had some success until one leaned right over Jahanara and her long hair caught light and she too began screaming and clawing at her head. Almost simultaneously the second attendant’s clothes caught fire and as she rose and ran towards a fountain a breeze fanned the flames, turning her into a human torch.
By now other servants were pouring ewers of water over Jahanara, dousing the flames before turning to help the other two women. But Shah Jahan had eyes only for his daughter. Kneeling low over her, he began peeling away the shreds of burnt clothing, fearful of what he was about to see. She was lying on her face, parts of her back and left leg horribly burned and much of her once lovely hair frazzled. As the smell of scorched flesh caught his nostrils, he began to heave.
‘Your hakims are coming, Majesty,’ he heard someone say. With the fumes of intoxication dissipating under the shock and tears coursing down his face, he tried to stand as strong arms reached out to
help him. Minutes later, he watched as two hakims bent over Jahanara. ‘She’s breathing, but the burns are bad,’ one said at last.
‘Where should we take her, Majesty? Back to her own mansion?’ asked the other.
‘No … Prepare apartments for her in the imperial haram here in the fort. Also give every attention to her attendants – they risked their lives to help her.’ Shah Jahan watched as, following the hakims’ instructions, attendants covered Jahanara and her two waiting women with cotton sheets soaked in water and lifted them carefully on to litters. As they carried them from the terrace Shah Jahan followed slowly. Glancing for a moment towards the Jumna river he made out the pale shape of Mumtaz’s half-built tomb. ‘Don’t let my daughter die like her mother,’ he found himself praying. ‘Punish me, instead. I deserve it.’
Chapter 10
Shah Jahan leant closer as Jahanara muttered something. Briefly her eyelids flickered but then she lay quiet and still again in the half-light of the sick chamber. Though she was getting no worse the hakims were worried. Her periods of full consciousness were brief and her burns, pink and suppurating beneath their dressings, terrible to look at. So it had been for the past ten days. He was spending all the time he could by her bedside, making only the briefest of appearances in his audience chamber. As he sat head bowed, his mind returned again and again to that night. In his opium-laced longing and confusion he had mistaken Jahanara for Mumtaz and tried to make love to her, his own daughter, a sin before God and man. He could not forgive himself and therefore how could he ever expect Jahanara to do so?
Dara and Murad often joined him in the sickroom. Soon Aurangzeb would arrive from Burhanpur and Shah Shuja from Bengal. His family would be reunited again, but in what terrible circumstances. How could he admit to them what had really happened? Where was that aura of good fortune he had striven to preserve on his return to Agra after Mumtaz’s death? … Yet it wasn’t that fate had turned against him. He had cast her off through his own weakness, and even if she survived Jahanara’s scars would remind him for ever how he had betrayed his daughter’s trust. He was so lost in his thoughts that at first he didn’t hear one of the hakims enter the room and he started when the man came close and whispered, ‘Majesty?’
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