Beneath a Marble Sky (34 page)

One afternoon, as I stared unmoving through our barred window toward the Taj Mahal, he said, “At first, I feared that Aurangzeb would destroy it. But not now. Our people would turn against him.”

I continued to gaze at Mother’s mausoleum. We were still in the monsoon season and a storm raged. Though I had made curtains for the window, I’d pulled them aside, as the driving rain against my face reminded me of better times. I eased my robe down and let the water splatter against my neck and shoulders.

“Jahanara?”

I turned toward his voice, my gaze swinging across our cell, which bore little resemblance to its former decrepitude. Now we had carpets, mirrors, racks of clothes, cushions, a washbasin, candles and plates of fresh food. I had hung tapestries and paintings upon the walls, and even nailed a portrait of Mother to the wooden door.

All these goods were gifts from influential nobles. Aurangzeb was wise enough to understand that he shouldn’t deny us certain comforts, for we had visitors most days, and such men might be angered if our imprisonment was too harsh. After all, Father had many friends—nobles capable of understanding a son overthrowing his father, but not a son tormenting the man who had given him life.

“Can you hear me, Jahanara?”

“Yes?” I mumbled, blinking repeatedly.

“You left me, child. But where did you go?”

Nowhere, I thought. There’s nowhere but here. “How strong,” I asked to avoid his question, and the desperation of my thoughts, “is the Empire?”

He coughed, then replied, “As mighty as a two-legged dog. From what I hear, Dara lost twenty thousand men and Aurangzeb twenty-five when they met.” He shook his head sadly. “Forty-five thousand warriors dead and not a single Persian slain.”

“Will they attack us?”

“Would jackals assail a fawn?”

I nodded slowly, strangely indifferent to what fate would befall the Empire. The weight of its woes was a burden I no longer wished to carry. “Father?”

“Yes, my child?”

“Did you ever tire of ruling? Tire of duty?”

He tried to rise to a sitting position, and I placed a cushion behind his back. His turban was loosening and I rewound the indigo silk about his head. “Not when your mother was alive,” he replied as I gathered a blanket about him, for dampness dominated the room. “But after she left me for Paradise, I found the court dramas suddenly trite. At any rate, as you told me not long ago, she was always the real ruler. She’d have been a better emperor than I, as you would have.”

I absently pulled a loose thread from my robe, watching the garment unravel. “Hardly.”

“But why not?”

“Because a true leader, one placing her people above all else, would have killed Aurangzeb long ago.”

“But you’re no killer, Jahanara. Killing him might have saved the Empire, but it wouldn’t have saved you.”

I poured him some Chinese tea, which he had always liked. “What shall he do with us?”

“Nothing, I expect. I’ll die here. But not before I help you escape. You’ll be reunited with—”

“But I don’t know where they are, or even if they live.” My voice cracked at these words, and I felt the familiar sense of dread swelling in my bones. “And I can’t live without them.”

He motioned for me to kneel beside him, and so I did, feeling the warmth of his body. “They live, my child. And when you’re free, you should take them far from here. Go to Varanasi. Go there and build yourself a new life.”

“I’ll never escape him.”

Father coughed. He then smiled. “How, my child, can a soup bowl contain an ocean?”

“I don’t feel like an ocean. I feel as if I’m slipping toward madness.”

“Hush, child.” Father stroked my brow, reassuring me with the strength of his touch. “We’ll think of something, Jahanara. Allah’s given us ample time to plan.”

A
nd so the
months wore by. Though my mood remained dark, I tried to be strong for Father’s sake, just as he sought to raise my spirits. Thinking flowers might do him good, I asked a visiting noble if he could bring us seeds and a box of soil. He did better than promised, returning with porcelain vases and bulbs of irises and tulips. We planted these and watched as they eased upward into the sun.

Shortly thereafter came another gift. A mysterious messenger delivered a young peregrine falcon housed in a silver cage. At the bottom of the cage, amid fresh leaves, nestled a tiny piece of paper. On it was written, “Remember to practice your curses.”

I laughed then, truly laughed for the first time since Dara’s death. “Sweet Ladli,” I whispered, tearing up the note. “How I do miss your tongue.”

We named the falcon Akbar, after Father’s grandfather, the first ruler to treat Hindus and Muslims as equals. I stitched a glove of leather so we could hold the bird. Akbar came to trust us and seemed to even understand our words.

The Red Fort was beset with mice, and our room was no exception. Akbar hunted these irritants with boundless relish. Our guards weren’t cruel men and sometimes entered our cell and cheered Akbar as he pursued mice or an occasional rat. He soon outgrew the cage, which we smashed, dropping the broken pieces of silver to the poor, who gathered far below outside the Red Fort’s monstrous wall. At night our feathered friend roosted on a rafter.

We marked the passage of time by the blooming of our flowers, the changing of season from wet to dry, and by the size of Akbar. More of Father’s strength returned, and he took short walks about the room. Sometimes we stood before the window and stared at the Taj Mahal. We studied its many faces, for the mausoleum was as expressive as a child. At dawn it looked to have been dyed a pale blue. In the early afternoon it was whiter than ivory. The mausoleum thus gleamed until the sun fell, at which point the marble teardrop began to glow, appearing to be gilded at dusk’s onset, and to bleed as the sun dropped from sight.

While wondrous, these sights were often painful, for the Taj Mahal evoked memories of our loved ones, and the longing that accompanied our separation was absolute. I often cried, dried my tears, and cried again. Father rarely wept, yet he fell into profound trances, almost as if meditating. He stood before the window and looked unblinking at Mother’s tomb. Though flies might land on his face, or muezzins might call for prayer, he was transfixed.

One day, when we were particularly distraught over our imprisonment, we decided to set Akbar free. After all, how could we keep him confined when our confinement caused us such pain? And so, as Akbar perched atop his gloved hand, Father reached through the bars. Suddenly Akbar was outside. We said good-bye to him and Father shook his fist. Our falcon soared then, drifting over the river, circling higher and higher. He rose into the clouds, so elevated that we wondered if he carried a message to Mother.

Despite our attempt to say farewell, Akbar had found a home. The next morning I awoke with a smile, for he rested again on his rafter. I put on the glove, held up my hand, and he roosted contentedly, roosted until I could no longer support my arm. Later I called to the guards, asking if they might catch us a mouse. When they brought back a rat, the four of us watched Akbar kill swiftly.

I often thought of Ladli when Akbar impressed us with his feats. My friend had done so much for me through the years, and what had I given her? What had her gods given her? She’d borne no child and she traveled with a man she despised. What must it be like, accompanying him while he campaigned against the Deccans and Persians? How did she endure her life beyond Agra, existing for moon after moon in a drafty tent?

We heard many stories of the fighting, because it raged fiercely during our imprisonment. Sometimes we watched our armies voyage southward on barges, accompanied by sounding horns and chanting men. Months later, these same men returned, usually far fewer in number, and with no fanfare announcing their presence.

Visiting nobles told us of unrest in Agra. Even though Aurangzeb had last set foot in our city many months ago, his disruptive presence continued to be felt. We learned, for instance, that he had increased taxes to pay for his military campaigns. Not surprisingly, frequent demonstrations were staged against the fighting, for widows begged at every corner, and grain was taken from rich and poor alike to fatten hundreds of war elephants. Despite the unpopular taxes, the treasury’s coffers shrank to dangerous levels.

Furthermore, because Aurangzeb had always derided the arts and now suppressed them with his policies, many courtiers and artists left Agra for more receptive environs. While my sibling was untroubled by these departures, nobles grumbled. Agra’s intellectual aura—which Father and Dara had so diligently fostered, and which had given our city fame—soon dwindled to nothing.

I must confess that as the months, then years passed, fewer of my thoughts were spent on the Empire’s mounting ailments. Instead, I obsessed over my loved ones, wondering incessantly what kind of woman Arjumand was becoming. I never thought of her as dead, for I couldn’t have survived such images. I barely survived being unable to see her mature. There were so many questions we might ask each other, so many conversations that might rise between us.

And Isa.

How I longed for Isa. It seemed a lifetime ago that he held my face. Though I tried to relive our conversations, each and every one, it became difficult for me to recall the exact tenor of his voice, and this failing kept me awake many a night. I didn’t even possess a painting of him, and I began to fear that I’d forget the sharpness of his jaw, or the warmth of his crooked smile. These were some of my most terrifying thoughts.

I once heard of a man who, when deprived of opium after years of use, drowned himself rather than endure its absence. And in some capacities I was like this man, for my longing was so vast that I often doubted I could last another day. My failings as a mother and a lover haunted me. I never looked into a mirror, because I was ashamed of who I’d see.

Ultimately, my love saved me, for my love gave me strength. At night, when sleep was unwilling to rescue me, I gritted my teeth and devoured my fondest memories. In daylight, when I could no longer muster the will to pursue anything save thoughts of Isa, I imagined all that we’d do together, once we were reunited. I wrote him endless letters, which I whispered to myself, then destroyed. I even tried to craft him poems, though my hand lacked the grace of my heart.

In the end, I was just strong enough to find solace in my loved ones, the future and God. After all, I prayed to Him constantly during my imprisonment. And finally, in the middle of my fifth hot season within the cell, my prayers were heeded. One afternoon a knock sounded against our door and, expecting a noble, I answered it unhurriedly. When our guard swung it wide and Nizam stood in its center, I blinked, certain my eyes betrayed me. But the visitor was he! Though patches of gray inhabited his beard, and a scar bisected his cheek, he looked as he had when I last saw him as a soldier. He was dressed in iron-studded leather armor with a long blade hanging at his side.

“Nizam!” I shouted, leaping toward him. Above us, Akbar shrieked, ill at ease with my hysteria.

“My lady,” he replied fondly. “It’s been too long.”

I shut the door behind him, then pulled him by the hand into our room. “I thought you were dead!”

“Almost,” he said, touching his cheek.

Again, forgetting any semblance of etiquette, I reached over and felt his face. The scar was young, and I cringed at how close he must have come to death. “Thank Allah, you live,” I said.

“I shall indeed,” Father added, bowing slightly. Nizam fidgeted at the bow, for emperors never yielded to servants.

“What happened?” I asked, drumming my fingers against my hips.

Nizam started to speak, then stilled. “At Dara’s battlefield,” he muttered, “I was knocked from my horse. They shackled me, and later made me fight.”

“And then?”

He avoided my eyes. Nor did he look at Father. “These past years I’ve been in the Deccan, warring for Alamgir.” He paused, and I recognized sadness in his movements. “I’m sorry, my lady, for I failed you. I tried to escape…but…but they chained us each night and our guards were many.”

“You’ve yet to fail me, my friend! Not once! We could live a hundred lifetimes together and still you wouldn’t. But how did you escape?”

“A moon ago, my lady, we fought a terrible battle.” Nizam spoke slowly, so slowly that I wanted to set a coal beneath his bottom. “I killed many that day, and when we were routed, I feigned death. I was covered in blood, for I’d a scalp wound that…” Nizam paused, looking about uncertainly, as if he spoke too much.

“Go on.”

“Leave him in peace, Jahanara,” Father chided.

Nizam fingered the hilt of his sword. “The Deccans left me for dead. I waited two days before finding a horse and heading north.”

“How goes the fighting? Is it—”

I interrupted Father with a dismissive wave. “What of Isa? Have you heard of him?”

“There’s a rumor, my lady.”

“What?”

“When Dara fought Alamgir, and our people fled south, many were captured by the Deccans.” He scratched his scar absently, as if unaccustomed to its presence. “The rumor says that in Bijapur, the proudest of Deccan cities, a mosque is being built by the same man who created the Taj Mahal. They say he’s chained, and that as long as he builds, his daughter and he shall live.”