Beneath a Marble Sky (8 page)

One evening he even hit me, a backhand slap that split my lip. Apparently, I had been unresponsive to his groping. While I trembled naked on a tiger’s pelt, Khondamir yelled at a servant to ride to the Red Fort and return with a practiced courtesan. My husband forced me to watch their gyrations, demanding that I surpass the woman’s wanton displays in the future.

He finished with me, and as he did I began to understand the concept of hate. Other emotions I grasped fully. I feared Aurangzeb. I loved Father and worshipped Mother. Beggars I pitied and children I envied. But hatred was a feeling I had never experienced, nor wanted to. Nevertheless, that night, as I bled and wept and hated, I contemplated fleeing this creature or, better still, slipping some poison into his rice. Surely the world would not lament his departure.

I missed my family terribly in those days. My parents sent me letters and gifts but were on a military campaign to the south accompanied by my brothers. Dara wrote of Aurangzeb’s bravery in the field, how he had left the safety of Father’s tent and joined our soldiers at the front line. There he killed his first man.

Though I possessed little interest in war, I’d have enjoyed being with them, exploring new lands and listening to officers argue. Such a fate was infinitely more desirable to wandering about Khondamir’s home, which had precious few books and mostly sullen servants.

As days turned to weeks I feared that my fate would be forever unchanged. Steeling my emotions as steadfastly as I could, I let my misery surface only in the darkness of night. Mother had never let any man rule her feelings, and I knew she expected me to be as strong. And so I resisted my tears. I endured until Allah finally decided to set me loose.

My taste of freedom began with a morning like any other. Khondamir expected me to join him for breakfast, and we rested on his terrace, eating yogurt and peeling pathetic little oranges. The wool carpet beneath our knees was badly faded, and stained from multiple mishaps.

I felt bold that day and asked if I might ride one of his horses.

“You?” he scoffed, his voice high-pitched for a man of his girth. “On a horse?”

“I’ve always—”

“Would you ride naked?” The image must have amused him, for he smirked, chunks of orange dropping from his ponderous lips.

I was accustomed to his crude attempts at wit and ignored him. “My lord, I’ve not seen my friends for weeks.”

“So? Weeks? Months? What does it matter? Why would I care for your friends?”

“Because I’m your wife.”

Khondamir belched, the fat on his face rippling. “You’re a whining child is what you are. Nothing more. Nothing less. Now why don’t you scurry somewhere and make yourself useful?”

“Why don’t you—” I stopped, suddenly afraid what he might do if I asked him to scurry off a cliff. “Why don’t you give me something to do?”

“Fine. Cook my dinner.”

I bit back an angry reply. Was this how husbands thought of wives, that they could do no more than boil rice? Eating the last of my yogurt, I sighed, looking about his estate. Though Khondamir was a rich man, made so by the silver mines he owned, obviously he spent little in the way of servants. The roof on his home needed repair, weeds choked his garden, his horses were thin, and the sandstone wall encircling his property bore innumerable cracks and gouges. I wondered where he hoarded his rupees and gold.

“Damn these oranges,” my husband said, his beady eyes shrinking. “Must they be so small?” Glaring at me, he added, “Must all my fruits taste so bland?”

I knew he referred to my listlessness in bed but pretended not to catch his meaning. “Perhaps your fruits,” I replied, “deserve more care.”

“Are you, woman, an expert in such matters? Is your experience so vast?”

“What matters, lord? I know only that your trees are dying.”

He turned in his chair to stare at his orchard. Many trees—mainly apple, orange, pear and cherry—dotted his land. Though summer was in full stride and each branch should yield a substantial harvest, all held sickly fruit and yellowed leaves.

“Do you have a gardener?” I asked, suspecting he was too tightfisted to employ one.

“What good are gardeners? How hard is it to water and pluck?” He belched again. “Too hard for you, I imagine.”

I rose from the table, my heart hastening. I had spent countless afternoons in gardens and believed I understood why his trees ailed. “If I tell you how to save them, my lord, would that be worth something to you?”

“How dare—”

“Worth a simple ride on a horse?”

He swatted at a wasp. “On a nag.”

“Then call your servants.”

Unlike servants found in other palaces, the men my husband hailed didn’t wear eye-pleasing tunics, but patched and moth-eaten garb. As they assembled by our table, I pointed to the smallest and sickest tree. “Please, pull it out.” They looked to their master for confirmation and he cursed them, motioning that they do as I commanded. The servants moved to the tree, which was no taller than they, and carefully withdrew it from the soil. “Come here, my lord.” I said, walking to the sapling. I knelt to the ground and inserted my finger into the wet soil. When I smelled my finger I was reminded of a decaying beast. “Do you smell that?” I asked, sticking my hand before his bulbous, vein-infested nose.

Khondamir grimaced, stepping back. “What does it mean?”

“It means, my lord, that you water the trees too much and that their roots rot.”

“Well, woman, must I put words in your mouth? What can be done?”

Isn’t it obvious, fool? I thought, savoring his ignorance. “Stop watering them. Stop for at least ten days. Then, if Allah smiles upon you, they should recover.”

Khondamir grunted before yelling at his servants for their ignorance. He told one to prepare the stable’s oldest horse. “Go,” he said to me.

Thrilled to be rid of him, I hurried to my room and changed clothes, opting for a simple brown robe. I also removed my jewels. Not trusting Khondamir, I lifted a brick from the floor, dug a small hole in the dirt beneath, and set my ornaments there. The brick I replaced and the dirt I dropped into a potted plant.

Not bothering to tell my husband good-bye, I walked to the mount, a ragged creature far along in years. Once, it must have been a fine horse. Though malnourished, the large mare still stood proud. I caressed her brow, then noticed that the servant had placed an expensive saddle on her.

“He said an old horse, my lady, but not an old saddle,” the man whispered.

I smiled, and climbed atop her. “Thank you. Thank you so much.” I handed him a coin, which disappeared into his tattered tunic. “Dry the trees well,” I added, “or I fear we’ll both be in trouble.”

He untied my mount and handed me the reins. “My lord always said to water them twice a day,” he replied, not hiding his glee.

I grinned, bade him farewell, and spurred the mare forward. She didn’t seem to mind my weight and sauntered down a well-beaten and dusty path that led to the Red Fort. Though my family was gone, I relished the notion of seeing Ladli. I had last spoken to her on the day of my wedding and I longed to hear of the happenings in her life, as well as in the Empire.

I passed many homes along the way. The most elaborate works were comprised of sandstone bricks. Poorer structures were bound with no more than mud, wood and thatch. The path itself was lined with palm trees and the occasional beggar. I dropped coins to several, though when too many ragged men followed me, I wished them well and urged my horse ahead.

The path turned into a road, which I soon shared with merchants, priests and soldiers. A column of warriors headed south, and I suspected they would rendezvous with Father’s forces. The men wore leather armor studded with short iron spikes. A few carried muskets, though most bore bows and quivers of arrows. Elephants plodded behind them, pulling carts laden with shields, helmets and other supplies. Black cannons, as long and thick as a man, trailed several of the beasts.

The soldiers looked at me oddly as they passed, for rarely did one see a woman on horseback, especially without escort. Though these were hard men, with full beards and scarred faces, I heard only a few crude remarks. When I spied the battalion’s leader, a young captain I had met before, I called to him. He shouted my name and steered his mount toward mine. After we exchanged pleasantries, I inquired about the fighting to the south. Apparently, it had started when a fierce Deccan raiding party crossed into our southern lands. For years they had sought independence from the Empire. On this occasion the Deccans had burnt down homes, stolen rice and taken children as slaves. Such events were so common that the captain hardly commented on them. Still, the fighting was bloody and Father had requested reinforcements.

After wishing the man good fortune, I navigated the cluttered streets. The closer I drew to the Red Fort, the more congealed my environs became. Normally, merchants hawked all sorts of wares to me, but now, in my plain robe, I inspired few propositions. A toothless butcher did point me toward a rack of hanging meats. Flies covered the haunches of beef, and I turned my gaze elsewhere.

My energy waning, I approached the citadel. Its sandstone ramp was being swept clear of dung and washed clean by a score of slaves. Most were Hindus, for when I was halfway up the ramp, and a muezzin’s wails for prayer commenced, only a handful of workers and myself turned toward Mecca. I prayed for our soldiers and for the safety of my family. I was tempted to ask Allah for help with my husband but decided that He had nobler projects to attend.

I left my tired mount with a stable boy and headed toward the royal apartments. It took little effort to find Ladli. She was busy peeling carrots in the imperial kitchen, where she so often toiled. When she saw me, she let out a squeal and dropped her knife. An older servant was about to admonish her when I cleared my throat and asked that Ladli be dismissed.

My friend came to me quickly. We hurried from all ears and before long found ourselves atop one of the fort’s mighty ramparts, which had been designed to hold fighting men and offered a splendid view of Agra. Thousands of homes, mosques and bazaars stretched far into the distance before merging with the river or gentle hills. The mosques’ minarets rose like giant brown needles into the sky, high enough so the muezzins could be heard far and wide, and high enough that these men could not look into windows of adjacent homes, where views of women might distract them.

Built alongside the river, Agra is shaped like a crescent moon. At the Yamuna’s banks are mostly palaces, stone and brick with lush gardens. Farther from the river rose the homes of the commoners, as abundant as monsoon raindrops and growing more tightly packed together each year as our city swelled above five hundred thousand.

Most distant from the river and its breezes were Agra’s slums. From our perch atop the Red Fort, the slums reminded me of a dirty carpet. A seemingly infinite number of hovels rested so close together that it was hard to discern the narrow paths separating them. Mother had taken us into this realm on several occasions, as she wanted us to see how those less fortunate lived. While she spoke to the poor of their needs, my eyes wandered about the foreign environs.

Rats, odors, filth and disease infested Agra’s slums. Ragged children hunted the rats. The poorest of the poor ate these creatures, roasting them in wretched alleys above dung-fueled fires. It had been agonizing for me to look upon the homeless, for open sores covered faces and arms, and flies covered sores. I was told that thousands of these people slept outside on beds of festering hay. The more blessed of the slum’s inhabitants dwelt in decrepit mud-brick homes. Many such shelters had collapsed and were long ago looted of timber and stone.

“Shiva’s been busy,” Ladli said, interrupting my thoughts.

Shiva was the Hindu god of destruction and creation, and yes, had been busy, for within the slums, the thatched roof of one hovel was ablaze. I turned toward Mecca and said a quick prayer. In part to spite my husband, in part to help the fire’s victims, I promised Allah to send a servant into the slums with coins for those injured. I’d send a physician as well. Though Ladli was equally accustomed to such sights, I saw her lips quiver as she spoke to her gods. I squeezed her hand. “I’ve missed you.”

“But why?” she asked, her russet-colored face tightening as she hugged me. “Doesn’t a certain buzzard keep you happy?”

“Me, happy?” I shifted atop a sandstone block. “I’m just another scrap of meat for his gullet.”

“Truly?”

I watched the smoke drift upward, diffusing into the pale Hindustani sky. “Not too many years ago, I came here with my parents. We picnicked. They fed each other cherries and spat the pits below.” I picked up a pebble and tossed it off the side. “They’re so in love, Ladli. I always prayed that I’d have the same.”

“But you don’t,” she said, her voice interrupted by the faraway trumpeting of elephants. On a broad riverbank, a circle of men assembled. Even from this distance I could tell that they were nobles, for the colors of their tunics were bright and varied. All the men held long spears. Before them, in the center of their circle, stood two elephants.

Knowing that the beasts would be prodded until at last they charged each other and bloodied their tusks, I shifted my gaze to a tiny mirror on my finger. I found myself wishing I loved a man who cherished the imperfections of my face. Though Mother possessed no such flaws, I was certain that Father would have delighted in a stray mole, or a crooked tooth, had they been hers. “He struck me the other night,” I confessed. “And then he made me…”

“Made you what?”

I hesitated, the memory too foul. “Nothing. But can you imagine my father striking my mother? He’d die a thousand deaths before doing so.”

“The dog!” she stammered. “That worm-infested, bastard son of a whore.”

Her tongue always made me smile, and today was no exception. “Really, Ladli, the things you say.”

“Perhaps if you hadn’t been raised in the harem—”

“I can curse if I want to.”

“Show me.”

“What?”

“Who, you say, did you marry?”

I grinned, suddenly feeling warm and uncaged. “A pox-ridden maggot of a man with a brick for a brain and a dung heap for a home.”

Ladli fought the urge to laugh. “Not bad for one so highborn. But surely you can be more inventive. Practice sometimes in his presence, when he reminds you of certain creatures.”

“Like a boar?”

“A boar is much too clever. He’s more of a toad, for you won’t find an uglier, nor a more witless creature.” She tugged at her sari, loosening its embrace from her ample breasts. Though a garment that made her look magnificent, saris seemed always to torment her. “I’d like to whip whoever devised this,” she said. “Or better yet, make men wear it for a day.”

“Can you imagine Khondamir in one?”

Her jaw dropped at the thought. “I’ll try not to, my little Muslim friend.”

As we chuckled I tossed more pebbles off the rampart. Ladli continued to fuss with her sari. The fire had spread below and consumed several hovels. I said a second prayer for their inhabitants before turning to my companion. “Can I ask you something?”