The Twentieth Wife (2 page)

In her corner, the midwife clucked disapproval, rising as she spoke. “No, no, don’t touch your mother just before the baby is
born. Now it will be a girl child, because you are one. Run along now. Take your evil eye with you.”

“Let her be, Ayah,” Asmat said weakly as the midwife hustled her daughter out. She said no more, unwilling to argue with the woman.

Ghias raised an eyebrow at Saliha.

“Soon, Bapa.”

He nodded and turned away. Adjusting the cloth of the turban over his face, he wrapped his arms around his chest and walked away from the camp, head lowered against the shrieking wind. When he had reached the shelter of a large rock, he sat down heavily and buried his face in his hands. How could he have let matters come to this?

Ghias’s father, Muhammad Sharif, had been a courtier to Shah Tahmasp Safavi of Persia, and both Ghias and his older brother, Muhammad Tahir, had been well educated as children. Brought up in an increasingly prosperous household, the children were happy growing up, moving from one posting to another: first to Khurasan, then to Yazd, and finally to Isfahan, where Muhammad Sharif had died the past year, 1576, as
wazir
of Isfahan. If things had remained at an even temper, Ghias would have continued his life as a nobleman with few cares, debts to tailors and wine merchants easily paid off every two or three months, and his hand open to those less fortunate. But this was not to be.

Shah Tahmasp died; Shah Ismail II ascended the throne of Persia; the new regime was not kind to the sons of Muhammad Sharif. And neither were the creditors, Ghias thought, reddening under cover of his hands. Like pariah dogs sniffing at a rubbish heap, the creditors descended upon his father’s household, running practiced eyes over the furniture and carpets. Bills came piling onto Ghias’s desk, bewildering both him and Asmat. The
vakils
—his father’s clerks—had always taken care of them. But the
vakils
were gone. And there was no money to pay the creditors because his father’s property—Ghias’s inheritance—had reverted to the state upon his death.

One of the Shah’s courtiers, a longtime friend of his father’s, informed Ghias of his fate: death or imprisonment in the debtors’ prison. Ghias knew then that he could no longer live honorably in Persia. His head sank lower into his hands as he remembered their hurried escape at night, before the soldiers came to arrest him. They had bundled Asmat’s jewels, her gold and silver vessels, and any other valuables they could carry with them to trade on the way.

At first, Ghias had no idea where he would seek refuge. They joined a caravan of merchants traveling south, and during the trip someone suggested India. And why not, Ghias had thought. India was ruled by the Mughal Emperor Akbar, who was known to be just, kind, and above all open to men of education and learning. Perhaps he could find a position at court, a new start in life.

Ghias raised his head as the howling wind faltered for a second and the faint scream of a newborn babe pierced through the sudden lull. He immediately turned west toward Mecca, knelt on the hard ground, and raised his hands. Allah, let the child be healthy and the mother safe, he prayed in silence. His hands fell to his side when the prayer was done. Another child now, when his fortunes were at their lowest. He turned to look toward the camp, the black tents barely distinguishable in the dust storm. He should go to Asmat, but his feet would not move toward his darling wife.

Ghias leaned back against the rock and closed his eyes. Who would have thought the daughter-in-law of the
wazir
of Isfahan would give birth to her fourth child in such surroundings? Or that his son would have to flee his homeland, a fugitive from justice? It was bad enough that he had brought dishonor upon his family, but what followed on their journey had been worse.

On the way south to Qandahar, the caravan had passed through
the Dasht-e-Lut, the great desert of Persia. The arid country had its own beauty: miles of land barren of vegetation, and spectacular dusky rose cliffs rising, it seemed, out of nowhere. But those cliffs were treacherous, too; they had hidden a group of desert bandits until it was too late for the ill-fated caravan.

Ghias shuddered, drawing the coarse woolen shawl closer around his shoulders. The thieves had swept over them in a confusing cloud of shrill noise and violence. They had left almost nothing; the jewels were gone, the gold and silver vessels gone, the women raped where they lay. Asmat had been left untouched only because she was so heavily pregnant. After the pillage, the caravan dispersed as people fled in search of refuge. And in the aftermath of the carnage, Ghias found two old mules, on which they had taken turns riding toward Qandahar, begging for hospitality from the numerous caravanserais along the way.

Exhausted, dirty, and bedraggled, the family wandered into Qandahar, where a group of Afghan
kuchi
—nomads—had offered them shelter and what little food they could spare. But they had little money, and even the journey to India seemed impossible. Now they had another child.

A few minutes later, Ghias stirred and made his way slowly to the tent.

Asmat glanced up from her bed. With a heavy heart, Ghias noted the dark shadows under her eyes as she smiled at him. Her face was almost impossibly thin, the skin stretched to breaking over her cheekbones. He reached out and smoothed the still sweaty hair from her forehead. Cradled in Asmat’s arms and swathed in some old cloth lay a perfect little child.

“Our daughter.” Asmat handed the baby to Ghias.

As he held the child, Ghias felt helplessness overcome him again. She lay in his arms, cleaned and clothed, a tiny infant, dependent on him for her life and sustenance. She was beautiful, with well-formed
arms and legs, a thick head of shiny black hair, and long, curling, black eyelashes resting against delicate cheeks.

“Have you thought of a name for her?” he asked his wife.

“Yes . . .” Asmat replied, hesitating a little. “Mehrunnisa.”

“Meh-ru-nnisa,” Ghias said slowly. “Sun of Women. It is an appropriate name for this beautiful child.” He touched the baby’s little fist, curled against her chin in sleep. Then he handed Mehrunnisa back to Asmat. It was almost certain Asmat could not feed the baby herself. She would have little milk. Months of near starvation had made sure of that. Where would they find the money to pay a wet nurse?

Someone prodded him in the ribs. Ghias turned to see the ayah with her hand stretched out, palm open. He shook his head.

“Sorry. I have nothing to give you.”

She scowled and spat out a stream of brown tobacco juice on the ground. “Nothing.” He heard her grumble as she went out of the tent. “Even a girl child should be worth
something.”

Ghias drew back to one corner, rubbing his forehead tiredly, and watched as their children—Muhammad Sharif, Abul Hasan, and Saliha—crowded around their mother and the new baby.

They could not afford to keep the child. They would have to give her up.

•   •   •

T
HE WIND DIED
down during the night as suddenly as it had started, leaving a clear sky jeweled with twinkling stars. Ghias rose early the next morning while it was still dark and sat outside his tent. A hot cup of
chai,
more watery milk than tea leaves, warmed his hands and his chilled body. A few minutes later, the eastern sky was brushed with glorious reds, golds, and amber, the aftermath of the storm lending nature a new wardrobe of colors.

He reached inside his shawl and drew out the four precious gold
mohurs
nestled in his cummerbund. The morning sun touched the
modhurs
with a liquid fire, set off by his grimy hand. This was all they had left in the world. The thieves had overlooked the
mohurs
that Asmat had hidden in her
choli,
and Ghias was determined to buy his passage to India with the money. But this was all the gold would pay for; they needed more to survive.

Ghias turned to look at the turquoise domes and minarets rising in the distance, framed against the red morning sky. Perhaps he could find some work in Qandahar. Ghias had not worked a day in his twenty-three years. But Asmat needed lamb’s meat and milk to regain her strength, the children needed more clothing as winter approached, and the baby . . . Ghias would not even think of her, not even by name. What use was it, when someone else would look after her? He rose as the sun broke from the horizon and climbed in the sky, sending golden rays to embrace the camp. His jaw was set, and in his eyes there was the steely glint of newfound determination.

•   •   •

THAT AFTERNOON,
G
HIAS
stood, shoulders hunched, outside a bakery in the narrow street of the local bazaar. The long folds of his
qaba
dragged on the cobbled street. People milled about, jostling him, yelling to their friends, calling out greetings to acquaintances.

Ghias raised his head and stared unseeingly into the distance. At first, he had tried for a job as a tutor to children of the wealthy nobles in the city. But everyone, looking at his torn clothes and grimy face, turned him away from their doorsteps. Then he sought work as a laborer, but his cultured accent and speech gave him away as a nobleman.

Suddenly Ghias was aware of the delicious smell of fresh baked
nan,
the local bread. His stomach growled insistently, reminding him that he had eaten nothing after his morning cup of
chai.
He turned to watch the baker pat out the thick white dough with his hands, scoop it with a wooden paddle, and then carefully slap it against the walls of the flaming-hot underground oven through a hole in the floor. Fifteen
minutes later, the baker used a pair of iron tongs to peel the freshly baked bread off the walls of the oven. He stacked the bread, cream and rust-golden, on a pile near the front of the shop.

The aroma wrapped itself tantalizingly around Ghias. He drew out one gold
mohur
and looked at it. Before he could change his mind, he had bought ten pieces of
nan
and, with the change, some skewers of freshly grilled lamb kebabs, glistening with a lime and garlic marinade, from a nearby shop.

He tucked the valuable hoard under his
qaba,
the hot
nan
warming his chest, the smells watering his mouth, and wound his way through the bazaar. Asmat and the children would have something to eat for a few days. The weather was cold, the meat would keep, and perhaps their luck would change . . .

“Hey, peasant! Watch your step.”

Ghias felt a jolt, and the packets of meat and bread fell to the ground. He bent down hurriedly, arms spread out, before the crowds could step on the food.

“I beg your pardon,
Sahib,”
he said over his shoulder.

There was silence behind him. But Ghias, intent on grabbing his packets of food, did not realize that the merchant had stopped to look at him. He turned to the man and looked into kindly eyes in a sunburnt, lined face. “I am sorry,” Ghias said again. “I hope I did you no harm.”

“None at all,” the merchant replied, his gaze assessing Ghias. “Who are you?”

“Ghias Beg, son of Muhammad Sharif,
wazir
of Isfahan,” Ghias replied. Then, seeing the surprise on the man’s face, he gestured ruefully at his torn
qaba
and at the dirt-smudged pajamas he wore. “In another time, these were splendid and pristine. But now . . .”

“What has happened,
Sahib?”
The merchant’s voice was respectful.

Ghias looked at him and saw his blunt capable hands, the dagger tucked into his cummerbund, his worn heavy leather boots. “We
were on our way to Qandahar when we were robbed of our belongings,” he replied, hunger slurring his words.

“You are far from home.”

Ghias nodded. “A long story. A change in fortunes, so I had to flee. May I know whom I have the pleasure of addressing?”

“Malik Masud,” the merchant said. “Tell me your story,
Sahib.
I have the time. Shall we go to the
chai
shop?”

Ghias looked toward the shop across the street, where steam rose from a cauldron of boiling milk and spices. “You are kind, Mirza Masud, but I cannot accept your hospitality. My family waits for me.”

Masud put an arm around Ghias and pushed him toward the shop. “Indulge me,
Sahib.
I want to hear your story as a favor, if you will grant me that.”

Still hesitating, Ghias allowed himself to be led to the shop. There, his precious package of lamb kebabs and
nans
secure on his lap, sitting shoulder to shoulder with the other patrons, he told Masud of all that had happened, even Mehrunnisa’s birth.

“Allah has blessed you,
Sahib,”
Masud said, putting down his empty cup.

“Yes,” Ghias replied. And blessed he was, even though things were difficult now. Asmat, the children—they were indeed blessings. The baby too . . .

Ghias rose from his bench. “I should go now. The children will be hungry. My thanks to you for the
chai.”

As he was leaving, Masud said, “I am on my way to India. Would you like to accompany my caravan, Mirza Beg? I cannot offer you much, only a tent and a camel to carry your belongings. But it is well guarded, and I can assure you that you will be safe on the journey.”

Ghias abruptly turned back and sat down, his face mirroring the shock he felt. “Why?”

Masud waved the question away. “I will be going to pay my respects to Emperor Akbar at Fatehpur Sikri. If you follow me that far, I may be able to present you at court.”

Ghias stared at him, unable to believe what he had just heard. After so much trouble, when one problem seemed to come at the heel of the other, here was a gift from Allah. But he could not just accept this offer. He had nothing to offer in return. And as a nobleman’s son, and a nobleman himself, he should never be indebted to another for kindness. Why was Masud doing this?

“I . . . ,” he stammered, “I do not know what to say. I cannot—”