The Twentieth Wife (29 page)

“Mirza Koka, you have greatly displeased me with your actions.”

“I have begged for and been granted your Majesty’s pardon,” Mirza Koka replied, raising his eyes.

“Nonetheless, you have been summoned here for the council to decide your fate,” Jahangir said sharply.

In Mughal India, the monarch was the absolute and immediate power, and everyone assembled knew that Jahangir was looking for an excuse to retry the old statesman. Everyone also knew why.

Jahangir turned to Mahabat Khan. “Mahabat, what would be a fitting punishment for the crime that Mirza Koka has committed against his Emperor?”

“There can be only one, your Majesty, and that is death,” Mahabat replied. “Mirza Koka is indeed guilty of a serious crime. The punishment should fit the deed. By that you will indicate to others who might be contemplating the same sin that they would be wise not to try and rebel against your august person.”

“You are right. Mirza Koka”—the Mirza looked up at Jahangir—
“I have decided your fate. You have been inconsistent to the monarchy. You have tried to put on the throne a callow youth, one who would have been unable to rule, all to further your own interest and power. You are guilty of a greater sin: you have alienated a father and son, you have interfered in the sacred relationship between me and my son Khusrau—”

“Your Majesty!”

A gasp went around the court. Who would dare to interrupt the Emperor? Rigid etiquette demanded that everyone remain silent when the Emperor spoke, and never raise their eyes to the throne unless directly questioned. The interruption surprised Jahangir too, and he stopped in mid-sentence, the words dying in his mouth. Mahabat Khan pointed silently to the
zenana
balcony.

“What is it?” Jahangir forced his voice to be pleasant.

“Your Majesty, all the Begams of
zenana
are here for the purpose of intervening for Mirza Koka. It will be better if you come to us; otherwise we will come out to you,” a voice called out.

The voice was that of Salima Sultan Begam, his father’s widow and one of his stepmothers. Next to Ruqayya, it was Salima who had held a special place in the late Emperor’s heart. So Akbar had never reined in her impulsiveness, and it was too late to control her now anyway. Jahangir thought for a while. He would have to go to the
zenana
balcony; otherwise Salima was sure to make good her threat and come down. It would be the first time in an imperial Mughal court that a member of the royal
zenana
was seen by the nobles. And knowing Salima, she might also come down unveiled. That thought, more than any other, made the Emperor rise quickly from his seat.

As Jahangir got up, Mirza Koka breathed a sigh of relief and glanced up at the balcony. He could make out one of the ladies waving to him, and he smiled weakly in gratitude.

Jahangir entered the
zenana
balcony. The ladies bowed to him as he sat down.

“Your Majesty, you cannot sentence Mirza Koka to death,” Salima Sultan Begam started.

“I can do what I want,” Jahangir said gruffly and then added, “dear Maji.”

Salima smiled at him. “Your Majesty, Mirza Koka is like an uncle to you. Although you may not be of the same blood, the late Emperor considered him dearer than a brother; they both drank the milk of the same mother. And when his mother died, the Emperor himself carried her coffin on his shoulders to show his respect for her. His Majesty would have wanted you to treat Mirza Koka gently.”

Jahangir flushed. Would he ever be as good an Emperor as his father? It was perhaps natural that comparisons would be made at the start of his reign, so soon after Akbar’s death. Even from the grave, Akbar reached out to influence him through the women he had left behind. They expected him to behave as his father had, to make the same decisions, issue the same commands. But he was not his father. . . . He bent his head. Ideally, Mirza Koka should die. There was no doubt about that. The fewer supporters Khusrau had in the empire, the better it would be. But Salima had asked him for a favor. . . .

Without looking at the Dowager Empress, Jahangir rose and went back to the court.

“Mirza Koka, the ladies of the
zenana
have supported your cause. Although I am not fully convinced of their reasons, they seem to have much love and devotion for you. For their sake,” Jahangir looked up at the balcony, “and for the sake of my revered father, who had great love and respect for you, I shall grant you your life.”

Mirza Koka fell to his knees. “Your Majesty is very kind.”

“You shall be stripped of all your lands, your power, and your dignity. The city of Agra no longer welcomes you, Mirza Koka. Lahore is where you should be. I shall allow you to retain your title.”

“Thank you, your Majesty.” As the Mirza bowed again, Jahangir
gazed at him thoughtfully. No, this was not a man he could ever trust again.

Jahangir left the
Diwan-i-khas,
and the hall emptied of nobles. In the
zenana
balcony, the ladies of the harem returned to their palaces, chattering excitedly among themselves. One woman stayed until everyone else had gone. Her veil still covered her; she had pulled it over her head when Jahangir had so unexpectedly come to the balcony at Salima Sultan Begam’s demand. Mehrunnisa rose slowly, her body heavy and tiresome, and went over to the divan where Jahangir had sat. She touched the cushion against which he had leaned. Then she turned and went out of the balcony.

•   •   •

T
HE CARAVAN WOUND
its way slowly along the banks of the Yamuna, following its curves of glistening silver. Ali Quli rode in front, mounted on his favorite Arabian steed. Behind him, twenty horses and camels followed, laden with goods and household articles. He looked back at the palanquin carried on the shoulders of four strong men, who jogged along in an internal rhythm all of their own, in perfect step with one another. Only thus would they not easily tire during the many hours they carried their burden. The curtains of the palanquin fluttered in the breeze, and a delicate hand came out to close them.

Mehrunnisa drew the curtains and leaned back against a cushion, feeling its feather-stuffed comfort in the small of her back. It would be a long journey to Bardwan in Bengal—longer still for her, as she was heavy with child. After so many years of marriage and so many miscarriages, she had again become pregnant. As though in response to her thoughts, the baby kicked, and she put a soothing hand on the spot.

A child at last. After all the waiting. When she had met with Bapa just before the Emperor’s first court appearance, she had known of the child, four months inside her. But she had not wanted to tell
him—not yet, not until she was certain. Maji, with her wise, womanly, motherly ways, had known—and had not insisted that everyone else know. Mehrunnisa was grateful for that. After the miscarriages, it was as though this child, if it were to come, was wholly hers. So for the first few months she told no one, washed the cloths of her monthly blood as though the blood had actually come, so the servants would not talk. This time, too, the pains had come to plague her in the early months. She had been miserably sick and nauseated, but Maji said it was a good sign. Mehrunnisa had slept a great deal during the days and nights, living in a semiconscious state for months, for when she was awake, her fears choked her. But the child, thank Allah, had stayed inside her. Then she had told Ali Quli.

“A son!” he had said.

“Maybe,” Mehrunnisa replied, hoping and praying fervently that it would be so.

She peered out of the palanquin at her husband. He rode his horse well, his back military straight. Years of army training had left their mark on his physique; he was as trim and healthy as the day they had been married. But now, when they were to share the responsibilities of parenthood together, the age difference between them yawned wide. Mehrunnisa was twenty-eight, Ali Quli forty-five. And more than age separated them; their minds were distanced, too.

As she lay back on the silk cushions her thoughts drifted to the scene in their house when Ali Quli had come back from court after the Emperor’s first public audience.

The minutes had ticked by as Mehrunnisa waited in her room, a piece of satin cloth in her hands. Ostensibly she was embroidering, but for hours she had not put in a stitch. Then there were sounds of arrival in the outer courtyard. Mehrunnisa pulled her veil over her head and ran to the balcony. She watched as Ali Quli dismounted and came into the house. He looked relieved, happy, and discontented all at once.

An hour passed, but Ali Quli did not send for her. Unable to bear the suspense, Mehrunnisa sent word to him to come to her apartments. He entered with a swagger, a bottle of wine in his hands.

“What is it?”

“My lord, what happened at the
Diwan-i-am
?”

“Is that why you asked for me?” Ali Quli growled.

She nodded.

“I was granted the
jagir
of Bardwan, and we are to leave for Bengal immediately.” His teeth showed. “I told you not to worry. The Emperor is well cognizant of the debt he owes me. After all, I saved him from the tigress.”

Mehrunnisa looked at him, eyebrows lifting. Not only was Ali Quli not punished, Jahangir had actually raised his rank and offered him an estate. Why?

“Why do you look so surprised?” Ali Quli said. “Not even the Emperor can do me any harm.”

He wandered to the divan and flopped down. He took a swig from the bottle and looked at it reflectively. “This is bad; I will have to ask for wine from Kashmir.”

“Did the Emperor say anything?”

“He gave me a speech about duty and loyalty.” Ali Quli grinned again. “But I knew that he would come around. He owes me his life. If I had not saved him, he would be dead now and”—his face hardened—“Khusrau would be Emperor.”

He threw the bottle against the wall, and Mehrunnisa winced as it shattered. The rich red wine seeped into the carpets.

“Khusrau would be Emperor, and I would not be exiled in disgrace to the
jagir
of Bardwan,” Ali Quli yelled. “Bardwan! What is it but an insignificant holding? What do I know of farming and estate management?” He puffed his chest out. “I am a soldier. I have fought many battles. People sing praises of me everywhere, and what does the new Emperor do? He relegates me to the sidelines, to Bardwan.”

Mehrunnisa smiled slowly, turning her face away from her irate husband. She had not been wrong about Jahangir after all. It was a masterpiece of diplomacy. Ali Quli was well known for his bravery in the battlefield. Executing him would have served no purpose. Besides, Bengal was a hotbed of discontent. Who better than a soldier to send there? In one stroke, Jahangir had exiled Ali Quli— unofficially of course—and sent a soldier to suppress his dissidents. There was no fear of Ali Quli’s supporting Khusrau again, not while the prince was thousands of miles away in the custody of the Emperor. Jahangir had shown himself worthy of the throne. Akbar would have been proud of him.

That was when she told him of the child, to placate him, to make him feel that the exile would not be so harsh if they had a child. Now, with his desire for a son, Mehrunnisa was tormented. What if she did not give him a son?

So here they were, traveling to Bardwan. Not even Ali Quli dared disobey Jahangir’s orders. He had consoled himself that Raja Man Singh would be governor of Bengal and that they would together concoct another conspiracy.

Before their departure Mehrunnisa had gone to the imperial
zenana
to see the Dowager Empress. Ruqayya had taken her to the
Diwan-i-khas
to witness Mirza Aziz Koka’s trial, and Mehrunnisa accompanied Ruqayya because she had commanded her and because she wanted one last glimpse of Jahangir. That she would see him so close, she had not expected. Perhaps fate had deemed it so for the last time. Jahangir would never move Ali Quli back from Bengal to the imperial court—that much Mehrunnisa knew. A dull ache flared in her back, and she massaged it as best she could. She leaned back and closed her eyes. If not Jahangir, at least there was to be a child.

They reached the house at Bardwan as dusk fell over the city. As Mehrunnisa stepped out of the palanquin, a sharp pain shot through her back, unlike any other she had felt before. Her knees buckled, and
a gush of wetness flooded from her body. Heart pounding, she put a hand between her legs over the silk of her
ghagara,
uncaring that she stood in the front courtyard in front of all the servants. It was too early: only eight and a half months. Was her treacherous body going to expel this child too? Her hand came away sticky with a clear fluid. She leaned against the palanquin, then collapsed on the mud floor of the outer courtyard. Not blood, thank Allah, not blood.

The female slaves picked her up and rushed her into the house, to a room at the back, and put her on a bed. Through the deepening pain, Mehrunnisa saw Ali Quli’s frightened face at the doorway, before he disappeared, shouting for a midwife. They were new to Bardwan; a midwife was not easily found at night.

Mehrunnisa lay sweating on the mattress, still in her travel-stained clothes, the birth pangs coming faster and faster, sweeping over her until she lost sense of everything around her. How had Maji given birth to seven children? Was it easier if one loved one’s husband?

When the midwife came at last, she found Mehrunnisa moaning on the bed, her lower lip raw and bleeding where she had clamped down on her voice. The night was long, filled with pain, and Mehrunnisa slipped in and out of reality, opening her eyes to see a room filled with strangers. The servants were new, the midwife a woman she did not know. Ali Quli would not come into the room, for this was women’s business.

“Maji . . .” Mehrunnisa whispered over and over again, wanting the cool comfort of her mother’s hand on her brow, wanting to tell her of the fears that ambushed her. It was too early. What if the child came out dead?

The midwife patted her on the shoulder. “It will be all right,
Sahiba,
” she said. She was kind, Mehrunnisa thought, staring dazed at her calm face, clutching at her hand and holding it tight. But she was not Maji.