The Twentieth Wife (43 page)

The Ahadis pounced on the four men and dragged them to a corner. Ghias buried his face in his sleeve as their swords flashed in the sunlight. He heard the terrible thud of steel meeting flesh. The screams of the dying men pervaded the courtyard, falling to whimpers and then silence. Justice had been served. The punishment in front of the jammed court would serve as a lesson to others contemplating any acts of treason.

Ghias Beg stood back from the other nobles, not aware of the tears on his face. His world had suddenly become dark. He would have to go home to Asmat with the news that her eldest son was dead. With anyone else he would have thought it just punishment. Attempts on the Emperor’s life were not taken lightly. But Muhammad had been his son: for all his stubbornness, his pride, his disobedience,
he was his son.

•   •   •

“Y
OU HAVE DONE
well, Mahabat.” Jagat Gosini handed him two embroidered bags full of gold
mohurs.

“It was nothing, your Majesty,” Mahabat protested mildly, reaching out nevertheless to grab the bags. He felt their pleasant weight in his hands.

“Things have turned out better than we could have hoped.” The Empress leaned back on the stone bench and crossed her arms on her lap. “The Emperor talks no more of that woman. When he does, I remind him gently of her treacherous family—that their blood runs in her veins.”

“And I do my part at court, your Majesty.”

“Yes, and very well. You are a loyal servant, Mahabat.”

Mahabat bent his head self-deprecatingly, allowing a small smile to crease his face. “I have another plan, your Majesty.”

The Empress shot upright and gave him a penetrating glance. “What is it?”

“The Emperor is very upset with Prince Khusrau. Perhaps we
should convince him that Khusrau’s existence is a threat to the throne. That way there will be fewer claimants.”

Jagat Gosini looked down with a small smile. “My son Khurram would be the ideal choice for the next Emperor.”

“That is obvious, your Majesty. Prince Khurram has all the qualities needed for the position.”

The Empress turned to Mahabat with admiration. He was truly an asset to her. If he could get rid of Khusrau, then Khurram would find it easier to ascend the throne, and she would continue to be powerful long after Jahangir’s death. But the Emperor was no fool; the suggestion could not come from her. “I cannot talk to the Emperor of this matter.”

Mahabat’s eyes gleamed. “Then allow me to do so, your Majesty. I wish to be of service to you yet again.”

Jagat Gosini gazed long and hard at Mahabat. While she was growing up, someone—she could no longer remember who—had taught her not to ask favors of people she did not like, for repaying them would cost more than a pound of flesh. The Empress did not like Mahabat, but she found him useful and admired his cunning, and the childhood lesson had been long forgotten.

So she said, “You are a good man, Mahabat. I shall not forget your loyalty.”

•   •   •

“Y
OUR
M
AJESTY, IT
is best that the prince is executed. If he remains alive he will only be a problem for you.”

Jahangir looked at his two ministers and slowly shook his head. Any fatherly feeling he had had toward Khusrau was long gone. Although he often thought that putting Khusrau to death would be the best way out of this recurring dilemma, it could not be done.

“The ladies of the
zenana
will not forgive me if Khusrau is executed,” he said.

“Then why not think of some other punishment, your Majesty?” Sharif said, his eyes agleam. “Perhaps the prince could be blinded? He would not be much use to his minions then.”

The Emperor bent his head, tracing the engraving on his jade goblet with a finger that suddenly trembled. Here, finally, was a way out. He would get rid of the Khusrau menace once and for all; then he would be able to enjoy his reign. Somewhere deep inside him, sadness flared briefly. Man Bai, Khusrau’s mother and his first wife, had left the boy in his custody. She had died because of Khusrau’s rebellion. She had pleaded mercy on his behalf, but—here Jahangir’s guts tightened—she had not lived to see her son plot his father’s assassination.

“Yes,” Jahangir said finally, all doubts erased. “Take him,” he paused, “to Sultanpur, where he fought so valiantly with my army. It shall be a lesson to him. He will be blinded at Sultanpur.” At last the matter had been decided. Khusrau would no longer be a problem to him.

“And, Sharif,” Jahangir continued, “we shall make our way back to Agra now.”

The Emperor’s orders were carried out just as he had said.

Khusrau was escorted to Sultanpur in a cage set atop an imperial elephant. People came out in hordes to stare and point at the miserable prince, who had nowhere to hide from their accusing gaze. At the scene of his defeat, red-hot wires were poked into his eyes. The prince suffered for a few seconds before sinking into the relief of oblivion.

The blind Khusrau was then taken to Agra, there to await the arrival of his father’s entourage. On the latter half of the journey, Khusrau lay on the floor of his cage, holding his hands to his ears to shut out the catcalls and insults.

At least he could no longer see his tormentors.

Mher-ul-Nissa was a woman of haughty spirit. . . . To raise her own reputation in the seraglio, and to support herself and slaves with more decency, than the scanty pittance allowed her would admit, she called forth her invention and taste in working some admirable pieces of tapestry and embroidery, in painting silks with exquisite delicacy, and in inventing female ornaments of every kind.

—Alexander Dow,
The History of Hindostan

A
SOFT GENTLE MONSOON SUN
sank in the western horizon, spreading golden rays over the city of Agra. When the sun finally disappeared over the flat lines in the west, twilight would be brief, just a few minutes, scooping the day into the edge of the earth. Then the dark night would come swooping down over the royal palaces, fended off by lanterns and oil lamps, hovering in the shadows around pools of light.

There was still an hour to sunset now, and the royal palaces lay silent and satisfied from the day’s happenings. Once the lanterns were lit, the women in the
zenana
would transform themselves into wondrous bejeweled butterflies, bathed in rosewater; scented with heavy, drooping jasmines; and dressed in thin, shimmering muslins, ready to please. The monsoons had been timely this year, drunk thirstily by the dry, caked earth, and the lawns grew lush with green. But no one was around to enjoy the waning rays of the sun. The royal
malis,
done with their daily chores of weeding and watering, were long gone. The ladies of the harem used the hours at the
end of the day to rest and prepare for the evening. Even the birds had long roosted in trees in anticipation of the coming night.

One figure worked alone in the melon patch in the
zenana
gardens. She was dressed in green—a fresh, young, melon green, melding with the colors of the vines sprawling over the ground. The vines spread huge, fleshy, triangular leaves, using them to hide their fruit. The woman knelt on gunnysacks on the soft, loamy ground to keep her
ghagara
from being soiled. Her hair was long and coiled down her back in a mass of midnight sky, blue-streaked and glittering in the setting sun. She wore no ornaments, not even earrings, but two silver bangles tinkled as she vigorously spaded the ground around the fruit. Every now and then, she would gently lift a melon and use one of its big leaves as a platter to set the melon upon and another leaf to cover it from the harsh midday sun. Someone had told her that the ripest, sweetest melons came ripened under the green light of their own leaves. She stopped to wipe the sweat on her forehead with the back of her hand, leaving the mark of the earth upon flushed cheeks.

“Mama!”

Mehrunnisa looked up from her work. Ladli stood at one corner of the garden, her eyes searching through the foliage, her mouth beginning to pout.

“Here,
beta,”
Mehrunnisa called out, lifting a hand. The sun’s rays glanced off her silver bangles, and Ladli suddenly saw her. She ran toward her mother, stepping over the melons with the nimbleness of a gazelle, her small feet sinking into the soil.

“Be careful,” Mehrunnisa called out, but Ladli was already on her way, her face alight with smiles. She came up to Mehrunnisa and flung her arms around her, almost knocking her off her knees. Then she kissed her on the cheeks, first one, then the other.

“You are dirty, Mama,” Ladli said, wrinkling her little nose. She pulled away and dusted her
kameez.
“All this mud—why are you
working in the garden now? Why are you not with the Dowager Empress?”

Mehrunnisa laughed as she sat back on the gunnysack. “The Empress does not need me today, so I thought I should garden for a while before the sun sets. How were your classes? Did you learn anything, or were you naughty again? The
mulla
has been complaining quite a bit about you.”

“The
mulla
complains about everything, Mama,” Ladli said. “He is so boring; he teaches me nothing. I am only a girl and do not need it, he says. Can I sit with you for a while?”

“Yes,
beta,”
Mehrunnisa said, shaking out the dust from another gunnysack. She smiled at Ladli’s words abut the
mulla.
Once, a long time ago, Mehrunnisa herself had complained to Asmat about
her
teacher, finding it cumbersome to be contained within a classroom for learning. She watched with amusement as Ladli sat carefully on the sack, pulling the edges of her
kameez
onto the square piece of cloth and away from the earth. It was hard to believe Ladli was only six years old; she was already a young lady. Mehrunnisa had often chanced on her daughter preening in front of a mirror, moving one way, then another, to see how an enameled hair clip sat on her head or how a
dupatta
draped over her shoulder. Or she would pull out Mehrunnisa’s jewelry box and try out all the ornaments, laying them back carefully on the padded silk when she was done. “Mama, when will this be mine? And this? And this?” she would ask, sliding a large bangle almost to her shoulder.

Watching the bright eyes intent on her, Mehrunnisa put a muddy hand under Ladli’s chin and raised her mouth for a kiss.

“Mama, you are dirty!” Ladli pulled away and dusted off her face.

Mehrunnisa shook her head, smiling at the child. At Ladli’s age she was climbing trees, using a slingshot to shoot at birds, trying her best to knock the
gilli
more times than Abul. But then she had had Abul and Muhammad to play with. Ladli had no one.

She turned and plunged her hands into the rich soil, indifferent to the dirt under her nails and in the creases of her palms. Only during these times in the gardens could she escape thinking of all that had happened in the past four years. And only this intense physical activity would bring sleep to claim her at night for a few hours, and she would not wake screaming to nightmares of Ali Quli’s death.

The sun dipped a little deeper in the west, and the two stayed on in the melon patch. Ladli was sitting as prim and proper as a princess on a gunnysack. Mehrunnisa, clad in plain unadorned green like a maid, tendrils of hair escaping to cling damply to her face, her arms mud-smeared to the elbows, tended to the melons, deep in thought—though she had promised herself she would not think of the past today.

After Ali Quli’s death, the Emperor had sent an imperial summons to Bengal, commanding her presence at Agra. Haidar Malik, henchman to the dead governor Qutubuddin Koka, had looked after Ladli and her during the six horrifying months in Bardwan that followed Ali Quli’s death. Somehow he had kept them safe, and when the Emperor’s summons had arrived, he had used the gold-and-gilt sealed order to buy pack horses and food for the journey, and freedom from harassment by Koka’s relatives.

Mehrunnisa had returned to Agra still in a daze, not knowing what to expect. Her parents were at court in Kabul, but the Emperor had made plans to return to Agra soon, and they too would return with him. Until then, she needed a place to stay. A few days after her arrival, Ruqayya Sultan Begam, now a very discontented Dowager Empress, had summoned her back to the harem and into her service. Which was just as well, since Mehrunnisa needed a place to hide, to nurse her wounds, to think. The imperial
zenana,
with its maze of palaces, courtyards, and gardens and its numerous occupants, was the best place to be anonymous. As the months passed Mehrunnisa started to sew and paint when Ruqayya
gave her the time. Soon she was designing and making
ghagaras
and
cholis
for the women of the harem. The money from this she kept carefully in a wooden casket. For what, she did not know yet, but it was the first time she had money of her own—not from Bapa, not from Ali Quli, not from Ruqayya.

Then the court had returned to Agra, and Mehrunnisa had waited to hear from Jahangir. There had been nothing but silence, only news of him from the
zenana
ladies. He seemed to have forgotten her.