The Twentieth Wife (45 page)

Mehrunnisa stood uncomfortably under Khurram’s keen gaze. This was too much. Even if Khurram wasn’t aware that his fiancee was her niece, at least she was. Sometimes Ruqayya’s mischievous side went too far, and she didn’t know when to stop.

“Your Majesty,” she complained. “It is highly improper to talk of such things. Please . . .”

“All right.” Ruqayya waved a hand, bored with the little game. “Go, Khurram. I will see you at the celebrations tomorrow.”

Prince Khurram bowed and left the room with a wide grin on his face. Mehrunnisa went to the wardrobe and began folding the Empress’s clothes, her cheeks still flushed with embarrassment.

“You know, Khurram is right.”

Mehrunnisa turned to the Empress.

“If I let you go out more often, someone or the other will want to marry you.” Ruqayya’s eyes twinkled in her lined face. “You must go unveiled in the bazaar. The only men there will be from the royal family. Who knows—the Emperor may see you.”

At those words, Mehrunnisa’s heart seemed to stop. She turned away from Ruqayya, her eyes bright at the thought of seeing Jahangir again face to face after so many years.

Ruqayya watched her carefully, seeing the slim curve of her back, the mass of heavy hair at the nape, the slender fingers folding silk, and she remembered the Emperor’s madness for Mehrunnisa. She had some power over him that no other woman in his
zenana
could match. A thought began to form in Ruqayya’s active mind. Mehrunnisa’s beauty must not be wasted within the imperial harem. Jahangir had once been enamored of her; perhaps—just perhaps—he still would be. A little push in the right direction . . . and she, Ruqayya, would reap the benefits of any union between the Emperor and Mehrunnisa. But more importantly—Ruqayya smiled a sly little smile—that would really upset Jagat Gosini, wouldn’t it?

The king, who was deeply in love with her, sent an order to the governor of the city of Patana (Patnah) that as soon as Sher Afgan should arrive there with a letter he must be slain. This was done, but the valorous soldier, although taken unawares, killed five persons in defending himself. . . . She was a woman of great judgement and, of a verity, worthy to be a queen.

—William Irvine, trans.,
Storia do Mogor by Niccolao Manucci

“A
RE YOU READY?
C
AN WE
go now?” Ladli jumped up from the stool and pranced around the room, her eyes bright with excitement. “Will we see the Emperor? Why are we waiting? When can we go?”

Mehrunnisa smiled at her daughter’s impatience. “Soon,
beta.
We have to wait for your Dadi.”

“When is she coming? Why isn’t she here?”

“She is.” A chuckle came from the doorway. Asmat Begam opened her arms; Ladli flew into them and hugged her tightly.

“Let’s go, Dadi.” She pulled away and tugged at the skirts of Asmat’s
ghagara.

Mehrunnisa went over to her mother. Through all their trials, Asmat had held steady. She had taken Ghias Beg’s fall from grace with courage; in her was an implicit belief that her husband was right, that he was always right, even when he faltered. There had to have been a reason for the embezzlement. When Mehrunnisa had met her parents upon their return to Agra, she had not known what to say to her Bapa. But Asmat had taken her aside one day
and said simply, “He is your Bapa. He gave you life; he taught you what you know. In many senses you are what he made you,
beta.
If anything has gone wrong it is because he misjudged the situation. You know how open-handed your Bapa is with his money, how no one in need is turned away from our door even if we have little at home. Now go back to him. Your silence pains him deeply. It is not for a child to forgive her parent. I cannot believe your Bapa is wrong;
you
must not do so.”

Now, looking at her mother, Mehrunnisa smiled at the memory of that conversation. With her Bapa, her relationship had always been open; they had talked, joked, even argued on occasion. Asmat was more silent, more thoughtful; but with her gentle hand she guided her as she had that day. So Mehrunnisa went to see Ghias in his room. He was at work on some treasury ledgers and lifted tired eyes when she entered. Mehrunnisa sat down next to him and leaned her head against his shoulder. Then they talked for many hours, sitting like that, their voices weaving new life through the shattered pieces of their relationship. And things were all right between them because her mother, always in the background, had stepped forward this one time.

“Aren’t you coming,
beta?”
Asmat asked Mehrunnisa.

“Not yet, Maji. I will join you later,” she replied.

Asmat nodded and ushered Ladli out of the room. A few minutes later they disappeared from the doorway, and Mehrunnisa could hear Ladli’s delighted squeals as she skipped down the corridor.

She walked slowly to the balcony outside her room. Benign cotton-ball clouds strolled lazily across the blue sky, the sun playing hide-and-seek behind them. It was late in the afternoon, and the golden, slanting rays had lost their strength to burn. Mehrunnisa’s gaze drifted down to the courtyard, where the Mina bazaar was in full swing. Sounds of laughter floated up to her with the delicious aroma of golden-brown
jalebis
sputtering in hot oil.

The bazaar had been set up in the courtyard adjacent to the Mina Masjid in the fort at Agra. Stalls lined the four sides of the courtyard, gaily festooned with fresh flowers and colored paper flags. The vendors sold everything: flowers, jewelry, silks, satins, even vegetables and spices.

The ladies of the imperial harem—for whom the bazaar has been specially commissioned—enjoyed themselves enormously, pretending to be normal housewives out to buy groceries for their families. The vegetables and fruits they bought at the bazaar were sent to the imperial kitchens, and the cooks prepared dishes from them for the night’s meal.

Mehrunnisa looked down at the array of fresh vegetables in one of the stalls: plump tomatoes, green mangoes, cabbages, creamy cauliflowers, carrots, cucumbers, long white radishes, slim snake gourds. A eunuch stood guard as the lady of the stall chopped the carrots, cucumbers, radishes, and gourds into neat slices and arranged them in a row. When that was done, the eunuch nodded and wandered on. So much for freedom in the
zenana,
Mehrunnisa thought. Even the vegetables were cut up so that the ladies could not misuse them.

The Emperor had a harem numbering three hundred women, which included wives and concubines. The women were lucky if their lord visited them at night at least once or twice a year and if one of those visits resulted in a child, preferably a male one. Through that came power—the ultimate power in a
zenana
filled with women—of being the mother of a potential heir to the throne. Wives and concubines all vied for that privilege. Yet, many of them spent their entire lives without ever seeing the Emperor, and after they reached thirty years of age, neither the Emperor nor any other man saw them again.

The
zenana
still held a charm for Mehrunnisa despite its disadvantages. Through it she, a mere woman, could become rich and
perhaps even bear an heir; she could become powerful in this world of men. But she was thirty-four, her mind told her sadly, and no man would find her attractive, let alone the Emperor.

A slight cough attracted her attention, and she whirled around. A eunuch stood at the doorway. “Her Majesty commands your presence,” he said.

“I shall come immediately.”

The eunuch nodded and left the room, slinking out as softly as he had come in. The
zenana
was always thus: prying eyes everywhere, whispered conversations in the air. To try and escape it was futile. The only thing to do was to live with it as best as one could—alert, vigilant, for ignoring it was also dangerous. When Asmat and Ghias returned to Agra they had tried to convince Mehrunnisa to come home to them with Ladli. She was their daughter; where else could she live? But Mehrunnisa had wanted this small bit of independence. Here she had work as the Dowager Empress’s lady-in-waiting. And all the skills Asmat had taught her—to paint, to sew—came in handy in making clothes for the ladies of the
zenana.
Mehrunnisa was paid well for these skills. In all, living in the imperial harem with its rooms of glass walls still had its compensations. Nowhere else could she have found this excitement, this intrigue, this basic instinct for survival in a gilded cage.

Mehrunnisa went to her bed and picked up a veil. She pinned it on her head and stood back from the mirror to look at herself. Her white
choli
and
ghagara
were embroidered with gold thread, and around her neck and wrists she wore thick gold chains. Her armlets were of milky white pearls, and two huge pearls dangled from her ears. The outfit contrasted with her hennaed hands and feet and with her blue eyes blazing from a delicately tinted face.

A slow smile spread over her face. No woman over thirty would dare to wear white; it symbolized purity and virginity. But the reflection in the mirror proved that she could wear it well. She took
a deep breath, smoothed down her
ghagara,
and went in search of Ruqayya Sultan Begam.

The Dowager Empress was holding court in one corner of the bazaar, surrounded by eunuchs, her ladies-in-waiting, and Prince Khurram.

Mehrunnisa approached Ruqayya. “Your Majesty wished to see me?”

“Yes,” Ruqayya said, her round face creasing into deep smile lines. “Go to the Emperor and tell him that I request his presence here.”

“To the Emperor, your Majesty?” Mehrunnisa stammered, the command taking her by surprise.

Both Ruqayya and Khurram were watching her intently, their faces mock serious. They were up to something. Some plot had been hatched, some snare set. What was it? A plan to humiliate her? Surely, Ruqayya would not do that to her. But Mehrunnisa knew that Ruqayya, much as she was fond of her, was quite capable of playing a small, cruel trick on her every now and then. She stood hesitantly at the Dowager Empress’s side, one part of her mind telling her to go—that this was a brilliant opportunity; what did she have to lose?—and the other holding her back.

“Well? Are you going?” Ruqayya asked sharply.

“As you wish, your Majesty.” Mehrunnisa bowed and turned away, pulling her veil over her head as she did so.

“Leave your veil off, Mehrunnisa. The Emperor will deem it a great insult if you go to him veiled. After all, there are only ladies present here.”

“Yes, your Majesty.” She walked away slowly. If she was to go, and unveiled, then she would not go meekly. If she had only had time to prepare for this, she would know what to say. Would he remember her? Had he thought of her all these years? No, he must have forgotten. If he had remembered, there would have been some sign, some indication. Her mind awhirl with thoughts, Mehrunnisa
picked her way through the bazaar. Behind her, the ladies, who had been silent so long, burst into laughter.

Somewhere in the distance, Ruqayya cackled with glee, and Mehrunnisa heard her say, “Give me my ten
mohurs,
Khurram.”

“Not yet, Ma.” Khurram’s voice floated to Mehrunnisa’s ears. “Let us wait and see.”

Ah, Mehrunnisa thought, it
was
a snare. They had bet on her. For what reason? Mehrunnisa’s step faltered. Then, her chin lifted higher in the air.
Ten mohurs only?
Surely she was worth more than that. Although the Dowager Empress dripped with money, she loved to wager with anyone who would give her half an ear, and she also demanded payment adamantly when she won. Which one of them had bet on her being the victor?

•   •   •

“Y
OUR
M
AJESTY
.” A hand tugged at the Emperor’s arm. “I want a ruby necklace.”

Jahangir looked at the girl. She dimpled prettily at him, raising a hand to brush her hair back from her face, giving him the full benefit of her slender waist and firm breasts.

“You shall have it,” he replied, putting an arm around her and pulling her close. “Where can we find a ruby necklace?”

She pointed immediately to a jewelry stall. “There, your Majesty.”

The ladies of the harem parted to give them way. As they walked the Emperor ran his hand over the girl’s slender back, and she giggled happily, her eyes alive with energy.

Jahangir sighed with contentment. It had been a good day so far. In the morning, he had been given gifts and presents from the courtiers, and all the nobles had lined up under the great canopy to pay their respects. After the noon meal and a short nap, he had come to the courtyard to visit the Mina bazaar.

This was the best part of the Nauroz festivities. He squired his various wives and concubines around the stalls, acting as a broker for
them, haggling with the shopkeepers and flirting outrageously with all the women. It was a pleasant break from lengthy, boring state duties. And there were so many beautiful women, all eager to please.

The wives of the nobles brought their daughters to the bazaar in the hope of catching the Emperor’s eye, for to be inducted into the royal harem even as a concubine was an honor. Besides, if a noble’s wife herself managed to capture Jahangir’s attention and became his mistress, it would mean great rewards for her and her family. So all the women turned out in their best finery. The bazaar was filled with gaily clothed ladies sparkling with jewels, the sounds of happy laughter, the tinkling of anklets, and the aroma of perfumed bodies.