The Twentieth Wife (48 page)

If she would have him.
Her heart skittered. And she knew there was nothing else she wanted. She sat looking at him—at the hair on his head, more gray than black; at the high cheekbones that defined his Timurid ancestry; at the stubble of beard on his chin. His hair was flattened where the turban had sat on it, a ring indenting his forehead. He was changed from the slim, impetuous boy she had met in Ruqayya’s gardens. He was quieter, more leisurely in his movements, now a mature man. His hands were strong, a warrior’s hands more than a king’s, with a dusting of white hair. Yet the years seemed to melt away between them; it was like the first love, with the same passion and the same aching, but tempered with patience.

Reaching into the inner pocket of his
qaba,
Jahangir brought out a slim book, bound in red leather, Persian characters embossed in gold on the cover. “This is for you. I did not know what to bring . . . I thought perhaps you have read Firdausi. . . .”

She took the book from him and turned the gold-tipped pages. “From the imperial library.” Her voice was hushed.

“My father, Emperor Akbar—”

“I know who your father was, your Majesty.” Her eyes danced with laughter.

“He had this edition in the library. I thought you would like to read it. It tells the story of Rustem, the great Persian king. Your history, Mehrunnisa.”

Mehrunnisa touched the pages reverently. The Emperor’s library was famous for its huge collection, its bindings, and its exquisite calligraphy. Some of the library was housed in the imperial
zenana,
some outside, but Mehrunnisa had not been able to get permission to go into it while she was in the harem. Prose and poetry in every language conceivable—Hindi, Persian, Greek, Kashmiri, Arabic—lived within the library. “It is a beautiful book, and I know the story of
Rustem, the king who was cut from his mother’s womb because he grew too heavy inside.” She rushed on in excitement, pleased to be able to hold in her hands a book from the library. “But she survived, healed by a poultice of musk and milk and grass. He was a gift for her from Khuda, the brave son of Zal, the grandson of Saum.”

“But he killed his own son one day.”

“Yes, but it was a son he did not know existed, whose birth was hidden from him by his wife. So when they met in the battlefield, they met as strangers.”

“But Sohrab asked him time and again if he was the great warrior Rustem, and Rustem denied it.”

Mehrunnisa turned to the end of the epic poem by Firdausi and pointed to a page. “See—his mother laments Sohrab’s death and wonders why he did not tell Rustem that he was his son. She asks why he did not show him the bracelet that would have proved their kinship. Why he was so stubborn, why time and again he met his father in the battlefield and on the wrestling mat and did not tell him.”

The Emperor smiled at her and leaned back on the champa tree. “I see you have read the poem. It is not so easy sometimes to speak of what is closest to your heart.”

She looked at him. “You did, your Majesty, in the letter you sent me.”

Thus they talked in Ghias Beg’s inner courtyard, safe from prying eyes. The days passed in that way: slow summer days replete with love. They mostly talked, rarely touched. Every now and then Mehrunnisa would lean forward for a kiss, trembling at the touch of his lips, drawing back with exhilaration at her power over him. Once Ladli had come rushing into the courtyard, wondering where her mother was. When she had satisfied herself that Mehrunnisa was still in the house, she climbed onto Jahangir’s lap and pulled at his moustache to see if it was real.

“Ladli!” Mehrunnisa said, shocked.

“Let her be,” Jahangir said, laughing, turning his face this way and that from the child’s hands. He finally allowed her to tug at his moustache, grimacing in mock pain.

“Oh, it
is
real,” Ladli said, disappointed. “I have to go tell my Dadaji. He said it was not.” She ran off, her long plait swinging behind her.

“Your Majesty, I apologize, my Bapa would not have—” Mehrunnisa stopped, her face red. The child talked too much. She cursed herself for having never before curbed Ladli’s tongue.

Jahangir said, still laughing, “I know, Mehrunnisa. She probably misunderstood what Ghias Beg said. Do not scold her tonight. I remember so little of the childhood of my sons. She must be a blessing to you.”

“After losing many before,” Mehrunnisa whispered, more to herself than to him.

Jahangir stopped laughing and turned to her. “What? I did not know.”

She wound one end of her veil around her fingers. “How could you have known? It was no secret, but I did not talk about it much. And then Ladli came, and there was no point in talking about it. But I sometimes wonder who they would have been, what they would have become, what joys and sorrows would have painted their lives.”

“How many?” Jahangir asked.

Mehrunnisa bent and put her face in her hands. When she spoke her voice was muffled. “Two. Two before Ladli. None since.”

Jahangir put an arm around her shoulders and bent close to her face, still shielded from him by her hands. “It would not have mattered to me. You were all I ever wanted.”

He kissed her gently on the forehead, and she leaned into him, knowing that what he said was true. He had sons from other wives, but from her all he would have asked was that she love him.
In return he would have given her his love. Jahangir rocked her gently in his arms, then pulled her onto his lap. Mehrunnisa let the tears flow for those spirit children of hers, glad to be able to do so with someone at last. She had tried not to cry in front of Maji and Bapa; it would have hurt them deeply. In front of Ali Quli she had not been able to cry—not for this reason, anyway. When her sobs died down, Jahangir lifted her chin and held his handkerchief to her nose.

“Blow,” he commanded.

Mehrunnisa backed away. “Your Majesty—”

“Don’t argue, Mehrunnisa. You argue too much. Listen to your Emperor and blow your nose.”

She did as she was told and smiled at him through her tears, at this man who treated her with such kindness. Then she kissed him, their lips meeting with fire, her tears smudging his face.

The next day the Emperor gave her another gift, brought in not on a gold tray by attendants but by himself. Twelve emerald-studded bangles, thin as wire, glittered in the sunshine.

“For you, Mehrunnisa,” he had said simply, watching for her response with anxious eyes.

She held out her hand for them, saying nothing, and he set them down to slip them one by one over her hand, his fingers lingering on her knuckles. Six on each wrist. Mehrunnisa reached out slowly to touch his hair, the bangles tinkling as she moved.

“Come back to the
zenana,
Mehrunnisa. I want you there. I want to look after you, to take care of you. Come to me, my darling. Please say you will come.” He smiled and went on, “All this courting is tiring me. I am not young anymore. I need you with me.”

Mehrunnisa stood before Jahangir, her mind full. Those were the words she had wanted to hear. She put a hand out to him and then drew back. Nowhere was there a mention of marriage, of a wedding. Her face flamed with shame. Perhaps Bapa had been right
after all. She had insisted on not having a chaperone during their meetings; now he was treating her like a common woman.

She remembered, after all these years, sitting in Ruqayya’s gardens that afternoon, watching as Akbar’s concubines painted henna patterns over one another. They had little value in the imperial
zenana
—no titles, no respect, no real position—so they vied with one another for ways to capture the Emperor’s attention. She had been thankful then that she was not one of them. And young as she was, she realized that if Salim did not come to her with a desire that blinded and deafened him to everything else in the world, she would not be able to bear it. How long she could sustain it, she did not know. But that it could be sustained she was certain. Now he came to her with the words she wanted so desperately to hear—of his need for her, of his desire—but wrapped in paper, not in silk. Tears welled inside her, and she fought them away. He would not see her cry again. Why would she cry for this man?

Choosing her words carefully, she said, “Your Majesty, it is best you leave now. I cannot—I will not—be your concubine.”

Jahangir recoiled, his graying hair whiter in the sunlight, the frown lines on his forehead more pronounced, his face heavier. “Why?” It was a cry full of anguish.

Mehrunnisa stared at him helplessly. Why? He asked why? Was he stupid? Had she not made her intentions clear? She was deeply angry, because now she was a fool to have thought anything more could come of this courtship.

He took her hands, grasping them when she tried to move away. “Mehrunnisa, please, tell me why. I cannot live—” He stopped for a while, looking down at her hands, kissing one, then the other. “No, this is not about my need, although you know of that well. That I cannot live without you again, that I need to wake in the morning with you by my side. I had hoped that this was what you wanted too. I thought you had shown me that.”

“I have, and it is true, your Majesty.” Tears came then, fast and furious, splashing down on their joined hands. They had already, in these last two months, talked more than Ali Quli and she ever had. Of poets and poetry, of the empire and its concerns, of the
zenana,
of the Emperor’s passion for hunting, of his promises to teach her. They had laughed, touching faces, leaning against each other in what seemed like absolute comfort, with no expectations from each other, no wants the other could not satisfy. And through all this, Mehrunnisa had learned more about Jahangir than she had ever known of her husband of thirteen years.

But now she could not tell him why she denied him—his simple request, as he saw it. What would she say? Make me your wife, your Majesty. And then wonder for the rest of her life if that was why he had married her.

Jahangir wiped away her tears with an end of her silk veil. His touch was gentle, as though she were a child. “Then why? Tell me; I do not understand. Other things—about the empire, the kingdoms I acquire, the battlefield, even the
zenana
—these are simple. But why are you saying no?”

She shook her head mutely.

He put her hand against his mouth and spoke into it softly, his troubled gaze resting on her face, “This much I do know. I offer you a better life than you can ever have. And now, after all this time with me, if you do not come to the imperial harem, your reputation will suffer. People will talk, Mehrunnisa. The Emperor’s discarded concubine can have no standing in society. I know,” he held up the other hand to silence her when she opened her mouth to protest, “that we were never . . . never that close. But no one else knows that. Even I cannot stop them from gossiping. But in the
zenana,
you will be under my protection, where no one can touch you with their malicious tongues.”

She pulled away, anger flooding out at his words. “So that is why
you offer me this exalted position of concubine, your Majesty? To protect me? You forget that I have looked after myself for four years now, with no help from either you or my Bapa. I will doubtless be a fallen woman, but I will not—absolutely will not—come to your
zenana
as a concubine.”

Jahangir stared at her, stricken, empty of feeling, her words tearing through his heart. Then slowly, heavily, as though he had aged in the past hour, he turned and went out of the courtyard. He did not look back at her.

Mehrunnisa watched him go, wanting to call out—I will be your concubine, your Majesty—not wanting to let him go. But she could not speak for anger, for shame, for the deep hurt she felt. From him she had not expected this base offer of protection. He had not spoken of love—well, yes, he had, but casually. More insistent was the fact that he made this offer for her sake, so she could hold her head up in society. All those years when he had ignored her, everyone—Bapa, Maji, Ruqayya—had echoed his words: that without a man’s guardianship she would not have any status.

Would this devastation pass? Would her strength return? As it had when she had lost two children and not known whether she would hold her child in her arms. As it had when she fought to keep her name and her reputation, when her father was labeled an embezzler, her brother was put to death because he attempted to assassinate Jahangir, her husband killed the Emperor’s favorite.

She cried aloud, collapsing on the floor of the courtyard, the sobs wrenching her body. Her world was shattered. After so many years of wanting Jahangir, she was certain she would never again see this man who should have been her husband.

It is scarcely necessary to recall the romantic story of Nur Mahal (better known by her later title of Nur Jahan)—her marriage to Shir Afghan, his assassination, and her subsequent union with the emperor, who had already been attracted to her before her first marriage. At this period her influence over her husband was so unbounded that she practically ruled the empire. . . .

—William Foster, ed.,
The Embassy of Sir Thomas Roe to India