The Twentieth Wife (51 page)

Hawkins was not alone in his quest. The Jesuit fathers scrambled around too, outbidding his offers, watching his every move with suspicion, tremulous and angry at this other foreign presence in
their
land. And every courtier vied for the best and most unusual present: something that would catch either Jahangir’s or
Mehrunnisa’s eye, for that would mean honors and gifts in return from the royal couple.

•   •   •

T
HE DAY OF
the wedding finally arrived.

The city of Agra was decorated with garlands of fresh marigolds and jasmines and multicolored paper flags. People thronged the streets in their best finery to celebrate their Emperor’s twentieth marriage. Everyone sensed that this marriage would be unusual. For the first time in his forty-two years, Jahangir had made his own choice, motivated by a charming pair of azure eyes and a bewitching smile, not by political strategy. Rumors were rife about Mehrunnisa’s beauty, so much so that people began to think of her as a goddess incarnate.

The fort at Agra wore the same festive air as the city. Attendants spent days preparing the
zenana
apartments and the fort. Royal gardeners had been hard at work trimming the hedges, mowing the lawns, and forcing flowering plants to bloom. Potted shrubs provided lush greenery indoors and outdoors. Flowers bloomed in discreetly hidden pots on top of the red sandstone ramparts, garlands festooned the pillars in the palaces, and rich, shimmering silks hung unnaturally from the trees like brilliant banners.

The servants, slave girls, and eunuchs were provided with new clothes, and the ladies of the harem vied with one another to beautify themselves. Hours were spent in perfumed baths, at massages, and at the toilette.

In Ruqayya Sultan Begam’s apartments, Mehrunnisa stared dreamily at her reflection in an ornate gold-edged mirror.

“It is time to get ready.”

Mehrunnisa looked at Hoshiyar Khan in the mirror. “Call the slave girls.”

He nodded and went to the door. Mehrunnisa leaned back on the divan and gazed thoughtfully after him.

She had won a first victory over Jagat Gosini. Hoshiyar Khan, chief eunuch of the
zenana,
who had been with Jahangir for thirty-five years and wielded enormous power in the harem, had been taken from Jagat Gosini and appointed as personal eunuch to Mehrunnisa.

Although she had never been a member of the harem, Mehrunnisa had spent enough time within the walls of the
zenana
to know that Hoshiyar would be a powerful ally. But as long as he was in service to Jagat Gosini, Mehrunnisa would have no chance of wresting power from her. The Empress had too long been chief lady of the harem to give up her position to a relative newcomer like Mehrunnisa.

Her first step upon entering Jahangir’s harem would be to gain that power, because she disliked the Empress and because she knew from Ruqayya that in this world of women only the Padshah Begam was supreme. Discretion was key, for Jahangir hated to see his ladies fight. The moment one of them came to him with a complaint, she was banished from his presence for an indefinite time. To live in the
zenana
and not be noticed by the Emperor was sure death as far as the ladies were concerned. Their lives revolved around him; he gave them the power and could just as easily take it away.

Mehrunnisa smiled wryly. She was no fool; she knew how to play the power game in the
zenana
and was going to call all her forces to hand right from the first moment. To start with, she needed Hoshiyar. A word in Jahangir’s ear had been enough for that, and although Jagat Gosini fumed inwardly, she dared not complain to her lord. Which was just as well, for if the Empress had objected, Mehrunnisa would have had to withdraw for the moment. Much as Jahangir adored her—and adore her he did—she would still have to be careful. For now, though, the smell of victory was sweet indeed.

The suggestion had come from Ruqayya in the past week. “You do not want a bumbling idiot of a man around you, Mehrunnisa. Get Hoshiyar Khan,” she said.

“The Empress will not like it, your Majesty,” Mehrunnisa replied automatically.

Then the two women smiled smoothly at each other. Jagat Gosini would not like it. So Mehrunnisa got Hoshiyar Khan.

The slave girls bustled into the room, carrying caskets of jewels, the wedding dress, and various bottles of perfumes and oils. Hoshiyar pranced around the room, busily directing their movements and shouting orders.

He seems perfectly at home here, Mehrunnisa thought. And why not? Although he had been at Jagat Gosini’s side for twenty years, Hoshiyar was a shrewd man and saw immediately that Mehrunnisa had a hold over Jahangir that no other lady had been able to duplicate. She could trust him—but not completely. As long as she remained in authority, Hoshiyar would be her ally, but once she lost it, he would fly to her opponent. However, while she was supreme in the
zenana,
Hoshiyar would do everything in his power—even lay down his life—to serve her.

“We are ready now.” Hoshiyar’s voice was respectful.

Mehrunnisa rose and stood still as the slave girls took off her robe. Then the process of dressing began. An hour later, a full-length mirror was brought to her.

Mehrunnisa gazed at her reflection.

She reached out and touched her garments with unsteady hands. Hundreds of tiny ruby buttons glittered all over the mango-leaf green
ghagara
and
choli
of raw silk. She wore two huge ruby earrings, a ruby and gold necklace, ruby bracelets and rings, and ruby-studded armlets. The only other colors on her body were the deep blue of her eyes and the ebony of her hair. A slave girl placed a green silk turban on her head; a single white heron feather, another gift from the Emperor, sprang from the aigrette that was a lime-sized vermilion ruby surrounded by pearls. Below the turban, her green muslin veil, transparent as pond water, flowed down her back, almost reaching the ground.

“The Emperor awaits, your Majesty,” Hoshiyar said at her shoulder.

Your Majesty! A rush of excitement flowed through her veins. In a few short minutes she would be Empress. She took a deep breath to steady herself and walked slowly out of the room to the Emperor’s apartments.

The corridors and verandahs leading to the Emperor’s palace were lined with slave girls and eunuchs. Mehrunnisa heard them gasp as she passed. At her approach, the two huge doors to Jahangir’s rooms swung open silently to reveal only a handful of people inside. This Mehrunnisa had insisted upon. Jahangir protested at the beginning, wanting a public, more extravagant ceremony. But Mehrunnisa said no. Why? Because they would spend the rest of their lives together in front of the empire. This moment of their joining must be private, so even the ceremony was curtailed. In her heart she was already married to him, had been married to him for a long time. This ritual was only a formality.

When she entered, she saw him immediately. The Emperor came up to her, his hand stretched out, and she put her hand in his. They had not seen each other in ten days, bowing to the rituals of marriage. That had not mattered to Mehrunnisa; just knowing they would be together soon was enough. They had filled the time with letters, two or three a day. She told him of her pleasure in his gifts; he told her he would send more, anything she wanted. He sent her the keys to the imperial library; to thank him she roamed the vast rooms looking for a book to send to him. She found a Persian translation of the
Jataka
tales. He came furtively to visit that night, and they sat on either side of a silk screen, delighted like children breaking a rule, obeying the spirit of the law if not the law itself. They took turns reading from the book, growling like the lion and squeaking like the monkey in the stories. As they passed the book under the screen, their hands touched, and they kissed with the cloth between them. As she drew back, Mehrunnisa asked if
Hoshiyar could be part of her personal entourage. Jahangir agreed instantly. Now their wedding was at hand.

“You look wonderful, my darling,” Jahangir said, his eyes filled with love.

“Thank you, your Majesty,” Mehrunnisa replied softly as she took her place next to him.

She glanced around the room. Ruqayya sat in one corner, her face inscrutable, a tiny smile touching her eyes. Ghias Beg was flushed, his expression drenched in pride. Her mother had a worried look on her face. Two nights ago she had asked Mehrunnisa if this was what she really wanted. Mehrunnisa had simply nodded, tired of giving explanations. The only other person in the room was her brother Abul. He too had come to her two nights ago, but for a different reason. Arjumand Banu Begam had been engaged to Prince Khurram for four years—a long engagement by any standards. He was hoping his sister would expedite the marriage. She looked at him and nodded reassuringly, noting the relief on his face with amusement.

Then she turned to Jahangir, her attention riveted to him, a feeling of security washing over her as his large hand covered her smaller one.

Jahangir bent over to Mehrunnisa. “In a few minutes we will be married.”

Her heart leaped at the words. “Yes, your Majesty.”

Mehrunnisa leaned briefly against Jahangir’s shoulder, letting her forehead rest on his arm, and his hand came up to touch her face just as briefly.

The Qazi called them to attention. He raised his hands and uttered a short prayer; all present joined in. Mehrunnisa held her breath as the Qazi asked Jahangir if he would take her for his wife.

“Yes, yes,” Jahangir replied impatiently. “Get on with the ceremony.”

The Qazi turned to Mehrunnisa and repeated the question. She watched his mouth move with the words, but they didn’t seem to register. When he repeated the question, Jahangir’s grip tightened on her hand. She heard a voice, her own, replying that she would take Nuruddin Muhammad Jahangir Padshah Ghazi to be her husband.

The Qazi registered the marriage and asked the Emperor to place his royal seal on the page. They were officially man and wife. Mehrunnisa watched in a daze as her family crowded around with congratulations. In the distance she could hear the trumpets informing the city that the wedding had taken place. Suddenly everyone fell silent. Mehrunnisa shook herself out of her reverie and looked around. Jahangir had his hand up.

“I have an announcement to make.” He glanced down at her. “From today, my beloved Empress shall be given the title Nur Jahan.”

Mehrunnisa’s heart thundered in her chest. The Emperor had already given her so much. In the outer courtyard of the palace a black stone bathtub, commissioned as part of her gifts, had engraved on its side the date in Persian: the 25th of May, 1611. And now he had given her a brilliant title: “Light of the World.”

A sudden anxiety whipped through her. Before now she had been anonymous in this harem of women—one of many, a beautiful face in a handsome crowd. But now she would be watched, thought of, deferred to. This was not a simple marriage. Marrying an Emperor never was. She was married not just to Jahangir but to the empire.

But the power gave her a chance to influence events. It would not be easy; women were given no such importance. All her life Mehrunnisa had known this. Bapa, when he had talked to her of his work, of the court proceedings, had not thought of her as a woman but as an equal. Much as he loved Maji, he had very rarely talked
thus with her. Would Jahangir treat her the same? Would he think her worthy?

She would have to fight for supremacy in the imperial harem, and then at court. If what the infidel William Hawkins reported was true, European queens shone in court beside their husbands. Why, there had been one English queen who ruled alone, who had come to the throne in her own right as the daughter of a king.

Mehrunnisa knew she had no such advantages. She would not be able to rule beside the Emperor, only behind him, hidden by the veil. Jahangir wanted his name to glow in posterity—and it would, for his life had been entrenched in history from the day of his birth. Mehrunnisa, perhaps few people would remember. Would someone—a hundred, three hundred, four hundred years from now—take in their mouths the name of Empress Nur Jahan?

Together, Jahangir and she would make the Mughal empire the brightest and most brilliant in the world. She wanted to do this for the man she loved so deeply, because this was what he wanted. And, Nur Jahan thought—already at ease with her new title—she wanted to be the force to reckon with behind the throne.

She wanted to be the power behind the veil.

T
HE
T
WENTIETH
W
IFE
is a work of fiction, although it is based on reality. Mehrunnisa was thirty-four when she married Emperor Jahangir, and over the next fifteen years she ruled the empire in his name. Seventeenth-century travelers to Emperor Jahangir’s court lavished attention on her in their accounts at home, for she was at the height of her powers then. None of the men actually saw her; their reports to their employers at the British and Dutch East India Companies are part fact, part legend, part gossip from the local bazaars.