The Twentieth Wife (8 page)

And the days passed. The children were all taught the scriptures, arithmetic, geometry, astronomy, and the classics. When those studies were done, Asmat made sure her daughters also learned to paint, sew, embroider, and oversee the servants. While they were at Kabul, Prince Salim’s third wife, Sahib Jamal, gave birth to his second son, Parviz. Ghias returned home at the end of a day to find his wife and daughters seated on low divans busy with their embroidery.

“The messengers have brought news from the court.” He held out the letter.

Asmat glanced through the elaborate Turkish script, the language of the imperial court. Babur, Akbar’s grandfather and the first Mughal emperor of India, had adopted Turki, his native tongue, as the official language to keep in touch with his ancestry through Timur the Lame. That practice had continued through the generations. Both Asmat and Ghias had been unfamiliar with Turki upon their arrival in India but had taken great pains to learn the language. Around the courts, the nobles spoke Arabic and Hindi, which was
Sanskrit based, with a liberal borrowing of Persian words. Asmat and Ghias now spoke all these languages fluently. At home, their conversation was a strange amalgam of Persian, Hindi, and Arabic, the children tending more toward the languages of Hindustan rather than the native Persian of Asmat and Ghias.

“Let me see, Maji,” Mehrunnisa said.

Asmat handed her the letter. Mehrunnisa read it rapidly, then returned to her embroidery. Prince Salim had another son. Two heirs to the empire already. Mehrunnisa had not heard from the Empress in all the time they had been at Kabul. Ruqayya was a poor correspondent, with little patience to even dictate to a scribe. In any case, the Empress could not be expected to write, so Mehrunnisa wrote to her every now and then. News of the harem came from other courtiers’ wives to her mother. They said that Princess Jagat Gosini, Salim’s second wife, was a feisty girl with a stubborn chin and a strong back, who would not be cowed by anyone. But there was no sign of a child yet. That kept her somewhat subdued.

Mehrunnisa stuck the needle into the cloth and laid it aside, staring out of the window at the snow-clad mountains. Leaving the court had been difficult, but it was only for a few years, Bapa had said. There were new adventures here, new friends to make, new places to see. Here she had met Mirza Malik Masud for the first time. He was her foster father; he had found her as a baby under a tree and returned her to Bapa and Maji. Mehrunnisa had been timid with the merchant with his weatherbeaten, sunburnt face, but he had put her at ease immediately. “I am like your Bapa,
beta,”
he said. “You cannot be shy with me.” He had brought a gift for her, a bolt of thin gold muslin for a veil, the weave so fine the cloth could be pulled through a ring. After the awkwardness of the first meeting, Mehrunnisa spent hours listening to his tales: of highway robberies, of camels that refused to budge when ghosts possessed them, of tents that flew away in the wind, leaving the caravan naked
and shivering under a cold night sky. She became so comfortable with him that she was sorry when he left, but he took with him her promise to write every month.

Bapa was much revered at Kabul; people came from far to see him, to ask his advice, to listen with respect. They always left a little gift for him on the table: an embroidered bag weighted at the bottom, or, in season, mangoes, brilliant yellow and honey sweet, or even the horse one nobleman had led to the front yard. They were privileges attached to the post of the
diwan,
Bapa said—privileges they all enjoyed. But, Mehrunnisa sighed softly, it was nothing like the imperial
zenana
with its beautiful women and its petty jealousies and thrilling intrigues. She missed Ruqayya’s caustic tongue and quick wit. How did the Empress interact with Prince Salim’s proud second wife?

“When are we going back to Lahore, Bapa?” she asked suddenly.

Ghias looked up from the official documents in his hand. “When the Emperor wishes. I have no say in the matter. Why do you ask?”

“No reason.” Mehrunnisa picked up the cloth and bent toward her embroidery. Restlessness rose over her like tide on a beach. The older she became—she was now fourteen—the more Bapa and Maji imposed restrictions on her. Do not go out too much; keep your voice down; pull your veil over your head when a strange man, one not of the family, comes to visit. These restrictions would be part of her life from now on, for she was a woman. But cloistered as they were, the women of the imperial
zenana
still managed to step beyond the harem walls. They went to visit temples and gardens and to sightsee. They owned lands in the empire and talked with their stewards without any commotion. Ruqayya advised Akbar on grants of gifts or
mansabs
or his campaigns. Though she was behind the veil, she was still a voice to reckon with. Nowhere else in the empire did women have such freedom. A mere nobleman’s wife could never hope for such liberty. The sheath of royalty gave the
women of the imperial harem an emancipation a commoner could never hope to achieve.

Mehrunnisa clicked her tongue in irritation when she saw that her stitches had flowed over the pattern of champa flowers. She pulled the needle out of the pink thread and, using one end, undid the stitches one by one. It was ironic, really, because the royal
zenana
was a sign of the Emperor’s wealth and position, his most important possession—more important at times than the treasury or the army. Although physically shut from the rest of the world, it still slid tentacles into every aspect of the empire.

She had gained all this perspective from being away from the
zenana,
and from growing older, for now her movements were more curtailed. At fourteen, she was already considered a woman ready for marriage.

Perhaps it was for the best that they were away. With distance must come a deeper desire. But Bapa had to, he must, return to court. Then she could watch Ruqayya, a mere woman, exert her power over the minions who scurried at her commands. Then Mehrunnisa would see Salim’s wives for herself. And Salim? He had to notice her too, or how else would she become Empress?

Baba Shaikhuji, since all this

Sultanate will devolve upon thee why

Hast thou made this attack on me?

To take away my life there was no need of injustice,

I would have given it to thee if thou hadst asked me.

—W. H. Lowe, trans.,
Munktakhab-ut-Tawarikh

T
HE SOFT STRAINS OF A
sitar
floated down from the balcony into the reception hall at the Lahore fort. Thin muslin curtains, hung on arches, billowed in the breeze that swept through the outer courtyard. Within, wisps of bluish gray smoke from incense censers swirled upward, spreading the aroma of musk and aloewood around the room. The white marble floor gleamed dully in the lamplight, bare of furniture except for one satin-covered divan in a corner, flanked by bright Persian rugs.

Prince Salim lay on the divan, head propped against a velvet bolster, a goblet balanced precariously on his chest. He watched as slave girls clad in the finest muslin swayed and undulated to the music, their anklets tinkling as they moved. The low insistent drum of the
tabla
joined in with the
sitar,
and Salim turned his head to look up at the enclosed balcony, where an entire orchestra was assembled. His gaze then dropped to the pretty faces surrounding him.

The ladies of his
zenana
sat around the prince, gorgeously attired and delicately perfumed, their toilette so complete that not one hair was out of place. The ladies were unveiled. They were the reason why the musicians were sequestered: if the ladies of the harem appeared without the
parda
in front of their lord, no other men
could be present. Salim was surrounded only by the members of his harem: wives and concubines, slave girls and eunuchs.

The room blurred into a drunken haze. Salim lifted a languid finger and beckoned to a slave girl. She hurried to his side and, bowing gracefully, poured more liquor into his jade cup. Salim raised it to his mouth and drank greedily, the alcohol fumes tickling his nostrils. In his haste, he spilled the rich yellow liquid on his
qaba.

Jagat Gosini, Salim’s second wife, touched his arm.

He glared at her. “What is it?”

“My lord,” she said gently. “Perhaps you should try these grapes.”

Salim’s glance softened as he looked at her calm face. He opened his mouth and allowed himself to be fed like a child with a few plump, purple grapes, but they were like sand on his tongue. Five years of drinking had spoiled his appetite for food. He pushed her hand away impatiently.

To his right sat Man Bai, whom he had given the title of Shah Begam, chief princess of his harem. After all, she had provided him with his first son, Khusrau. Jagat Gosini made a sign to Man Bai. As Salim turned to Man Bai, she tried to tempt him with some sweets.

A petulant frown creased Salim’s brow. He stared moodily into the distance, tapping his now empty jade goblet on the marble floor, ostensibly keeping time with the music. Suddenly he threw his cup against a sandstone pillar. It crashed and broke into tiny, green, wine-tinged pieces. Startled, the musicians stopped playing, and the princesses froze in their places.

“Your Highness—” Jagat Gosini tentatively put a hand on his arm. Salim pushed her away and staggered to his feet.

“Why doesn’t the old man die?” he yelled. “He has ruled for thirty-five years. It is time for the next generation to sit on the throne of Hindustan.”

Silence followed.

Salim weaved unsteadily up and down the carpet, his hands
clenched into fists, his face red. He had been content until now to be heir to the throne. But during the last few months, his courtiers had pointed out, quite rightly, Akbar’s extreme injustice in remaining steadfastly alive while Prince Salim was mature enough to take over the duties of state.

Salim’s legs gave way, and he collapsed on the floor. Attendants came rushing to help him. He waved them away with a drunken gesture and lay there, looking up at the ornate ceiling of the hall, abloom in lotus flowers embossed in gold trim.

He had everything he could want: handsome looks; virility, which had been proved twice by the birth of two sons; several wives; and an equal number of concubines. Yet, he had nothing without the crown. He should rebel, as Mahabat Khan and the others had suggested. That would teach Akbar a lesson.

As soon as the thought came to his mind, Salim groaned. Akbar was too strong an Emperor. It was unlikely he would give up his throne without a fight. But why not? Akbar had come to the throne of the empire at the tender age of thirteen. He, Salim, was now twenty-two, and surely mature enough to handle the duties of state.

Salim drummed his fists on the floor in frustration. Akbar could live for many years, and when he eventually died, it would be too late. Salim would come to the throne an old man. What use would that be? He curled up on the carpet, and hot tears rolled down his face.

Jagat Gosini made a sign for everyone to disperse. The musicians and attendants bowed and left in silence. She went up to her husband. “Sleep now, my lord,” she said in a soothing voice. “You are tired.”

Salim lifted a tearful face. “When will I be Emperor?”

“Soon, my lord. Come, you must rest.”

Salim let himself be led to the divan. He lay down heavily, still sniffling. The lamps were extinguished, plunging the room in darkness. Under the soft touch of his wife’s hand, the prince cried himself to sleep.

•   •   •

S
ALIM OPENED HIS
eyes and gazed around the unfamiliar room. Why had he slept in the reception hall? He moved slightly, then sank back on the divan with a groan. Hammers pounded on his brain. His mouth was dry, rank with the smell of stale liquor. He licked his lips and shouted, “Water!”

The previous night came rushing back to him. Something had to be done. Salim rose and staggered to his rooms. He sat waist-high in a tub of warm water, deep in thought, as the steam leached out the aches and pains and alcohol from his body. Should he do what Mahabat and the others had suggested—no, dropped hints about? But how could he do that to his own father? A father who doted on him and loved him, whose eyes lit up when he saw Salim? Yet, what was he, Salim, without the throne?

Salim scooped water with his hands and splashed his heated face. No, it had to be done. Mahabat said Humam was reliable, that he would fix it so Akbar would not be hurt too much, just incapacitated. Then Salim could be Emperor. . . .

A few hours later, Akbar’s personal physician,
hakim
Humam, came to the prince’s apartments. Salim dismissed all his attendants. The
hakim
and Salim remained closeted for an hour. Then the
hakim
left, carrying in his right hand a heavy embroidered bag, usually used for gold
mohurs.

Salim stood at the door to his apartments, watching Humam leave. He almost shouted out at the last minute to stop the man, then changed his mind. He was not strong enough yet, and his mind was too fuddled by the morning dose of opium. Perhaps, Salim thought dully, sinking down to the marble floor and leaning against the doorway, nothing would happen after all. Neither Salim nor the
hakim
noticed one of Akbar’s servants lounging against a pillar in the main courtyard.