Beneath a Marble Sky (2 page)

“She only deceived you, child, because she loves you. ”

“But Mother never lies,” Rurayya says.

“You’d lie, Rurayya, to protect your children. And so would you, Gulbadan. You’d tell a thousand lies, tell them each and every day for however long you needed to. And then, one morning, a morning much like this, you would tell the truth.”

“What is the truth?” Gulbadan demands.

I point across the river to the Taj Mahal. “Do you know why it was built?”

Heads turn toward the marble teardrop. “Emperor Shah Jahan,” my youngest granddaughter replies, “created it in memory of his wife.”

“In memory of our great-grandmother?” Gulbadan asks.

“Your great-grandparents lived extraordinary lives,” I answer. “Nizam knows their tale. Your parents know it. But we’re old, and the story must not wither with us.”

Rurayya looks at Nizam, who confirms my words with another nod. My friend is as honest as a mirror, and Rurayya’s lips part in wonder. “How did it begin?”

Though I am no teller of tales, my words rise swiftly, as I hope my story will temper their misgivings. I explain that before my father ever knelt on the Peacock Throne he was called Khurram, and that as the Emperor’s favorite son he was expected one day to rule the Empire.

“When Khurram was fifteen,” I continue, “he visited a silk and beads shop. Inside, sitting atop a cushion was my mother, Arjumand. Her beauty, the poets claimed, could make rainbows weep with envy. And so Khurram was drawn to her. He asked the price of a bead and she curtly replied that it wasn’t a bead, but a diamond. When she told him it cost ten thousand rupees, a sum she believed he could never afford, my father quickly produced the money.

“The next day, Khurram went to his father, begging for Arjumand’s hand in marriage. The Emperor himself had encountered the madness of love and could hardly deny it to his son. Yet he decreed that five years must pass before Khurram could wed Arjumand. Meanwhile, in a marriage of political convenience, my father was wed to Quandari Begum, a Persian princess.”

“Why do we never hear of her?” Gulbadan asks, her anger ebbing.

“Because my father’s other wives were as important to him as camels,” I answer, subduing a smile, pleased that Father placed Mother far above her predecessors. “He supported them in the harem but rarely saw them.”

“And after five years,” Rurayya wonders, “what happened?”

“Khurram and Arjumand were married under a full moon, within a ring of golden torches. Afterward, the air was so thick with Chinese rockets that night became day.”

Gulbadan’s gaze swings from the sky to me. “But, Jaha, where’s the danger in this?”

“The seeds of danger were sown soon afterward, when I and my brothers and sisters were born. We caused the Empire to plunge into war, a war pitting brother against sister, father against son.”

“You?”

“I was a part of it,” I reply slowly. “I tried to do what was best, but one can win only so many fights.”

“What fights? What did you do?”

“Hear me out, Gulbadan, and soon you will know everything.”

Chapter 1

My Awakening

W
iping yogurt from my lips, I stared about the imperial harem. The living quarters for select women of the Red Fort,the harem was a collection of apartments, gardens, alleys, retreats, terraces and grottoes. No man—except the Emperor, his sons, guests and eunuchs —was allowed into this world.

The Red Fort itself was like a lacquered box seeming to contain an infinite number of compartments. Inside the perimeter of the citadel lay the common grounds, mostly bazaars, mosques, temples and courtyards. The fort’s interior, segmented by stout sandstone walls, was comprised of
more private spaces consisting of apartments and halls and stables. And
within the very heart of this dizzying network stretched the imperial harem.

Thousands of women, supported by the Emperor, lived here. His wives, the most powerful of the harem’s residents, had their own palaces within
its walls. My grandfather, Emperor Jahangir, had seventeen wives—a small number compared to his ancestors’ spouses. Though Grandfather was dead, his wives, being much younger, still remained with their scores of servants. Most of the harem’s women were concubines, who excelled in the arts of dance and music and were always available for the Emperor’s delight.

The royal children also lived within this realm. I didn’t like it much, for the harem was a house governed by strict rules. My brothers could do almost anything, but girls enjoyed little freedom. In Grandfather’s day, female guards from the Amazon enforced the rules. Father had long since sent them away, but dozens of other guards were forever eager to keep me in check.

The harem’s rooms were equal parts magnificence and comfort. Floors were strewn with cashmere carpets and silk cushions, walls with paintings and mirrors. Alleys were lined with manicured trees, thick enough to discourage the gaze of outsiders, but not a gentle breeze. Everywhere fountains spouted from square pools brimming with untroubled koi.

I now sat in an immense room along with servants and concubines, as well as my brothers and sisters, who were swathed in silk and precious gems. A pair of wetnurses fed my twin sisters, who were only a few months old. Behind them, stood my mother, Arjumand. Like most noblewomen,  she was dressed in a short-sleeved shirt tight enough to seem a second skin and tucked into a loose skirt that fell to her ankles. Over her shoulders draped a cashmere shawl.

Everyone in the room, save eunuchs, servants and lesser concubines, wore jewelry. Strands of pearls adorned necks while precious stones dangled from each ear. Fingers and toes bore coveted treasures—gold and silver rings inset with sapphires and emeralds. Ladies’ nails gleamed in a variety of colors, though usually scarlet.

Beauty was revered within the harem, and most women competed to invent new clothing trends. The most fashionable ladies wore sections of peacock feathers or garlands of flowers in their hair. Others preferred colorful veils pinned atop their heads and falling back upon their shoulders. These veils were typically silk, though in cooler months women might wear pashmina, woven from the purest and most refined of cashmere fibers.

Eunuchs and servants dressed in simple tunics and robes. Standing next to Mother was her slave, Nizam. Though he’d been her attendant for almost a hundred moons, I had only recently learned his tale, which belied his gentle disposition. For when Nizam was only five, a Persian warlord slew his parents and seized him. Boys taken as slaves were usually castrated, but the warlord wanted his underlings someday to fight and was unwilling to stunt their growth with the gelding knife. Nonetheless, he ensured Nizam never pursued women by removing a portion of his manhood that Mother wouldn’t describe to me.

For several years thereafter Nizam had lived in a sprawling tent, serving the warlord’s women. When he pleased them, he was fed. When he failed to accede to their demands, he was beaten. His fate might have been forever unchanged, but praise Allah, our forces had overrun the Persians. Glimpsing Nizam’s bruised face, Father plucked him from the captured slaves. And though he became Mother’s slave, she cared for his wounds and treated him kindly.

Nizam had seen fifteen summers. Two years his junior, I was wise enough only to realize what little I knew of the world. I understood some things, such as my love for my parents, and their adoration for each other. The latter was easy, as Mother was often at Father’s side, regardless of whether at war abroad or at court conducting the Empire’s affairs. Whenever possible, my brothers and I accompanied her, for Mother wanted us to witness our father’s kingship.

Of my four brothers, Dara had always been kindest to me. He was just a year older and we were closer than many women in the harem thought appropriate. Setting my yogurt aside, I moved nearer to him. “Can you help me?” I asked, handing him an intricate bamboo cage the size of Father’s fist.

He looked up, pausing from his calligraphy. “You distract me too much, Jahanara,” he said. “Father will be unhappy with my work.”

“Unhappy with you? That I’ve never seen.”

Dara shrugged my words aside, taking the cage. Inside perched a trio of crickets, which often sang to me at night. Some bamboo at the top of the cage had cracked, and I feared that my crickets would escape.

“How did it break?” he asked.

“It’s old.”

He winked, a seemingly effortless action I wished I could duplicate. “You’d better be more careful with your pets. I wouldn’t like to step on them.” I started to speak, but Dara continued, “After all, Hindus believe we can be reincarnated into such creatures.”

I failed to see how I might become a cricket, but stayed silent. Dara knew much more about such subjects. Mesmerized by the dexterity of his hands, I watched him wind a silk thread about the splintered bamboo. In the time it would have taken me to draft a brief letter, he finished.

“Would you like to be a cricket?” he wondered.

Dara took such thoughts seriously, so I didn’t comment on the boredom a cricket must endure. “Perhaps if I lived in a banyan tree, where I might explore.”

“What about in your cage? Would the views be as interesting?”

“You think I should free them?”

“Do whatever you want,” he replied, and then tugged affectionately at my hair. “Which I know you will.”

As much as I enjoyed the crickets’ music, I realized Dara was right. For I lived in a cage of sorts, and few vistas existed indeed. “Would they prefer trees to grass?” I asked.

“Trees, I believe,” he said, returning to his studies.

I’ll leave them on a high branch, I thought, where no cats or lizards can vex them. While I debated which tree in the harem might make the best home, I noticed Aurangzeb had been watching us. The third of my four brothers, Aurangzeb was often sullen and remote. When our eyes met, he looked away. After hanging my cage from a teak post, I walked over and knelt on the carpet next to him. “Want to play a game?” I asked, for I was weary of books.

Aurangzeb snickered. “Games are for girls.”

“You could teach me polo.”

His laugh was high-pitched, reminding me of a squealing pig. “Polo?” he echoed scornfully, his delicate face tightening.

“I’d like to learn—”

“Only men play polo.”

Though Aurangzeb was merely eleven, I held my tongue. For a moment, at least. “Then why do you play?” I asked innocently.

His lips clamped shut and he pounced on me, digging his knees into my chest. I knew he wanted me to whimper and plead, so I struggled to remain silent, scratching at his legs. Barely stronger than he, I succeeded in knocking him backward. Aurangzeb flung himself at me again.

“Dara!” I cried, suddenly fearful of Aurangzeb’s temper.

My older brother moved swiftly to intervene, but before he could reach us, Nizam, who despite his youth seemed infinitely stronger, grabbed us each by the neck.

“Cease your foolishness!” Mother commanded tersely. She stood behind Nizam, arms clasped. “The harem is a place for study and relaxation, and is hardly fit for a brawl. If fighting is what you crave, find yourself a pile of mud outside.”

“But she—”

Mother’s glare silenced Aurangzeb. “Obviously, you both need a little sun. Shall we surprise your father?”

Before we could utter a word, she motioned for Nizam to free us. As he did so, she exchanged her shawl for a copper-colored robe, gathering it about her shirt and skirt with a purple sash. Bidding farewell to her friends, Mother led us from the room and proceeded down an adjacent alley. Her anger with me was apparent, for I had let Aurangzeb untether my emotions, a break of etiquette. To be truthful, Mother scorned such rules more than I did, but by wrestling Aurangzeb I’d flaunted them openly, giving no thought to my actions. Mother, on the contrary, disregarded rules only to serve a higher purpose.

A pair of guards opened the harem gates as we approached. Behind Mother and Nizam were my other brothers, Shah and Murad; Dara, Aurangzeb and I followed separately. Beyond the harem, the Red Fort fell into a riot of activity. We shared the cobbled streets with hordes of traders, administrators, warriors and priests. Almost everyone seemed in a hurry, darting into shops and mosques, stables and barracks. Far above us on the upper level, pavilions teemed with nobles and their servants.

The Red Fort nestles on the Yamuna. Encircled by sandstone walls fifty paces high and six paces thick, the fortress was the seat of my father’s empire. Upon its flagstones strode nobles and slaves alike. Formations of soldiers drilled incessantly in its courtyards, while several hundred warriors stood atop the citadel’s parapets. Cannons projected from the crenelated walls.

Hindus and Muslims bustled about, for under Father’s rule the Red Fort sheltered both sets of people. Though we Muslims ruled Hindustan, we comprised a minority of the populace. Our position was thus somewhat precarious. As Father often maintained, only by treating Hindus with respect could we retain control.

I observed those of the other faith as we hurried past. Their women wore saris—single lengths of cotton or silk wrapped about the body until only hands and face remained unconcealed. Muslim women’s robes were stitched and our outfits consisted of multiple pieces.

All of us wore sandals, and mine clopped my heels ceaselessly as I followed Mother. Piles of elephant and camel dung littered the way, and I had to eye the flagstones carefully. Normally, Nizam walked near me, but today, probably because of my fight, he remained by Mother. Though Nizam was often the victim of Aurangzeb’s cruel tricks and might secretly agree with me about my brother’s skills in polo, he was wise enough to guard his feelings.