Beneath a Marble Sky (24 page)

“A girl, Jahanara,” Father whispered blissfully. “A girl whose smile shall make flowers limp with jealousy.”

Her face, so magically small, was tethered in place by dark locks and a chubby chin. “She’s perfect,” I said, shedding tears as I thanked Allah. Father praised the physicians, giving each a thin bar of silver. After they left, he shut the door. Turning to him, I impulsively asked, “Father, might you…could you bring Isa here?”

I waited for his response, wondering how I could ask the Emperor, even if he was my father, to walk down a dark corridor and return with a man who wasn’t my husband. A part of me was humiliated; a part of me rejoiced that he shared our secret.

“You do me honor,” he said, rising from his knees. Once he found the key, he bolted the door to my room. “Will you be fine, child?”

I nodded. “Be careful of the trap.”

“I’m not so foolish as to deprive myself of my granddaughter.”

He quietly opened the closet, grabbed a candle, and disappeared into Mother’s robes. In his absence, I weakly raised my child. I was amazed that this astounding creation came from within me, and that she would, please Allah, grow into a mother herself.

My child let out a whimper. She raised a miniature fist in the air, as if to protest this harsh induction to our world. She’s already strong, I thought, bending down to kiss her fingers. They were impossibly small, and again I found myself in awe of her. Does every mother, I wondered, stumble upon this moment in time and discover that her life, however arduous, has import?

Robes parted and Isa and Father entered the room. A cobweb hung from Father’s jeweled turban, and I smiled at the sight. Father, always tactful, bade us good night.

“Thank you, Father,” I said.

He moved to the door. “Isa, lock this behind me,” he whispered. “Your mother, Jahanara, would be proud. In fact, I know she is.”

Before I could respond, he shut the door. Isa secured the room and hurried to where I lay. His gaze paused on me, then rested on our child. I motioned that he should take her and, dropping to his knees, he lifted her from my chest. Even wrapped in a silk blanket she seemed hardly bigger than his hand. “A miracle,” he said in a voice so quiet I might have imagined it. “I see us in her. Not you or me, but us.”

My delight increased when he kissed her cheek. How lucky she is to have him as a father, I said to myself. Perhaps not so in name, but certainly in blood and in spirit. One day, when she’s old enough, I’ll speak of her true father. We’ll sip chai on the steps of the Taj Mahal and I’ll whisper the truth. And as much as she may hate me then, she shall come to understand why I lied for so many years. She’ll forgive me and soon share my love for him.

He kissed her again and dropped to his knees. “Thank you, Swallow,” he whispered. I grimaced as a spasm of pain pulsed in my loins. “Are you well, my love?” he asked tightly.

I nodded, though I did feel weak. “What should we name her?”

“So many to choose from,” he said, smiling, “but surely there can be only one.”

“Arjumand,” I offered, immensely pleased to name her after Mother.

He set her down beside me, then lay so that she was between us. “Our precious Arjumand.”

“Father shall be happy.”

“As am I, love. As am I.”

Chapter 12

Friends for Trade

A
rjumand’s first year was one of the finest of my life. Many nights I  put her in a sling tight against my chest and carried her to Isa’s home. There we simply held her, our lips often against her cheeks, our fingers forever tracing the curves of her calves and feet. We delighted in her eyes, which opened further each day and sometimes seemed to follow our movements. She spoke to us as best she could, her coos reminding me of doves calling to each other. No matter how tired I was, these sounds made me smile, almost as if invisible strings tethered her voice to the corners of my mouth. Isa, not surprisingly, needed no such strings. His love for Arjumand so overwhelmed him that occasionally I felt a twinge of envy. Yet such moments were insignificant compared against the rapture I experienced when the three of us were together.

After her nighttime feeding, a beautiful ritual that I almost always found myself looking forward to, we put her to rest. She slept and fussed in a crib of my lover’s making, padded thickly with cotton and lined with silk. Though the nearest house sat twenty paces away, I initially worried that a neighbor might hear her cries. Isa, however, reassured me that sound scarcely escaped his home. When I expressed skepticism, he quickly went outside and yelled as fiercely as his lungs permitted. Passersby must have thought him quite mad, but his point was well taken, for I hardly heard his voice.

As dawns unraveled, I returned with Arjumand to Mother’s room. We spent each morning together and I marveled at how she grew, how she smiled at odd moments, how her chubby legs kicked in the bath. Sometimes we napped together, usually after she had fallen asleep against my chest. Before letting dreams overtake me, I’d whisper to her of Isa, describing her father in great detail. I told her what she’d not know until much later in life, about his delight in kissing her fingers, in humming as he soothed her to sleep.

I rarely took Arjumand to see Khondamir, for while he was pleased to have finally sown his seed, he would have traded her for a silver button. Rot his soul, he viewed Arjumand, I think, as simply another expense. And because I clearly loved her, and not him, he punished me by never showing her any semblance of affection.

After lunch I usually left Arjumand with a nursemaid in Mother’s quarters or within the royal harem. An abundance of work needed attending at the Taj Mahal, and I knew Isa still counted on me. Besides, even though I’d become much more adept at hiding my feelings for him, sharing his company remained joyous.

As the months passed, thousands of slabs of marble were inlaid with semiprecious stones, set against structural bricks, and plastered into place. Elephants died, men succumbed to fever, and barges laden with supplies sank in storms. Despite these tragedies the mausoleum continued to rise. By now it was about half its intended height, and tales of its beauty spread throughout the Empire. Travelers—whether visiting nobles or pilgrims on their way to Mecca—always stopped to gaze at the Taj Mahal. Sometimes they even helped for a few days. In such cases, men left strangely content, as if awash in the knowledge that their hands had contributed, however slightly, to the creation of a legend.

Aurangzeb’s return, alas, spoiled this year of progress and serenity. As usual, he had been campaigning against the Persians, though the fighting was fiercer than ever. He conquered and commandeered their fortifications, then was besieged in turn as enemy reinforcements arrived. His army dwindled until he was finally forced to flee south, arriving in Agra with tattered and starving troops.

Aurangzeb had never tasted defeat, and while the Red Fort teemed with stories of his forces vanquishing Persians thrice their number, the retreat home was humiliating for my brother, no matter that he was badly outnumbered. To worsen the situation, the Deccans, knowing that we were weakened, rebelled once again, declaring their independence. Our garrison to the south was overrun and thousands of our men died dreadfully.

Thus my brother was in a foul mood when he returned home. At his first appearance in the Diwan-i Am, he blamed his retreat on the Hindus in his army, claiming they fought without the same fever as Muslims. Father might have believed him but was certainly wise enough to guard his tongue, for he had gone to significant efforts to cultivate powerful Hindu friends, many of whom were present. Dara, who I think had finally started to loathe our brother, disagreed vehemently with Aurangzeb’s complaints, and my siblings, to Father’s somewhat hidden horror, argued openly. Soon the court was in an uproar, with Muslims and Hindus exchanging insults.

Although the Hindu population was the majority, Muslims had ruled for generations. We had succeeded in doing so by treating Hindus, for the most part, as our equals. Yet now the Emperor’s son was deriding those of the other faith. One might think Aurangzeb would fear offending Hindus, who comprised a small part of his forces, but he seemed unconcerned by such matters, perhaps because Muslims were fiercely loyal to him and held virtually all positions of rank within his troops.

I did nothing to intervene in these boisterous proceedings but watched closely. I wanted to see which nobles flocked to Aurangzeb and which stayed loyal to Father and Dara. As far as I could tell, the split was nearly even. Balkhi, Aurangzeb’s bodyguard, stayed close to his master during the argument, eyes scanning for potential danger. At one point he turned toward me and we glared at each other. He licked his lips while I shuddered inwardly.

It’s only a matter of time, I thought, until blood flows between us. When Father dies—please Allah let it be many years hence—Aurangzeb shall take the Peacock Throne by force. Dara might stand against him, but will he be strong enough?

While I ought to side with the brother I loved, I wondered if, for the sake of my daughter, I should betray Dara and flock to Aurangzeb’s standard. Clearly it was the safer course of action, for Aurangzeb slew his enemies, whereas Dara tried to befriend them.

Later that night, what little doubt swirled in my mind was put forever to rest. A prominent Hindu temple was mysteriously set ablaze, and four monks died within. Though no evidence linked Aurangzeb or any of his underlings to the crime, I believed that he was the culprit. But why, I asked myself, would he aim to upset the delicate balance of the Empire? How might anarchy aid his cause?

The answer emerged when a mosque was burnt in retribution. Clashes erupted between our people, and scores, if not hundreds, died that night. More Muslims perished than Hindus, and the next day additional nobles backed Aurangzeb. It seemed that he strove to build loyalty through a common fear of the Hindu majority.

Father, however, was no fool. He ordered the army to commandeer the streets and quell any further rioting. Regardless of Aurangzeb’s quick rise through the ranks, the Emperor was our supreme ruler and men would follow him through hellfire. No one questioned his commands. The troublemakers, at least those still fighting and murdering, were captured. To show his allegiance to both Muslims and Hindus, Father had these men executed. He then provided equal amounts of gold to rebuild the temple and the mosque. And he let it be known that anyone breaking the peace would die without appeal.

Father summoned Dara and Aurangzeb. I was also present. We met on Father’s private balcony atop the Red Fort, essentially a courtyard overlooking the river that boasted miniature cypress trees in glazed pots, tubular cushions and a cashmere carpet depicting a riverside garden. Father and I already leaned against one cushion when my brothers entered. Both looked angry.

Since dawn had just unfolded, servants brought us fruit and chai. They had spent enough time around the royal court to know of the rift between my brothers and hurriedly departed, pulling bronze doors shut behind them. Dara and Aurangzeb sat as far apart as the carpet allowed. Aurangzeb now wore a trim beard. Rumor claimed that he observed an ancient Islamic custom and wouldn’t shave off the beard until all his enemies were dead.

Father made no move to speak. Nor did I. Instead, I looked to the southeast, my gaze resting on the Taj Mahal. Though scaffolding obscured much of its face, white marble sparkled beneath the wood. Men scurried about the scaffolding like ants on their hill. Steel tools glistened in the early light as masons worked stone.

Somewhere amid the chaos was Isa.

“The idiocy of yesterday shall never happen again,” Father said simply, his fists tightening on his knees. “Not while I live.” His features, usually so loving, were quite severe this morning. “Why, Aurangzeb, why in the name of Allah, would you create such upheaval, especially as our enemies attack our northern and southern flanks?”

My younger brother stiffened. “I lied about nothing.”

“I mentioned nothing of lies. But your mind must dwell on them to raise the matter.”

“The Hindus are worthless as fighters. More worthless than dogs. Their lines broke and the cowards fled their positions.”

“Then have the officers who commanded them demoted, or executed if you wish, but don’t come into my court and insult men who fought for the Empire while you suckled at your nursemaid!”

“We need peace with the Hindus—”

“I’m not finished, Dara, so hold your tongue!” Father exclaimed. Aurangzeb relaxed at his brother’s rebuke and Father turned on him. “Setting the temple aflame was a treasonous act!”

“I did nothing of the sort.”

“You didn’t?”

“No.”

“Do I look like a camel? Because if I don’t, stop treating me like one!” Father bit hard into an apple. I had never seen him so angry. “Do you think, Aurangzeb, that you’re the only one with spies? Of course I know you ordered the temple burnt. But why you would act like a vindictive child is between you and Allah. I certainly can’t comprehend it. Oh, I understand the favor you seek to curry, but the nobles you endear are far fewer than those you inflame! Now, my son, I fear many Hindu blades shall seek your back.”

“My enemies are always dealt with,” Aurangzeb replied quickly, perhaps too quickly. Ladli had once told me of his paranoia of being assassinated, and it seemed that Father had struck upon his most profound fear.

Father bit again into his apple. “I’ll tell you something,” he said, glaring at Aurangzeb. “Enemies breed like rats. You stomp them, poison them, burn them, but more still come! It makes no difference if you live in times of peace or war, feast or famine! Enemies shall always plot behind you.”

“Yet you still live.”

“Because I don’t strive to insult the very people who give me power! Who cook my food, field my armies and pay my taxes!”