Beneath a Marble Sky (27 page)

My granddaughters contemplate my words. Looking at them, I own surprisingly little envy. Oh, I might long for their perfect skin and boundless energy, but they’ll be lucky indeed to house similar memories. For I have known what it’s like to love a man worth loving. He gave me everything, and though Allah has drawn us apart, and I miss him fiercely, I’m comforted by my belief that I’ll join him soon, and that our building is unfinished.

I’m still thinking of Isa when Nizam opens a cotton bag at his feet, withdrawing combs of honey. As he hands these treats to Arjumand’s girls, I notice a long, ugly scar on his forearm, left from some wicked blade. The scar spurs memories within me, for I can still see Nizam, bloodied sword in hand, fighting above me. How he howled that day! How his rage made him invulnerable. If only we had wielded a hundred Nizams. The poets would have immortalized our victory and Dara—

I force the thought away. Allah should remain deaf to such thoughts. He’s done much for me, and I should honor Him by thinking only of the good. “Where was I?” I ask feebly, pretending to have an ancient mind when my thoughts are still as sharp as scythes.

“You just saved your brother,” Gulbadan replies, shielding her eyes from the midday sun. “But what happened next?”

I wonder where to start. The years following Arjumand’s birth were filled with joy and suffering. They were the best and the worst years of the Empire. “At first there was magic,” I say simply. “And then came war.”

Chapter 14

A  Tear on the Cheek of  Time

O
ther
than my deepening love for Isa and Arjumand, nothing vital to my story happened during her early childhood. Certainly events and troubles unfolded—which I’ll briefly describe now—but nothing akin to what followed.

Aurangzeb soon departed the Red Fort with his army and marched north to attack the Persians. For his skill on horseback, Nizam was assigned to the cavalry. He was given a bow, quiver of arrows, sword, dagger and shield. I bought him a fine mount. So as not to arouse suspicions, I gave Nizam only a tattered hemp blanket and a battered saddle. Nobles lined their saddles with silk and held pearl-studded reins. Though his mount would be priceless in battle, Nizam looked like a common horseman.

Thereafter, I heard nothing from my friend for more than a year. When Nizam finally revisited Agra, I hardly recognized him. We met secretly far downstream. His face, which still warmed to me, seemed further blackened by the desert sun. He had grown a beard and, as all soldiers did, wore the jewelry of those he’d killed. His body was even stouter than when he had left, and his leather armor was cracked and scarred.

At the river, after I’d gripped his hardened hands and we’d exchanged pleasantries, Nizam told me of Aurangzeb’s sacking of Persian strongholds. My brother, he said, was a ferocious leader, whose men loved him because he fought at their sides and let them pillage after victories. Though I thought Nizam would share my disdain for this practice, he said Aurangzeb acted prudently, for the Persians were equally ruthless.

Bidding farewell to Nizam once more was vexing, but there was no other choice. One thing Isa had taught me—rather painfully, I must confess—was that loved ones and friends are sometimes taken from us, either by death or circumstances outside our control. Yes, we should lament their departure, and yes, we should pray for them often. But we shouldn’t dwell so deeply upon such vacancies that life itself becomes empty.

In but a week, Aurangzeb regrouped, conscripted additional men, and marched south to deal with the troublesome Deccans. Alas, their rebellion had spread like a prairie fire. Warlords joined the cause, and all along our southern frontier, forts were attacked and razed. The success of the rebellion was a tremendous drain on the Empire, and Father told Aurangzeb to stamp it out at all costs. Thus I didn’t see Nizam again for some time.

In his absence the Taj Mahal continued to bloom, as did my love for Isa. Unfortunately, we spent fewer nights together, for soon Arjumand was too old to witness our affection in Isa’s home. Though she had her own room in the Red Fort, I was reluctant to leave my quarters in case she needed me. Only when she slept soundly, and was free of any illness or nightmare, did I venture down the corridor to the embrace of my lover. For a short time we laughed, played games of chance, or talked about the Taj Mahal.

My emotions waxed and waned in those days, for Isa was near, yet he was at my side far less than I’d have liked. I worried that Allah might take him from me, perhaps by an accident or a fever. I couldn’t imagine my existence without him, and prayed each night that we would somehow find a way to live together as man and wife.

I saw blessed little of Khondamir. His trading took him to the far corners of the Empire, where sometimes he conducted business on Father’s behalf. By now Father despised Khondamir almost as much as I did, but he still used my husband to promote trade with our neighbors. Given the immense profits in these undertakings, even a dullard like Khondamir was successful.

I half expected that my husband might not return from one such trip. He always did, alas, and once he’d tired of his girls, and wanted to humiliate me, he summoned me and I endured his cumbersome gyrations. How I loathed those nights! How I wanted to curse and scream and die! It felt so heinous to be in the grasp of that man. Afterward, I bathed in hot water until I was so weary that I could hardly stand. My encounters with Khondamir were the only thing, ever, that I kept from Isa. He asked little and I revealed less.

Allah graced me with one beautiful child, so I shall not complain; yet I was saddened when my womb never blossomed again. I had assumed that I’d bear many children, but Arjumand was to be our only creation. Though she was to my life as breath was to my lungs, I longed to give her a sibling.

I had four constant loves during those years: Arjumand, Isa and Father, of course, as well as the Taj Mahal. Our precious Arjumand was a clever girl but took her cleverness lightheartedly. I didn’t overly encourage her studies, for many years lay ahead when she’d have to act much older than her age. No, to run and explore as a child was a healthier existence than to fall asleep memorizing texts. And so I let her play, and when my mood was light, I played with her. I taught her to swim and to paint with her fingers. We combed each other’s hair on summer nights. We danced in the rain.

When she was five, I began taking her to the Taj Mahal so that Isa might see her more often. After all, it ailed him that she had no inkling he was her father. I saw it in his face when he gazed at her, in the way he sometimes started to reach out to her but then stopped. Occasionally I pretended to be busy and asked that he, or another worker, look after her. When Isa’s turn arose, he placed her on his shoulders and climbed about the site, chasing butterflies or letting her pet elephants. I hid my tears then, for these moments were too rare and fleeting to make her love him. He was simply another playful worker.

Barely a week after Arjumand’s seventh birthday, there came one of the most spectacular days in our lives, and in the history of the Empire. After eleven long years, the Taj Mahal was finally finished. To celebrate the completion of Mother’s mausoleum, Father sent messengers to the far reaches of Hindustan, and even past our borders. They carried flags of truce, for we would war against no one during an entire month of celebration. Father even invited a few of our enemies to Agra to see the Taj Mahal.

On the morning that the last slab of marble was fitted into place, Father, Isa, and I stood in the mausoleum’s garden. A full moon would rise the next night, and I knew Father itched to see his creation bask in the sun, then moonlight. Alas, this seemed impossible, for an almost impenetrable forest of scaffolding covered the entire structure. The latticework was comprised of a tremendous number of bamboo poles and teak logs tied together with enough rope and chains to encircle Agra.

“How long,” Father asked, barely able to contain his joy, “until the scaffolding comes down?”

Isa hesitated, aware his answer would be unwelcome. “A full month, my lord. Most of it’s been standing for years.”

“By Allah, so long?”

“If we work through the nights maybe less, but I’ve only so many men. And as you know, we didn’t have enough wood for the scaffolding, so we plastered bricks into place. It will take time to chisel them away, time to—”

Father, usually so patient, waved him to silence. “I’ll not wait,” he said stubbornly. “I’ve waited eleven years.”

“But, my lord, we—”

“Jahanara,” Father interrupted, “Aurangzeb’s army is camped a half-day’s ride from here. See that it is recalled at once.” He paused to remove his spectacles, pocketing them with what seemed a sudden exuberance. His bloodshot eyes darted about like a pair of hungry fish. “I want every messenger fit for travel to spread the word that at dawn tomorrow, every man, woman, child, noble, slave, friend or foe may come here and take whatever lumber and bricks they may carry.”

“Truly?” I asked, for Father was speaking so hurriedly that I could barely follow him.

“Tell them to bring their mules, barges and elephants. Let them take the wood, all the wood, and build new homes with it! And Isa, you lion among cubs, gather your tools and make certain that tomorrow our people can cut down that rubbish. But ensure they don’t damage the structure!”

And so the word spread, slowly at first, but then sweeping across and beyond Agra like a joyous typhoon. For our country wasn’t a realm of endless trees. Most homes were comprised of clay and mud with a few crooked branches for support. People cooked with cow dung and made boats of aged planks. Yet here was Father, giving away a mountain of lumber! Enough wood and bricks so that commoners could build new homes and nobles could raise new palaces.

By dawn our city had swollen to twice its size. Farmers from the countryside slept in the streets with their teams of oxen. Fishermen from the north and south filled our river with their boats. People who had never seen Father spoke of him with immense adoration, for surely such a benevolent leader was a man worthy of our throne.

At Father’s command, our people—leading elephants, horses and camels—hurried to the mausoleum, swarming about it like ants on a drop of honey. Isa’s master builders saw to it that each of the twenty-two thousand laborers was assigned to a group of peasants, nobles, monks or merchants. After the groups were allocated to particular sections of the scaffolding, work began in earnest. Knives attacked ropes and wood fell into eager hands. Some of our people had traveled to the site alone, and left bent under the weight of bamboo poles. Others, from poor villages, banded together and formed long lines of men, women and even children. Logs were passed down these lines, gleeful chanting accompanying the work.

The army soon arrived, and Father, much to Aurangzeb’s dismay, ordered his men to help with the task. Warriors used swords to hack at ropes and horses to drag away heavy timber. Nizam, disguised as a worker, somehow found me, and was so caught up with emotion that he actually patted my back. I squeezed his hands tightly enough that he grimaced, or at least pretended to. Nearby, Arjumand sat on Isa’s shoulders as he hurried about, somehow trying to supervise what had clearly turned into chaos. Even Father was busy working and had taken off his rich tunic and turban. Shirtless, a sight I’d never seen, he stood high on the scaffolding and cut at ropes with a jeweled dagger. The men around him cheered as he dislodged bamboo poles, tossing them to the masses below.

I never again encountered such fervor as I did that day. Innumerable men of all shades and stations labored until their hands bled. Women—whether aged, youthful or pregnant—carried away slighter pieces of wood, filling nearby carts and baskets. A strange excitement, almost an intoxication, gripped us all. The temporary road to the mausoleum became clogged with beasts, lumber and mayhem. Even the river was jammed. Several boats, overloaded with timber, toppled and sank. Most crew members were saved, but a few men disappeared, not to be seen again.

Despite our crazed work, we could only gradually undress the Taj Mahal. Layer by agonizing layer, the scaffolding came down; all the while workers prayed, sang and struggled. Few of our people stopped to rest, for too much was at stake to pause to fill hungry bellies or bandage bloodied hands. To my amazement, I saw several Persians laboring beside their ancient enemies. The men wore black robes, and massive scimitars hugged their hips. The Persian women were like shadows, for they dressed in shapeless gowns and veils hid their faces. Even if the foreigners could never carry much back to their homeland, they worked diligently, selecting only the finest pieces of bamboo.

The day lumbered past and soon the sun eased from its zenith, brilliantly illuminating the now uncovered dome of the Taj Mahal. Thousands of workers continued arriving at the site. Agra’s streets swelled beyond capacity. When they proved impenetrable, cunning men built huge rafts of lumber, which they then sailed down the river. They beached the rafts, then ran back to the mausoleum to begin working on others.

Meanwhile, teams of fishermen lashed their boats together and ferried lumber to the other side of the river, soon returning to replenish their holds. Noblemen purchased Father’s barges and piled them high with wood. He made them pay in chests of coin, for he planned to give this coin to our workers as a bonus. The nobles grumbled but paid quickly. The barges filled.

Seeing that their lords were getting so much of the scaffolding, the hordes of commoners worked even harder. Muslims and Hindus banded together and hauled down stout timbers of teak that they divided for their temples and mosques. None of us, save Aurangzeb, ceased for a moment that day, and we worked with the unity of friends.

As the Taj Mahal was slowly revealed, we each seemed to relish its extraordinary presence with an awe surpassing even our love for Allah, or the Hindu gods. For this presence was tangible. We gasped, reached out, and touched its sweeping sides. We looked skyward and shook our heads in astonishment at the sculpted mountain above. So many of our people dressed in rags and slept in filth. To look at such beauty was beyond anything they expected to experience in their lifetimes. Hindustanis cried openly at being alive this day.

When the last of the wood was carried from the mausoleum, we might as well have looked at the entrance to Paradise. Bloodstained and dusty, we sat on the rutted ground or on broken carts. Somehow, amid the hundreds of thousands, I discovered Father. Where Isa and Arjumand were, I had no inkling, but I was pleased they could share this moment together. Father, whose shoulders were cut and bruised, wept when he spied me.

“Thank you, Allah,” he whispered, as his royal guards kept the crowds respectfully distant. “Thank you for granting me this wish.”

His blistered hands drew me close and he kissed me. Yet his gaze didn’t linger on me. Instead, he gazed with countless others at the Taj Mahal. The mausoleum possessed, as Isa had planned so long ago, the grace of a woman. Its heavenly arches were her eyes and its domes her upturned breasts. The minarets might be her jeweled fingers, while the white marble was surely the perfection of her face.

My mind was strangely lucid. Questions arose of their own accord. How could we have created this monument, which seemed almost too beautiful for this world? And why should we, mere mortals, even be allowed to stare at such majesty? Surely this creation was fit only for God. He should walk within its walls and He alone should contemplate its rapture. For weren’t we but animals, and did swine and steers roam about our finest palaces?