Beneath a Marble Sky (41 page)

“I know your guilt about leaving him is overwhelming, but—”

“I shall be safe. And Father needs me…he needs me as much as he did when he was first imprisoned.”

“He needs you, yes, but would he want you to take such a risk?” When I offered no answer, Isa asked, “Then why do you take it?”

“Why? Because he gave me you. And without that gift I’d be loveless and childless. And what have I given him? I left him alone in a miserable cell, abandoned him when I should have demanded that he escape with me.”

“Jahanara, the worst pain you could ever cause him would be to get hurt. You should go—”

“I’d stay with you,” I interrupted, “if it were possible. But without you and Arjumand beside me, I must go to him.”

Isa’s frame loosened at these words. “You think you’re the sole owner of guilt?” he asked, his voice overshadowed by the breaking surf. “My father’s last wish was that I become an architect. And so I studied. I studied as he quietly fought his agony, studied as he died.”

“But how you’ve made him happy.”

“I’ve tried.” Isa’s gaze left the fire and found me. “But you’ve also brought happiness to your father’s heart. You need prove nothing more. Not to him. Not to anyone.”

“I can’t let him die alone in that cell, Isa. And I’ll be careful, quite careful, visiting him rarely, and only in disguise.”

“But why take the risk?”

I shifted atop my blanket. “I once made a promise, a promise to my mother as she died.”

“What promise?”

“That I’d care for Father in her absence.”

“And you have. You gave him five years of your life. Five years, Jahanara. Give the rest to yourself.”

A star plunged from the sky. I sat straighter, not wanting our last night here to be spent talking of duty and death. “Why do they fall?” I asked.

His eyes remained on me. “We’re not all clay in your hands.”

“But why, Isa, why should we obsess further about tomorrow? Will it do us any good? Will it give us solace? Believe me, my mind is consumed enough by such thoughts. And if I sit here and discuss them with you, then soon, when I’m alone, I’ll regret the time we lost.”

He sighed, glancing upward. Despite the sky’s shimmering brilliance, I watched only his face. “Perhaps they simply tire,” he finally replied. “It’s said that the same stars have been above us for centuries. And it seems to me, at least, that after so very long they simply go out, like a fire or a candle.”

“But fires never fall. Nor candles.”

“Maybe the sky is but Allah’s black robe and the stars are diamonds sewn onto it. When He moves, the diamonds sparkle. And sometimes, when He runs, they fall from their moorings.”

“And where do they fall?”

“Into the sea,” he replied, draping his arm about my shoulders. “It’s so full of diamonds that fish use them to build homes and palaces.”

“Allah doesn’t mind?”

“Allah, I think, has enough diamonds to last Him forever.” We edged closer to the fire, as the air was cooling. A breeze carried the water to us and we breathed deeply. “I’d like,” Isa said, “for us to return to the sea someday.”

“Shall we grow old on a beach together?”

“Very old.”

I picked up an unusual piece of coral, offering it to him. “What do you dream of, Isa, when night falls and you’re alone?”

“The future. Of what it will be like when you return.”

“Do you think of me often?”

He pointed at another dropping star. It flickered and was gone. “Sometimes, Jahanara, I draw your face with charcoal. I draw you while walking through a memory. Your face is pensive when I think of our first meeting. It’s joyful when Arjumand is born.” He pushed the finger-shaped piece of coral along the sand, creating curved lines within its grainy tapestry. A rough image of myself appeared. “I’ve drawn your face so many times. Because then, in some small way, I’ve felt as if you were with me.”

I kissed him, biting my lip so tears wouldn’t descend. “Isa?”

“Yes, love?”

“Would you draw your face, so that I might carry you to Agra?” Before he could respond, I continued. “I’d like it to be a happy face, for it’s your joy that endears me to you most.”

“I don’t know—”

“Draw yourself with Arjumand. One sketch is all I ask.”

He ran his hand through my hair, which that night bore no veil. “I’ve a price.”

“What?”

“That you keep your promise to her.” After I earnestly agreed, he nodded. “Then our faces shall accompany you to Agra.”

The fire dwindled. No more wood was at hand to offer it, so we watched the flames recede. Although I had no choice, the thought of leaving my family was worse than any physical pain I’d ever experienced. I had tried to hide that pain from everyone, including myself, save Isa. As he held me, I cried. “Build it quickly,” I said through my tears, “for there’s still so much to see together and I’m weary of the years slipping by.”

“As am I,” he whispered. “When the moon’s full, Jahanara, sit against the Taj Mahal and look skyward. As you do, know that I gaze at the same sky.” He kissed me lightly. “And when Allah sheds one of His diamonds and it falls to the sea, we’ll each see its flight and our thoughts shall mingle.”

Part 4

Know that the names of God,

the Most High,

are numberless

and beyond comprehension.

—The Mingling of the Two Oceans

I
t is late in the afternoon and the boats about us are alive with flopping fish. My eyes, not being quite what they once were, can’t distinguish the varieties of fish, only that they’re brown things that die with little grace. I think of all the beautiful creatures we hauled from the sea and conclude that Allah must have been much more inspired when He seeded its waters than when He created the Yamuna River.

“And so you just left?” Rurayya asks incredulously.

Before I can reply, Gulbadan responds, “She had to, Rurayya. Haven’t you been listening?”

I love these girls dearly, for I can see Arjumand in their faces. A trace of myself also exists, as does the narrow slant of Isa’s cheekbones. “No, Rurayya is right. I didn’t have to leave, and what I did was foolish.”

Gulbadan tugs at her veil. “Then why did you go?”

I lean forward to adjust her crooked covering, as Mother often did to me so many years ago. “Isa recognized how much I sought my father’s approval. But what he didn’t recognize is why I truly sought it. Nor did I, until recently.”

“Why did you?”

“Because as a young girl, I knew that I could…I couldn’t ever match my brothers. In the eyes of nobles and warriors and artists I’d always be a weak girl. I’d never be treated as they were, never be as cherished and encouraged the way a boy would. And so I tried, always tried, to show my father that I was truly worthy of his love. And he did love me tremendously and valued my thoughts as much as anyone’s. He praised me night and day. But sometimes I wondered if I truly merited such praise. That’s why I went back to him, to prove to myself that his love and praise weren’t misplaced, that he’d been right about me when my brother, my husband and so many others had been wrong.”

My granddaughters don’t respond. I see the sudden anguish in their eyes, and I grasp their hands. “You needn’t prove anything to anyone, including yourselves. If you take one message from my story, take that.”

Gulbadan slowly nods. Rurayya’s fingers work their way deeper into mine. “But what happened then, Jaha?” she asks.

“We returned to Bijapur. And Nizam and I left for Agra.”

“Did you meet Aurangzeb?” Gulbadan wonders.

“Doesn’t a cat finally meet its fleas?” I answer, thinking of Ladli. “Many terrible things happened upon my return to Agra.” I force away a memory that I wish didn’t exist. “You see, my children, I imprisoned myself, and I set Nizam free.”

Chapter 22

Allah’s Desertion

I
t took us a
full month to ride back to Agra. Though it felt   disheartening to return, I was comforted by knowing that my loved ones were safe and that I would see them again. After renting a room far from the Red Fort, I used the few gold coins remaining in Nizam’s saddlebags to buy an expensive, oversized robe and a long necklace of pearls. I carefully used makeup to age myself, going so far as to dye my hair silver. Then I went to the Red Fort as a noblewoman might—rudely ignoring beggars and walking silently past inquiring guards. Though quite uneasy about returning to Father’s cell, my fears were softened by rumors placing Aurangzeb to the north, warring against the Persians.

I proceeded directly toward the octagonal room that had housed me for so long. After entering the corridor leading to it, I was surprised to see that the number of guards had tripled. They asked me of my business, and, my heart quickening, I pretended to be a noblewoman from Lahore visiting the dethroned Emperor. The guards, perhaps accustomed to bullying women about, refused me passage. Only when I handed their captain a silver coin did he finally swing open the big door.

I stepped inside and shut it behind me. Expecting nothing to have changed, my hands leapt to cover a shriek when I witnessed the state of the cell. Though I’d only been gone for two moons, the room looked to have aged many years. Cobwebs hung from the rafters and a layer of dust covered the furniture. I sought Father out amid the chaos, moaning when I spied him near the window, clad in a filthy tunic. He seemed dead, for he didn’t turn toward me. His white beard was untrimmed while his face was pale and his flesh withered.

“No!” I cried, hurrying toward him. Terrified, I swept through the clutter of the room, my robe whispering as I rushed to him. “Father!”

He groaned and his eyes fluttered open. For a moment he seemed not to recognize me. “You’re safe,” he mumbled weakly. “Thank Allah, you’re safe.”

I eased my hands beneath his head, lifting it upon my lap. His skin was damp with perspiration. “What happened?”

He tried valiantly to smile. “The sickness…came again. But—”

“No one was here to help you.”

“Akbar tried.”

I glanced up and saw the falcon on his roost. The sight normally would have cheered me, but I felt exhausted. My head throbbed and my limbs might as well have been logs. “Forgive me,” I whispered.

“No reason for sorrow, Jahanara,” he replied. “Would Akbar have reason to forgive the wind?” Father coughed violently. I used the hem of my robe to wipe grime from his brow. “You should leave, child. Dangerous…to be here.”

“I know.”

“What of Isa and Arjumand?”

“Imprisoned. But they’ll soon be free.” I briefly told him of their story, ending with the Sultan’s promise to let them go. I made no mention of my bargain with him.

Father winked at me. “I hope you didn’t give him too much.” He nodded toward the window. “I always sleep here. Sometimes, when I’m strong…I look out and see her. And I watch Akbar come and go.” He coughed again, harder this time. He groaned loudly enough that I knew his pain was terrible.

“What does the physician say?” I asked.

“Nothing. He says—” A series of coughs wracked him. Father shuddered in their aftermath, his body damp and rigid. “He says nothing, because he’s forbidden to visit me.”

“Forbidden? But you’re the Emperor!”

“Be silent, child.”

“You, you who gave them so much,” I said, my voice rising with my anger.

He tried to reply but instead battled an urge to cough. Seeing him in such misery sparked a flame of rage within me, a rage I hadn’t known since Dara’s murder. Though aware I should remain calm, my anger swelled unchecked. It swelled until any semblance of reason had fled my mind. I left Father at his window and hurried to the door. When it opened I advanced on a jailer swiftly, startling him. “Why isn’t a physician present?” I demanded, disgusted by his lack of concern.

The captain of the guards came forward. He was as thin as a post and his eyes were quite hard. “The prisoner looks well enough to me.”

“As would a pile of dung! But anyone other than a maggot would know he needs help!”

I thought the man would quail, but seeing his soldiers gather about him, he rallied. “Hold your tongue, woman!”

“I’ll hold nothing!”

“No?”

“Your name?” I commanded, trying my best to intimidate him.

“I ask the questions here!”

“By what right?”

“By the Emperor’s right!” I glimpsed an iron tooth as the man shouted. Something about his relentless stare and iron grin seemed familiar. “Forget me?” he asked, reaching out to touch my arm.

I stepped back. “We haven’t met.”

“The rich always forget the poor,” he hissed, coming closer. “We’re nothing to you.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“You don’t? Well, you should, for I also worked on the mausoleum. And I could never forget you. Not even now, as you stand here with your gray hair and your tired body. You see, I watched you every day. And I told Alamgir everything you did.”