Beneath a Marble Sky (44 page)

I felt only emptiness.

“W
hat you did
was right,” Father said the next day, after he had returned to the cell and I told him the story.

“Right?”

“It kept you alive, my child. Would you rather that Arjumand be motherless? And that Khondamir, who was like the mud beneath your feet, still live?”

“He—”

“Deserved to die slower,” Father voiced. “And you should think of him no more. He’s gone and you’re better for it, as, indeed, are your loved ones.” Father pulled on his leather glove and held up a scrap of breakfast for Akbar, who alighted on his wrist and gulped down the fatty meat. “I wonder how long our friend shall live,” Father mused. “When I’m gone, will you free him?”

“He is free,” I muttered, wondering if freedom truly existed.

Father raised the falcon higher, so that he might see outside. “He won’t like living here alone. Board up the window and let him find a mate.”

I nodded, watching Akbar, as he in turn studied me. The falcon alerted me to someone’s approach. His head spun toward the door and he flew up to the rafter as our cell opened. I expected Aurangzeb, or one of our jailers, and let out a gasp when I spied Ladli. She was dressed in black like a Persian, with a thick veil covering all but her eyes.

After the door was shut and locked behind her, she hurried toward me. It had been infinitely too long since I held her, and I wept as she hugged me tight. We didn’t speak but clung to each other as only best friends could. The bond that held us was different than that which tethered Isa and me, but no less strong.

I pulled down her veil to kiss her cheek. Only then did I notice that one of her eyes was bruised and that her lips were swollen. “He hurt you,” I whispered, motioning at Father to guard the door.

“He flew into such a rage, Jahanara.” She pulled the veil back over her face. “The brainless coward blamed me for being duped by Khondamir’s plan.”

“He was the one duped!”

“I’m leaving him, leaving Agra forever. I can’t tolerate him any longer. He’s…he’s changed me into a different woman, one who’s fearful and weak.” A tear tumbled from her eye. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry for what?”

“That I’m deserting you.”

“How many times have you saved me, Ladli? Twice? Three times? You aren’t deserting me, and I’d die if he hurt you more.”

A sudden commotion rang from the hallway, and Ladli flinched. “I shouldn’t be here. He’d kill us all if he found out.” She turned to and from the door. “Since he was bested by Shivaji, he seems to have lost any trace of reason.”

I leaned closer to my friend. “Bested by Shivaji?”

“Your flea-infested brother fell into a trap, chasing Shivaji into a valley, a valley whose peaks were laced with explosives. They say the mountains themselves fell on our men. We lost four thousand of our best troops and Aurangzeb limped home in shame.”

“Did Shivaji escape?”

“Yes, though the Sultan of Bijapur was less fortunate.”

It took me a breath to digest her words. “The Sultan’s dead?”

“A cannon knocked his head clean off.”

I clapped my hands together excitedly, for this was the most welcome news I’d heard in years. Ladli looked at me in confusion and I quickly told her the story of Isa and Arjumand’s imprisonment. “His death changes everything,” I whispered, tapping my foot in sudden glee.

“But who would let them go? The Deccans despise us.”

“Not Shivaji!” I countered, then explained my dealings with him. “He’s Hindu, Ladli. And a good man! He’ll free them because only then can he use the tunnel to assassinate Aurangzeb.”

“Somehow you’ll have to escape and ride south again.”

I shook my head vigorously, for everything was finally as it should be. I’d send Ladli south, with Nizam. “No, my friend. It has to be you. For one thing, you’re Hindu, and so Shivaji will trust you more than me.

“But what would I say to him?”

“Say that the tunnel shall be unlocked. You’ll unlock it before you leave Agra. Tell Shivaji of how the tunnel begins at Isa’s home. Tell him everything he needs to know. And then, after he has honored our agreement, come north with Isa and Arjumand!”

“But I can’t travel to Bijapur alone! Has your mind turned to mud?”

“You won’t go alone. I know someone, the stoutest of all warriors and the kindest of men. He’s been there many times. He’ll guide you safely.” She started to protest, and I held up my hand. “You were going to leave anyway, Ladli. You may as well go south. There are mountains and rivers—and the sea, if you’re lucky enough to swim in it, is something you’ll never forget.”

“But I… ”

“Find yourself on the trail, Ladli. You said that you’ve grown fearful and weak. What better place to rediscover your strength than in the desert? Go there, and return north as your old self.” I glanced at Father, who tried his best to ignore us, leaning against the door. “I can’t leave him again,” I whispered.

“I know.”

“Please, please do it for me.”

“But what of the rest of the plan? Once I reveal the secret and have Isa and Arjumand safely with me, what will you do?”

“Once Shivaji’s assassin has done his work, I’ll be free.”

A hint of slyness returned to her face. “And where, my conniving little friend, will we meet?”

I searched for a solution, my excitement so overwhelming I thought my heart might burst. Though we had planned to meet in Delhi, suddenly it felt too close to Agra. Allah only knew what chaos would befall both cities once Aurangzeb was dead. “The best course, I think, would be for you to travel east from Bijapur, across to the other coast. I’ve heard that Calcutta’s a fine city. We could meet there, then go wherever we wish.”

“Where in Calcutta?”

I bit my nails as I pondered where to meet. “At its largest mosque. Send Isa to pray there every eve at dusk. I’ll find him.”

“It’s a half-baked plan at best.”

“Can you think of anything better?”

“No, but be careful, Jahanara,” she whispered. “Aurangzeb’s not right in the head. He’s lashing out at everyone.”

“He always has.”

“True. But not like these days. He’s as paranoid as a virgin in a brothel.”

“But with Khondamir dead and the threat of my assassin gone, he shouldn’t be.”

“The fool created a new tax upon anyone not of his faith, Jahanara. For any infidel, as he calls us. Those he can’t force into Islam he punishes by taking half their crops. Half! He feeds his war elephants our grain while our people starve. And when our people riot, he sends those same elephants against them. Dozens are trampled each week. And if the tax isn’t insult enough, he forbids Hindus to build new temples; we’re not even allowed to repair those that age. For every one that we secretly mend, his followers desecrate a dozen more.”

I wondered silently how my brother could be so imprudent. The tax Ladli mentioned was in fact quite old, though it had been abolished for many decades. It was known as the jizya. “How many attempts have there been on his life?” I asked.

“The man has more enemies than leprosy, despite the disappearance of anyone he deems a threat. You only live because he thinks you’re bested. He’s vanquished you, he’s killed your husband, and he lets you breathe just to remind him of his victory.”

“What should I do?”

“The worm takes joy in your misery, my sister. So continue to give him that joy. Let him think you’d prefer to die, and you’ll live. Pretend to lose all spirit, and when his guards tell him that you’re a defeated woman, he’ll trumpet like a copulating elephant.”

“Really, Ladli!” I replied, happy to see that our scheming had fueled her old fire.

“I don’t jest, Jahanara. Only if he thinks you’re defeated, will you live to defeat him.”

I nodded. As we hugged again, I whispered to her of where and when to meet Nizam. Naturally, I made no mention of his name, for I wanted my friends to be surprised. I’d tell Nizam tonight of my plan, and he’d rejoice tomorrow upon discovering that Ladli was to be his traveling companion.

I carefully repositioned Ladli’s veil so that only her dark eyes showed. “Thank you, my friend.”

“Thank me in Calcutta, you little fox.” She playfully pinched my cheek, as she had so many times as a child. “Better pray that I don’t steal your man on the return journey.”

“Never,” I said, stifling a laugh.

“And why not?”

“Because you’ll steal another.”

She pretended to spit. “I’d sooner steal sand.”

“I love you,” I said, kissing her brow. She was about to answer, but I continued, “So be careful in the Deccan. And when we meet next in Calcutta, we’ll be young again together.”

Chapter 24

Passages

I
followed Ladli’s advice and let myself drop into disrepair, fasting for a week after her departure, drinking only juice and water. Flesh dwindled from my body until I lacked the strength to stand. I ignored my hair, my face. I wore unwashed clothes and went barefoot. In all such matters, I pretended to be vanquished and in mourning.

I didn’t let myself venture too far into delirium, yet dreams often visited when I was awake. Visions of my childhood, the building of the mausoleum and my nights with Isa entertained me. As time passed, I began to relish these sights. They transported me from my cell and I lived again in less troubled days.

Father and I deteriorated together. He didn’t want me tending to him in my weakened state, for surely such nurturing would betray my act to our jailers. After all, how could I care for him when I couldn’t care for myself? Normally, I might have fought Father over his decision, but nursing him was impossible when simply rising from the floor made my head spin. Moreover, we both knew he’d rather be with Mother in Paradise than with me in this cell. And so he wasted away.

Aurangzeb came to our room a month after Ladli had fled. He smirked at the sight of me, called my feebleness pathetic and asked Allah to forgive my sins. I ignored my brother’s words, acting as though unaware of him. But my ears were keen that day, as were my eyes. And I saw how his face twitched, how he seemed ill at ease with himself. Clearly, in some strange way he had loved Ladli, and her betrayal wounded him grievously.

Had I been defiant, he’d have killed me. Had I smiled, he’d have struck me down. But my friend was right. And he left our cell a slightly less morose man than when he had entered. Though he had gripped his sword hilt apprehensively, as if assassins might attack him at any moment, I think Father and I made him feel victorious. Here we were—his two keenest adversaries—broken and near death.

As the moons successively waxed and waned, I waited anxiously for news of my brother’s assassination. No such word came forth. The silence tormented me, and I worried that my plan had gone awry. Did my friends fail to reach Bijapur? Had I misjudged Shivaji? My desperation rapidly mounted as the days passed, for I possessed no answers. In my darkest moments I prayed for Aurangzeb’s death, believing that the end of his life would be the only thing that would restore my own.

My time in prison gave me one invaluable gift, however. It gave me Father. Though Father and I had always shared a bond, during those long years in confinement this bond grew one hundredfold its original strength. When I fasted and was too weak to play games or even stare out the window, all we did was whisper. He told me every story he could recall about Mother. I entertained him with tales of Isa and Arjumand; what I imagined they were doing, what we did when last I saw them. Father and I taught each other many things. I learned of forgiveness, faith and poetry. He learned of women’s woes in Hindustan, and of the sea.

On our last night together we spoke of Mother. By then his pain was such that he must have known he was about to leave me, for he had me ask for wine, which we’d last wetted our lips upon a full change of seasons ago. The wine was sweet, as were the figs we sucked.

“How do you think she shall appear, Jahanara?” he asked feebly. “As she did when we first met, or when she left me?”

I raised his damp head higher on his pillow, so that he might look out the window and see the stars. “Perhaps,” I said, “she’ll come to you as she did when you were first married.”

He sipped from the goblet I held to his lips. “I’d like that. But then, I think the glow…I think the glow of motherhood made her beauty brighten.” Pain swept through him and he gripped his side. When it finally passed, he asked for more wine. “Don’t weep for me,” he whispered, though his own eyes swelled with water. “I’ve always been lucky, as lucky as a boat on your sea.”

My tears came suddenly. I didn’t fight them. “But I’ll miss you.”

“Yes, but you’ll have Isa, and your beautiful daughter.”

I traced the contours of his weathered hand. “Please, tell Mother that I love her, that I tried to live my life as she’d want. I tried to honor her memory.”

“And you did, Jahanara. You did. But she’s no memory, child, for she lives in you. I see her now. She touches me as I speak.”

“She loves you, Father. She loves…” I paused, wondering what he might like to hear. “She loves you as words love a poet.”

The corners of his mouth rose. “Perhaps I live in you also.”

“You do.”

He tasted wine again. “I don’t know…how a father could cherish a daughter more. I’m ready to go in all regards, but for leaving you.”

I whimpered then and he held my hand. Somehow, even as he died, it was he who soothed me. “Is there anything you’d like, Father, before you go?” I asked, my voice beneath even the wind.

“Grant me one promise,” he said, “so that I might die in peace.”

“Anything, Father.”

“I want you to be happy. Go to your sea and…and live there as a child might. Swim and eat and drink and love and dream. Do all these things for me, and I shall be content in Paradise.”

He moaned again and asked for more wine. He didn’t sip now, as he always had, but took a deep gulp. “Set Akbar free,” he muttered, nodding toward our silent companion. “He’s a good friend.”

“As are you.”

His face brightened. I saw joy and sorrow in his smile. Something else lingered within him. Something he hadn’t felt for many years. I think it was hope.

“How I love you, my child,” he whispered.

I responded in kind and pulled myself closer to him. I found warmth in his arms and was taken back to a time when I was but a girl and he was the man of all men. He comforted me then and he comforted me now.

We spoke, cried, grinned once or twice, and much later watched a diamond fall from the sky.

He traveled with it, for when I again turned to him, he was gone.