The Feast of Roses (21 page)

With Ambar Malik in the south, however, no such diplomatic tactics worked. He did not just threaten; he actually came roaring into battle, forcing a retaliation.

Two years ago, Ahmadnagar had fallen to Ambar Malik. The Khan-ikhanan, Abdur Rahim, who was commander-in-chief of the imperial army, had been sent to the Deccan to look after matters there. But Abdur Rahim had surrendered Ahmadnagar to Ambar Malik. Then, the Khan Azam had boasted that he would recapture the lost territory in two years, if only he was given command of the imperial forces. Jahangir had agreed and had sent the Khan Azam Salabat Khan to the Deccan to replace Abdur Rahim.

“The Khan Azam has bragged of his skill in commanding a victorious army. I see no signs of victory against that wretch Malik,” Jahangir said.

“That is true, your Majesty. Malik is a formidable enemy. His resources are not large, but there are rumors that the kings of Bijapur and Golconda are supporting him with provisions and an army.”

“Yes, but the imperial army has to defeat Malik once and for all. His very existence is a scourge to us. The reason I have summoned you here is to command the Khan-i-khanan to return to the Deccan and relieve the Khan Azam of his duties. Send Abdur Rahim on his way immediately. Let him regain what he lost if he wishes any patronage from the court again.”

“As you wish, your Majesty,” Mahabat said happily. This was a sign of favor. Jahangir could just as easily have sent a message to Abdur Rahim himself, but he had chosen to convey it through Mahabat. He leaned on Mahabat yet again, came to him for support. As it once had been. As it should be again. Sharif would be glad too. He would also show the Emperor that he had his well-being, and that of the entire royal family, always at heart. So Mahabat said, “It is also advisable to have someone in the Deccan to oversee Prince Parviz. Your Majesty must have heard of his behavior.”

“Yes, yes.” Jahangir waved a hand irritably. “My son is a drunkard. I know that. But the Khan-i-khanan has not proved himself to be an able guardian. Should we send someone else to look after Parviz, Mahabat?”

The minister shook with pleasure. He had been right! He would tell Sharif of this, and Sharif would have nothing to say in return. Another request from the Emperor. “Perhaps you should strongly reprimand Abdur Rahim to look after the prince, your Majesty. A word of caution from you will make him more diligent in his duties.”

“I don’t want to see Abdur Rahim. Tell him he has to try and wean Parviz from wine.” Jahangir nodded dismissal and picked up his book.

Mahabat Khan bowed low and slowly backed out of the room. At the door he hesitated. “Your Majesty . . .”

Jahangir looked up from his book.

“It is a rather delicate matter. If I may presume . . .”

“Of course, come back here, Mahabat.”

Heartened by Jahangir’s tone, Mahabat walked slowly toward the Emperor.

“Your Majesty, I speak for most of the nobles in the court. Please, do not take my words amiss. I speak from a deep loyalty and love for you. You are my Emperor, my king and my lord. My concerns and cares are for your health and well-being—”

“Yes?”

“It is regarding Empress Nur Jahan.” Jahangir’s face shut down, and he closed his book with great deliberation. Mahabat hurried on, “It is unseemly to leave the entire supervision of an empire so large in the hands of a woman. The whole court is shocked that so wise an Emperor as your Majesty should leave affairs of administration under the supervision of an Empress.” He stopped and waited, but there was no response. So Mahabat said, “We are all very unhappy about her Majesty’s recent illness. Please do convey our condolences to her for her womanly troubles. But as unfortunate as the recent past has been, perhaps had she concerned herself with only
zenana
matters, it might have been avoided.”

Mahabat had no more to say, at least for now. He waited, his eyes on the ground, for Jahangir to speak.

“Your concern for me, for my
zenana,
is admirable, Mahabat,” Jahangir said. Mahabat listened to his voice, leaning forward to catch an inflection of distaste or even sarcasm. But no, the Emperor was actually commending him. And now words came flooding from his tongue. Had Sharif been there, he would have forcibly dragged Mahabat out of Jahangir’s presence, but Sharif was not there, and even the echo of his warnings had long died from Mahabat’s ears.

“Your Majesty,” Mahabat raised his voice confidently. “Your rule has been wise and just. You have shown yourself more than capable of carrying on the responsibility left to you by your gracious father. How can you now give up that responsibility? Is it to be said that the great Emperor Jahangir was ruled by a mere woman? I beg your pardon if I have insulted her Majesty. But the facts speak for themselves, we all wish to be under your able guidance so the empire may flourish once more.”

Mahabat Khan stopped and looked at Jahangir. He had dug past the Emperor’s imperial facade to his most vulnerable points. There were two things Jahangir wished for most. One, following in the wake of his father, Jahangir wished to feel himself worthy of the throne. Now Mahabat was giving Jahangir the assurance that not only was he as capable as Akbar but he might in certain points supersede his father if only he divested himself of Mehrunnisa’s influence.

Second, Jahangir had a need to be known as a kind and just Emperor, not only while he lived but also to posterity. He wished for the citizens of India to laud him as a great king, many years after his death. There again, how would posterity view him? As a man ruled by his wife?

“Mahabat,” Jahangir said quietly, “do you wish to be given command of the army in the Deccan?”

“No, your Majesty,” Mahabat said, surprised. “But . . . of course . . . if your Majesty wished for it, I would obey immediately. But, if I may presume to say so, I have no such wish.”

“I see. You may go now, Mahabat. I thank you for your advice, you can be certain that it will be well considered.”

Mahabat Khan bowed and backed away to the doorway, and once there, he bowed again before letting himself out. He had been right in talking with the Emperor. Everything, especially Jahangir’s offer of the Deccan command, had indicated this. He almost ran with happiness to Muhammad Sharif’s house on the banks of the Yamuna. Along the way he did not forget to send a message to the Khan-i-khanan, Abdur Rahim, to return to the Deccan campaign at his Majesty’s orders.

But Mahabat had talked to his Emperor as no man should have talked with his sovereign. In his frustration, he had crossed an invisible line—one that separated the king from the common man.

Mahabat Khan seemed to have suddenly grown less fond of his neck.

O
nce an accusation has been made, however damning it may be, doubt begins to blot the hearer’s mind. And so it was with Emperor Jahangir. At first he was deeply furious with Mahabat. When the minister left, he picked up his book to read again, but the words made no sense, the language did not engage him, and a red haze swam in front of him. Jahangir almost called out to Hoshiyar twice, to command Mahabat’s body relieved of the burden of his head by sundown, and then stopped himself. What purpose would it serve?

He did not sleep that night, the bed beside him empty of Mehrunnisa’s presence, and he turned and tossed and thought. How did Mahabat have the audacity to come to him with such a proposal? They were childhood friends, yes, but only in infancy had Mahabat, Koka, and Sharif been allowed to forget that Jahangir was royalty and they mere commoners. Their friendship had very loose ties indeed. Blood did not bind them, and neither did marriage or any other bond. This the three men had never let out of their sight, and if they had had the temerity to do so, even by suggestion, Jahangir had reminded them who he was. He was their Emperor. In him was vested their well-being, their fortunes, their titles, their very lives. They could not question him. It was as simple as that.

When the earth swung around, with a few hours left to greet the sun, Emperor Jahangir was still awake. Clouds had filled the skies outside his windows. These were monsoon clouds, purple, angry, pregnant with moisture. By morning the rains would come. Already it was cooler. Jahangir rose to go to the window. He leaned over the balcony into the night air, breathing deeply to settle his thoughts. Was it true, what Mahabat said? That the nobles snickered openly at his obsession for Mehrunnisa? That they called his love for her by this abominable name? Had they lost respect for him?

Jahangir was crushed all of a sudden. For many nights he stayed awake watching over Mehrunnisa as she lay in her bed, not even wanting to live. During the days he attended his audiences and court business, but without any heart. These were duties, they had to be done, what he wanted was to be with his wife. Now he remembered that a few nobles at court had lounged indolently in front of him, leaning against a pillar, clasping their arms below their elbows in huge breaches of etiquette; at the time, he had noticed but had not paid heed to it. Etiquette had not seemed important when his very life was in danger of being overthrown.

And again he thought of Mahabat’s coming to speak to him,
daring
to speak to him. How could that have happened unless, for some reason, for the very reason Mahabat had spoken of, Jahangir had lost the reverence of his people?

He fretted thus until Mehrunnisa returned back to the palaces the next day. At court, the Emperor was more solemn—no more lounging was allowed, infractions against his person or his court were reprimanded, order brought to its knees again. The murmurings ceased, silence regained its hold at court, and the only voice heard was Emperor Jahangir’s.

That night, the chief writer of the harem was reading out her journal to the royal couple. The writer was employed specially to keep a day-to-day journal of
zenana
happenings. Everything of significance was recorded in that book: names and relationships of visitors to the harem women; purchases made by the ladies; their requests for money; and even the length of their private conversations with eunuchs. It was a highly efficient spy system. The ladies were watched every day, and nothing they did went unnoticed by the spies interspersed throughout the
zenana.
It was hard to tell who was a spy. It could be a maid faithful for twenty years, a new eunuch appointed for the purpose, a
mali
in the garden brought in to water the flowerpots . . . it could be anyone.

Mehrunnisa played listlessly with the rubies on a silver plate next to her, dropping the stones through her fingers. Jahangir watched her thoughtfully. She had seemed pleased at the gift but had not listened when he had given her suggestions about how the jewels should be set. In her turban? That was fine. A new necklace? That was fine too. A set of six sherbet goblets in jade? Fine again.

She paid no notice to him anymore, weighted down with her sorrow. It came and went as it pleased, with no warning, one moment she would laugh and he would join in so happily, at another she would be silent, barely lifting her head.

Now she did not listen to the writer, where once she would be sitting on the edge of her divan, nodding as the writer spoke.

“Mehrunnisa,” Jahangir said gently, “would you like the writer to leave now?”

“As you wish, your Majesty.”

“Would you like to listen to some music?” he asked.

“No.”

Irritated by this response, Jahangir put his hand under her chin and raised her eyes to his. “Well, I would like to listen. Hoshiyar, command the orchestra to play.”

“Do not, Hoshiyar,” Mehrunnisa said. “The music will tire me.”

“Everything tires you now, my dear. The music will only relax you.” The Emperor’s voice held an edge to it.

She shook her head, and Hoshiyar stood between them, hesitant, not quite knowing what to do. “If only I could believe you were solicitous of my health, your Majesty.” She said this softly, leaning toward him.

“What?” Jahangir flared up. He had tried to tell himself that this swerving of her moods would end, that in a few days she would settle down. It was for her he had done this, courted the insolence of his nobles and his empire, why was she so ungrateful? How could she even think that he did nothing for her?

“I hear Mahabat Khan came to visit, your Majesty. I also heard he was most concerned for you, and unconcerned for me, and that you did nothing about it.”

“Mehrunnisa.” He opened his arms, but she moved away. “Please, my love, come here and listen.”

Tears came to her eyes and she shook her head. He watched them fall down her face, and an ache began to grow inside him. She was still so lovely to look at, so graceful as she sat there, her
ghagara
spangled with tiny emeralds that glittered in the lamplight. Her wrists were slung with the gold bangles he had given her, but her eyelashes were wet with crying. He had given her everything material, anything that his empire could command was at her service, but she would not be appeased. How could he give her the child she so wanted?

“You have Ladli, Mehrunnisa.”

She raised angry eyes at him. “She is a girl, only the child I carried would have been worthwhile. You know this, your Majesty. What use am I now?” Her words were bitter, hurtful.

Suddenly he was furious. Jahangir turned away from her and signaled to Hoshiyar. The eunuch nodded his head, and the music began to play from the orchestra balcony above them. Slave girls brought in wine and poured out a gobletful for the Emperor. Why was he even doing this? Why cajole a stubborn wife out of her obstinacy? If she wanted to mourn, let her.

He drank steadily and in silence. Mehrunnisa stopped crying. She had waited for the ache in her heart to settle, to go away somewhere, to be banished. But it would not. She was angry too, and in this anger, she asked, “You have said nothing about Mahabat Khan, your Majesty.”

“What do you want me to say, Mehrunnisa? He asked for an audience, for a chance to speak of what was in his mind. I allowed it. I would allow it again; Mahabat Khan is a trusted minister, he is a friend of old, he has nothing but my best interests at heart.” He drained his wine and held out the goblet for more.

Hoshiyar Khan coughed in the background. “Your Majesty,” he addressed the Emperor. “Prince Shahryar requests an audience.”

Jahangir waved a languid hand. The door to the hall opened, and a boy came into the room, or rather, his nurse, wife of one of the nobles at court, dragged him in. Shahryar was nine, born the same year as Ladli. All of Shahryar’s brief life had been spent under the supervision of nurses, one after another, almost one every year. Just as he became attached to a woman, developed an affection and learned to sleep through the night without any fears, the guard would change around him. This was on Empress Jagat Gosini’s orders. She knew that Khurram could have little threat from Shahryar, but she wanted to make sure that even that smallest danger was removed from her son’s life. There had been a precedent for a nursemaid gaining power in her charge’s name—Emperor Akbar had had one such wet nurse who had ruled the empire for a few years before he had dismissed her. So Jagat Gosini kept Shahryar unsettled at all times. Even this young, the prince knew he could trust no one, that his nurses were playmates for a short time and that they would be whisked away.

Prince Shahryar was a beautiful child, Mehrunnisa thought. His hair was still curly and long like a girl’s, his eyes were a bright black, but behind this outer face, she did not think much existed. The prince was like well-kneaded dough, easily shaping himself into whatever plans the people around him suggested. He had no mind of his own. When his nurse whispered in his ear, Shahryar came forward to perform the
taslim,
and he did this awkwardly, without any grace.

“
Al-Salam alekum,
your Majesty,” Shahryar said. He looked around the room.

It was a large, rectangular hall with a high domed ceiling. A balcony ran all around on top, supported by an arched hallway below. The corridor on one side was lined with another set of open arches leading to the gardens. The prince wriggled his toes in the deep pile of the red carpets on the marble floor. In one corner, a silk-covered divan reposed, strewn with jeweled cushions and velvet bolsters. Mehrunnisa and Jahangir were surrounded by attendants, eunuchs, slave girls, and servants. In front of them, gold and silver trays bore flasks of wine,
paan,
and sweets and delicacies from the imperial kitchens.

Shahryar looked greedily at the sweets. He did not see such richness in his apartments. Every nurse had her own rules, and this current one did not think that sweets were good for his health. He tried to be respectful and stand with his head bowed in front of his father and stepmother, but his gaze kept moving to the tray. The
gulab jamuns
looked so plump and soft, surely they would ooze sugar syrup when he bit into them. The
son papdi,
dressed with pistachios, was flaky, made with a light hand—this would melt upon contact with his tongue. And the
burfis,
in all different colors, made of wheat and chickpea flour and coconut, gold and purple and green and white . . . all scattered with cashews, sultanas, and raisins roasted in
ghee.
He hung over the tray without realizing, his mouth open.

“Would you like some sweets, Shahryar?” Mehrunnisa asked, unable to bear the sight of the boy salivating over the plate.

He stepped back hurriedly, tripped on the edge of a carpet, and went down. His nurse picked him up. Shahryar bowed and said, “Whatever you wish, your Majesty.”

“Oh, take him away. Take him away now,” Mehrunnisa said. Did the child not even know what he wanted? She pushed the plate of sweets at the prince. “Here, take this and go.”

Shahryar’s face became red. His nurse caught him at his collar and started to pull him backward from the room. Mehrunnisa rose from her divan and went up to him. She patted him on the head and he recoiled from her hand, not used to gestures of affection. “Go, Shahryar,” she said more gently. “Come and visit us at another time, now is not good.”

“I apologize, your Majesty,” the prince said, beginning to cry.

“You have nothing to be penitent for, Shahryar. Go now.”

Shahryar left the room sniffling, and Mehrunnisa returned to the divan, ashamed of herself. The Emperor had not moved at all through Shahryar’s visit, or if he had, it was only to drink. How many cups had he had already? Five? Six? Perhaps more, but today, Mehrunnisa had no strength to argue with him, no will to stop his goblet from rising to his lips. She sat trembling at her place, her mind rioting with thoughts. What was this uneasiness? She had never felt it before, not even when she had had the previous miscarriages. But somehow, the promise of this child, and that he would be a son, and that she would teach him how to rule the empire—this had come upon her in the two short months she had carried the child with such a force of feeling that it still stayed. Even now, when there was no child.

Mehrunnisa doubted herself too now. The
hakims
said, in no uncertain terms, that there would never be another child. They explained their reasons for this, but she scarcely heard them, concentrating instead on those words,
no more children.
Why was this happening to her? Why was her body so traitorous? And what did the Emperor think of this? Ever since Mahabat’s visit, something had changed. Hoshiyar had told her of the meeting, and of what had been said during it. At another time, when she was less vulnerable, less fearful, Mehrunnisa would have been in a rage with Mahabat, but now . . .

Mehrunnisa had returned to the
zenana
as fast as she could after hearing of Mahabat’s visit from Hoshiyar, even though she was to have stayed at her father’s house a few more days. But it was important that she be by Jahangir’s side, and yet, each time he spoke, each time she opened her own mouth, nothing but bitterness seemed to come out. She was irritated even with the mild, donkeylike Shahryar, who was so harmless. When she looked at Shahryar, she thought of the child she should have had.
He
should have lived; if this boy could, why not her own son?