The Feast of Roses (26 page)

He took a deep breath and exhaled it slowly. “I thank you for your confidence in me, your Majesty. The appointment to Kabul is a great honor indeed.”

A wary look came to her eyes. “Is it? I wonder. You must leave soon, Mirza Khan, within the week.”

Mahabat rose and bowed to the Empress. “It shall be as you command. Perhaps his Majesty will require my services at court again sometime in the future.”

She waved her hand at him as though he were a servant. “Perhaps, but it will be unlikely.”

As he left, Mehrunnisa dipped her hand into the embroidered bag by her side and threw a handful of
mohurs
into the courtyard. They spun golden through the air before scattering on the ground. The
Shatranj
pieces scrambled for the
mohurs.
“Well done,” she called out. “You will be better rewarded tomorrow.”

The eunuchs bowed and filed out of the courtyard. She watched as the servants doused the torches on the pillars, leaving only two oil lamps burning by her divan. One obstacle had been surmounted. Kabul was far enough away from the court that Mahabat would be powerless to influence the Emperor against her, but not so far that her spies could not keep her informed of his movements.

So Mahabat left on his long journey, carrying with him a deep and abiding loathing for Mehrunnisa. In the coming months and years, he would have much time to ponder what he had done wrong, whether he could have done better. One conviction would never change.

If Mahabat ever got a chance to destroy Mehrunnisa, he would not hesitate. And they did not know then that this opportunity
would
come one day.

“Z
ahara Bagh is beautiful, your Majesty.”

Mehrunnisa and Jahangir were walking close to each other, ahead of the rest of their entourage. Her arm was around the Emperor’s waist, his rested on her shoulder. “It is named for Emperor Babur’s daughter.” Jahangir looked around. “It was laid out by my great-grandfather. When he first came to India, he was unhappy. The heat was terrific, it sapped his strength, and there was nothing to provide respite from the sun. Since he could not return to Kabul, he brought his favorite garden here.”

The royal party moved slowly through the garden, shaded by mango trees. The fruits were near ripening, weighing down the branches with patches of brilliant, succulent yellow. When they passed under the trees, a swarm of green parrots rose squawking from their perches and flew away.

In the center, at the meeting point of the four water channels, was a
baradari,
a pavilion built of red sandstone. It was a large, open building, with pillared, cusped arches supporting a domed roof. Despite the heat of the summer, roses, marigolds, and carnations bloomed around the edges of the grass, lovingly watered by hand.

The central theme of all Mughal gardens was water; at placid repose, flowing, tumbling in a waterfall, seen, heard, or felt in a misty spray. Zahara Bagh was divided into four quadrants by the water channels that crossed from east to west and north to south, meeting in the middle. Hence, the gardens were called
charbagh
or, literally, four gardens. The channels were used not only to irrigate the plants and trees alongside but also to provide cool relief from the summer heat in the plains. Where Emperor Babur had just been a nomadic chieftain before the conquest of India, now there was an empire to rule, with a wealth of natural resources from the earth, jewels of unimaginable luster, and bountiful soil that gave birth to golden wheat and rice. But water had been hard to find, and before the monsoon rains, the
tufan
winds—terrible, parching gales that scorched moisture from the very skin—thundered through the country. So when he had built gardens that brought to his mind images of paradise, water had abounded.

Jahangir and Mehrunnisa had just returned from a hunting trip. For Mehrunnisa the mortification of that early hunt with Jagat Gosini had long faded away. Today, with her face dusty, gunpowder peppering her skin, the smell of it and sweat still lingering on her, she was happy. She had shot four tigers from the
howdah,
and these with only six bullets. Mehrunnisa touched the twelve gold bangles on her wrist. Tiny, perfectly cut emeralds, the color of the ocean at rest, caught the light of the sun. This was her reward from Jahangir for her prowess in the hunting field. And so her jewelry boxes were filled with tokens of his affection.

“It is peaceful here,” she said. This was Mehrunnisa’s first visit to Zahara Bagh, and the quiet of the garden was soothing after the cacophony of the hunt.

“I thought we should stay here tonight. The moon will be full.” Jahangir looked up at the bright sky.

“How do you like it here, Khurram?” Mehrunnisa turned to the prince, who was walking beside them in full hunting gear. He had shed only his musket.

“Very much, your Majesty.”

Khurram’s gaze, though, was on the bangles Mehrunnisa wore. He watched the green of the emeralds turn dark and light as her hand moved. Mehrunnisa smiled and held her hand out to him so that he could touch the stones. He did this reverently, fascinated. Prince Khurram had excelled at the hunt too, but it was for him as easy as breathing. His eye was sharp, his aim unwavering, he could even catch a gazelle in full flight.

They reached the
baradari.
A gentle breeze drifted through the open pavilion, with an underlying edge of coolness picked up from the shade of the mango. The floor was covered with reed mats and strewn with velvet bolsters. Mehrunnisa, Jahangir, and Khurram settled down and waited for lunch.

The Mir Bakawal headed a line of attendants. The imperial kitchens had been moved to the grounds behind the gardens, downwind from the
baradari,
so that no smoke from the fires or smells from the cooking would sully the air in the pavilion. The Master of the Kitchen now brought in a large red satin tablecloth, which he ceremoniously spread on the ground in front of the Emperor. Twenty slaves filed in, each carrying gold and silver dishes. They set them down, and an attendant placed a large stack of porcelain plates next to the food. The head server then knelt. As he lifted ornate lids off the dishes, the aroma of delicately spiced curries and rices filled the
baradari.
There were dishes of lamb marinated in yogurt, garlic, and coriander, and baked in an oven, fish from the Yamuna grilled with pepper and salt, partridge and pigeon meat from the hunt, still simmering in rich brown gravies of onion and ginger, and five types of rice, tinted with saffron and liberally tossed with cashews, walnuts, and raisins.

As the server heaped plates with food, the attendants brought in gold goblets studded with rubies and diamonds into which they poured chilled
khus
sherbet. Jahangir indicated his choice by pointing, and his plate was prepared for him. The attendants waited in silence as the royal party ate. They did not speak during the meal. Food was best enjoyed without the distraction of conversation. They ate with their hands, using only the right hand, picking at their food delicately so that it rode only up to their knuckles. A food-smeared palm was bad etiquette.

Mehrunnisa chewed on a mouthful of rice with a gravy-smothered piece of chicken. What was in it? Ginger—its fresh scent exploded on her tongue—some cumin seeds, and something else . . . something tart. Ah, the powder of dried mangoes. She nodded at the Mir Bakawal, who was standing with his arms folded, watching them with anxiety. The food was excellent as usual, the gravies weightless and well cooked, the fish flaky, each piece soaked in garlic and lime. The Master of the Kitchen bowed his head at the compliment, which was given to him at
every
meal. But at this one, Mehrunnisa thought, it was doubly important. It must have been difficult for him to move the entire kitchen from the fort to the gardens, hard to cook in the open air, where even water had to be brought. She had suggested to Jahangir that they return to the
zenana
for their food, and he had laughed at her concern. There were men enough to take every dish, plate, and ladle to Zahara Bagh. Enough slaves to bring every teaspoonful of water, teaspoonful by teaspoonful, for the cooking. But won’t it be a discomfort for the kitchens? Mehrunnisa asked, still not used to the casual way in which even the most elaborate events took place. What else have they to do? the Emperor replied. This is their job, their work, their life itself. So Mehrunnisa complimented the Mir Bakawal—he would talk of this to the cooks who waited behind the garden walls in silence, straining to hear if they liked the food.

She ate and contemplated Khurram. It was barely a year since Arjumand had her first child, now she was pregnant with the second already. Khurram and her niece had a boy, whom Jahangir had named Dara Shikoh. This one would be a boy too, Mehrunnisa thought, from the easy way Arjumand carried him inside her. An ache began to grow at this idea, but Mehrunnisa stifled it. This kind of thinking had debilitated her, taken from her the will to live even; it would not do. She had Ladli. And so she had reminded herself, at first almost every few minutes, and then day after day, and then, it was only at times like these that the thought sneaked in at all. She had Ladli.

Something had changed between them with Dara’s birth. Khurram did not come as frequently as he once had for their meetings; often, it was only Bapa, Abul, and Mehrunnisa who met, with Abul offering apologies for his son-in-law’s absence. For this hunt too, Khurram had not wanted to come, but Mehrunnisa had sent him a letter and insisted, albeit gently, that the Emperor would be glad to see him.

Khurram did not glance up from his food to catch her eye. When he did eventually, the meal was over, and attendants were bringing warm water for them to wash their hands.

An hour later, Jahangir laid his head down comfortably on a pillow as the musicians outside the
baradari
played soothing music. He was asleep in a few minutes.

Mehrunnisa made a sign to Khurram. He got up and followed her outside. They cut across the lush, green lawn and reached a square water reservoir filled with goldfish and white lilies. A willow curved over gracefully, sheltering them from the sun. Mehrunnisa sat down at the edge of the pond and took off her jeweled sandals. She put her feet into the cool water and watched as the goldfish curiously nibbled at her feet. Khurram sat next to her in silence, waiting for her to speak.

“How is Arjumand? I hope the confinement is progressing well.”

“Yes.” A flush of happiness spread over the prince’s face. “She is doing well. The soothsayers say it will be another son. It does not matter much to me, but Arjumand is content.”

“You love Arjumand very much.”

“More than life itself, your Majesty,” the prince replied fervently. Then he stopped and said, “This sounds too grand, too much like what I should say to you, her aunt, rather than what should be. But it is the simple truth.”

“It is good to love your wife, Khurram,” Mehrunnisa hesitated, “but remember, as a royal prince it is your duty to marry often and to show impartiality to all your wives. You have another wife, one before Arjumand. I hear you visit her less often.”

“This from you, your Majesty?” Khurram asked. His smile was wry. “I beg your pardon, but I have known you since I was a child and so feel I can safely say this. Empress Jagat Gosini complains of the Emperor’s neglect of her, others do too.”

Mehrunnisa laughed, and the sound tumbled around the silent gardens. The eunuchs in the
baradari
leaned their heads out to look at them, but they could not hear the conversation. She touched Khurram’s arm. “That was well said. But matters are different with the Emperor, Khurram. He has too much else to do, the court, the people, the empire, all these have his attention. When he returns to the
zenana,
he comes to me. I do not need to remind you of this.”

“I apologize, your Majesty.”

She nodded and fell silent. She had not expected to be questioned thus by Khurram. On the other hand, that mocking, light tone had been absent from their dealings for a long while, and she welcomed its return. Yet . . . behind those words lurked insolence. Even if he had not meant it to be so. But had he meant it? Khurram too had taken off his sandals, and they sat shoulder to shoulder on the stone edge of the pool. “I shall never marry again,” he said. “No political marriages, no more marriages of convenience, I have all I could want in Arjumand.”

“It is very well to love Arjumand,” Mehrunnisa said quietly, “but think of all the alliances you can make for the good of the empire, alliances which will link us with other kings. You cannot put love before duty.”

Khurram frowned. “Why must it be a royal prince’s duty to follow these orders? Why cannot I make my own choice?”

“You complain of a lack of freedom, Khurram?” she asked. “You want choice? Will you then give up your royal birth and your right to the throne for these?”

He whipped around to her. “I can have them and still be free. My father did, he chose you, your Majesty.”

At his words, the anger that had simmered somewhere inside Mehrunnisa flared to life. He was reminding her of her lowly birth, of the fact that her father was a Persian refugee, and that she had brought no political connections to the marriage. His
wife
was that Persian refugee’s granddaughter.

“Arjumand has my blood in her. Did you forget that so soon?” The prince began to talk, but Mehrunnisa shushed him. “I know your first wife is descended from Shah Ismail of Persia, but I do not see that her ancestry makes you any more fond of her. Just as the Emperor is fond of me, the woman he chose after having married nineteen others for the empire, you too find yourself by Arjumand’s side. Are you now disrespecting your wife?”

He moved away, his face flushed. Khurram apologized, over and over again, mumbling and incoherent. He had not meant to be disrespectful, surely your Majesty could not think so. He had much to be grateful for, and it all came from her family. Mehrunnisa let him talk, did not interrupt him and waited until her own rage had calmed a little. He
had
wanted to be spiteful, and in the process had overlooked the fact that anything he said to her would reflect upon him too. They were now tied in marriage. Let him be unsettled, she thought. It would make what she had to say much easier. He must never again forget who she was, or what she could do for him.

“Then you will agree with me, Khurram, that some inconveniences have to be borne to enjoy greater conveniences.”

“Yes, of course, your Majesty. But what do you have in mind?” he asked. “Has another alliance been offered?”

“Yes,” she said finally. “I wish, your father and I wish, for you to marry again.”

“Who is it?”

No more protests, Mehrunnisa thought; he was more curious to know who it was than he was on insisting on his undying love for Arjumand.

“Someone you know well. And someone who will make you a good wife—Ladli.”

“Ladli!” Khurram repeated. “But she is a mere child.”