The Feast of Roses (27 page)

“She is eleven years old, Khurram. I am not suggesting a marriage yet, merely a betrothal. We can wait while she grows up.”

“How can I marry Arjumand’s cousin?”

“A precedent has been set before, need I remind you of this? Dowager Empress Ruqayya was Emperor Akbar’s first cousin, another of his wives was their common cousin. Why now an exalted sense of morality?”

Khurram stared at her. Who was she to tell him of the responsibilities of an Emperor? She spoke as though his becoming an Emperor depended upon her good graces. He was the natural heir to the throne; his two older brothers, Khusrau and Parviz, were wastrels, and Shahryar was still a child. Why, even Emperor Akbar had indicated that he was the best loved of all his grandchildren. What right did this woman have to dictate his responsibilities or belittle his moralities?

“I shall think about it,” he mumbled.

“Think well, Khurram,” Mehrunnisa said, getting up and slipping her wet feet into her sandals. “Remember who you are.” She stopped and said in a gentler voice, “I do not mean to command you into this decision. But what can be so wrong about it? Ladli is a charming child—and I say this not just as her mother—she will become a charming woman, one much like Arjumand.” She laughed. “Now I sound like the mother of a bride, lauding my daughter’s advantages. But think that this will not disadvantage you either.”

The Empress and the prince walked back to the
baradari
in silence. Khurram did not venture into conversation again, his brow furrowed in thought. Mehrunnisa let him be. The idea she had suggested would take time to settle in his mind. It was a little thing to ask. He was her niece’s husband, why not her daughter’s? Soon he would see why this was important.

But she remained uneasy. They were still strong, surely, the
junta.
The same loyalties existed. Surely.

T
he
Rahimi
rode on the water, her massive sails distended with breeze. She was on her way back to Surat from Jiddah, the Red Sea port near Mecca.

“Land ahoy!” the
panjari
seated in the bird’s nest atop the main mast yelled out.

The deck was immediately crowded with passengers and sailors, all eager for the first glimpse of land after almost four months at sea. They were finally home. They pressed eagerly into the railings, chattering with one another, faces lit with smiles, eyes searching for the land the
panjari
had seen. The gulls had come to the
Rahimi
two days ago, bringing promise of home as they had squawked and swooped around the ship. But such promises were not easily believed, for birds had flown over the ship before and vanished into the vast and empty sky, and no land had been sighted.

Most of the passengers aboard the
Rahimi
were pilgrims on their way back from the Haj in Mecca. They had been away for a long time—in some cases, two or three years. They mingled easily on the ship’s polished decks with the crew, men and women together, waiting. At first there was nothing, the lines of the horizon were flat and unmarred. And then there was a blue-black smudge, like a fingerprint. Finally, it
was
land. It was India. Shouts and yells resounded over the water. The gulls got their reward as pieces of bread were thrown into the air.

In a few hours, just as the sun was setting, the
Rahimi
furled her sails and glided smoothly to anchor off the bar at the mouth of the river Tapti. The next morning at sunrise, boats would row out to the
Rahimi
and carry its passengers and crew fourteen miles inland along the river to Surat.

With the sun dipping behind her in the Arabian Sea, the
Rahimi
was a magnificent sight. The ship could displace up to fifteen hundred tons of water at full cargo, her main mast rose forty-five yards to the sky, her sails were so huge that they were identifiable from many miles away, and she could carry fifteen hundred passengers. On this voyage, the
Rahimi
had aboard seven hundred pilgrims from Mecca and a full complement of crew. The cargo holds below deck were stocked with silks, spices, and other goods for trade. She was the largest ship that plied the Arabian Sea routes, and her bulk and enormity did not make her less stately or elegant. Her sails were handwoven in thick canvas, and shot through with one-inch strips of gold embroidery—on a bright day, she seemed on fire. Her fittings were of the shiniest brass, and her wooden decks were swabbed daily.

All these were on Dowager Empress Ruqayya’s orders. The
Rahimi
belonged to Ruqayya.

As night fell, the passengers retired to their cabins, delighted to be back and awaiting their first step on their homeland the next day. The captain and crew rested after a long, arduous voyage. As the ship slept, five Portuguese frigates silently moved into position around the
Rahimi.

When morning came and the sun rose behind the hills in the east, the lone lookout woke guiltily. He had fallen into sleep aided by wine; the captain himself had brought him a cup. But the night had been calm, there had been no trouble. He rose from the deck, rubbed his aching back, and yawned. A frigate loomed in front of his eyes. For a moment this did not register, and then he turned and ran.

“Captain!” he shouted, racing toward the captain’s cabin, “we are surrounded by the Portuguese.”

His cries woke the whole ship, and within minutes the deck thronged with passengers and crew, who came pounding up from their cabins. They stood gazing with awe at the mighty battleships. As they watched, a lifeboat was lowered from the side of a frigate and a small party of Portuguese rowed over to the
Rahimi.

“Let down a ladder,” the Portuguese captain yelled.

“What is the problem? We have paid for our
cartaz
and have not violated any conditions on it,” the captain said. Upon hearing the word, the pilgrims on the
Rahimi
shuddered, but they said little, watchful of the frigates surrounding them. The
cartaz
was the pass all ships departing the Indian coast had to carry. It was a passport for the ship, detailing ports of call, routes to be taken in the Arabian Sea, and even items for trade by name and quantity. The top page of this hated
cartaz
was stamped with the picture of Mary and Jesus—hated because it was abhorrent for the Muslim pilgrims headed to Mecca to travel under the auspice of a God they could not call their own.

“Let me see your
cartaz.
”

The Portuguese pass was brought out and lowered by a rope. The Portuguese captain perfunctorily examined it. Then he demanded a ladder again; it was let down, and they came aboard. “The
Rahimi
is being appropriated by us. You have violated the rules.”

“What rules?” the
Rahimi
’s captain yelled. “You cannot do this; the
Rahimi
belongs to her Majesty, Dowager Empress Ruqayya Sultan Begam.”

“We do not know yet,” the Portuguese captain said. “Your cargo will be examined and we will check for violations. The crew is under arrest, give yourselves up peacefully and you will not be hurt.” He turned to his first officer. “Get a crew over here to guide the
Rahimi
to Goa.”

The man nodded and went off to signal his frigate.

“The Emperor will hear of this.” The captain of the
Rahimi
turned to his first officer and said, “Send a message to his Majesty in Agra.”

“No one is to leave.”

A murmur started in the crowd. The men began to press in around the Portuguese officer, some started to shout, and some of the women cried. The
Rahimi
’s captain pushed them back. “Let the passengers go. They have waited too long to come home.”

“They can wait a little longer. My orders are to escort the
Rahimi
to Goa intact, with all the crew, passengers, and cargo.”

In an hour, the entire crew had been rounded up and sent to the Portuguese frigate. A new crew came aboard. The passengers were ordered to their cabins and they did what they were told, fear taking hold of them. They had been so close to home, they could see the land, and now . . . now what would happen? As the sun rose in the sky, the
Rahimi
weighed anchor and set sail south to Goa, the seat of the Portuguese Viceroy in India.

•  •  •

Mehrunnisa pushed her notebook toward Siddhicandra. “What do you think?”

He read carefully, marking out specific passages. “Your Majesty, the essay is very good, but you have made some elementary mistakes. Like here . . .” Siddhicandra pointed out with his quill.

She sighed. “Sanskrit is more difficult than I thought, so many grammatical hurdles.”

Siddhicandra smiled. “It is just a matter of time and patience, your Majesty.”

The twenty-four-year-old monk had a youthful face, his skin unfettered by lines. And nature had been kind to him, shaping the muscles on his back, shoulders, and abdomen as with a sharp knife. His cheekbones and chin were strongly cut, his head was shaved and no bumps marred his skull. The monk wore saffron clothing, loose cloth draped upon his body, his feet were bare, he rarely walked in sandals, and he usually bore a thin muslin mask across his nose and mouth so even in breathing he would not endanger insects that might otherwise find their way into his lungs.

Siddhicandra was a Jain monk. Jainism, a religion founded by Mahavira, had found its roots many centuries before the advent of Christianity or Islam. In India, it was followed mostly by the
baniyas,
the merchant class in Gujrat. The main precept of Jainism was kindness to all creatures, big and small, which meant no meat, and, in cases like Siddhicandra’s, even an unwillingness to step on, or breathe in, life the eye could not discern.

But it was the monk’s demeanor that enchanted Mehrunnisa. Siddhicandra moved as though at rest, his limbs fluid. She had never seen him angry or even upset. He was very young, almost too young for such self-control. She had invited him into the
zenana
to teach her Sanskrit, logic, and poetry, in all of which he had an excellent understanding.

For all his calmness, Siddhicandra was a man not connected with the royal family, and so could not come into the harem and sit with the women. Mehrunnisa had followed those rules, though only in spirit. She had a scaffolding erected outside the balcony of her apartments, and once a week, Siddhicandra was lifted on a swinglike contraption to come level with her balcony, and thus she studied with him. He was but three feet away from her, but hanging in midair—not exactly
within
the walls of the imperial
zenana.

They worked in silence, and while Mehrunnisa struggled with learning the conjugation of verbs, Siddhicandra read a book he had brought with him. She had asked for him as a teacher because he brought peace with him when he came. Sanskrit she would probably never master, although she did try. But what she wanted most was to know how he could let the world fight and destroy itself around him and yet not be affected by it. He had
no
wants, none at all. He did not even seem to need anything.

“Tell me, how does it feel to be surrounded by men who enjoy all earthly pleasures and not enjoy them yourself?” Mehrunnisa asked.

Siddhicandra put down his book. “Your Majesty, it takes a strong mind. For years, I have cultivated my mind to obey the rules of my religion. My mind is detached from its outward shell”—Siddhicandra gestured toward his body—“and is thus not attracted either by the pleasures of my body or those of others.”

“Have you never indulged yourself? Even a little?”

“No, your Majesty, it has not been necessary. I have never felt the need.”

As he spoke, Emperor Jahangir came into the apartments. The monk immediately bowed his head.

“Your Majesty, I have been chiding Siddhicandra for his unreasonable celibacy,” Mehrunnisa said. “And that too in one so young and beautiful of form . . .”

“Then I shall join you in persuading Siddhicandra to give up his quest for chastity.” He turned to the young man. “Why do you persist? Don’t you see all around you the luxury and sensuality of a good life?”

“Besides, austerity is only for those who have been sated by sensual pleasures,” Mehrunnisa added. “What is the difference between Jainism and Hinduism? The asceticism that Hindus have to undergo comes only in the fourth phase of their lives; they live first as the child, then the student, then the husband and householder, and finally, when they are old, they renounce the world for God. But the Hindus have already, in their youth, experienced pleasure and give it up only at an old age. How can you renounce worldly pleasures without experiencing them? How can you know if one path is better than the other if you have traveled but in one direction?”

“Your Majesty,” Siddhicandra responded, “what you say is true. But reflect for one moment upon the world we live in. Would you frankly acknowledge that the old today are as disciplined as they were a few generations ago? It is the youthful who have more control of their minds and bodies and who have the strength to give up physical gratification.”

Mehrunnisa fell silent. What was he saying? That she was too old to gain any sort of peace? This power she had now, that Jahangir had given her, was exhilarating. But it came with an unsettled mind. She worried all the time—there was always something or the other to give her pause. Now it was Khurram. She had not heard from him, had not seen him, either at the
darbars
or in her apartments. Was he hiding from her? Why had he not responded to what she had suggested?

She would never be able to duplicate Siddhicandra’s sheer uninterest in anything but his God. Even here, in the
zenana,
looking through the doors at the thickly piled Persian carpets, the silk-covered divans, he was not tempted to lay his body upon them to rest. Where did this willpower come from? He was barely two years older than Prince Khurram, but in everything else, he could not be more different. She listened as Jahangir and the monk sparred with each other in argument. They talked often like this, for the Emperor it was unimaginable that the body must not be listened to, that its needs be ignored. How else would heirs to the empire be born? Without want, there would be no getting anything. Ambition needed to exist. And Siddhicandra insisted upon his love for his God as fulfilling his needs.

The Emperor turned to Mehrunnisa during a lull. “Convince him that he needs to take a wife, my dear. How can he not have what we have?” He put his hand on her shoulder, and Mehrunnisa leaned against Jahangir.

“What is it?” he asked, moving her face until he looked into her eyes. “What bothers you?”

They forgot that the Jain monk sat in front of them on the scaffolding, that he still watched them and listened to what they were saying.

“I asked Khurram if he would be willing to marry Ladli,” Mehrunnisa said. “Not now, of course, but soon.”