The Feast of Roses (43 page)

•  •  •

Khalifa awoke with a start and stared with bewilderment at the ceiling. Where was she? She involuntarily reached out a hand for Khusrau but hit only empty space. Khusrau had insisted that she return to her chamber for the night. His mutterings and dreams kept her awake, so just this one night, he had said, so she could rest finally after all these past weeks spent nursing him. The princess got up and went to the outside verandah, shivering in the cool morning air. The sky was pinkening with dawn, birds had started their busy chirping, and the air was fresh and delicious. She glanced down at the front courtyard, looked back toward the rising sun, and then looked down again. Something was wrong . . . the front gates were open. Why?

Khalifa turned from the verandah and ran back into her bedroom. In a few minutes, she was flying down the corridor. As she turned the corner, the princess stepped into something wet and sticky. She stopped and put a hand to her bare feet. Her fingers came away stained with a thick fluid that looked suspiciously like blood. It streaked red and thick along the floor. Khalifa ran to Khusrau’s room. She saw the dead guard lying across the doorway, his head hanging grotesquely at right angles from his torso. She jumped over his body and fled inside.

Khusrau was on the bed, his face turned away from her. Khalifa bent over him, praying aloud. Her fingers slipped on cold, stone smooth skin.

“Khusrau! Get up!” she screamed.

Khalifa tried to pull his face toward her, but his neck was rigid and unmoving. She put her cheek on his chest, there was no sound, no comforting beating of a heart. “Khusrau,” she said, her voice breaking and subdued. “Wake up, my dear lord. Wake up.”

•  •  •

Khurram was away hunting in the forests near Burhanpur. The message reached him two days after Khusrau’s death. The runner came upon him, sweat-stained and weary, as the prince was raising his musket to his shoulder to aim at a placidly grazing
nilgau.
At the sound of the runner’s footsteps, the
nilgau
scampered off, and Khurram turned irritably. “What is it?”

The runner proffered the letter, he could not talk, he could barely breathe for the panting, and he had not stopped to rest even once, his feet flying as though on fire.

Khurram handed his musket to the Mir Shikar and unrolled the letter. “Prince Khusrau has died suddenly in Burhanpur.” He glanced up at his commanders. The men did not meet his gaze. They looked down at their feet, at the barrels of their muskets.

“I must go to my brother.” Khurram ran to his horse and jumped into the saddle. As he kicked his heels into the horse’s flanks, the whole hunting party scrambled for their mounts. They rode away from the hunting grounds and headed directly for Burhanpur. They stopped only to eat and change horses at the
sarais
along the way, and so, tired and drooping in their saddles, the prince and his commanders rode into Burhanpur. People thronged the streets, wailing and crying, their wails louder when they saw Khurram. He nodded to them, tears on his face. Dismounting in the outer courtyard of the fort, he ran to Khusrau’s apartments. The prince’s body lay on a huge slab of ice, melting wetly onto the floor. Khalifa sat on the ground in one corner, staring at her hands. She did not look up when Khurram entered, and would not listen to him when he knelt by her side and kissed her hands.

The next morning, Khusrau was buried in the gardens of the fort. Khurram was one of the pallbearers; he took his brother’s body to its grave and watched as mud was thrown over the coffin and a large marble slab pushed over the top. Then he went to his rooms to write to his father. When he finished the letter, he called his commanders to him and read out the contents. Khusrau had died of colic; he had been suffering for the past month. Khurram could not send his body to Agra for a proper burial because it had already decomposed in the heat.

Matab Nuruddin Quli stood apart from the group crowded around the prince. Quli had been present at the first conference when Khurram had invited the commanders to the
zenana
reception hall. Nothing had been said outright about killing Khusrau, but all the men knew that they were complicit in this. Yet something gave way inside Quli. Khusrau had been a royal prince, and this was murder. Quli had gone into Khusrau’s bedchamber in the middle of the night to look at the prince’s body. He had stepped into the water melting from the ice and loosened Khusrau’s collar. The angry red gashes around his throat had told their own story, and an unmistakable one at that. Then Quli had looked toward the princess. Khalifa had fallen asleep, alone in the room with its one flickering oil lamp and her husband’s body. She had been sleeping as she sat, her head plunged into her neck, tears dried on her cheek. She had not heard Quli come in.

The noble had buttoned Khusrau’s collar again and stood in the semidarkness looking at the princess for a long while. Then he had gone home, but not to sleep.

Prince Khurram sealed his letter and called for the runners.

That night, two runners set off for Agra. Mehrunnisa and Jahangir were on their way back to the capital after their stay at Kashmir. Both runners were carrying a letter for the Emperor.

The servants waited in a row at the very front of the campsite, peering anxiously into the west, but there was no sign of their Majesties. Tiny hills, childlike compared to the Himalayas they had just left behind, rolled and swayed in the path of the dying sun. The royal entourage was camped at Bahlwan on their way back to Agra from Kashmir. Early that morning, Jahangir and Mehrunnisa had left on a hunt in the neighboring forests.

The men stood, their eyes upon the cusp of two gently sloping hills, and finally saw a little cloud of dust smearing the golden light of the western horizon. One of them broke away from the line and trotted steadily toward the royal party, some two miles away.

Mehrunnisa and Jahangir rode together ahead of the others. They were both tired, and gloriously so. It wasn’t just the exhilaration from the hunt, the scent of the prey, the smooth shots from their muskets, but also the freedom from being confined to a jogging palanquin on the journey south to Agra. Mehrunnisa glanced at the Emperor and smiled. She did this so often that he finally turned to her.

“What is it?”

“You are well today, your Majesty.” And he did look well after all the months of illness. The air of Kashmir, pure, heady and clear, cut through by the Himalayan mountains, had been beneficial to all of them, especially to Jahangir. Without the dust of the lower plains to clog his lungs, his asthma had cleared and his cough had vanished.

Jahangir smiled at her. “I feel as though I were young again.”

“But you are.”

“You flatter me, Mehrunnisa,” he said, laughing. “Look at the gray in my hair.” He patted his comfortable stomach. “Look, my cummerbunds have been growing larger and larger, one day the workshops will send a message that there is not enough cloth in the empire!”

She reached out a hand to him, and he held it, looking into her face. Mehrunnisa was unveiled, it was too hot to cover her face, she had said, her breath stopped under the muslin in all the dust. So she had taken it off and laid it about her shoulders. And they had ridden ahead of the rest; all that could be seen of her was that slender back, straight upon the saddle, the legs looped over the horse, the neck rising from the shrouds of the veil, and a small glimpse of her profile as she turned to Jahangir.

“You are as lovely to me as the first day I saw you, Mehrunnisa,” the Emperor said.

Little lines of worry patterned her forehead. “Have I done nothing to disappoint you, your Majesty?”

“Why? . . . Because of Ladli?”

Mehrunnisa nodded, her eyes troubled. “I still wonder . . .”

“It cannot be wrong,” Jahangir said, “I hear there is to be a child.”

“Perhaps; it is too early yet, but perhaps.”

“Then why are you so tense, my dear?” He leaned over to rub her back. Their horses bumped into one another and then shied away. “I miss Asmat too. She was truly a mother to me.”

Mehrunnisa allowed her horse to amble a few yards to the right and yanked at the left rein when she saw he was straying. She did not speak, just listened as the Emperor talked about her mother. Asmat had died last October, six months after Ladli’s wedding. She had been too ill to attend the ceremony, but none of them had realized that she would never rise from her bed again. And after Ladli’s wedding, Mehrunnisa had been so occupied with watching her daughter to see if she was happy, content, or at least merely not distressed that she had not watched over her mother. Asmat had died as she had lived, gently, not staining the lives of those around her with evil or malice. She had been a quiet presence for many years, and had gone just as quietly.

Mehrunnisa had not even been able to cry, for too many people had needed her. Ladli had been sad, Jahangir had fallen ill, Abul had come to her weeping, Ghias had broken away from his own life, a shallow shell of what he had been, lost without his wife. So Mehrunnisa had looked after them all. She had brought Ghias to Kashmir with them, but he had barely lifted his head to enjoy the spring cherry blossoms lading the trees with their frothy pinks and whites, or eaten the first strawberries, or sat outside in the gentle sunshine of the early mornings. He had stayed in his apartments, coming out when she had insisted, conversing with her, but without heart.

“Someone comes,” Jahangir said, pointing toward the camp with his riding whip.

“Bapa!” Mehrunnisa jammed her heels into the horse’s flanks and sped down the dusty plain, her veil unwinding from around her neck to swirl through the air to the ground. She could hear Jahangir a few paces behind.

“What news?” she yelled, pulling up near the man.

“The
diwan
ails, your Majesty,” the slave said, his eyes fixed at the level of her diamond-studded sandals.

She leaned down to shout in his ear. “He ailed this morning. Is he worse now?”

The slave did not move as Mehrunnisa and Jahangir cantered around him, and he would not answer.

Mehrunnisa looked up at the Emperor.

“Come,” he said, and turned his horse to pound toward the camp.

They came racing through the soldiers on the outside, past the makeshift
Diwan-i-am,
past the workshops and ateliers, and went to the tents in the very center of the camp.

Mehrunnisa swung off her horse and ran into the tent where her father lay. Inside, it was cool and glowing, the white canvas of the tent providing shelter from the sun, and in this light, she saw Ghias as she had left him in the morning, on the divan in the center of the tent. Abul knelt near him. He turned when he heard Mehrunnisa and put a finger to his lips.

“Is Bapa? . . .” Mehrunnisa said in a whisper. Was he dead? For she could see no rise and fall in his chest, just that deathly stillness. Ghias stretched out on the divan, the white of his hair melting into the satin pillow under his head, a sheet over his body, tucked under his arms. His hands, thin now from his self-imposed fast after Asmat’s passing, lay crossed over his stomach.

Abul shook his head. He could not speak either. Tears came down his cheeks into his beard, and he put out his arms. Mehrunnisa knelt by her brother and hugged him fiercely, and he started to cry into her neck. Neither heard Emperor Jahangir come into the tent. He went to sit on a stool at one corner, his back to the canvas.

Ghias moved, mumbling to himself, and Mehrunnisa and Abul looked up. She rushed over to the other side of the divan, and each held one of Ghias’s hands.

“Bapa,” Mehrunnisa said softly. “Are you all right? Rest now, I am here.”

They sat thus for the next few hours, hanging over Ghias, watching him, waiting for him to open his eyes and speak to them. They both rested their heads on the divan, hands still firmly clasping their father’s. The sun set, a slave padded in quietly to light the lamps around the tent and to hang a lantern from the central pole. He started and bowed copiously when, in the light from the lantern, he finally saw the man seated away from the others. The slave began to speak, but Jahangir waved him away with an impatient gesture.

Mehrunnisa felt Abul’s hand touch her head.

“How much longer, Nisa?”

She looked up at him and felt that sudden rush of affection she always felt when he called her by her childhood nickname. It had been so long since he had done so. Too much had come between them. Marriages, other responsibilities . . . yet Abul had been, was, her most cherished brother.

“He will not last the night, Abul.” Her voice was clear and unbroken. With her hands on her father, she felt that he would not live long. At least she, they, could be here with him. Ghias would go knowing that his children were together, by his side.

“Nisa . . .”

“What?”

Abul hesitated and moved away from the divan, imperceptibly. Seeing this, Mehrunnisa waited, the affection in her dying away. What did he want?

“Prince Khurram should be at court, Nisa,” Abul said in a rush. “He would want to be present at our father’s funeral.”

Mehrunnisa raised herself and sat up straight. “That is not possible, Abul. Khurram has other responsibilities in the Deccan. He has to make sure Ambar Malik does not rebel again.”

“Arjumand should be here for her grandfather’s funeral, Nisa,” Abul said doggedly.

“Why? Her place is with her husband. And where Khurram is, she must be.”

Abul was quiet for a while, picking at the embroidery on the coverlet. “When is Khurram to return to court?”

“I do not know.”

“But you do know, Nisa,” Abul said, raising his voice. “You are the one keeping him from the Emperor.”

In his corner, behind Abul, Jahangir moved, and Mehrunnisa’s gaze swung to her husband for a few minutes. He did not rise but settled more comfortably on his stool, and she nodded. She moved her eyes back to her brother. Abul now enjoyed the title of Asaf Khan, the fourth in their family to bear that name. His
mansab
was at twelve thousand horses, a grade shy of the royal princes, and he was merely her brother, or merely father-in-law to Khurram. He had no royal blood, would never have any, yet he held a lofty title and an impressive salary. Abul did not stop to think where this munificence came from—from her, because of her, because he was her brother. She had asked for these honors from Jahangir over the years for Ghias and Abul. Now, forgetting this, he dared to shout at her.

“Khurram is a fool, Abul,” she said quietly.

“Why?” he flared. “Because he would not marry Ladli?”

And so finally, things were to be said between them that had remained unsaid and festering for so long, Mehrunnisa thought. Now she would know where Abul’s loyalties lay. Their father would die tonight, and the calming influence, the voice of reason that had held them together, would be gone.

“Yes, that,” Mehrunnisa said finally. “Khurram should have married Ladli. You know this, Abul.” When he opened his mouth, she held up a hand. “Don’t give me that nonsensical story about him loving Arjumand too much to ally himself with another woman. He loves other women too. Your son-in-law enjoys his harem, he always will. And Ladli is no mere alliance; she is
my
daughter.”

Abul’s black eyes glittered at her. “I was not going to say this, Mehrunnisa, but I will now. Khurram is a man; it is a man’s privilege to enjoy his harem, and for Arjumand not to resist this. My daughter knows her place. She does not interfere with either Khurram’s pleasures or his work.”

“She does not?” Mehrunnisa said, almost shouting at him. “
She
was the one who made sure Khurram did not marry Ladli, Abul. You are a fool if you think otherwise. What had Khurram not to gain from an alliance with Ladli? Tell me this!”

“You are an evil woman, Mehrunnisa,” Abul shouted back at her. “Think what you like, but Khurram will be the next Emperor.”

They had both risen on their knees now and glowered at each other over their dying father. Abul held the blue fire in Mehrunnisa’s eyes with his own until he could no longer. She was right, he knew this. For many months he had tried to convince Arjumand and Khurram that he should marry Ladli. But Arjumand was jealous, whimsical, overwrought from all her pregnancies, terribly frightened that Khurram would love Ladli more. He had tried to tell her that Khurram could never love any woman as much as he loved her, but she would not listen. That marriage would have brought them together as a family, as they should have been. Now . . . with Ladli married to Shahryar, everything was changed.

“Do not fight.” Ghias’s voice, reedy and raspy, rose between the two, and their heads swung down to his. They both subsided by his side again, arms reaching over his thin shoulders, kissing his hands, speaking at once.

“Did you speak, Bapa?” and “How are you, Bapa?” and “Oh, Bapa, talk again. What is it you want to say?”

But Mehrunnisa and Abul had also heard Ghias admonish them as he once had when they were children and would squabble with each other. Shame came to flood over them, but the anger did not subside—they still simmered on either side of the divan, pointedly not looking at each other.

“Where is the Emperor?” Ghias said, softly this time, almost in a whisper.

Jahangir rose from his stool and touched Abul on the shoulder. When he moved away, the Emperor knelt by Ghias’s side and held his hand.

For the next twenty minutes, Ghias talked, with Jahangir leaning in to listen. He would not speak to either of his children; he had nothing more to say to them. But Jahangir he thanked, over and over again, remembering, at this moment of his death, all the generosity he had enjoyed from Akbar and Jahangir over his lifetime. He had been a Persian refugee to India, adopted by this country as her own. But none of this—his daughter married to the Emperor, his granddaughter to a prince, he himself treasurer of the empire—would have happened if not for his Majesty. So Ghias said to Jahangir, comforted by his monarch, for he could not be comforted by his children.

He died thus, in midsentence, the breath in his chest stopped, halting the flow of his words. His eyes were still open; it was Jahangir’s hand that closed them. Angry, sad, and bitter at the same time, Mehrunnisa and Abul stayed where they were, she by her father, he standing at the back of the tent, where he had been relegated when Jahangir had taken his place at the divan. Jahangir rose to call the slaves to prepare the
diwan
’s body for its last rites. Then he led a stunned Mehrunnisa away to his tent. Abul, he did not even glance at once.