The Twentieth Wife (15 page)

Through all this were thoughts of Salim. Mehrunnisa smiled involuntarily. The first meeting in the
zenana
gardens had happened so swiftly; she had been unprepared for him. The second meeting during the Mina bazaar had been what she had wanted until the Emperor had called him away. And he had left saying,
wait for me, Mehrunnisa.
How sweet her name sounded on his lips.

“Mehrunnisa?”

She froze against the parapet. It could not be . . . Mehrunnisa straightened and turned slowly, knowing who had called her name.

Salim stood in front of her.

The verandah was deserted except for them. The cold evening air had driven the last of the dawdlers to the coal braziers indoors.

They looked at each other in silence. Salim looked tired too, Mehrunnisa thought, wanting to smooth away the lines on his forehead. She reached up to pull her muslin veil over her face.

“Don’t,” Salim said, putting out a hand, then drawing back as though afraid to touch her. “Let me look at you, please.”

She hesitated, then let her hand fall to her side. Let him look at her, as she would him, unhindered by the veil. This would be the last time. Even as she watched him, Salim, suddenly bold, tilted her face with the tips of his fingers and bent down to touch her lips with his.

A fire blazed to life within Mehrunnisa. No man had kissed her before; no man had touched her with such exquisite tenderness. Today, now, Salim was just a man who with love in his eyes had met her lips with his in a token of ultimate affection.

And she was bound to another.

Mehrunnisa drew back and pushed Salim away. “I cannot, your Highness.”

“Why not?” Salim asked, laughter in his eyes.

Why not indeed? Overcome, she reached to touch his jaw, tracing her finger down to his chin, then up the other way. With a sigh, Mehrunnisa put her hands around his face and brought it to hers. She laid soft kisses on his brows, his closed eyes, the cheekbones jutting just under them. She followed around his mouth with her breath, inhaling the clean scent of him, and finished by laying her face against his.

“Now I must return the favor,” Salim said hoarsely, capturing her hands in his. With exquisite tenderness, he pressed first one, then another to his mouth. Then he bent to where her neck joined her shoulder, his face a few scant inches from her breasts. Mehrunnisa groaned and let her head fall back. Every nerve was alive to his touch. Her skin quivered under his tongue. She enclosed him in her arms, rubbing her chin against his hair. How was it she knew what to do, even though she had never done this before?

Salim was the one who broke this embrace. As the evening glowed golden around them, they stood watching each other, their breaths coming in harsh gasps. “You smell of roses.”

“My mother . . .” Mehrunnisa stuttered. What was it he had said? What was she trying to say? “My mother makes rose water for our baths.”

Salim stared at her with an intensity that made her shiver. “You will come to me soon, Mehrunnisa. I know your father is Mirza Ghias Beg. I will ask the Emperor to send a formal proposal to your house tomorrow—no, today.” He grinned impishly. “What would you like for a wedding gift? A menagerie of birds you can set free?”

But she was another man’s property. She should not have done this, not have kissed him with such ferocity. But for these past few weeks he had obsessed her every thought. Why, Allah, did they have to meet like this if nothing was to come of it? Why even bring him into her life if he was not to be hers? She spoke tiredly. “I am to be married in a few weeks, your Highness.”

Salim frowned. “No one told me. But,” he reached for her hand, “that can be no problem. I will ask the Emperor to dissolve your engagement. You will be mine soon, Mehrunnisa.”

Mehrunnisa pulled her hand out of his grasp. “No, your Highness, please do not do that. My father has promised my hand in marriage. To go back on his word would shatter his reputation. Please . . .”

“It cannot be that bad, Mehrunnisa. The Emperor himself has commanded many marriages dissolved, let alone engagements. A word from him—”

“No, your Highness,” Mehrunnisa cried out, Ruqayya’s words of warning ringing in her ears. She still did not believe Salim to have been responsible for plotting Akbar’s death. Not this Salim who stood before her, surely. It was a rumor, grown ugly and huge
through the years, arms and legs added haphazardly with each telling. Yet, the estrangement between father and son was common knowledge. There was no easy way out. Sudden tears sprang to her eyes—for the loss of Salim, fear for her father’s reputation, dread of her future life, everything.

The prince reached out and rubbed a tear away from Mehrunnisa’s smooth skin. “Go now, my darling,” he said softly. “I will fix everything. And don’t worry.”

At his command, Mehrunnisa picked up the skirts of her
ghagara
and fled down the marble verandah, her bare feet skimming the stone. She knew Salim stood where she had left him, looking after her, but she did not turn to him one last time.

•   •   •

M
EHRUNNISA RAN OUT
of the palace, calling for her chaperone, Dai Dilaram, who had once been her wet nurse. Dai came out of the servants’ quarters where she had been gossiping, took one look at her distraught charge, and hurried her home.

On the way, Mehrunnisa sat motionless in the palanquin. Matters had progressed too far for her to handle on her own. After her talk with the Empress, she had finally begun to think. What Ruqayya said was true: if her engagement was broken, it would bring great dishonor on her father. And the last thing she wanted was to cause pain to Ghias. She had been blind to what was happening around her, so determined to captivate Salim, that she had flirted with him without thinking of the consequences. Even just now . . . but that had been irresistible, the need to touch him. And now Salim was determined not to forget her. What if he went to the Emperor? Her father would be disgraced and held in ridicule. People would say that he had deliberately sent his daughter to the
zenana
so that Mehrunnisa could bewitch Salim. And rumors would circulate that Ghias Beg was not a man of his word, that he was not to be trusted.

Mehrunnisa’s heart lurched at the thought. There was only one thing to be done. She must tell her mother. Asmat would know how to handle the situation. But Salim . . . his kiss . . . no, her mother had to know—not about the kiss, but everything else. Even as the palanquin reached the outer courtyard of Ghias Beg’s house, Mehrunnisa was dreading the encounter with her mother, for if Asmat knew, sooner or later her father would come to know too.

•   •   •

T
HAT NIGHT
, A
SMAT
heard her daughter’s story in shocked silence. She talked with Ghias, and they decided that the best thing would be to approach the Padshah Begam. The next morning Asmat went to Ruqayya and complained of the young prince’s behavior.

The Empress was very concerned to hear how far matters had progressed. She had thought it to be a mere flirtation on Salim’s part, knowing her stepson’s mood swings well. She sent a message to the Emperor.

Akbar arrived at her apartments that afternoon, and Ruqayya wasted no time in telling him of Salim’s latest fling. While they were talking, the prince entered Ruqayya’s apartments unannounced.

“Your Majesty, I have a request.” He hurried to his father and sat down at his feet. In his haste, Salim had not followed court etiquette. Upon entering the Emperor’s presence, everyone had to perform the
taslim
or the
konish,
irrespective of age, status, or kinship to the Emperor.

“You forget your manners,” Akbar said angrily.

Salim performed a half-hearted salutation.

“Well, what is it?” Akbar demanded.

“I would like to marry the daughter of one Mirza Ghias Beg, your Majesty. Her name is Meh—”

“That is not possible,” Akbar cut Salim short. “She is engaged to be married, and we have given our permission. We cannot go back on our word.”

Salim stared at his father. Why did he care if Salim married a courtier’s daughter? He forced himself to be polite. “But your Majesty, that can be easily overturned if you order it.”

“No, Salim. The engagement took place by our command, and we shall not break our word.” Akbar turned away from his son as he spoke.

Salim knew he was dismissed. He rose slowly, bowed to his father, and walked out of the room on leaden feet. He wanted Mehrunnisa, desperately even; he had not slept much last night. Every thought, every dream had been colored by her face, the feel of her in his arms, the touch of her skin. She consumed him. But he would not beg for her from his father. Salim knew he had done wrong, once, all those years ago. Now, it seemed Akbar would not meet him halfway. He had tried time and again to show his repentance without actually admitting what he had done. If only the Emperor could have indulged him in this one matter . . . for in this short time, Mehrunnisa had come to mean more to him than any other woman he had known. Outside the door, he leaned against the wall, resting his head on a cool marble pillar.
Mehrunnisa.

As Salim left, Ruqayya watched the Emperor’s face crumple in sorrow. Suddenly he seemed older than his years. Akbar sighed and bowed his head. “We shall talk to Mirza Beg.”

•   •   •

W
ITHIN THE WEEK
, trumpets sounded the arrival of Ali Quli at Ghias Beg’s house. The men of the house—Ghias, Muhammad, Abul, and Shahpur—waited in the front yard for the bridegroom. Ali Quli had no family in India, so the Khan-i-khanan, Abdur Rahim, rode with him, the women of his house behind them in palanquins. In her room, Mehrunnisa sat with her head bowed under the weight of the gold
zari
embroidered red wedding veil. Her hands were patterned in henna, her body golden with sandalwood paste, her eyes outlined in kohl. The women around her—neighbors, friends, and
cousins—kept lifting her veil to exclaim at her beauty. They laughed at the tears in her eyes, for it was the right attitude for a bride who was to soon leave her paternal home. Asmat bustled around, calling to the servants to bring in fresh pots of
chai
and trays of
laddoos
and
jalebis
. She did not look at her daughter. This last week, no one had talked to Mehrunnisa much. Maji and Bapa did not tell anyone of what had really happened. People were just informed that the wedding was being rushed at the Emperor’s orders. Even Saliha had not yet come from Kabul for the festivities; she was still on her way.

So Mehrunnisa sat waiting during the long hours before the actual ceremony. She forced her mind to empty itself of all thoughts. She seemed to have let Bapa down even though she had done right in telling her parents. Empress Ruqayya had commanded her to stay at home and not to visit until she was married. From Salim, of Salim, there was no news.

The wedding ceremony was brief, but the feasting went on all night. Ali Quli took Mehrunnisa home as the hired musicians played their trumpets and beat on their
dholaks
. When she left to climb into the palanquin in the outer yard, Mehrunnisa clung to Ghias Beg until he had to push her away from him. “She is fond of all of us,” he said to the watching Ali Quli.

Ali Quli laughed heartily, baring his teeth. “As she will become fond of me soon, Mirza Beg.”

Asmat and Ghias flinched. Then, without a look back, Mehrunnisa entered the palanquin. She kept her gaze away from her family as the bearers lifted the palanquin on their shoulders and jogged slowly out of the courtyard.

In the seclusion of the bridal chamber, Ai Quli lifted the veil and looked upon Mehrunnisa’s face for the first time. Involuntarily, his hand went out to touch her face. He traced her bridal makeup of tiny painted white dots that ran from over her eyebrows down to the curve of her cheeks. She was trembling; Ali Quli ignored it. He
could not believe his good luck. He had thought the marriage would cement his alliance with Ghias Beg, but never had he imagined his wife would be so beautiful.

While Ali Quli marveled at his good fortune and enjoyed his wedding night, Prince Salim drowned every coherent thought in cups of wine.

She aspired to the conquest of Prince Salim and succeeded, by a dexterous use of her charms and accomplishments at an entertainment, in casting a spell over him. But she was married to Sher Afkun, a Persian noble of the highest courage and valour.

—Beni Prasad,
History of Jahangir

T
HE DAY HAD DIED A
few hours ago, pulling all light into the flat horizon beyond the fort at Lahore. As the earth swung away from the sun, the streets glowed in small pools of light—more shadows than light. The bazaars were empty, the shopfronts shuttered, the brick houses along the banks of the Ravi closed behind their high walls and towering tamarind trees. At night few people walked the streets. Even here, at the seat of the Emperor’s court, it was unsafe to wander alone, for the night brought out thieves, murderers, ghosts, and demons.

Ghias Beg sat on the steps of the inner courtyard where the women of his house resided. It was paved in gray-flecked granite slabs and surrounded by a deep verandah from which doors opened into various rooms. Ghias sat silent, letting the worries of his day melt away. Arjumand slept in his arms, her face against the crisp white cotton of his
kurta
, her skin smudged already by the raised embroidery over the front. He looked down at her. Her thumb was in her mouth, her little legs dangling over his lap, the other hand clutching at his chest through the
kurta
’s opening. Her
ghagara
had ridden up to her knees, and he smoothed it back down, his fingers slipping through a small rent in the silver
zari
border.