The Twentieth Wife (16 page)

She looked like Mehrunnisa, he thought. She had the same thick black hair, tied behind her head now but reaching beyond her waist when let loose. The same mischief in her eyes, gray like a storm-filled sky; the same delighted laughter when she was pleased; the same furrowing of her brow when she was denied something she wanted. She was just like Mehrunnisa. But she was not Mehrunnisa’s.

Ghias gently pulled Arjumand’s thumb from her mouth. She resisted, then, deep in sleep, allowed him to do so. What an unhealthy habit it was in a six-year-old child. But try as Abul had, neither he nor his wife had been able to break Arjumand of this habit of comfort. Arjumand was Abul’s daughter, and now she slept in her grandfather’s arms. Ghias looked over at the courtyard where the two women knelt.

Mehrunnisa and Asmat worked in silence, their hands dipping into the
rangoli
powder in little clay saucers by their side. Torches in sconces on the pillars of the courtyard threw swaths of light over them, skipping over the shadowed part where Ghias sat. They had started work on the
rangoli
pattern two hours ago, and now the flat stones of the courtyard bloomed with colors and patterns. Jasmine drawn in white rice flour, delicate closed buds and fresh-blown flowers; long-fingered mango leaves in colored green powder; hibiscus in deep reds; lotus in silk-pinks; triangular
peepul
leaves, sharply veined in sandstone brown.

Mehrunnisa sat back on her knees, her hands colored to the wrists with the chalky powders. “It looks like an impossible forest, from someone’s wild dreams.”

Asmat smiled as she filled in the green of a mango leaf, the powder escaping her fingers in a precise pattern, not straying outside the chalk outline they had drawn earlier. “The more colorful the
rangoli,
the more welcoming we are to Manija’s new family. This is a Hindu custom, this laying of rice powder patterns on the floor, but very appropriate for Manija’s wedding.”

Mehrunnisa rubbed her forehead to ease a sudden flash of pain, leaving a streak of blue over her eyebrow. “What is her husband like, Maji?”

“His name is Qasim Khan Juviani. I saw him only briefly at the engagement ceremony. Your Bapa says it is a good family. He is a poet, Manija tells me.”

Mehrunnisa bent over the clay saucers again and scooped some yellow powder into her hands. “A poet. And what does he compose?”

“Love poetry. He sent Manija a poem yesterday.” Asmat’s voice took on a little lilt. “His eyes thirsted for the sight of her, his heart beat in cadence with her footsteps, his every breath cried out her name.”

Mehrunnisa laughed, the sound tripping in the warm night air. “And we paint an enchanted forest on stone to welcome the women of his family. What would he say if he saw this
rangoli
?”

“Volumes, I imagine. But he will never come this far into the women’s quarters; you know that.”

“Manija is getting married,” Mehrunnisa said, after a pause. “First Khadija, then Manija. It seems hard to believe.”

‘Your Bapa and I would like to have you all with us, as Abul and Muhammad live with us now. But daughters belong to someone else, right from their birth. We are only temporary guardians of girl children,
beta,”
Asmat said. “They grow up; they marry. They go to their real homes. They have children of their own.”

At her mother’s words, Mehrunnisa glanced over to where her Bapa sat. Ghias shifted Arjumand in his arms, making her more comfortable. Then Mehrunnisa looked down. Though she tried very hard to stop it, a tear rolled softly down her cheek and splattered onto the
rangoli
pattern, like a dew drop on a mango leaf, turning the dry powder under it a deeper shade of green. Mehrunnisa turned away from Asmat, hoping she had not noticed, not wanting her to see how those words had suddenly emptied her heart.
They have children of their own.

It had been four years since her marriage to Ali Quli. But their
house was silent of the pleasant noise of children. It was also just a house, not a home, for Ali Quli was rarely there. Five days after the wedding he had gone out on campaign with the Khan-i-khanan. For eight months after that, there was silence: no letters to her—just news from runners. When her husband returned, he was a stranger: a man she had known for five days. He was not a bad man, Mehrunnisa thought. He did not beat her, was not openly cruel to her as other women’s husbands were, as if their wives were dogs, unclean, untouchable, fit only for the most carnal satisfaction. This pain Ali Quli did not give her, but his silences were almost more painful. It was as though he did not care.

Then, that first year of the marriage, after Ali Quli’s return, Mehrunnisa’s monthly blood did not come. The sight of food made her nauseated; the smell of champa flowers made her gag; headaches pounded her brain. She slept only little, in brief snatches during the day. Then one day, as she sat in a warm bath, the water pooled crimson around her body. The pain from that miscarriage had been like being pulled apart by elephants, slowly, limb by limb, until only a numbness was left.

The shame of it stayed with her longer, as months went by and she did not become pregnant again. Once, Ali Quli had said to her, “It is because you are unfaithful to me. Do you think of another man?” Mehrunnisa had stared at him in shock. Was it true? Did thoughts of Salim take away her body’s ability to nurture another man’s child? But she did not think of Salim. At least not all the time. Not every day. Now and then, when she was tired, when her brain would disobey her, she thought of him. Of the first meeting in the Empress’s gardens, of the second at the bazaar. Of the third . . . the kisses . . . the last time she had seen him.

“Beta.”
Asmat put a hand on Mehrunnisa’s shoulder and turned her around. When she saw the tear on her cheek, she wiped it away with the end of her veil. “It will happen,
beta
.”

Mehrunnisa forced a smile to her face. She did not want pity
from anyone, not even Maji. These last four years, they had all pitied her—Muhammad, Abul, Khadija, Manija. Muhammad and Abul both had children. Khadija, married only six months ago, was already pregnant, her body rounding in anticipation of the child. “I think,” Mehrunnisa said slowly, wanting to wipe away the sympathy in Maji’s gaze, “I think it will happen soon, Maji.”

Asmat touched her daughter’s face with gentle hands. “How long?”

“Two months.”

Asmat laughed, put her arms around Mehrunnisa, and kissed her. “You did not tell me. Why did you not tell me? We must celebrate.”

“No, Maji, please,” Mehrunnisa said, drawing back, worry drawing lines over her forehead. “Not yet, not so soon.”

“Why? This is a time to be joyous. A marriage in the house, another grandchild—what more could I ask for? We must tell your Bapa.”

As Asmat raised her hand to beckon to Ghias, Mehrunnisa stopped her. “No, Maji. I do not want to tell anyone yet. We must wait. I would not have told you—”

Asmat dropped her hand and looked at Mehrunnisa. “Not even me,
beta?
How can you not tell your mother? Does Ali Quli know?”

“No.”

“Why?” Asmat asked. Then she said again, “Your husband must know. This is not something to hide. It is an occasion to rejoice. A child in the family, perhaps even a son. Your husband
must
know.”

Mehrunnisa shook her head, wishing she had not told Asmat. How could she explain her fear? How could she say that every day she watched for blood, that she took short baths in clear water and never looked down, not wanting to see the water color?

“I cannot tell him. Not yet.”

Asmat turned from her daughter and filled in another leaf, moving away as she did so. “Mehrunnisa, Ali Quli must know of his
child. Your husband must always know more than we do, for you belong to him now, not to us. It is his home you grace, your every thought must be of him. Just as I think of your Bapa.”

“But we are not like Bapa and you, Maji,” Mehrunnisa cried out, her voice trembling. “This is a different marriage.”

“Yes, I agree to that. But it is a marriage. There is no way out of it. Perhaps your Bapa and I did wrong in the early days. Perhaps we should have married you to another man, one who would have understood you better. But there was little we could do in the face of a direct order from the Emperor. At least Ali Quli has not gone in search of another wife. In that he is like your Bapa.”

Mehrunnisa stared at Asmat, treacherous tears filling her vision again. “Bapa never married again because his world is filled with you, with us. I matter very little to Ali Quli. I take up very little space in his world. Why do you defend him? It is me you must worry about. You are my mother, not his. Have you given me away so completely to him that you care no longer about how I am?” Even as the words escaped her, Mehrunnisa knew she should not have spoken them. Asmat bent down over her work, not looking at her. Her eyes were closed as though in pain. Mehrunnisa wanted to apologize, to wipe away that pain. She did not believe that she was lost to her parents. She knew that they thought of her all the time, more than her husband did. But they had to present a face, even to her. Asmat had already broken several rules of etiquette by speaking as she had about Ali Quli, speaking—four years later—of Ghias and Asmat’s regret at having married Mehrunnisa to Ali Quli. Such matters were simply not discussed. If fate had decreed a marriage, then the marriage would be feted and celebrated and would survive, no matter what.

“I wish,” Asmat said softly, and Mehrunnisa leaned over to listen to her mother. “I wish for a child for you, Nisa. Because you want a child. Because it will make you happy. If I could stop other women
from asking you constantly why you do not have a child, I would. If I could somehow fill your lap with a child, I would.”

“Maji, I should not have spoken as I did to you.”

“No.” Asmat shook her head slowly. “That is all right,
beta.
But—” She looked at Mehrunnisa again, her expression calm. “When you go home tomorrow, you must tell Ali Quli. He should have been the first to know. There must be no sense of impropriety in what you do, Nisa. No one should be able to point a finger and say that what you did was wrong. Appearances must be maintained at all costs.”

Mehrunnisa sighed. There were always strictures in society: how one must live, eat, even what to talk about and what to keep silent on. When she had been younger it had been easier, sheltered as she was under Bapa and Maji. But now, as a married woman, she came under very close scrutiny. Even as Mehrunnisa was thinking this, Asmat said again, a smile lighting up her eyes and spreading laugh lines around her mouth, “But there is going to be a child. We are like two old women with imagined fears. Be strong,
beta.
Perhaps even I do not understand what anxiety you undergo, for I have not experienced this. But I will pray to Allah for the life of your child, for the happiness it will bring you.”

“Don’t tell Bapa, Maji,” Mehrunnisa said quickly.

“He will understand,
beta.
Whether you want me to tell him or not, he will understand. And one day, just as he now holds Arjumand, so too will he sing your child to sleep.”

They both looked to where Ghias sat. He was asleep now, leaning against the pillar, his granddaughter sprawled over him. The day’s work and the night’s tranquility had crept over both of them. Mehrunnisa bent down again, glad her mother did not fuss over her, for if the unthinkable happened, she would be ashamed of the fuss. She was glad Asmat did not insist she stop painting the
rangoli,
or go and lie down. When her hands and her mind were busy, she
did not have time to think—of what might have been. Maji had always been practical. There was too much else to do to spend hours in idle contemplation of how life could have turned out, if not for this or for that.

The next morning dawned too early for Mehrunnisa, who slept for only a few hours. She and Asmat worked steadily through one more
pahr
of the night: three hours. Long before that, Asmat rose to wake Ghias, take Arjumand from his arms, and usher them both to bed. When she came back, the two women finished the
rangoli
in silence. Every now and then, Mehrunnisa saw her mother look at her with concern when she put a hand to ease the strain on her back, or sucked on a tart wedge of dried mango Asmat had brought for her from the kitchens. When they were finished, the whole courtyard was ablaze in color. “Now sleep, Nisa. You must be tired, and with you the child will be tiring too,” Asmat said. Then she drew Mehrunnisa into her arms, and they stood there for a while, Mehrunnisa with her head against her mother’s shoulder. She could smell the wilted jasmine flowers in Asmat’s hair and hear the steady beat of her heart, and she felt a comfort she had not felt in a long time.

When Mehrunnisa left her father’s house, the milkman was at the front doorstep with his cows. Her veil pulled over her head, she stopped to watched as he massaged a cow’s engorged udders, then showed his terracotta pot to the maidservant. When the suspicious servant had peered into the pot to ensure that there was no devious half inch of water at the bottom to increase the volume of milk, he put the pot between his knees, spoke softly to the cow, then with practiced hands squeezed the udders. As the milkman and the servant talked, Mehrunnisa slipped away from them and walked back to her husband’s house, four male servants a few steps behind her.

Maji said Ali Quli must be told, so she would do so. For all that she was tired from the previous night, for all that her back ached and
a sour taste tinged her tongue, Mehrunnisa felt an easing inside her. Talking with Maji had abated her fears. Now things would be different. Ali Quli and she would have a child, this child that was inside her. The questions about her would stop. Ali Quli would be proud of her, and together they would make a home. Not like Maji’s and Bapa’s, but a home nonetheless. Now she would no longer have to watch other women with their children and feel as though the ache would consume her. She too would have a child, so she could grow old and fretful and have that child indulge her whims. Mehrunnisa laughed. The sound was like water in a stream, a happy sound.