The Twentieth Wife (46 page)

They reached the stall, and the merchant’s wife brought out all her wares for the Emperor’s latest favorite. Jahangir watched in amusement as the girl picked out a necklace for herself, a frown of concentration on her face. He liked to see his ladies happy, and the smile of pleasure on this concubine’s face told him that she would do her utmost to please him tonight. The thought sent a shiver up his spine.

He looked around for Hoshiyar Khan, who came forward and paid the shopkeeper.

“Thank you, your Majesty,” the girl breathed as she put on the necklace. Her eyes shone with adoration. Jahangir grinned at her. “Let us look around now.” He put his arm around the girl and looked down at her face as they strolled. Surely she must be the most beautiful woman in his
zenana.
Ah, it was good to be Emperor.

Suddenly he stopped short and drew in a sharp breath. The sun had moved behind a cloud, and in the dull afternoon light, the woman approaching him seemed to float on air as she moved, her white veil flowing to the ground like mist.

The ladies became silent and watched the Emperor curiously as Mehrunnisa came near. He stood still, waiting for her, the young girl by his side forgotten.

When she reached Jahangir, Mehrunnisa gracefully performed
the
konish. “Inshah Allah,
your Majesty. The Dowager Empress Ruqayya Sultan Begam requests your presence.”

Mehrunnisa.
He was struck dumb by the sight of her. Four long years. And every day he had thought of her; every night she had come to his dreams. He had known she was in the
zenana
but had not gone to seek her. Too much had happened. Mahabat had advised caution. What would future kings say about Emperor Jahangir if he allowed a woman to captivate him thus? He had listened to his advisors, knowing they were right. Other matters had absorbed him: the campaigns, court proceedings, even marriages for political reasons. But when he saw her there, standing in front of him, all those reasons were swept away. He cleared his throat.

“Lead the way, Mehrunnisa. I shall certainly obey my mother’s command,” he said, standing back to let her pass. He followed slowly, taking in the slender waist, the straight back, and the graceful sway of her hips as she walked. He was suddenly overcome by the irresistible urge to caress the smooth skin of her waist and rest his hand on the curve of her spine. Age had not diminished Mehrunnisa’s charms. The past four years had been restful, turning her into an even more graceful woman. She was more comfortable with herself, her skin, her body. Jahangir walked behind her, his breath catching in his chest, so painful was it to watch her and not touch.

The whole bazaar became silent. The ladies nudged each other, stopped haggling, and turned around to stare at Mehrunnisa with open curiosity. She could hear them whispering her name. They all knew of her, of course; almost half the ladies in the
zenana
were wearing some garment she had created.

When they reached Ruqayya, Mehrunnisa stood aside.

Jahangir came up to his stepmother and bowed. “Your Majesty, you did not tell me you had such a jewel in your keeping.”

“You have found out now, son.” Ruqayya looked at Jahangir shrewdly. “Remember, she is very precious to me.”

Jahangir stared at Mehrunnisa for an eternity while the ladies around them kept silent.
And to me,
he thought. What was her charm? Why did he remember every detail of their meetings, every smile on her face, the laughter of her eyes? His heart pounded as Mehrunnisa took a deep breath and her color heightened. The first thought that rushed to his mind was the hope that she had not married again. He could not lose her. Not now, not again. She had to be his.

Aware that every eye in the bazaar was turned on them, he said to Ruqayya, choosing his words with care, “If your Majesty permits, I would like to show her around the bazaar.”

A wide smile split Ruqayya’s face. “Take good care of her,
beta.
Very good care.”

Jahangir turned to Mehrunnisa and she nodded briefly, barely lifting her head to look at him. He wanted to put his hand out to her but held himself back. Instead he said to Ruqayya, eyes still on Mehrunnisa, “I will always obey your Majesty’s command.”

At the Emperor’s words a buzz started and became louder as the news flew all around the bazaar. The Emperor and Mehrunnisa moved away, walking at arm’s length from each other.

As they left, Khurram slipped ten gold
mohurs
into his grandmother’s outstretched palm.

•   •   •

J
AGAT
G
OSINI WAS
looking at a turquoise and pearl necklace when her slave girl leaned over and whispered in her ear. She straightened and turned around to see where the girl was pointing. Jahangir and Mehrunnisa had stopped before a cloth shop. The lady of the stall was unrolling bolt after bolt of brightly colored satins and silks.

The Empress stood still, her face expressionless. She watched as the Emperor put his arm around Mehrunnisa’s shoulders and she said something. At once, the Emperor removed his arm and laughed down at her.

Jagat Gosini turned back to the shop.

The shopkeeper looked at her. “Would your Majesty like to buy the necklace?”

“No,” she replied absently.

She stood there in silence, thinking hard. Not Mehrunnisa again. Would that woman give her no peace?

“Get Hoshiyar Khan,” she said to the slave girl.

A few minutes later, the tall eunuch was bowing to her.

“How did this happen, Hoshiyar?” The Empress’s voice was sharp.

Hoshiyar shrugged. “Her Majesty, Ruqayya Sultan Begam, sent Mehrunnisa to the Emperor.”

“Why?”

“So that he would notice her, your Majesty. I can think of no other reason. It was an obvious ploy to capture the Emperor’s attention.”

“Find some pretext to call the Emperor away. I want Mehrunnisa out of the
zenana
by nightfall. The Emperor is not to see her again.”

Hoshiyar shrugged again. “I can do nothing, your Majesty. The Emperor will not allow me to distract him.” Seeing the frown gathering on Jagat Gosini’s brow, he added, “I have already tried, your Majesty. Besides, as you well know, Mehrunnisa is part of Ruqayya Sultan Begam’s entourage. The Dowager Empress . . . er . . . does not take orders from anyone.”

Jagat Gosini nodded and turned away with a frown. She would beat them at their own game. Hoshiyar could not help her anymore. Neither could Mahabat Khan. Over the past few years, just as Jagat Gosini’s influence had grown in the
zenana,
so had Mahabat Khan’s at court. Jahangir had settled back into his easy lifestyle, allowing Mahabat and Muhammad Sharif to make most of the decisions as long as they did not go too much against his wishes. So Mahabat had been initially kept away from his clandestine meetings with the Empress, and as time passed their relationship
had waned. Besides, this was a
zenana
matter, one in which Mahabat would not be of much use. His value was in other things: at the court, outside the harem.

So this, she thought, was something she had to manage on her own. And she would. She had known that somewhere, sometime, a meeting between Jahangir and Mehrunnisa was inevitable. But time had been on her side. Mehrunnisa was no longer young. Surely her charms were a thing of the past. The Empress turned to look at them again with a triumphant smile that faded almost instantly.

Mehrunnisa was smiling up at Jahangir. In the muted light from the sun, she glowed like a pearl among the brightly clad ladies surrounding her. She seemed not to have aged at all. If anything, she possessed a new maturity, her movements were more assured. And the Emperor was not oblivious to those charms. He was leaning over her with a look of unbridled lust in his eyes. A deep ache came to the pit of Jagat Gosini’s stomach. Once, many years earlier, Jahangir had looked at her in that manner. Once she too had beguiled him, rising out of the pool in her apartments naked, water glistening on her body, secure in the hold she had over her husband. But that was a long time ago; Jagat Gosini had aged with the duties that were demanded of her.

Just then, Mehrunnisa’s gaze flickered to Jagat Gosini, and the two rivals stared at each other for a few seconds. Mehrunnisa raised a well-shaped eyebrow at the Empress and then turned back to the Emperor.

The Empress stood frozen, a wave of hatred washing over her. That woman would not come into the
zenana
if she could help it. There was a nagging doubt about her that the Empress could not shake off. What was it Mehrunnisa had? Beauty? Charm? But at least a hundred girls in the harem were more beautiful and more charming. She had not been so uneasy about the rest of Jahangir’s wives. They had all been much younger—barely out of the schoolroom,
immature, more interested in beautifying themselves and preening in front of the mirror.

From the moment Jagat Gosini had stepped into the harem, she had taken charge. She spent long hours with the
mullas
and tutors, learning Turkish, Persian, history, philosophy, and poetry. Even in her youth she knew that beauty was transient; the Emperor would need a wife who was a companion, one with whom he could converse knowledgeably, one who would excite not only his passions but also his mind. And she had worked hard to achieve that position. She was chief lady of the
zenana,
with no one above her.

Jagat Gosini shook her head. What was she thinking? She had given the Emperor a fine son, one who would be the next Emperor. She had lived with Jahangir for twenty-five years. How could anyone displace her? Even if Mehrunnisa came into the harem, she would have to prove her worth by providing an heir to the throne. Unfortunately, that was all too possible; she was still young enough to bear a child. But even if she did, Jagat Gosini told herself, the Emperor would forget her after some time, as he had all his other wives. And he would return to Jagat Gosini for companionship. When the Empress turned around to face her attendants, her face had resumed its normal placid expression. Only someone who looked at her carefully would have noted the fire of battle in her eyes.

He (Jahangir) would have carried her (Nur Mahal) into his harem . . . and kept her there like one of his other concubines, but the . . . ambitious woman refused . . . love returning to make impetuous assaults on the king’s heart; with the help, too, as some say, of sorceries . . .

—Edward Grey, ed.,
The Travels of Pietro Della Valle in India

A
LOW, EARLY MORNING MIST
clung stubbornly around Agra. It swirled white and damp down the cobbled streets, over the ramparts of the imperial fort, into the gardens, and through the red sandstone palaces. Only a few people were awake at this hour: lamplighters dousing and cleaning street lamps; milkmen leading their cows to doorsteps to fill brass cans with fresh, frothing warm milk; sweepers washing down the streets with jars of water; grocers returning from the
sabji mandi,
carts piled high with vegetables for the day’s sale.

Ghias Beg’s house, set well back from the street in a broad tree-lined avenue, lay cloaked in the mist. The house was silent as most of its occupants slept. In the stables, horses champed down on fresh hay with rhythmic jaws. In the yard behind, hens squabbled in the dust for nonexistent specks of food. Only the cook and his helpers were up, the main
chula
already lit, blowing white smoke through the yard.

In a room upstairs, Mehrunnisa lay asleep on a bed, a cotton
razai
half up to her waist, head pillowed on her palm, her hair spreading around her in a mass of ebony. A rooster crowed, suddenly
aware of its duty. Mehrunnisa’s eyes opened slowly, and she stared at the wall opposite. Where was she? The paintings were unfamiliar. The room was much larger than the one she occupied in the imperial
zenana.
Then she realized she was at her father’s house. She had come back home the previous night, leaving Ruqayya and her duties.

The mist sent its cold fingers into the room through the shutters, and Mehrunnisa shivered. She pulled the
razai
up to her neck and burrowed under its comforting warmth. Too lazy to go stir the dying embers in the coal brazier, Mehrunnisa turned to the window and watched the white glow of a faltering morning sun brighten the room.

The Dowager Empress had not been happy when Mehrunnisa told her she was leaving. “For how long?” Ruqayya asked sharply.

“I don’t know, your Majesty. I simply cannot stay here anymore. Now I should be with my father; it is at his house I should be,” Mehrunnisa said, turning away from Ruqayya’s scrutiny. So the palanquin had been ordered, and Mehrunnisa had slipped out through one of the back passages of the Empress’s apartments, carrying a sleeping Ladli in her arms. Bapa and Maji had been asleep but woke when she came to the house. They asked no questions, said nothing to her, did not comment on her eyes red with weeping. Maji merely sent a maid to prepare a room for Mehrunnisa and took Ladli to their own bed.

Ghias had come to her just before she slept. “I am glad you are home,
beta,
” he said, kissing her forehead.