The Twentieth Wife (5 page)

“A good family,” Akbar said. Turning to his right, he asked, “What do you think, Shaiku Baba?”

Ghias then saw the child seated next to the emperor, a little boy perhaps eight or nine years old, his hair slicked back, wearing a short
peshwaz
coat and trousers of gold shot silk. Prince Salim, heir to the empire. Salim nodded solemnly, the heron feather in his small turban bobbing. Trying to mirror his father’s tone of voice, he said in his clear, childish voice, “We like him, your Majesty.”

Akbar smiled. “Yes, we do. Come back to see us sometime, Mirza Beg.”

Ghias bowed. “Your Majesty is too kind. It will be a great honor for me.”

Akbar inclined his head to the Mir Arz, who read out the name of the next supplicant from his scroll. Malik Masud gestured to
Ghias and both men bowed again and backed to their places. They did not talk. When the
darbar
was over, Ghias left the hall in a stupor, the Emperor’s kind words singing in his ear. He had gone back to the court the next day, waiting for hours until the Emperor was free to talk with him for five minutes. After a few days of conversation, Akbar had graciously granted Ghias a
mansab
of three hundred horses and appointed him courtier.

The
mansab
system was used by Mughal kings to confer honors and estates. The
mansabs
translated into parcels of land used to support the upkeep of cavalry or infantry for the imperial army, so Ghias’s
mansab
could support, from its produce, a cavalry of three hundred horses. All this Ghias had to learn anew. The Mughal courts were different from the courts at Persia.

As the years passed, Ghias made himself indispensable to Akbar, accompanying him on hunting parties and campaigns and entertaining him with stories of the Persian courts. Akbar replied to Ghias’s efforts in kind, granting him the land and building materials for two splendid houses: one at Agra, the other at Fatehpur Sikri.

Today, they sat down to their midday meal at a rented house in Lahore. A few months ago, a new threat had reared its head on the northwestern frontier of the empire. The Emperor’s spies had brought news that Abdullah Khan, king of Uzbekistan, was planning to invade India. Fatehpur Sikri, though nominally the capital of the empire, was too far southeast for the Emperor’s comfort. Akbar wanted to be closer to the campaign mounted against the Uzbeg king, and he gave orders for the move to Lahore. The entire court had traveled with the Emperor, leaving the newly built city of Fatehpur Sikri deserted.

Allah had been kind to his family, Ghias mused as he stroked his bearded chin. Opulence surrounded them, a far cry from the destitute manner in which they had entered India. Thick Persian and Kashmiri rugs were piled on the stone floors. The lime-washed
walls were hung with paintings and miniatures framed in brass. Little burnished teak and sandalwood tables held artifacts from around the world: Chinese porcelain statues, silver and gold boxes from Persia, ivory figurines from Africa. The children were clothed in the finest muslin and silks, and Asmat wore enough jewelry to feed a poor family for a year.

He still could not believe the blessings that had come his way and how much they had gained in the past years. The children had flourished here, strong and resilient, taking to the country and its people as though their own. Abul, Muhammad, and Saliha had been diffident at first about learning new languages and customs and playing with the children of the neighboring lords and nobles. Young as they were, they remembered much of the long, traumatic journey from Persia. For Mehrunnisa, everything was new and wonderful. The dialects in Agra had come more easily to her mouth. The blistering dry heat of the Indo-Gangetic plains did not seem to bother her; until she was five she ran about the house in a thin cotton shift, balking at having to dress up for festivals and occasions. She took their position for granted as promotions came to Ghias and they moved from one house to a bigger one until Akbar gave them a home of their own. This was the only life she had known. Ghias had worried most about Asmat, anxious about uprooting her and bringing her here. When her father had entrusted her to his care, he surely would not have expected that Ghias would take her away from her family.

Ghias looked at her, warming with pride and love. Asmat was in the early stages of yet another pregnancy, visible only by a slight rounding of her stomach. The passing years had not diminished Asmat’s beauty. Time had painted some gray in her hair and etched a few lines on her face. But it was the same dear face, the same trusting eyes. She had been brave, giving him strength at night when they lay beside each other in silence, darkness closing around them,
and during the day when he was home working or reading, and she passed by, her anklets chiming, her
ghagara
murmuring on the floor. Islamic law allowed four wives, but with Asmat, Ghias had found a deep, abiding peace. There was no need to even look at another woman or think of taking another wife. She was everything to him.

A sudden movement caught his eye. Mehrunnisa was sitting at the edge of her divan, her eyes sparkling with excitement, smoothing the long pleats of her
ghagara
with impatient fingers. He knew she wanted to say something and could not keep still. He looked at her, thinking again of these past eight years, of how they would have been different if she had not been with them. A huge gap would have opened in their lives, never to be filled no matter how many children they had. How he would have missed her musical “Bapa!” when he came home and she flung herself into his arms with a “Kiss me first, before anyone else. Me first. Me first.”

Ghias bowed his head.
Thank you, Allah.

Then he put down his cup and said, “His Majesty was in a good mood at the
darbar
this morning. He is very happy about Prince Salim’s forthcoming marriage.”

“Bapa—” Both Abul and Mehrunnisa spoke simultaneously, relieved that the enforced silence during lunch had finally been broken. Asmat and Ghias were very strict about not speaking during meals: a sign of good manners. And only when Ghias spoke could the rest of the family join in.

“Yes, Mehrunnisa?” Ghias hushed Abul with a hand.

“I want to go to the royal palace for the wedding,” Mehrunnisa said. Then she added hastily, “Please.”

Ghias raised an eyebrow at Asmat.

She nodded. “You can take the boys. Mehrunnisa and Saliha will be with me.”

•   •   •

M
EHRUNNISA TUGGED AT
her sister’s veil. “Can you see anything?”

“No,” Saliha said, her voice almost a wail. Just then, one of the ladies in the
zenana
balcony elbowed them to one side, allowing the crowd to swarm to the marble lattice-worked screen.

Mehrunnisa craned her neck, standing on tiptoe until the arches of her feet hurt. It was of no use. All she could see were the backs of the ladies of Akbar’s harem as they stood exclaiming at the scene below in the
Diwan-i-am.

She fell back on her heels, her foot tapping impatiently on the stone floor. The day of the wedding had finally arrived, and she had not been able to catch a glimpse of the ceremony or of Prince Salim. It was unfair that her brothers were allowed to be present at the courtyard below while she had to be confined behind the
parda
with the royal harem. And what made it all the more unfair was that she was not even old enough to wear the veil, but for some reason her mother had insisted on keeping her in the
zenana
balcony.

Mehrunnisa jumped up and down, trying to look over the heads of the
zenana
ladies. At that moment, it did not strike her that she was actually in the imperial palace. Everything, every thought, centered on Salim. When the gates had opened and the female guards had eyed them with suspicion before letting them into the
zenana
area, Saliha had bowed to them in awe. Mehrunnisa had ignored them, her eyes running everywhere, not seeing the rainbow silks or the luminous jewels or the flawlessly painted faces. Her only thought had been to find a good spot at the screen to see the prince. And now they had been pushed to the back because they were younger and smaller than all the other women.

“I am going to push them aside and take a look.”

“You cannot do that. This is the Emperor’s harem; they are the most exalted ladies in the realm,” Saliha said in a horrified whisper, holding Mehrunnisa’s hand tight in hers.

“With very bad manners,” Mehrunnisa replied, her voice pert. “I
have been pushed out of the way four times already. How are we supposed to see Prince Salim? They are not made of water that we can see through them.”

She pulled her hand out of Saliha’s grasp and ran to the front of the balcony. She tapped one of the concubines on the shoulder and, when she turned, slipped through the opening to press her face against the screen, her fingers clutching the marble.

Mehrunnisa blinked rapidly to adjust her eyes to the blinding sunshine in the
Diwan-i-Am
and gazed at the figure seated on the throne at the far end. Akbar was dressed in his magnificent robes of state, the jewels on his turban glittering as he nodded graciously to his ministers. The Emperor’s eyes were suspiciously bright when he looked at his son.

Mehrunnisa shifted her gaze to Prince Salim and held her breath. From here she could only see him in profile. He held himself with grace, shoulders squared, feet planted firmly apart, right hand on the jeweled dagger tucked into his cummerbund. Princess Man Bai stood next to him, head covered with a red muslin veil heavily embroidered in gold
zari.
If only the princess would move back a step so she could see Salim a little better, Mehrunnisa thought, her face glued to the screen. Perhaps if she leaned over to the right . . . The Qazi who was performing the ceremony had just finished asking Prince Salim if he would take the Princess Man Bai to be his wife. He now turned to the princess.

Mehrunnisa, along with the rest of the court, waited in silence for Man Bai to respond. Just then, someone rudely pulled her by the shoulder. She turned around to see the irate concubine glaring at her.

“How dare you?” the concubine hissed between clenched teeth, her face twisted in anger.

Mehrunnisa opened her mouth to reply, but before she could, the girl lifted her hand and slapped Mehrunnisa’s face, her jeweled rings cutting into her cheek.

Mehrunnisa raised a trembling hand to her face and stared at her, eyes huge in a pale face. No one—
no one
—had hit her before, not even her parents.

Tears sprang to her eyes as she glowered at the woman, spilling down her cheeks before she could stop them. Mehrunnisa wiped them away with the back of her hand. The concubine leaned over her, hands on hips. Mehrunnisa did not flinch. Instead, she bit her lip to keep back a retort, the slap still ringing in her ears. Suddenly she was terribly lonely. Somewhere in the background she saw Saliha, her face drained of color. But where was Maji?

“I beg your pardon.” Asmat had come up behind Mehrunnisa. She put an arm around her daughter and pulled her away from the furious concubine. “She is just a child—”

“Let her be!” a rich, imperious voice commanded.

Mother and daughter turned to look at the speaker, Ruqayya Sultan Begam, Akbar’s chief Queen, or Padshah Begam. Sensing conflict, the ladies around them turned from the
Diwan-i-am
to the drama in the
zenana
balcony. Their faces were tinged with excitement. So rarely did Ruqayya interfere in squabbles that this child must be special. A path cleared from Mehrunnisa to the Padshah Begam, and all eyes turned to Akbar’s main consort.

She was not a beautiful woman; in fact, she was quite plain. Her hair was streaked with gray, which she made no effort to conceal with a henna rinse. Inquisitive black eyes glittered out of a round, plump face.

Ruqayya’s importance to Akbar was far more than the brief physical satisfaction his mindless concubines could provide him. He valued her quick mind, sharp wit, and comfortable presence. Her position in the
zenana
secure, Ruqayya made no further attempt to beguile the Emperor—a waste of time in any case, when every day a fresh, new face appeared at the harem. So she left the satisfaction of Akbar’s physical needs to the younger girls while she made sure that he came to her for all else. That security lent her a calm
demeanor, an arrogance, and a self-assurance. She was the Padshah Begam.

Ruqayya beckoned to Mehrunnisa with a plump jewel-studded hand. “Come here.” Turning to the concubine, she said harshly, “You should know better than to hit a child.”

The girl subsided mutinously to one corner, her kohl-rimmed eyes flashing.

Her mouth suddenly dry, Mehrunnisa walked up to the Padshah Begam. She wiped clammy hands against her
ghagara,
wishing she were anywhere but here.

The scent of ketaki flowers wafted to Mehrunnisa’s nostrils as the Empress put a finger under her chin and tilted her face. “So you like to watch the wedding celebrations, eh?” Ruqayya’s voice was surprisingly soft.

“Yes, your Majesty,” Mehrunnisa replied in a low voice, head bent to hide the gap in her teeth.

“Do you like Prince Salim?”

“Yes, your Majesty.” Mehrunnisa hesitated and looked up with a smile, the gap forgotten. “He is . . . he is more beautiful than my brothers.”

All the ladies around them burst out laughing, their laughter carrying down into the courtyard.

Ruqayya held up an imperious hand. “This child thinks Salim to be beautiful,” she announced to the ladies. “I wonder how long it will be before she finds him handsome.” Laughter swept through the room again.

Mehrunnisa looked around, bemused.

The wedding ceremony had just been completed, and the Qazi was registering the marriage in his book. The ladies shifted their attention to the
Diwan-i-am,
and Mehrunnisa escaped thankfully into her mother’s arms. Asmat pushed her daughter toward the door, signaling Saliha to join them.