Wild Jasmine (18 page)

“H-How can you tell?” Yasaman asked nervously, extremely uncomfortable at this unexpected turn of events.

“Before a girl becomes a woman, she has a small shield of thin skin blocking full admittance into her yoni. She becomes a woman when her husband’s lingham pierces that shield, rending it asunder and removing her virginity forever. Then and only then can his seed find its way to her hidden garden and take root.” The physician leaned forward, sniffing delicately, and then gently inserted a single finger into Yasaman. Her hand pressed carefully down upon the girl’s belly. Finally she looked up at Rugaiya Begum and nodded, saying, “She is intact, my lady Begum, and very tight. She will give her husband much pleasure.”

Juliana Bourbon arose and washed her hands again in the basin that Rohana presented her, drying them off on a towel Toramalli handed her. “Go to your bath now, Princess. You
are, I am pleased to report, in excellent health, as I shall tell your father and the bridegroom.”

Yasaman struggled shakily to her feet and said politely, “You will remain, my lady Juliana, as my guest at the wedding.”

“I am honored, Princess,” was the physician’s equally polite reply, and she bowed low to Yasaman. Then, escorted by Rugaiya Begum, she departed.

Yasaman bathed in her bathing pool which was scented with jasmine oil, her namesake fragrance. In her father’s household there was a perfumery, called the Khushbu Khana, that produced all kinds of oils, scents, and fragrances for the ladies of the royal house.

Exiting the pool, she was anointed with oil and her dark hair was braided with fine gold threads strung with tiny, glittering diamonds. Her wedding garments were then brought. They consisted of a red silk sari wrought with gold threads, over which was placed a cloth-of-gold angya-kurti, which was a jacketlike garment extending to the waist. The angya-kurti was heavily embroidered with gold and silver threads and diamonds. A necklace of diamonds and rubies was put about her neck, and earrings of the same gemstones hung from her ears. Thin bracelets of gold and silver were pushed up on her slender arms, and gold anklets with bells affixed about her ankles. Her gold slippers were embroidered in glittering little diamonds. The orhni, which was a mantle used as a head covering, was also wrought with gold throughout and had a wide band of gold along its hem.

Adali fastened a small veil across Yasaman’s face. It was pale gold in color and quite diaphanous. “Come, my princess,” he said, taking her by the hand. “Father Cullen will perform the Christian ceremony in your receiving room. He has set up a small altar there, but we must be quick, for we have received word that the Iman is on his way.”

The priest awaited them and began the ceremony immediately. Yasaman did not dare to look at her bridegroom, but kept her eyes lowered modestly. There would be no mass, only the exchanging of vows and the blessing of the union. It was quickly over, and the prince, without even a backward glance at his bride, hurried from the room.

Yasaman was outraged. “How dare he not greet me!” she said furiously, her color high beneath her veil.

“He does not yet consider you his wife, my rosebud,” Akbar
said. “He accepted your wishes in this matter most gracefully, but in his mind you will not be his wife until the Iman has spoken.”

“Then let us get on with it, my father!” she told him. “I have some things I wish to say to this prince! As I cannot say them until I am his wife in his eyes, we had best do the deed.” She swept from the room, Rugaiya Begum running to catch up with her daughter, Akbar and Father Cullen following at a slower pace. The two men were highly amused. Yasaman’s hot Mughal temper was not unfamiliar to either of them.

Yasaman’s official wedding was to take place upon the wide terrace overlooking Wular Lake. It was the sunset hour, and the lake was still, the air windless. The Iman from the local mosque had arrived. He was astounded to have been asked to officiate at such an important event, and had been instructed by his two wives to remember everything. He jovially greeted Prince Jamal, whom he had known since childhood, and congratulated him on his good fortune.

“The princess is, I am told, a most beautiful and gentle lady, my lord. You are indeed fortunate.” He lowered his voice. “It will be good to have our own royal family in Kashmir once again.”

Jamal Khan nodded, saying, “But you must always remember, my good Abd Hassan, that Kashmir is now a loyal province of the Imperial Mughal Empire.”

“
Of course, my lord,
” the Iman replied smoothly.

Standing in the shadows of a terrace door, Yasaman observed her bridegroom. He wore white silk cuddidara pajamas and a full-skirted white silk tunic embroidered in diamonds and pearls. His patka sash was made of cloth-of-gold. He was bare-headed, but upon his feet he wore Persian-style high-heeled sandals called kafsh. They made him seem tall, although she suspected in his bare feet he would not be much taller than she was. She, however, was taller than the other women in her family.

“Have you seen enough now to satisfy your curiosity?” Rugaiya Begum whispered. “He has extremely fine eyes, I think.”

“He is impressive in his fine feathers, but I wonder how impressive he will be without them,” Yasaman said boldly. Still, for all her sharp words, she could see his limbs were straight and well-muscled.

“Men, my daughter, are more at a disadvantage without
their clothes than women,” Rugaiya Begum chortled, “but if his lingham is strong, you will not care, I promise you.”

“It is time,” Akbar said, coming up to them. He was garbed in white and gold and covered with diamonds. Together he and Rugaiya Begum, equally magnificent in cloth-of-gold and diamonds, led Yasaman out onto the terrace.

The Iman stood with his back to the lake. Jodh Bai, Salima Begum, Zada Begum, and the lady Waqi stood before him holding up a golden canopy beneath which Jamal Khan and his father, Yusef Khan, waited. The bride joined them, with her parents by her side.

The Iman intoned. “A contract of marriage has been agreed to between these two young people before us now. Prince Jamal, speak your vows.”

“I, Jamal Darya Khan, take you, Yasaman Kama Begum, daughter of Mohammad Akbar, as my lawfully married wife before God and in front of this company in accordance with the teachings of the Koran. I promise to do everything to make this marriage an act of obedience to God, to make it a relationship of love, mercy, peace, faithfulness, and cooperation. Let God be my witness, because God is the best of all witnesses. Amen.” He had not looked at her even once.

“Princess Yasaman, speak your vows,” the Iman said.

Yasaman stared straight ahead, furious with this man who was almost her husband. Her voice was strong, however, when she spoke. She was the Mughal’s daughter and would not be intimidated.

“I, Yasaman Kama Begum, take you, Jamal Darya Khan, son of Yusef Ali Khan, as my lawfully married husband before God and in front of this company in accordance with the teachings of the Koran. I promise to do everything to make this marriage an act of obedience to God, to make it a relationship of love, mercy, peace, faithfulness, and cooperation. Let God be my witness, because God is the best of all witnesses. Amen.”

“They are married,” the Iman pronounced, and he gazed out over the assembled guests. “Let us pay homage to Jamal Darya Khan and his bride. Huzzah! Huzzah! Huzzah!”

The family on both sides echoed the religious leader loudly. Then, in the company of her mother and the other women, the bride was led to her table for the feast while Akbar escorted the groom and his other male guests to their table.

“My child, I am so happy for you!” Jodh Bai, dainty and as charming as ever in a rose-pink sari, hugged Yasaman.

“You look young enough to be the bride yourself, dear aunt,” Yasaman told her. “I thank you for your good wishes.”

Jodh Bai beamed with pleasure at the compliment.

“A fine young man,” said Salima Begum, resplendent in orange and gold. “He looks like he can give a woman much pleasure. You’ve read your Pillow Book, Yasaman, but until you’ve had a lusty young man love you, the pictures mean nothing. I can remember when your father was young and full of fiery juices. Aiiyeee! What a man he was in his youth! I wish you the same joy!”

“You have done well by Candra’s daughter,” Zada Begum said to Rugaiya Begum. The usually mousy little lady was quite elegant today in purple and gold garb. “Very well, indeed. She will be Kashmir’s queen.”

“I have done well by
my daughter
,” Rugaiya Begum said stiffly.

“Oh!” Nervously, Zada Begum flushed bright red. “Yes, of course! How rude of me, Rugaiya Begum! I do beg your pardon.”

Rugaiya Begum nodded coolly, and Zada Begum scurried quickly away to the opposite end of the table.

“She has always been such a fool,” Salima Begum said to Rugaiya Begum, “but she means no harm, I know.”

“She is your friend, Salima. You would understand her better than the rest of us,” was the tart reply.

Salima Begum chuckled. “You are as prickly as a rosebush where that child is concerned, Rugaiya, but you need not be. You are her mother, the only mother she can remember, and nothing can change that fact. Yasaman loves you better than any, do you not, my child?”

“Yes, Aunt, I do!” Yasaman answered. She put her arms about her mother’s neck and lovingly kissed her cheek.

A great feast was served to the wedding guests, beginning with cool lemon-flavored sherbets to cleanse the palate. Loaves of wheat bread, their tops glazed with egg yoke, were placed on the tables as well as round, sweet honey loaves, their tops black with poppy seeds; and silk handkerchief bread, called Rumali roti, made from wafer-thin sheets of wheat flour. This last was only served on very special occasions. There were bowls of herbal pickles, carrots, and pulses which were peas, beans, and edible seeds.

Rohana had been correct, there were several kinds of rice: saffroned, dyed a rich royal purple, as well as green and bridal red. Several bowls of rice were covered with thin sheets of beaten gold or silver. No expense had been spared, for this was the Mughal’s daughter.

Roasted game birds cooked in clay tandoor pots were brought, as well as roasted chickens, sea tortoise, several varieties of fish, an especially hot curry of chicken, lambs’ brains and testicles in a mustard leaf curry, roasted kids, and a lamb dish that had been cooked in red chili. The women ate as heartily as the men, but the noise from the men’s tables was far greater.

When the main course was cleared away, fresh fruits, tiny pastry horns filled with honey and chopped nuts, pistachios, pine nuts, lychees, and candied rose petals were served, along with both green and black teas. The guests had the choice of flavoring their tea with cardamoms or cloves for added zest.

The sun had set in a marvelous blaze of rich colors as they ate. Torches were lit and they cast a warm light over the terrace as the dancing girls arrived to entertain the guests. First, however, a famous Kashmiri singer named Tahira, accompanying herself on a sitar, sang several ghazals, the classical Persian love songs so adored by the Mughals.

The air was still and warm for mid-August. Yasaman had picked at her food, her mind roiling with all that had happened over the last few days.
Married
. She was a married woman now, and she hadn’t even said a single word to her husband, nor had he said a word to her. It was an interesting situation in which she found herself.

“My daughter,” Rugaiya Begum said softly in her ear. “It is time for you to leave me now and go with your husband.”

“
Go? Go where?
” Yasaman was startled. “Are we not to live here, Mama Begum?” This was something that had never been discussed with her.

Rugaiya Begum looked distressed as she realized Yasaman’s dilemma. “My child,” she said gently, “I assumed that you knew you would live in Jamal Khan’s palace. It is just across the lake.”

“Will you live with us, Mama Begum?”

“No, my daughter. I will remain here.”

“I will not go! I will not live in some strange place with some strange man who has not even had the courtesy to speak
a single kind word to me!” Her voice was beginning to border on the hysterical.

“
Yasaman!
” Rugaiya Begum’s voice was suddenly stern. This was not the time, she knew, for softness. “It was indeed foolish of us to believe you understood everything this marriage entailed. I will not, however, allow you to embarrass your father, or Yusef Khan, or your husband, with a silly fit. Go with Jamal Khan tonight. His palace, I am sure, is lovely. If you wish to make changes, I am certain he will not object. If, my darling, you are truly unhappy there, then I am certain we can persuade your prince to come and live here. Now, go into your chambers. Do what you need to do before you leave. Toramalli and Rohana will join you in the morning. If you can do without Adali, I should like to keep him here with me, but you will know better about that tomorrow after you have inspected your new home. Remember, the next time you consider indulging yourself in a fit of hysterics, that you are the Mughal’s daughter. Whatever a Mughal may feel, Yasaman, we mask it from the world lest they use our feelings against us.”

Yasaman arose slowly, almost heavily, from her place. Then she drew a deep breath as if clearing away her emotions. “I did not understand, Mama Begum. I shall only be a moment.”

Rugaiya Begum patted her daughter gently and watched her go, her heart aching at having had to speak so sharply to her. She could never remember having done so before.

“Why this great hurry to marry the child off?” Jodh Bai said softly to her old friend, “and do not tell me the official story about a betrothal having been made years ago as part of a peace between Kashmir and the empire. I know it to be a lie.”

“Akbar is growing old, Jodh Bai,” Rugaiya Begum began, but the tiny brown-eyed woman cut her off, raising her hand up in a signal to stop the older woman’s speech.

“
The truth
, Rugaiya Begum. Not some tale that you and Akbar have concocted. Have we been so long apart that you cannot tell me the truth? This is the child that our sweet friend, Candra, bore our husband. The daughter that you have loved and raised with tenderness.
Tell me the truth!
”