Wild Jasmine (4 page)

“But I want to marry Salim!” Yasaman’s mouth pouted and her eyes grew mutinous.

“Well, you cannot,” her grandmother said briskly. “What of Salim’s dear wives—Man Bai, the mother of your nephew Khusrau, and your niece, Sultan un-Nisa Begum; and Nur Jahan, his new passion and wife of less than a year? You would hurt their feelings if you stole Salim away from them.”

“They are old,” Yasaman said, making a face. “Why, Man Bai is at least three years past twenty. She will be even older when I am ready to marry, and so will Nur Jahan.”

Salim laughed. “What a wicked little creature you are, baby sister,” he said indulgently, and plucking a bright jewel from his jacket, he gave it to her.

She gazed up at him adoringly.

“I have brought you a present, Yasaman,” Mariam Makani said, in an attempt to change the subject.

The child was immediately diverted by her natural youthful greed and, slipping off her eldest brother’s lap, turned to stand before the old queen. “What have you brought me, Grandmother?” she demanded. “Can I wear it? Can I play with it?”

The elderly woman cackled at her granddaughter’s eagerness. “You are a true Mughal, child,” she said. “Your hands are ever outstretched, grasping all you desire, or think you desire.” She nodded to her personal servant, who had been standing behind her couch. The eunuch hurried off, to return but a moment later carrying an absolutely beautiful bird upon his arm. There was a small gold band about the creature’s left ankle, to which was attached a thick gold chain that the eunuch grasped.

It was a large bird with glorious plumage—a bright gold breast, and turquoise-blue wings and tail. There was a patch of blue-black about his large hooked beak and his lively dark eyes. Upon his head was a small half cap of green feathers.
The
creature, made a trifle nervous by his new surroundings, flapped his wings strongly, revealing them to be bright gold underneath.

“
A parrot!
” Yasaman was wide-eyed with delight. She had a pony and an elephant, but she loved animals.

“His name is Hiraman,” began Mariam Makani.

“Like the Raja Parrot in the story of Princess Labam!” Yasaman said excitedly.

“Perhaps it is the same bird,” the old lady said slyly, and then she looked at the parrot. “Hiraman, this is your new mistress. Make your salaam.”

To everyone’s surprise, the parrot lifted its right foot, ducked its head slightly, and said in a gravelly voice, “Live a hundred years, lady!”

“Ohhhhhh!” Yasaman breathed, quite awed. “It talks, Grandmother!
Hiraman
talks!”

“Indeed he does, child,” she agreed, smiling.

“It is a wonderful gift you have brought Yasaman, Mariam Makani,” Rugaiya Begum said, and before she might admonish her daughter for a lack of manners, Yasaman was speaking.

“Oh, thank you, Grandmother! It is the best present I have ever received!” the little girl said enthusiastically.

“Hiraman has his own keeper, Yasaman,” her grandmother told the child. “You may come forward and meet your new
mistress,” Mariam Makani called, and a tiny woman stepped into their vision. “This is Balna,” the old queen said. “She is full-grown, though she stands but three feet high. She knows how to feed and care for Hiraman.”

Balna fell to her knees and, touching her head to Yasaman’s slipper, said, “I but live to serve you, my princess.”

“You may rise, Balna,” the little girl replied. “Why are you so small?”

“It is the will of Allah, my princess,” Balna answered as she scrambled to her feet.

“How old are you?” Yasaman demanded.

“I am sixteen, my princess,” Balna said. She was a pretty girl with pale brown skin and large, expressive amber-colored eyes. Her dark hair was neatly braided into two long plaits.

“Can Hiraman say and do other things?” Yasaman wanted to know.

“Indeed, my princess, he most certainly can,” Balna told Yasaman, “but he is quite tired from his journey now and would probably like nothing better than a piece of banana and his perch.”

“I’ll give it to him!” Yasaman said eagerly, and before anyone could stop her, she had broken off a piece of peeled banana and was thrusting it toward the parrot.

Hiraman cocked his head and looked directly at Yasaman. Then reaching out, he gently took the fruit from her little fingers, saying most distinctly, “Thank you, lady.”

“
He thanked me, Grandmother!
Hiraman Parrot thanked me for the banana!” Yasaman said excitedly.

The bird, his banana now clutched in one of his claws, said, “Thank you, lady! Thank you!” and began to eat.

Salim burst out laughing. “This is indeed an excellent present you have brought my baby sister, Grandmother. I do not ever remember you bringing me anything quite so fine.”

“You did not deserve it,” the old lady told him bluntly. “You have been in a rebellion of one kind or another against my son, your father, since your birth. Yasaman, however, respects her father.”

“But you love me, Grandmother,” he gently teased her, putting his arm about her.

“I love you,” she answered, “but your father will always come first in my heart, Salim.”

“Yet you have defended me to him on many an occasion,” he rejoined.

“Would that I did not have to, my grandson. You are Akbar’s eldest son and heir. You must understand that loyalty and respect go with that position and privilege. You are too eager to inherit all that is your father’s, Salim.”

His arm dropped from about her. “I am a man, Grandmother. I do not seek to supplant my father, but I need to have him rely upon me and not upon others, like Abul Fazl.”

“Foolish boy!” his grandmother said irritably. “Abul Fazl is your father’s historian. No more! He does naught but keep a record of your father’s reign.”

“He is my father’s friend. My father asks his advice. He does not ask my advice!” Salim said angrily.

Mariam Makani snorted. “They are together constantly, Salim. You are little with your father, and yet he adores you above all his children, even Yasaman. If he occasionally asks Abul Fazl’s advice, it is because Abul Fazl is there and you are not. You have your own life and duties. You have a family and your children. You must learn to rule through your father’s example, but you will not rule here in this land until Akbar is gone.” She pierced her grandson with a sharp look. “And may that be many years hence and I long gone myself.”

“Salim would never harm Papa,” Yasaman said, intuitive and clever for her years.

“Of course I would not harm our father,” the prince replied smoothly, and, bending, he picked the little girl up in his arms. “I must go now, little monkey. Come with me to the gate.” He smoothed her dark hair. “Your hair is as black as night and as soft as silk,” he said almost to himself.

“He needs but a light rein,” his grandmother said as she watched them moving away.

“He is ambitious to rule and, at times, cannot hide it,” Rugaiya Begum replied. As deeply fond of Salim as she was, she could not ignore his faults, as all the other ladies of the zenana could. How many times had Salim gotten into his father’s bad books only to have the other women of the household beg and plead for his restoration to his father’s good graces? Akbar, Allah help him, loved Salim. He always forgave him. One day, Rugaiya Begum feared, he would not. One day Salim would step over that invisible line in the sands of life.

“He is a good boy,” Mariam Makani continued.

“He is a grown man with wives and children,” Rugaiya answered the old lady.

“He is the best of Akbar’s sons,” Mariam Makani continued.

“Aye, he is,” Rugaiya agreed. “I pity Murad and Daniyal. They have spent their lives in Salim’s shadow. How hard it has been for them knowing that no matter how good they were at anything, Salim would rule over them one day. It is what has driven them to liquor and opiates which may someday kill them. They have not their father’s strength of will. So often the sons of a man like Akbar are lacking.”

“It is all those Hindu women he marries,” Mariam Makani grumbled. “Their blood is weak, and they breed weak sons.”

“Salim’s mother is a Rajput, the highest caste,” Rugaiya Begum reminded her mother-in-law, “and he is not weak.”

“True. True, my dear. Perhaps it is just that no one can compare to my son. Even his sons.”

“You do not fool me, Mariam Makani.” Rugaiya Begum laughed. “You dote on Salim as does every other female of his acquaintance.”

The old woman chuckled. “I admit to it.” She smiled. “But how can I not? Salim has such great charm.”

Rugaiya Begum argued no further with her mother-in-law on the subject of Prince Salim. Instead she signaled her servants to pour them fresh tea. Salim did indeed have charm, but it was a dangerous charm. He used it to gain everything he wanted, but underneath he was ambitious and ruthless. Nothing stood in the way of Salim’s desires. Nothing and no one except Akbar, who turned a blind eye to his son’s faults, although he knew them, and continued to call him by the pet name he had given him in babyhood:
Shaikho Baba
.

Salim did have his good points. He was good to his women and his children. He loved animals, though he could be a vigorous and overly zealous hunter. He loved beautiful things and was already famed for his collection of fine art, particularly European prints which he liked to have set in gold frames decorated with Mughal floral borders. His collection of Chinese porcelain grew with each passing year. Recently he had begun to accumulate beautifully made wine cups of all kinds, and jeweled daggers.

His energy and curiosity were his strong points; but he had an eccentric side to his personality that sometimes could be whimsical, and other times just plain capricious. His large sexual appetite was considered by many a strength, by others a weakness, as was his fondness for good wine and his occasional foray into opium. He was wise enough to know his responsibilities, however, Rugaiya Begum thought, and did not
as often indulge himself in these vices as did his two younger brothers. More than anything else, Salim Muhammad desired to rule India. He would do nothing to jeopardize that.

Yasaman came running back to them, chattering even as she came. “Salim says he will take me on a tiger hunt soon! Several of the beasts have been sighted near Agra. Can I go, Mama Begum? Can I go? Please!
Please!
” She danced around the two women.

“We are leaving for Kashmir shortly, my daughter,” her foster mother told her. “It is your father’s wish that you spend most of the year there rather than here in Lahore. The climate is better for you.”

“I don’t want to go to Kashmir,” Yasaman pouted. “I want to go on a tiger hunt with Salim. I never have any fun!”

“No fun! No fun!” Hiraman Parrot said, and the beautiful bird shook his head from side to side sadly.

They looked, astounded, at him for a brief moment and then began to laugh. Even Yasaman was unable to keep from giggling, and her bad mood instantly dissipated.

“Hiraman Parrot is so funny,” she bubbled, and then she turned to her grandmother. “He really is the best present I have ever had!”

Mariam Makani smiled at her youngest grandchild, showing betel-stained teeth. “I am glad to have made you so happy, child,” she said. “Hiraman Parrot will remind you of me while I am away from you.”

“Why do you not come to Kashmir, Grandmother?” Yasaman asked.

“Because I am an old lady, my child, and I love my home best of all. I have traveled much in my life, but I do not have to travel now if I do not want to, and I do not. I am happiest amongst my own things.”

“I love Kashmir,” Yasaman said. “I love the palace there that Papa built for Candra that is now mine. I love the lakes and the mountains. It is so peaceful.”

“Do you not like Lahore?” her grandmother asked.

“Not as much as Kashmir,” Yasaman replied. “Lahore is such a large and noisy city, Grandmother. I do not like its walls, and I cannot see the mountains unless I go outside the city. The land is so dry, except near the canals which draw water from the river that runs by the city. How can a land be so brown and arid with a river in its midst, Grandmother?”

Mariam Makani shook her head. “I do not know, my child.
Perhaps you should ask your tutor. The Christian priests claim to know everything.” She frowned slightly and then continued, “But this palace is a fine place to live, is it not? You are not crowded within the zenana like the other women of this family. You have your own little palace within the palace gardens. Did you know that your Mama Begum and Papa played here as children?”

Yasaman nodded her head, smiling. “Mama Begum says that Papa used to catch beetles and chase her with them. Big, black, ugly beetles!” she said, making an ugly face. Hunching her shoulders and raising her hands up, she wiggled her fingers pretending to be a beetle.

Rugaiya Begum recoiled in mock horror, which sent her daughter into a fresh fit of giggles, particularly as her mother cried out, “Oh, Yasaman, do not do that! It terrifies me so!” Then, reaching out, she pulled the little girl into her warm embrace and hugged her. “Do not contort your beautiful face so, my darling. What if a wicked jinn saw you thus and liked it enough to cast a spell upon you so it would always remain that way?”

“Ohhh, no Mama Begum!” Yasaman gasped, quickly looking about, her turquoise eyes wide, and she snuggled into her mother’s arms.

Rugaiya Begum chuckled. “I think it is time for you to bid your grandmother farewell, my daughter. Both Balna and Hiraman Parrot look tired and need to be shown to their quarters. Take them to Adali.”

“Yes, Mama Begum,” the child answered, slipping from Rugaiya’s arms, kissing her on the cheek as she drew away. “Good-bye, Grandmother. I am so happy you came to visit with me today.” Yasaman kissed the old lady on both of her cheeks. “I hope you will come to see me again very soon.”

“And bring you another wonderful present, my child?” Mariam Makani asked slyly, her dark eyes bright and amused.

“Ohhh, Grandmother, you could never give me another present as wonderful as Hiraman Parrot!” Yasaman exclaimed, and then taking the parrot’s keeper by the hand, she led her off.