Wild Jasmine (7 page)

Rugaiya Begum shook her head. Yasaman had been too cosseted and too sheltered! It was all her fault that Yasaman was too immature to marry, and yet … Rugaiya Begum bit her lip in vexation. Was she mistaken? Surely Salim did not lust after his little sister! It had to be the imagination of an old woman seeing shadows where there were none. Still, Akbar was not well, although he hid it from everyone but his physician and her. A marriage had to be arranged for Yasaman eventually. Now was as good a time as any to settle the matter. Her instincts had never failed her before, but she was still loath to believe that the prince desired Yasaman as a woman. If Yasaman were married, however, the matter would be settled for good and all. If she was right, this would be but one of Salim’s temporary passions. A royal marriage for his sister would cool his ardor and bring him to his senses.

“What have you decided to wear, my child?” she asked her daughter.

“The peacock-blue- and gold-striped pajama, and a cloth-of-gold kurti with my new shabnam peshwaz, Mama Begum,” Yasaman answered as she stepped from the marble bathing pool.

Rugaiya Begum looked closely at her daughter for the first time in a long while and realized, to her surprise, that Yasaman had the body of a woman. Her breasts were high cones of smooth pale skin that would grow quite lush with age. Her legs were long and shapely. With a young body like that, her desires would only increase as each day went by. No wonder she was so susceptible to Salim. Yasaman’s body was maturing faster than her emotions, which, of course, were confusing the girl, who did not know yet what to do with those emotions.

“A perfect choice, dearest one, but then you always had an instinct for style,” Rugaiya Begum complimented her daughter. Then she said in a more serious tone, “We must speak, my daughter, for you have done something you knew would displease me, and yet you did it.”

“What is that, Mama Begum?” Yasaman replied sweetly, raising her arms to allow her servants to dry her off before massaging her with almond oil.

“You were wrong to ask your brother to come to your birthday celebration, Yasaman,” Rugaiya Begum said.

“Next to Papa and you, he is my favorite person,” the girl answered.

“Your father has not, nor will he ever forgive Salim for his part in the murder of Abul Fazl.”

“Salim did not murder Abul Fazl!” Yasaman defended her brother.

“No,” agreed Rugaiya Begum. “Your brother did not wield the weapon that pierced the heart of Abul Fazl; but he most certainly directed Bir Singh of Orchha to do so. It is no secret, Yasaman. You know it to be so. Bir Singh has publicly said your brother promised him his patronage and a rich reward for the deed.”

“The cowardly bandit lies!” Yasaman exclaimed angrily, but at the same time she felt uncomfortable. She had heard the gossip, and Salim had always been jealous of her father’s friend, the historian. Abul Fazl had been a gentle, wise man with a wonderful sense of humor. He had always been especially kind to her, and Yasaman’s conscience nagged her. Still, she loved her brother. She could not believe he would do such a thing!

“A man on the run such as Bir Singh exposes his compatriots in order to divert the whole punishment from himself, my child.”

“Father forgave Salim,” Yasaman muttered with a total lack of logic.

“Your father had no choice but to publicly forgive Salim,” Rugaiya Begum explained gently. “Your two other brothers, Murad and Daniyal, are not fit to rule.
Salim is the only heir
. Only the intercession of your grandmother and Gulbadan Begum, your father’s elderly aunt, saved Salim. Your father was ready to disinherit him and declare Salim’s son, Prince Khusrau, the next Mughal.

“Publicly your father has reconciled himself with your brother. Privately he does not want to see him. You have been incredibly thoughtless, Yasaman. You should have asked me before you sent to Salim. Abul Fazl was murdered one year ago this very day.”

Yasaman turned, her young face shocked. “Ohh, Mama Begum! I did not know!”

“There was no need for you to know, my child, until now. Had you not asked Prince Salim to come, it would never have been necessary to tell you that your father’s dearest friend and advisor was murdered on your twelfth birthday. It is tragic that a day your father has always held in esteem and joy became one of sadness for him.”

“Oh, Mama Begum, I would not hurt my father! You know how much I love him!” Yasaman cried.

“Then send Adali to your brother with the message that he must leave here before your father arrives,” Rugaiya Begum advised.

“Yes! Yes!” Yasaman agreed. Calling the eunuch who was her high steward, she instructed him nervously, her eyes flicking back and forth from the eunuch’s face to her mother’s for approval.

Adali nodded solemnly, his brown eyes meeting Rugaiya Begum’s for a brief moment of total understanding. Then, with a bow to his young mistress, he hurried off.

“There, there, my child,” Rugaiya Begum said, gathering her daughter into her arms to soothe her. “Everything will be all right now, I promise you.” She patted Yasaman, all the while thinking, Salim will rush off in a temper if I know him, and I do. We’ll not be bothered with him for a long while now.

She was incorrect, however. She had returned to her own quarters to dress when Adali came to her.

“The prince says he will leave the palace so that his sister’s birthday celebration will not be spoilt. He will remain in the
vicinity, however, so he may visit with her, as they have been separated these many months and he has missed her company. He asks that you tender his respects to his father. One of his servants will remain to present the prince’s birthday gift to the princess.”

Rugaiya Begum frowned. “I had hoped he would leave us entirely,” she said, disappointed.

“I understand, gracious lady,” Adali replied, nodding.

“Do you, I wonder?” Rugaiya Begum said almost to herself.

“The prince lusts after his sister, which is wrong,” Adali answered her softly.

Rugaiya Begum gasped, shocked to hear her own fears voiced aloud by another. “Is it so obvious then, Adali?” she questioned him.

“Only to you and to me, gracious lady. We both know how the prince behaves when he desires something he cannot or should not have. We have both watched over our little princess since she was born, and we would keep her safe from all wickedness. What will you do, gracious lady?” Though Adali was a servant, he was a trusted one, and Rugaiya Begum thought, he was also a friend.

“My lord Akbar will be here in Kashmir for several days, Adali. In that time I hope to broach the matter of Yasaman’s marriage. I believe if we can settle her with a husband, Prince Salim’s unnatural desires will dissolve.”

The high steward nodded in agreement. “As always, gracious lady, I stand in awe of your wisdom,” he said.

Rugaiya Begum smiled. “We have had many adventures together over our dear child, haven’t we, Adali? Do you remember the time she felt sorry for her father’s fighting elephants and let them loose?”

“And they wandered through the city of Lahore trumpeting piteously and frightening the general population, who thought they were under attack?” Adali wheezed with laughter.

“Even Akbar found it funny,” Rugaiya Begum chuckled, “although afterwards he scolded her most severely. He had to pay for all the damages too, particularly in the open market where the fruits and vegetables were sold. Those elephants ate everything in sight!”

“But our good and gracious master also explained to our little princess that the fighting elephants were trained to go into battle and, indeed, enjoyed it. When Yasaman understood that by loosing the beasts she had frightened them, for they felt lost
and afraid, she repented of her naughtiness. I remember our lord Akbar telling her that if ever again she thought that a cruelty was being perpetrated upon an animal, she was to come to him first. How he loves the creatures, and he has taught his daughter to love and cherish them too.”

Before they might continue with their reminiscences, however, they heard the sound of the drums that accompanied the emperor in his travels. Akbar was approaching the palace.

“Find Yasaman!” Rugaiya Begum instructed Adali, and he ran off to do so.

Rugaiya Begum turned to look at herself in the full-length mirror that she possessed, and was pleased with the reflection that looked back at her. She wore a jaguli: a high-waisted dress long favored by her Mughal ancestors. It had an open neck and long, tight-fitting sleeves. The skirt flowed regally about her. The midnight-blue color was particularly flattering, and the silken skirt was dotted with silver stars that seemed to match her hair. She wore a long necklace of fat Indian Ocean pearls and Ceylon sapphires that echoed the sapphires in her ears.

“Well,” she said to herself in a low voice, “I am becoming an old woman, but by Allah, I am a handsome old woman!” She chuckled and patted her beautiful silvery hair, which she wore parted in the center and wound into an elegant knot at the nape of her neck. Her plain but kindly face was lined around her lively black eyes, but barely touched elsewhere. She took great pride in her soft, fine skin which quite belied the fact that she would be sixty on her next birthday in the spring.

“Mama Begum! Mama Begum! Papa is almost in the courtyard!” Yasaman danced into her view. “Ohhh, how beautiful you are!”

Rugaiya Begum smiled happily and replied, “You far outshine me, my daughter. I am astounded by the evidence of my eyes. You are really quite grown up.”

“
Am I?
” Yasaman’s voice was somewhat breathless with her excitement.

Rugaiya Begum turned from her mirror and gently patted her daughter’s cheek. “Yes you are.”

“Do you think Papa will be pleased with my costume? My aunt, the lady Jodh Bai, sent me this shabnam peshwaz. It is the muslin of the morning dew. Only a Mughal’s daughter may have peshwaz of shabnam.”

“Yes, I know that,” said Rugaiya Begum, a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “There are other fine muslins,
like White of the Clouds when the Rain Is Spent; the Jasmine Rower White; White of the August Moon; but, of course, only plain princesses can wear those. Only a royal Mughal princess can wear the shabnam muslin. It goes quite well with your peacock-blue and cloth-of-gold pajama and kurti. I like what Toramalli has done with your hair too.”

Yasaman’s long black tresses were loose, but her maidservant had fashioned a single braid amid the thick cloud of hair, weaving it with small pearls and diamonds, which hung down her back and glittered with her every movement. Then she had powdered Yasaman’s hair with gold dust. In the princess’s small ears, diamonds sparkled also.

“You look perfect,” her mother assured her. “Let us go now and greet your father.”

Hand in hand they entered the courtyard just as the emperor arrived. Akbar would be sixty-one in the autumn. He was still a handsome man, and if his concealed ill health had taken a toll on him, it was not visible. He was dressed all in white, from the silk dastar turban on his head to the jama, a long coat-tunic with a full skirt that covered his long pants, which were called cuddidara pajamas. Only his patka, a sash of cloth-of-gold studded with sparkling diamonds, broke the pristine purity of his snow-white costume.

Climbing off his horse, he turned and opened his arms to his wife and daughter. “At last!” he said with a deep sigh, and then he pretended to look about. “Rugaiya, my dear, where is Yasaman? Why is she not here to greet her old father?”

“Papa!” Yasaman giggled and ran into his embrace. “It is me!”

The emperor set her back down and declared, “No! You cannot be my little daughter! You are far too seductive a maiden. My Yasaman is but a child.” His dark eyes were twinkling.

“Papa! This is my thirteenth birthday! I am a grown woman now,” Yasaman declared.

“Are you certain that you are Yasaman Kama Begum?” he teased her. “You are not some fairy maid come to steal her presents, are you?”

“
Presents?
” Yasaman pretended she was offended, but then she began to giggle.

“You are not entirely grown-up yet, I am relieved to see,” Akbar told her dryly.

“Do you not want me to grow up?” Yasaman asked her father, taking him by the hand to lead him into her palace.

“The older you grow, my little rosebud, the older I grow,” he told her. “It is the natural order of things, but not necessarily how I would want it.”

“If you could change anything, Papa, what would it be?” she asked him curiously.

“There is not a great deal I would change, my child,” he answered slowly. “I think I would have wanted my twin sons, Hussein and Hassan, to live instead of dying at birth. And, of course, I would have wanted Candra to remain with us. And perhaps if the great God would give me the opportunity to change things, Abul Fazl would be here with us today.” He sighed and a sad look came into his eyes. “So many people I have loved.
Gone.
”

“Do not be sad, Papa,” Yasaman said, looking up at her father. Mama Begum and I love you. We are here, and for all those gone, there are others yet with you.”

The emperor looked into his daughter’s young face for a long moment. “You are growing up,” he said quietly. “You have said a very wise thing, my daughter.”

They had moved from the courtyard through the palace and were now coming out onto the lakeside terrace where the celebration was to be held.

“Good evening, my gracious lord,” Adali said, coming up to Akbar and bowing low. “The boats are even now approaching with the royal ladies.”

Akbar nodded and, with his daughter and senior wife, watched as the barges, festively decorated with twinkling lanterns, made their way over the placid waters to bump against the small marble quay at Yasaman’s palace, at the foot of a short flight of steps. As each boat disgorged its passengers, it moved back into the lake to bob at anchor. Yasaman greeted her guests individually.

Watching them come, Rugaiya Begum considered that time had not been kind to most of Akbar’s other wives. Zada Begum, the second wife Akbar had taken, never changed. She had been a gray-brown mouse of a woman her entire life. Older than her husband by several years, she was now wizened and stooped. Still, she managed a smile for Yasaman, who sweetly kissed her wrinkled cheek and personally led her to a comfortable cushioned seat. Zada Begum had always been a haughty woman and had never acknowledged Candra; but for
some unknown reason she had always had a soft spot for Yasaman.