Wild Jasmine (8 page)

The third wife, Salima Begum, was the mother of Yasaman’s eldest sister, Shahzad-Kanim Begum. She, too, had never accepted Candra, but Yasaman was a different matter. Yasaman was blood kin to her own child; a royal Mughal princess, not some foreigner whom she held in contempt. Tall and thin, her hair was now iron-gray, and her Mughal nose had grown more hawklike with age.

“How old are you now, child?” she demanded of Yasaman.

“Thirteen this day, my honored aunt,” was the polite reply. Yasaman had learned early that the prickly Salima Begum was not to be trifled with.

“You have the breasts of an older woman,” remarked Salima Begum bluntly. “It is time you were married.”

“So my mother says,” Yasaman agreed pleasantly.

“
Does she indeed?
” Salima Begum noted. “Well, she is right for once!” Then she passed on to sit with Zada Begum, who was her best friend.

The other consorts arrived. Almira, the mother of Prince Murad, had once been a beautiful, passionate creature over whom Akbar had caused a minor scandal. Now she was a hollow-eyed and embittered woman. Strangely for one so young, Yasaman understood this
aunt
. She greeted her in a kindly fashion, but received barely a nod from Almira in return.

Leila, the princess of Khandesh, the mother of Akbar’s second daughter, Shukuran Nisa Begum, kissed Yasaman politely and passed on. After her came Roopmati, the princess of Bikaner, the mother of the charming but weak-willed Prince Daniyal, Yasaman’s youngest brother. There was Kamlavati, the princess of Jaisalmer, and her cousin Sadera, the princess of Puragadh. They were pleasant ladies, but none of them really knew Yasaman, for she lived apart from them in her own palaces in Lahore and Kashmir. The lady Waqi and her daughter, Yasaman’s sister, Aram-Banu Begum, arrived and were warmly welcomed. Waqi had been a mere concubine who had somehow managed, in a very brief encounter with Akbar, to conceive his child. She was a goodhearted woman whose life revolved about her impaired daughter, now aged twenty-two, and the many works of charity she performed, for she was a devout Muslim.

“I knew that shabnam peshwaz would look perfect on you!” said Akbar’s favorite wife, Jodh Bai, who arrived last.

Yasaman hugged her happily and kissed her cheek. “I love it, dearest aunt! I have never had such a fine peshwaz.” Then she leaned over and whispered softly in Jodh Bai’s ear, “Salim was here! He is coming back to see me when Father is gone.”

“
I know,
” Jodh Bai whispered back. “That is why I am late. My son came to see me too!” Time had changed the mother of Akbar’s heir little. She was petite in stature, her famed long, dark hair still as black as a raven’s wing. Golden-brown eyes twinkled conspiratorially in a remarkably smooth-skinned face. She adored her only child and was delighted by the close bond between him and his half sister.

“Why are you the only one amongst us who does not grow old?” grumbled Rugaiya Begum as she joined them.

Jodh Bai laughed her tinkling laughter. “Perhaps my face remains young as did my mother’s and my grandmother’s before me; but my bones are old now, Rugaiya, I swear it! On damp summer mornings my knees ache most fiercely.”

The guests having all assembled, it was time for Yasaman’s traditional birthday weighing. The double scales were brought forth and set up in the middle of the terrace. The young princess was helped into her seat on one side of the scales. Then two servants, carrying an open chest of loose gemstones, came forth. They set the chest upon the ground and slowly, using small gold scoops, began to carefully fill the other scale pan with brightly colored jewels and vari-colored pearls. After a while the scales began to tilt, until finally they were balanced so finely that a feather would have created an imbalance.

“You do not look as if you weigh more than last year, my daughter,” Akbar said, “but you do. It is, I think, the height you have attained.” He helped her from her seat. “My birthday gift to you will be a nice addition to your personal wealth.”

“It is her breasts.” Salima Begum nodded wisely to Zada Begum. “She has fine breasts for a young girl. I will wager they would weigh heavily in a man’s hands.” She chuckled.

The other women now came forward with their gifts for the princess. There was the usual assortment of silk scarves and saris; perfumes, gold bracelets, and earrings. Aram-Banu Begum brought her youngest sister a little cage with two lovebirds.

“They are for you,” she said slowly, struggling to remember
the words exactly as her mother had taught her. “I raised them myself. My mama says you like birds.”

“I shall love them dearly, my revered elder sister, especially knowing that you raised them for me yourself,” Yasaman told Aram-Banu Begum, and she hugged her.

“She has a good heart,” the lady Waqi observed wisely. “Not like others here I might name. You have raised her well, my lady Rugaiya Begum.”

“I thank you, Lady Waqi,” Rugaiya Begum said with a kindly smile. Poor Waqi. She had been but a passing fancy with Akbar, and only the fact she had borne his child saved her from total obscurity. If Aram-Banu had been normal, she would have married well, and Waqi would have spent a comfortable old age in a rich son-in-law’s house spoiling her grandchildren. Her daughter’s feeble mind denied her all these things. She would grow old in the zenana.

“I have a most special gift for our Yasaman,” Jodh Bai announced, and all eyes turned to her.

“What is it, Aunt?” Yasaman asked, surprised. She had believed her shabnam peshwaz Jodh Bai’s gift.

Jodh Bai signaled to her servant. The eunuch hurried forth to present Yasaman with a sandalwood box with gold filigreed corners and a matching filigreed lock. The lock, however, was only decorative. As he held the box, Yasaman lifted the lid to reveal its contents. The interior was lined in beaten gold, and upon a scarlet satin pillow rested a book.

“It is a Pillow Book, my dearest,” Jodh Bai told Yasaman. “It is the very same Pillow Book I gave Candra those many years ago. Now it is yours.”

Yasaman’s eyes filled with tears. She looked away, embarrassed for a brief moment. Then, regaining control over her emotions, she said, “You could have given me nothing that would have pleased me more. To have something that Candra cherished is almost too much to bear, dear aunt. It makes me feel closer to her.” Yasaman lifted the book from its box. It was exquisitely bound in peacock-blue silk, its edges of pure gold studded with tiny pearls and diamonds. Opening the first ivory-vellum page she read aloud the words that were written in gold upon it.

“ ‘Once the Wheel of Love has been set in motion, there is no absolute rule.’ ” Her heart seemed to beat a little faster as the words echoed in the night. “Ohh, how perfectly romantic! It’s from the
Kama Sutra
, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” said Jodh Bai, a little surprised. “You have read the
Kama Sutra?
”

“Only some of it, Aunt. It disturbs poor Father Cullen when I do, and so I only read it occasionally.”

“If the
Kama Sutra
upsets the priest, I can only imagine what a Pillow Book is going to do,” Jodh Bai said mischievously.

“There is nothing wrong with a Pillow Book,” Rugaiya Begum said indignantly. “These priests! Why they deny their manhood is a mystery I shall never solve. They have linghams like other men, and yet all they use them for is to pee. It is a terrible waste, I tell you! If Allah had wanted a race of men who didn’t use their linghams for joy, then he would have so created them! Pay no attention to Father Cullen, my daughter. A Pillow Book but prepares a young girl for the marriage bed by allowing her to see what will go on there. Ignorance has no virtue, and fear should play no part in lovemaking.”

“Is she not perhaps a little too young for a Pillow Book?” Akbar asked.

Before Rugaiya Begum might reply, Jodh Bai said, “No, my good lord, she is not. Look closely at Yasaman. Salima is correct. The girl has the breasts of a mature woman. She is ripe for marriage.”

“It is time we spoke of finding a husband for Yasaman, my lord,” Rugaiya Begum said now that this perfect opportunity had presented itself to her. “In another year Yasaman will be of marriageable age. It would be good to settle the matter soon,” she finished, casting her friend, Jodh Bai, a grateful look.

“Yes, I suppose you are correct, my dear Rugaiya,” Akbar said, “but let us speak on it later.”

“As my lord wishes,” Rugaiya Begum agreed, surmising that his reluctance to discuss the matter stemmed from the presence of the other consorts, all of whom had grown suddenly still as they strained to hear the conversation between their shared husband and his first wife.

Since it was past time for the evening meal, Rugaiya Begum signaled her servants discreetly. Under Adali’s firm direction, they moved about the terrace offering the guests fruit and sweetmeats. Because she knew the older of the wives particularly enjoyed them, Yasaman had asked that Turkish paste candies be served. There was tea to drink, both smoky black Assam and a delicate green tea from China that had a faint flavor
and aroma of apricots. Food was an important part of the zenana life, and the wives of Akbar enjoyed it as much as anyone.

Behind a screen the musicians played softly. Some young dancing girls entertained the ladies, and they were followed by a wizened old man who charmed a snake from its woven basket. A large bright moon gave the feeling of daylight, and when a light breeze sprang up, Rugaiya Begum called to Adali to bring kites. Akbar enjoyed kite flying, and the wind was just right this evening for the delicate paper toys.

“I want the tiger,” Yasaman said.

“But I want it too,” teased her father.

“It is my birthday,” the girl reasoned with him. “Therefore, I should have whatever I so desire, Papa, and I desire the tiger kite!”

“I am forced to agree with you, my daughter,” the emperor told her gracefully. “I shall take the elephant kite instead.”

“Aram-Banu! Come and join us!” Yasaman called to her sister. “There is a peacock for you.”

Delighted to be included, Aram-Banu arose and took hold of the silken string attached to her kite, which Adali had already begun flying for her. Yasaman came to stand next to her sister and gently instructed her in the art so that the childlike woman’s kite would not crash to earth. Aram-Banu might be slower than most women her age, but she had a full-blown Mughal temper when frustrated or thwarted.

“Yasaman will be a good mother one day,” Rugaiya Begum said, pleased by her daughter’s kind behavior.

“Why should she not be?” Jodh Bai demanded. “She has had the best example possible in you, my dear friend.”

“If I had not been here for her, you would have been,” Rugaiya Begum replied practically.

“I could not have raised her the way you raised her,” Jodh Bai insisted. “Behold my son Salim, dear friend.”

“He will be a fine emperor one day,” Rugaiya insisted. “He is simply impatient.”

“And stubborn and full of pride,” Jodh Bai said. “He is my child, and I love him. I want to believe him perfect even if I know better.”

“Like his father,” Rugaiya Begum chuckled, “and like my darling daughter, Yasaman.”

“You defend Salim. Yet of all the women in his father’s
house, you have never interceded for him or been won over by his charm,” Jodh Bai noted.

“No, I have not,” her friend agreed. “Salim must learn that not all women will succumb to his magnetism. He must be able to accept when he is wrong. I have always been the voice of Salim’s conscience. I will continue to be as long as I walk this earth. If he learns from his errors, he will one day be a good and just emperor. I believe he can accomplish this.”

The celebration ended shortly afterward. The servants brought bowls of rose water and soft towels to the ladies that they might remove the sticky sweet residue of the dessert from their fingers. Yasaman politely saw her guests to their boats and, kissing each aunt and her elder sister, waved them all off. Only Akbar and her mother remained. Hugging her parents, the princess bid them a good-night and sought her own bed. It had been a most exciting day, but she knew that her mother and father wanted to discuss possible plans for her marriage. As for herself, she wanted to examine in detail the Pillow Book Jodh Bai had brought her, the book that had once belonged to Candra—the woman who had given her life and then disappeared back into her own world.

Akbar called to Adali, “Come and help me out of these clothes, old friend, and then bring me a cup of light wine.”

The steward quickly divested the emperor of his jama coat and his patka. “Bring his majesty a lungi,” he instructed a slave woman. Then, kneeling, he removed Akbar’s slippers and cuddidara pajamas. He handed each garment to a young eunuch who stood attentively by his side. When he had removed all of his master’s clothing, he swathed him in the lungi which the slave woman had brought him. The garment was a simple length of cloth that wrapped about his hips several times and was tucked in at the waist. It was the traditional at-home garb of the Mughals. “There, my gracious lord,” Adali said, finishing his task and impatiently waving the young eunuch away.

“Ahhhh,” Akbar replied, comfortable at last.

Adali permitted himself a small grin as, hurrying over to a little table, he poured his master the required beverage, handing it to him and bowing himself off the terrace. He knew the importance of the conversation about to take place. He wanted that conversation to begin. Carefully, he stationed himself in the shadows where he could hear all, but not be seen.

The emperor lowered himself onto a large couch and, stretching out, sipped his wine. Rugaiya Begum sat on a low stool by his side and waited for her lord to broach the subject she had already attempted with him. Finally he said, “She is still too young to marry under our law, Rugaiya.”

“Nonetheless, we must choose a husband for her, my lord, for that day, a year from now, when she will not be too young to marry,” his wife replied.

“You love her so dearly,” he observed, “that I did not believe you would ever want to discuss her marriage. Well, now that you have brought it up, there are several eligible princes available for Yasaman. The raja of Orissa, or perhaps the heir to Khandesh or Mewar.”