The Feast of Roses (16 page)

“What are you doing?” the eunuch asked. “Why aren’t you in your apartments?”

“Nothing,” Ladli said, still on the floor.

Hoshiyar bent, and with his right hand, he hauled her up by the waist of her
ghagara.
When she was upright, he dusted her fastidiously.

“Go back to your rooms. Now.”

He had his hand on her shoulder, and Ladli wriggled out from his clasp.

“It’s too hot, I cannot sleep. I will not go out of the
zenana
palaces, I promise, Hoshiyar. Let me be. Please?” This last she said as woefully as she could, making her eyes round and large, letting a sweet smile come to her face.

“You cannot roam alone in the harem, Ladli. You know this. Where are your servants?” He looked around, but there was nobody. The sun had driven everyone into the coolness of their apartments. The corridor was deserted. “I will have their heads. What will your Mama say if she knew you were unescorted like this?”

Ladli dug her hands into Hoshiyar’s cummerbund and hung from it with her knees off the ground. “I just want to go to the gardens and play in the shade of the
banyan
trees, Hoshiyar. Please. Please. Please. Let me go. I will come back before the afternoon
chai,
no one will know. Please.”

The eunuch pulled her away from him and held her at a distance. Again, she smiled at him. “All right,” he said, but reluctantly. When he left her, he would go in search of Ladli’s servants, yell at them, and tell them to go look after her. They were probably asleep right now, lolling around in the shade, unmindful of their duties to the royal daughter.

Ladli watched him walk away and went on slowly herself, although she wanted to run. Arju could have gone anywhere in the time it had taken for her to negotiate this bit of freedom from Hoshiyar. And why was he outside in the afternoon, in any case? Hoshiyar was Mama’s eunuch; his only job was to look after Mama, yet he found time to be everywhere Ladli was. He even came upon her during her studies with the
mulla,
especially when she felt like teasing the old man by making up a nonsensical song, or by writing all her essays backward, until he sat there literally scratching his head in distress. And at this time—Allah only knew how Hoshiyar knew—he would put his head into the study room and say, “Behave, Ladli.”

Implied was the
or else I will tell your Mama.

Ladli looked back. Hoshiyar was gone. She picked up the skirts of her
ghagara
and ran down the steps into the gardens, flitting like a bee in the sunshine from one bush to another. Where was Arju?

Finally, exhausted by the heat, she sat down in the shade of the
banyan
and put her arms around herself. She missed her mother. Ever since Mehrunnisa married the Emperor, she was no longer as free as she had been. She was almost always tired, also. Once, Ladli’s every word was listened to with gravity. Now her mother hardly paid any attention to her chatter, always engrossed in reading some
farman,
or listening to what Hoshiyar had to say instead. The Emperor seemed to have more time for Ladli. He let her climb into his lap at night while he was reading, but she was not allowed to speak. Once she had even fallen asleep thus, and when she woke, Jahangir’s pearl necklace had dug small, round holes into her cheek. He always smelt nice though, a whiff of tobacco and wine and sandalwood. And he was kind to her; he still gave her presents, even though Mama was now married to him and he did not anymore have to please her through Ladli.

But where
was
Arjumand? One afternoon a week Arjumand was given permission to come into the
zenana
to visit. Ladli always waited eagerly for these visits from her cousin, for Arju brought news from outside, news of what her mother was doing, or her brothers and sisters. But lately, Arjumand either didn’t come at all, or she arrived very late, until only a few minutes were left for visiting.

Ladli was grateful Arjumand even came; none of her other cousins did. And Arjumand was nineteen years old, quite old to Ladli. But she was so pretty, so graceful, sewed so well, and when they played at cooking together, she made the most delicious make-believe
pulav.
Much better than Ladli’s efforts, for she always forgot the bay leaf or the
ghee
-roasted sultanas. And Arju was quiet. Hoshiyar had once said that she should follow Arjumand’s example, be calm, sit in one place for longer than a minute. But Arjumand was almost too quiet. She had a sadness about her, she always listened when they heard voices outside her apartments, and if it were a man’s voice, she would grow all aflutter. And when they saw who it was, Arjumand would become quiet again.

Ladli decided that Arjumand was sad because she always got lost when she was in the
zenana.
That was the reason she usually gave to explain her lateness. So today, Ladli went to the gates to meet her. Arjumand came in without seeing her young cousin, and her steps took her toward the gardens. Ladli followed her, suddenly very suspicious. Arjumand had a lover. That was the only explanation for all this furtiveness.

“There you are, Ladli baba.”

Ladli looked up as a slave girl came across the lawn to the
banyan.
She wrinkled her nose, and the girl smiled. She bent down to pinch Ladli’s cheeks, quite painfully, and Ladli twisted her face away.

“Such a darling child. Do not make faces, dear child. Come inside and sleep now.”

“I don’t want to.”

“How beautifully you say this! Come,” she said as she caught Ladli’s plait and pulled her by it.

Ladli struggled. Ever since Mama married the Emperor, she had suddenly become everyone’s darling child. They hugged her a lot, gave her kisses full of wetness, pinched her cheeks, and cracked their knuckles about her ears, ostensibly to take away the evil eye. When Mama and she had lived in the
zenana
with Dowager Empress Ruqayya, no one had even known Ladli existed. Now everyone knew and wanted to tell her just how precious she was, hoping that she would talk to Mama about them.

“Come,” the slave girl said again, her face puffed with sleep, her ears still echoing with the scolding Hoshiyar had given her.

Ladli drew her foot back and kicked the slave girl on the shin, hard, until her own toes hurt. As the girl howled and let go of Ladli’s hair, she ran away, first slipping through the
banyan
’s roots and then out into the sunshine.

And it was then she saw Arjumand, behind a jasmine bush, or rather almost inside it, leaning over the top with her feet off the ground, her stomach resting on its branches.

“What are you doing?”

Arjumand whipped around as fast as she could, a look of guilt crimsoning her skin from the neck upwards. “Ssshhh . . . keep quiet, Ladli.” She extricated herself from the bush, pulling at her
ghagara
and veil, and leaving little shreds of green silk on the branches.

“You have torn your dress, Arju,” Ladli said.

“Keep quiet!” Arjumand almost yelled. She pounced on Ladli and wrestled her to the ground, one hand clamped over Ladli’s mouth. Bending close to her cousin, Arjumand said, “When I take my hand off, you must NOT talk. Is this clear?” Ladli nodded, eyes huge with fright. “I know you like to talk, and a lot, but not a word from you, Ladli.”

“Let me go, Arju,” she said, her voice muffled under Arjumand’s hand. Her cousin seemed to have forgotten that she still lay there; Arjumand’s eyes had shifted to whatever was beyond the bush.

“Sorry.” Arjumand took her hand off.

Ladli rose from the grass. Tears came rising behind her eyelids. How could Arju do this? Quiet Arju, who had always been so gentle with her, never even lifted her voice before. Ladli sat on the grass, uncaring that her
ghagara
was getting more soiled and stained with green, and she cried. Her face became red; she sniffed and waited for Arjumand to notice.

Arjumand did look at her, though distantly, and said, “Keep quiet, Ladli.” Then she turned again and held out her arms. “Come here, I am sorry. I truly am. Come, darling child.”

Still sniffling, Ladli allowed Arjumand to pull her into her lap. She sat there, letting her tears soak through the silk of Arjumand’s
choli.
She was the only one, apart from Mama and the Emperor, who could call her darling child. She could also hug Ladli as much as she wanted. She smelled nice, of perspiration and the sun, of jasmines. Arjumand kissed Ladli on the head. “I said I was sorry.”

“All right, but don’t do this again.”

They sat thus for a while, Arjumand rocking her seven-year-old cousin in her arms, until Ladli said, “What are you looking at, Arju?”

The rocking stopped, and the irritation came back to Arjumand’s voice. “None of your business. Go back to your rooms. Why are you here, anyway?”

Ladli jumped out of her lap and stood over her, hands on hips. “You were supposed to come and see me, why didn’t you? What are you doing here?”

“Don’t—,” Arjumand said, but Ladli had already gone into the jasmine bush. It was in bloom, and the flowers, white and tiny, punched the air with their fragrance. She moved a few branches carefully, which promptly slid out tentacles to poke her skin, drawing blood in some places, in others leaving scratches of white. The view was one of the
zenana
lotus pools. The lotus flowers bloomed the color of pearls, white with a pink blush on them. They stood erect on slim stalks above their thick round and green pads. There was a bench at the far edge of the square pool, and Prince Khurram sat there, head uncovered in the sun, throwing stones into the water. As Ladli watched, a slave girl came up behind the prince and touched his neck. He turned, and, laughing, pulled her over the bench and into his lap.

Arjumand moved to stand by Ladli.

“It’s Khurram,” Ladli said, quite unnecessarily. “What are they doing? Cannot she feed herself?” Khurram had taken a cherry from a silver bowl by his side and put it between his teeth. He then offered it to the slave, who leaned forward to take the cherry from the prince with her mouth. Juice ran down her chin, and the prince caught it with his finger. “Look, Arju,” Ladli said.

But Arjumand was done with looking. As long as Khurram had been on the bench alone, she had filled herself with the sight of him. She sat down on the grass and pulled Ladli away from the bush. “Sit and stay still, Ladli.”

Ladli sat, watching her cousin. “Go to him, Arju.”

“And what am I to say? Your Highness, I am the woman you are betrothed to, the one you have forgotten.” Arjumand said this slowly, with an ache in her chest. But the betrothal was five years ago, there was no reason for Khurram to remember this.
She
remembered, for she had seen him at the ceremony—to him she was just another veiled figure, a political alliance. What was holding up the marriage? Their family was back in the Emperor’s good graces; her aunt had married him now. It was not as if Arjumand could go to her father and ask him—what would she ask him? They would all laugh at her impatience.

And how did one go to one’s elders and say, So how are the arrangements for my marriage progressing? How did one even talk of such things? One never did. One day, Bapa had come to her and said she was to be betrothed to Prince Khurram. Arjumand had bent her head in agreement. So one day, she would be married to him. That also happened without thought. But this . . . this waiting . . . this uncertainty, no one had prepared her for this.

All of Arjumand’s friends were already married; they had two or three children, and here she was, at nineteen, betrothed to a man who did not know of her existence, and if he did not marry her, no one else would. Besides, Arjumand thought, she did not
want
to marry anyone else. She loved the prince.

Arjumand and Ladli sat in the shade of the jasmine for a while. Every now and then they would hear a giggle, or a shout of laughter, or murmurings from behind them. At each sound, Arjumand’s head plunged lower and lower. She swiped at her eyes, and Ladli looked at her intently to see if she was crying. No, just a bit of dust, Arjumand said.

“What an idiot Khurram is, Arju,” Ladli said suddenly. “Who would not want to marry you? He only has to look at you once.”

Arjumand smiled a little. “Thank you.”

Ladli nodded. Arju was the beauty of their family. She moved as though floating in air, she was so gentle with her words, when she laughed it made Ladli want to laugh too, just to join in with what she did. And Khurram sat there with a coarse slave girl, who could not even speak without her mouth tripping over her thick village accent. What was the attraction in that?

“I will tell Mama,” Ladli said. “She will make Khurram marry you.”

“No . . . ,” Arjumand said automatically. Then she turned pleading eyes to her younger cousin. “Do you think you could talk with your mother? She can do this; she has the Emperor’s attention. I mean . . . it is not much to ask, is it, Ladli? Khurram is betrothed to me, after all.”

“Mama can do anything, Arju.”

“Yes, she is . . . somehow . . . so powerful. So like a man,” Arjumand said.