The Twentieth Wife (13 page)

“We must go in, your Highness.” Jagat Gosini’s voice was quiet.

Salim turned to her. “Was it wise to argue like that with the daughter of a lowly nobleman, Jagat? You are a royal princess; you should know better.”

“Why do you defend her? Who is she to you? You do not even know her name,” she cried, her voice trembling with outrage.

Salim rubbed his jaw, watching his wife’s distraught face. “This is interesting, my dear. I wonder why you are so upset with a woman you don’t even know. Come, let us go see Khurram.”

Khurram was not delighted to see his parents. He had been waked from his afternoon nap to be paraded in front of near strangers, and as a consequence he was irritable and noisy. Salim sat in Ruqayya’s apartments in a stupor, thinking only of Mehrunnisa. He did not notice his wife glancing at him thoughtfully from time to time.

Finally, in the evening, he went back to his own apartments. And there he found out her name from Hoshiyar Khan. He said it aloud to himself, elongating the “r” sensually. Mehrunnisa, he thought. Surely she was the Sun of Women. What woman could outshine her beauty?

That evening, Jagat Gosini surpassed herself in providing entertainment for her lord. The best
nautch
girls were sent for, and they danced superbly, swaying and undulating seductively in front of the prince. Driven to a frenzy by his one glimpse of Mehrunnisa, Salim groped and grabbed at the girls, thinking one, then the other, to be the angel of the morning. All the while Jagat Gosini watched, filled his cup with proper wifely concern, and made sure that the prince’s
hukkah
had enough opium. By midnight, Salim was so muddled he could not even recall Mehrunnisa’s face.

An hour later, he toppled over from the divan and sprawled out
on the floor, asleep before he hit the rug. The music stopped, the lamps were extinguished, and a cool cotton sheet was brought to cover the sleeping prince.

Princess Jagat Gosini stopped at the door of the reception hall and held up her lantern. She was still furious with Mehrunnisa. The girl had belittled her, behaved beyond her station in life. What was she trying to do now? Wasn’t it enough that she had the care of Khurram? Did she want Salim too? Dread, cold as a winter night, crept over her when she thought of how Salim had looked at Mehrunnisa. He had been oblivious to everything else around him. The princess shivered. Nothing would come of this meeting today, she promised herself.

She turned and went out, plunging the room in darkness.

When his eyes seemed to devour her, she, as by accident, dropt her veil; and shone upon him, at once, with all her charms. The confusion, which she could well feign, on the occasion, heightened the beauty of her face.

—Alexander Dow,
The History of Hindostan

A
BREEZE WHISPERED THROUGH THE
garden, rustling long-fingered leaves on the mango trees. The muslin curtains on the window rippled inward gently, letting a shaft of moonlight into the room. Somewhere in the distance, a hyena howled at the white orb suspended in the midnight sky.

In her bed, Mehrunnisa lay awake, staring at the gray and black shadows on the ceiling. Khadija slept next to her, her back against Mehrunnisa’s shoulder, her presence comforting in the narrow bed. In the cobbled street beyond the gardens, there was the sound of a horse’s hooves. An owl hooted softly from its perch on the mango tree, its keen eyes searching the garden for mice.

Mehrunnisa’s thoughts crowded out the sounds and the smells of the summer night. For the first time, she had come face to face with Salim. There was an aura of royalty around him. It was there in his rich silk
qaba
embroidered with rubies, the thick rope of precious white pearls around his neck, the gorgeous aigrette with an emerald on his turban, the diamonds on his fingers and on the buckles of his shoes—all as glorious as the sun that shone upon them in the courtyard. And more than that, Mehrunnisa thought, was Salim’s princely bearing. His tone, his manner, had been gentle and polite.

The setting had been perfect; she couldn’t have planned it better herself. This was how she had dreamed Salim and she would meet. He had even looked at her with the wonder and awe she had imagined in her plans to captivate the prince.

Mehrunnisa sighed and turned over, trying to find a comfortable spot on the bed. She had finally captured Salim’s attention. But why now? After she was already committed to another man?

How different they were from each other. In her mind, since she was eight, she had painted Salim in splendid colors. He was kind. He was charming. He was passionate. And she thought he was all of those things, even in the brief meeting. For he had wanted to send Jagat Gosini away that he could talk with
her
. A feeling of triumph rose in Mehrunnisa because the arrogant princess had been insulted with quiet finesse by Salim. So he did not like her, either; that was another thing they had in common.

She had been thinking of Ali Quli when Salim came upon her. She could not imagine the life she was to have with him. A soldier’s wife, perhaps always alone at home, waiting for him to return from his campaigns, never knowing when he left whether he would live or die. Then—that brief moment when time seemed to stop, and she looked up at Salim.

As day broke over the city of Lahore, Mehrunnisa finally fell asleep, her dreams colored by Salim, his charming smile, and above all his royal majesty.

At home, preparations were being made for her wedding to Ali Quli. When there was an event in the house, custom came home; a nobleman had no need to go in search of it. Cloth merchants came with their wares, spreading out bolt after bolt of silks, muslins, and brocades in reds and blues and greens. The next morning, Mehrunnisa sat with Asmat in the front room as the merchants whipped out fabric in clouds around them. “This one,
Sahiba,
” they said. “Your daughter will look like a princess in blue to match her
eyes.” Asmat and Mehrunnisa smiled at each other under their veils; how did they know of the color of her eyes? From the servants?

Over the next few days jewelers came, too, velvet boxes bound tightly in white cloth, to lay out the gold and silver necklaces, anklets, headpieces, earrings, bangles. “Do you like this pattern,
Sahiba
? Or this one? Any design, only two days to make.” The
bawarchis
came to hire themselves for the three days with samples of their cooking: golden wheat
halwas
sprinkled with saffron and sugar; lamb and chicken
pulavs
scattered with sultanas; rust-colored
gulab jamuns,
plump with sugar syrup; rich brown goat-gravy curries; and slivers of roasted silver fish, marinated in lime and garlic.

Through all this, Mehrunnisa waited for Salim to call for her, never really believing that she would marry Ali Quli. After the first day passed, she told herself that it was only one day. Surely he had to find out who she was, whose daughter she was. The next day, each time the servants went to answer the front door, she expected to see a guard or a eunuch from the royal palace. Then she realized that of course he could not call for her. Etiquette must be followed. He would talk with Emperor Akbar, and Akbar would call for her Bapa, and Bapa must talk to her. So she waited for Ghias to come home from court each evening. How would Bapa approach the subject? Would he be ecstatic? Of course he would be ecstatic; his daughter would marry Prince Salim. It would be an unexpected honor for him, for all of them, through her.

The days passed thus, sluggishly, every minute straining to eternity. Bapa did not come home looking especially happy. No summons came from Salim. Her hopes died slowly, crushed and withering as time went by. The wedding preparations went on as usual. Miserable, she did not go to the imperial harem to visit the Empress.

Two weeks after the meeting with Salim, Ruqayya Sultan Begam sent an impatient summons.

When Mehrunnisa arrived at the palace, the Padshah Begam
scolded her soundly. “Why did you not come to visit me before, child?”

Mehrunnisa stood silent, with her head bowed.

“Is it because of Salim?”

She lifted eyes to her. No doubt Ruqayya had heard of the encounter through Salim’s retinue, for she herself had not breathed a word of it to anyone.

“Oh, yes, I know,” Ruqayya said sharply in response to Mehrunnisa’s unasked question. Then her tone softened. “Come here, child.”

Mehrunnisa sat down near the Empress.

“Salim was naturally enamored of you. But believe me, he thinks of it no more. His memory is very short, for some things. And if he saw you again, he would not remember.”

Mehrunnisa’s heart sank. Was what Ruqayya said true? It must be. That was why Salim had not called for her—not because he was busy with other things, but because he simply did not remember.

“There is nothing you can do, my dear,” Ruqayya continued. “Remember that you are promised to another man.” Ruqayya put a finger under her chin and tilted her face. “His Majesty would never sanction a breakup of your engagement. Never. Do you understand?”

“Yes, your Majesty,” Mehrunnisa said in a low voice. She turned her face away from Ruqayya. What use were all these admonitions? All that mattered was that Salim did not want her.

The Empress clicked her tongue and looked hard at her. “Somehow, I do not believe that you do. Be careful, Mehrunnisa. Your family’s honor depends upon you.”

•   •   •

T
HE
M
INA BAZAAR
was in full swing at the royal palace. For three days every month, the harem palaces were thrown open to traders and merchants, who were allowed to set up stalls to display their wares. Since the ladies of the
zenana
went unveiled to the Mina
bazaar, only women were allowed to sell the goods; the merchants sent their wives and daughters to keep shop on their behalf.

The ladies of the imperial
zenana
shopped, haggled, and bargained to their hearts’ content, and the Emperor joined them in their activities. The bazaar gave the harem ladies a sense of freedom and much pleasure, so Akbar named the event Khushroz, “days of joy.”

Prince Salim swayed from side to side in his corner of the Mina bazaar, his eyes dull. He stretched himself and flexed his arms. A shout of laughter came from a jewelry stall, and Salim turned toward the sound, more out of reflex than curiosity.

The Emperor stood there, his arms around two pretty concubines, who were squealing with laughter as the lady of the stall tried to haggle with him for a pair of emerald bracelets.

Salim’s wives stood near him, gazing wistfully at the gaily festooned stalls.

The prince gave them an irritable glance and then called to the chief eunuch of his harem. “Hoshiyar, go with my wives and help them select some satin and gold cloth.”

“Yes, your Highness.” Hoshiyar Khan bowed, turned, and raised his hand to guide Salim’s wives, his face impassive. He looked thoughtfully at the prince, wondering at his listlessness. The prince had not been himself for a few weeks now—not since his encounter with the girl in Empress Ruqayya’s apartments.

Hoshiyar made sure to keep himself informed. Through his acquisition of knowledge, he had worked his way up the ranks to his current position with cunning and a ruthlessness that helped him get rid of any rivals. In the
zenana,
the ladies treated him with respect and a little fear, for anything Hoshiyar knew to their detriment invariably found its way to Jagat Gosini. Hoshiyar bowed to only one woman: the woman who ruled Salim’s harem, Princess Jagat Gosini. He was her eyes and ears outside the walls of the harem; within it, her right-hand man. Intelligent creature that he was, Hoshiyar recognized
intelligence in the princess and never tried to undermine her in any way. She would make a powerful enemy. Now she worried about Mehrunnisa. Why? Salim seemed to have forgotten her—but not completely; he was floundering, grasping for something out of his reach. And not really knowing what it was.

“Oh, and take the others with you. I wish to be alone,” the prince said.

The servants scampered off with glee. Salim turned slowly and walked toward the gardens.

On the way, a vendor yelled out to him, “Your Highness, look at these beautiful birds.”

A young girl sat at a stall surrounded by brass cages, each containing a variety of colored birds. She was quite pretty, her coarse features brightened by her smile. Salim eyed her with appreciation. Taking advantage of his interest, she brought forward a mynah with a bright yellow bill.

“Now isn’t that pretty, your Highness?” she tried to cajole, stammering as she did so.

Salim grinned, watching her bravado disappear. She had been bold in calling to him, but now that he stood in front of her, she was suddenly shy. “How much?”

“A special price for you,
huzoor.
” She batted her eyelashes becomingly. “Just five rupees.”

“Three,” Salim said, smiling.

“Oh,
huzoor,
” the vendor sighed, putting away the cage. “I wish I could sell it to you for three rupees, but the cost of living is so high. . . .” She suddenly brightened. “I will take four for it.”