Beneath a Marble Sky (13 page)

“What?”

I wondered if it was right to ask a friend to do something dangerous, something that wouldn’t aid her, but me. “I’m unsure if—”

“Do speak, Jahanara. I grow older by the moment.”

“Perhaps, if you desired, you could even earn his trust.”

“His trust? But why?”

“You know so many secrets. Someday you’ll learn information he can use. Give it to him. Let him kill an enemy or stop a crime. He’ll gain face before the court and you’ll become his confidante.”

“I’d rather scrub a leper’s boils.”

“And so would I,” I whispered, “under normal circumstances.” I studied my brother as he ordered his men about. “Come to me long before you tell him anything. We’ll decide together if he should know. And meanwhile, act unafraid around him. Completely unafraid. Give him some sweets, and try to catch his eye. But when you see him and you know that you’ll talk, chew garlic cloves and make sure to breathe into his face.”

Ladli looked at me oddly. “I didn’t realize, Jahanara, that you were so …versed in such matters.”

“I have a husband, don’t I?”

“And what kind of fool is he?”

I pondered my choice of words as muskets roared and the stench of gunpowder drifted about us. “A man who could be outthought by a newborn, who makes love as if he were a goat.”

She giggled at my effort. “You improve. But, truly, like a goat?”

“When it suits him.”

“Then may Shiva be kind to you and let his manhood rot and fall off. Let it become a plaything for my dogs.”

“Really, Ladli!” I exclaimed. “The notions you have. I could never best you in these contests.” Ladli, my closest friend, seemed always to improve my mood. “I met a man today,” I said quietly. “He’s to be the mausoleum’s architect.”

“So? I met a cockroach. Is there a difference?”

“He appears to be everything that my husband isn’t.”

“Men deceive. They charm you at first, then once they’ve bedded you, their gifts disappear and their gallantry becomes as rare as their compliments.”

I took her hand. “We need to find you a good husband, Ladli.”

“Why? You think I’m so bored as to want to spend a lifetime taking care of some scoundrel?”

Despite her words I sensed that behind her feigned indifference she was as interested in finding love as was I. But she would never admit it. Because the afternoon was late, and I’d still much to do, we parted and I hurried to the Diwan-i Am, where Father and Dara stood before the Peacock Throne and oversaw the squabbles of nobles. I moved to the back of the proceedings, careful not to announce my presence.

With interest I watched Dara spearhead efforts to settle disputes. My sibling was becoming skilled at negotiation, and as I listened to his compromises I savored a sense of pride. If ever a just man dwelt in this world, more just than even my father, that man was certainly Dara. He truly believed Muslims and Hindus were equal and that it would be upon this equality that the Empire would flourish. While Father supported laws suppressing discrimination, I suspected his feelings were sometimes less noble than his actions. Dara, meanwhile, assumed that all men should be of the same rank, regardless of religious orientation. In fact, to prove himself true to this conviction, my brother had started translating the
Upanishads
—the fundamental mystical texts of Hinduism—from Sanskrit into Persian. No one had ever undertaken this arduous task, which Dara pursued quite seriously, as he was determined to give Muslims access to these famous works.

We dined together that evening, just Father, Dara and myself. Like Dara, Father often found solace in books, and I’d arranged that we eat in the imperial library, as we had occasionally done the past few years. Amidst this grand room we were served chicken fried in butter, replete with rice, raisins, cardamom powder, cloves and almonds. Rice wine filled our goblets.

The library was a vast refuge—half an arrow’s flight from front to back. Much of its floor was covered in black carpets woven with ivory-colored quotations from famous texts. These included the
Qur’an
, biographies of our emperors, and the great Hindu epics. Sandstone shelves contained multiple copies of such works, the most renowned of which boasted hundreds of paintings. In all, more than forty thousand volumes were housed here. Fire was a dreaded specter within this priceless room, and a servant stood beside a bucket every five or six paces beneath the books. Several marble pools ensured a constant supply of water. A burning torch rose from the center of each pool, providing the room’s only light.

The imperial library had always relaxed Father, and tonight was no exception. Despite our painful awareness of Mother’s absence, we spoke of better times and reminisced about our lives with her. We savored wine. We smiled. It was a fulfilling evening, and ended when Father bowed to Dara and kissed me. I recognized then, more than ever, that we were his favorite children, and that only we brought happiness to his heart.

Darkness had fallen when I returned on horseback to the site of the future mausoleum. The night was cloudless and the moon full, its muted light falling on the Earth like a spell of enchantment. Some men claimed to see faces on the moon, whereas others spied everything from maps to mountains to mosquitoes on its surface. I thought it looked like a hole punched through the black fabric of night. Beyond it shined a light, a power surpassing my understanding.

When I reached the site’s periphery, I tethered my mount to a cypress tree. Isa was already in the field. He stood before an easel bearing a large piece of canvas that had been painted black. Isa had his back to me and didn’t witness my approach. His hand gripped a piece of white chalk that appeared to dance over the canvas. I had assumed Isa would have artists render his visions, and what I saw now nearly stole my breath. For his hand was truly like a dancer. It glided and it soared. It spun in tight arcs. It gave life to something wondrous, something he’d called a tear of Allah. To me, the mausoleum became a jewel surpassing even Mother’s beauty. Its arches and towers and façades were not of this world.

Isa stopped drawing and thrust his fist in the air. He let out a sudden bellow then, a cry of joy so profound that I trembled. I’d never heard such ecstasy and doubted that I would listen to such a shout again. His cry echoed off palaces; it traveled across the river and died in faraway places.

“Thank you, Allah,” he said. “Thank you for this gift.” He looked skyward. “You’ll enjoy it, Mother. And Father, please…please help me raise it.”

I didn’t dare go forward. I started to turn, but he must have somehow sensed me. When his gaze swung around and fell on my face, I shuddered, expecting him to be angry. Quite the opposite, however, was true. He merely set down his chalk and smiled. “What do you think, Swallow, of what we’ll create?”

My tongue twisted awkwardly. “Better to ask a poet.”

“But I ask you.”

His gaze was so piercing that I almost turned away. Gathering my strength, I questioned, “Can you build such a thing? I’ve never, never seen—”

“It can be built,” he interrupted quietly. “But I might be an old man when it’s finished.”

“But you would die content.”

I thought he might hug me then, for his face was eclipsed by nothing save ecstasy. “You understand, Jahanara. You know me so little, yet you see me so well.” He stepped closer. “Will you help me?”

“Of course.”

“Good, because I’ll need your help. Enemies will attack my plans, my methods and my costs. Nothing will happen without a friend I can trust.”

“I can be that friend.”

He bowed to me then, a bow of humbleness and gratitude. “Do you see the moon, Jahanara? Imagine how it will illuminate your mother’s tomb. It shall never, truly, be night here when the moon is full. No, it will be something amid night and day. And if a place exists on Earth that Paradise does touch, surely this will be it.”

When I saw him next he was crying. I’d never seen another man, except my father, cry. Yet Isa was unashamed and made no effort to hide his tears. He wasn’t unmanly but seemed more a man than any I’d encountered, for his embrace of emotions made him appear quite powerful.

I thought of my mother, of my father, of what we were to build. Suddenly I bellowed into the night, as loud as my lungs could empty. And even if my bellow was a sapling next to his tree, the cry emboldened me and I no longer felt alone.

Chapter 7

Pain and Longing

T
he next
few years were peaceful, quiet in the way Allah intended. Infants learned to crawl while our elderly journeyed to Paradise. Crops were sown and reaped, then sown again. Certainly battles were fought, but battles had always been a constant in our lives. At least we suffered through no famine, plague or shaking of the ground. Our homes rarely caught fire, and our prayers mostly seemed answered.

Once Isa perfected the dimensions of the mausoleum, work on the foundation began. Thousands of men labored that first summer to dig a vast pit that reached down until it struck water at the same level as the nearby river. Massive slabs of sandstone and granite were laid upon this muddy soil. The gaps between them were sealed with limestone plaster. After these behemoth stones filled the pit, smaller bricks were used to add another layer of strength at ground level. Isa also designed wells that ran down through the foundation, far, far into the earth. These were packed with granite to act as pilings on which the foundation rested.

Barges carried stones to Agra from quarries all over the Empire. Elephants then hauled the rocks to their final positions. The oldest men in the city told us the height of the fiercest flood and we raised our foundation a good two paces above that mark. The blocks that fell and shattered we used to line the river bank. We packed it deep with granite and sandstone, for Isa worried about time’s ability to erode and make mayhem.

The field surrounding the foundation became a quagmire of men and mud. The men were of all races, sizes and ages. The mud was knee-deep after a rain and was often used to staunch bleeding wounds. A simple bazaar sprang up beyond the site’s western edge, and merchants hawked endless varieties of food and drink, as well as tools, clothes, medicine, crafts and animals.

In those days—and for years that followed—Isa worked tirelessly from dawn to dusk. While others rested on their elephants or by the river, he built models and oversaw masons. I was almost always at his side and quickly we became companions, then confidants, then something more.

I don’t know why we were initially drawn together. Perhaps it was a simple need for companionship. After all, we’d both lost loved ones. Though Isa was accepting of his fate, I sensed that his desire to create beauty stemmed from an old need to heal wounds. By building he constantly reminded himself of the love he felt for his parents. He believed they could see what he built, believed that his palaces and mosques made them smile. This conviction was the source of his happiness.

Alas, I was much less accepting of Mother’s death. Indeed, I some-times felt wronged by her departure. But in Isa’s presence I felt less slighted, for a sense of warmth seemed to emanate from him, a gentle understanding that made me feel at home. Isa was so different than anyone I’d encountered, yet full of the same romantic yearning as Father, the same vigor as Mother. What he saw in me I couldn’t be certain, but he did see something.

On occasion, after sunset, after the workers and merchants had departed, we’d sit on the unimaginably vast foundation and I’d discover him staring at me. His stare expressed what he never gave utterance— that he cared for me as a lover might, and if not for my marriage he’d have given himself to me then.

On such nights our thoughts were akin. We memorized each other’s faces yet never touched. We whispered secrets yet never revealed our true desires. Isa honored my marriage, and as much as I despised my husband, I knew that by betraying him I’d betray Father, for if it were ever known that his daughter was unfaithful, he would lose tremendous face.

And so I resisted the urge to kiss Isa, even if I did in my dreams. In my dreams, at least, I could pursue fantasies. And pursue them I did. I kissed and held and adored him many nights. We made love. Our children followed.

I spent perhaps one night in three at Khondamir’s home. My husband tried fiercely to sire a son, but his seed never took root. He blamed me, needless to say, and I visited every doctor and took every herb known to Allah. Khondamir often cursed my barren womb, though I knew it was as fertile as the Yamuna. After all, Mother had birthed many children. Could I have been so different?

To my delight, Father partly emerged from his sorrow and managed to rule the kingdom as he once did—despite his increased reliance on my brothers. Dara dealt with the nobles, while Aurangzeb climbed ranks of the military. Shah and Murad were sent to the far corners of the Empire to improve relations with our neighbors. My brothers were men now, broad in the shoulders and slim in the waist. Each was married and had fathered at least one child, all of whom I adored.

Except for my twin sisters—who were now being raised in Delhi by Mother’s sister—I was the only sibling lacking children. To compensate for this shortcoming I surrounded myself with those closest to me. I asked Father, for instance, if Nizam could become my attendant. My wish was granted and he was soon like my shadow. Though he was not a man of words, I could trust Nizam with my very life. He was always where I wanted and needed him.

I also saw much of Ladli. At my urging she became another of my helpers with the mausoleum. Her fiery personality made her a favorite of the workers and they eagerly followed her orders. Bricklayers and master masons alike sought to catch her eye, for every man knew she was unwed, and her beauty reached new heights with each passing month.

Isa placed an extreme amount of responsibility on me. He’d explain what he wanted done, and I ensured that the builders followed his plans exactly. Furthermore, Isa had neither the time nor the interest to manage the inevitable conflicts that arose with such an undertaking. Fortunately, Mother had raised me to understand politics and found that settling the squabble of a quarryman and an elephant owner was no different from solving a row between one lord and another. Even though I was less adored than Ladli, the men seemed to trust and respect me. They were aware that my father had commanded me to this post and realized that I whispered to him each night of our successes and failures.

My first significant failure, or at least a failure of sorts, didn’t occur until the third year of construction. The affair was none of my making but quickly swept me up in its currents. A greedy merchant was the initial culprit. The rogue was caught using a scale with false ballast to weigh his customers’ grain. In consequence, those wronged demanded his execution for the offense. Thus the merchant, and everyone aware of the plot, including his twelve-year-old son, was sentenced to death.