Beneath a Marble Sky (15 page)

“But is it worth so great a price, our friendship?”

I didn’t know how to reply. The girl in me said no, but the woman said yes. “A time will come when any friend of mine shall be in danger,” I forced myself to say. “And when that time arrives, I’d rather have you as Aurangzeb’s ally than mine.”

Ladli, always so strong, blinked away a tear. “Are we truly finished?”

“Not truly,” I replied, gripping her hands in mine, struggling to contain my misery. “We’ll meet secretly, and perhaps someday we may be seen together again.”

Silence arose in the storeroom as Ladli contemplated our future, no sounds save her quick breaths. When she trembled, I closed my eyes, despising myself for hurting her. “May Shiva forgive me, I’ll do what you ask,” she agreed reluctantly.

I held her, feeling the heavy toll of years, years short in number but becoming long with demands. I was tired of being strong, so weary of duty and scheming that at that moment I’d have traded my station with any serving girl in Agra. “Thank you, Ladli,” I said, willing myself to disregard such thoughts. “It’s a dreadful step, I know. But believe me, you do not want to be viewed as my friend when Father dies.”

She shrugged, as if suddenly resigned to whatever future lay ahead. “When Aurangzeb is reborn as a slug you can step on him. Maybe even I will.”

“If you’re right about karma, he will be,” I said, absently adjusting her sari, feeling the firmness of her stomach. “Tomorrow, seek out Aurangzeb and ask him to pay you for information about me. Demand a great deal, or he’ll be wary. If he offers nothing, or even half of what you ask, walk away. But if he gives much, pursue our plan. And then, months from now, return to me quietly and we’ll talk.”

“More likely whisper,” she foretold, then added a curse. “I do love you, Jahanara.”

“And I you, my sister.” I hugged her again, hiding my fear. For Khondamir loathed me, and the theft would give him cause to beat me senseless. I had never tasted the sting of a whip, and the thought of it against my flesh terrified me. “Be careful, Ladli,” I said. “Be careful and be strong.”

At these words we started to cry. Though she was like fire and I sought to be like steel, we weren’t immune to swells of emotion. I did think of her as a sister, and losing her so soon after Mother’s passing was more pain than I wished to bear. And I had to bear it alone.

I left her sniffling in the storeroom and returned to my home. I found Khondamir’s ring, which was as thick as he. After hiding it beneath my secret brick, I lay on my sleeping carpet and blanket, trying to harden myself for what lay ahead. Feelings of helplessness and despondency bedeviled my sleep, and I drifted somewhere between the worlds of dreams and reality.

The next morning I tried to act naturally but had to excuse myself from breakfast to take a lengthy walk away from the river. I didn’t want to look at the mausoleum, for its site was where I longed to be. I yearned to tell Isa of my woes, to let him protect me, but I could never ask him to do so. I’d be selfishly endangering him, as I had already done with Ladli.

After spending the afternoon at a mosque, I returned home just before dusk. When I neared Khondamir’s grounds, Aurangzeb approached from the opposite direction. He rode a fine mount and wore unadorned leather armor and a curved sword at his side. My feelings conflicted as I saw his wicked grin. My ruse must have worked, and now I’d endure its consequences.

“Are you well?” he asked, his voice unnaturally loud, as always.

“Fine, Aurangzeb,” I replied, trying to sound interested. “And you? How are your lovely children?”

My brother looked skyward. “The Qur’an says, ‘Vying for more and more diverts you, until you go to the tombs. Then you will be questioned about comfort on that day.’”

“Why do you quote—”

“Only a sinner…” he paused to spit at my feet, “would steal from her lord.”

“Steal from her lord?”

“Save your lies, sinner, for Khondamir.” A roar erupted from within the house, followed by breaking glass. “He’s found the ring.”

I managed to pretend outrage. “Ladli! I’ll have her whipped, by Allah. I’ll—”

“Do nothing of the sort!”

Because he’d love the sight, I fell to my knees. “Please, please help me, Aurangzeb. Please don’t leave me to him. I’m sorry, so sorry for insulting you. Please!”

He laughed before spurring his horse away. Rising toward Mecca, I quickly begged Allah’s forgiveness, for I had stolen. But then I asked that He might protect me. I was still asking when my name was shouted. Wanting to hide my shame from the servants, I strode directly into my room. Khondamir was present, shaking in rage. He held the ring in one hand and the brick in the other. The brick he hurled at me. I ducked under it and didn’t need to pretend to be terrified. I had expected him to be angry, but he seemed enraged beyond reason.

“My lord,” I began, but he waived me to silence.

“You defile me!” he shrieked.

“I’d have repaid—”

“Silence!”

He stuck the ring on his finger and grabbed a leather belt from a nearby table. I blanched at the sight. “It’s a mistake!”

Khondamir grabbed and tossed me, bottom up, over a table. “Move from this spot, and emperor’s daughter or not, I’ll have you gutted!” Spittle flew from his lips as he raged, and veins pulsed at his temples. He yanked off my robe, shirt and skirt. Suddenly I was naked. A drop of his sweat fell on my buttocks, followed by the heavy leather. The belt bit into me like a wild boar might. It tore at my flesh and I yelped in pain.

“Good, you bitch,” Khondamir hissed.

“Please no!”

The belt assaulted me and I moaned. He grunted as he swung and stabbing pain followed each grunt. I began to swim in agony. For all I knew, he had set my backside afire and I was burning alive.

“Steal from me!” he screamed. “From me!”

“Please don’t—”

“You whore!”

The blows continued.

“Please!”

“Silence!”

I bit the wood of the table as the beating raged. The timber splintered in my mouth and I tasted blood. I tried to stay quiet but could sooner have checked the movement of my heart. I beseeched him to stop. I promised him anything. I pleaded and writhed and whimpered. He must have liked hearing me beg, for his temper ebbed. The blows came less frequently, lacking the strength of their predecessors.

“Get up,” he finally demanded.

It took all my strength to do as commanded. My legs were bloody and I wept at the sight. Gingerly, I wrapped my robe about myself. “I’m so…so sorry, my lord,” I whispered.

“No whore will sleep in this house tonight,” he replied, breathing heavily.

“But—”

“Leave!” he shrieked, slapping me across the face.

I could never walk to town, so I shuffled to the stables. A servant, his face hinting of his pity for me, helped me straddle a horse. A moan escaped me as my weight pressed down upon my wounds. I thanked the man, then weakly spurred my mount. Within a few steps my saddle was slick with blood.

Where to go? Nizam would help me but likely kill Khondamir. A dead husband would end one problem but enrage Aurangzeb. No, it would be easier to deal with Aurangzeb if I lived in shame with my husband. I could also seek Father, but alas, he’d avenge me a thousandfold. And love Dara as I might, his comforting face would do little to ease my mind.

I went to Isa. However much I hesitated to involve him, I knew he’d shelter me and do as I asked. Dusk had surrendered to night when I finally found him. Thankfully, our workers had gone home and the site was silent. Isa had erected a bungalow near the foundation and usually slept within its sandstone walls. I called out his name as I approached. I wailed and fell from my horse into his arms.

He asked no questions but carried me within. When he saw my blood-soaked robe he paused before gently removing it. Though ashamed of my state, I cried at the lovingness of his touch. Isa lay me, facedown, on his sleeping carpet. He then ran from the room. He was gone for some time and I began to worry. At last he returned with an aloe plant and wet rags. Isa wiped my wounds clean. He then used a pair of bricks to smash the aloe, which he smeared upon my cuts before draping a silk sheet over me.

“Forgive me,” I whispered.

“Hush, Swallow.”

He knelt before me and stroked my brow. He wiped away my tears. His fingers touched my lips and I kissed them, causing him to be still. The kiss lingered between us. When the moment had passed, Isa placed a goatskin flask of wine to my mouth. I suckled from it like an infant at her mother’s breast.

“Do you want to tell me what happened?” he asked softly.

I took a long breath and whispered to him the tale, describing my brothers, my fears, and my husband. He never interrupted and, when I was finished, sat in silence. He sipped the wine, then I heard his breath catch.

“I’m sorry, Jahanara. What can I do?”

“Just hold me.”

And so he did. His hands, the strong hands of a man who created beauty, cradled my head. He looked into my eyes and his tears glistened. How I wanted him to kiss me then, despite my pain and humiliation! One kiss would have made the suffering easy to bear. Though I sensed his adoration for me, he didn’t turn my face and place his lips against mine. No, to do that, at least in his mind, would have been to dishonor me, for a kiss then might be construed as pity. And I yearned not for his pity, but his love.

Through a window I saw the stars thicken. The moon was but a sliver. “How shall it look,” I whispered, “in such paltry light?”

“Not as lovely as you, my Swallow. For that, we need a full moon.”

My tears fell then, despite my effort to contain them. I didn’t weep because of my pain, but because I wanted this man. I hungered for him, for we seemed to speak without words. Yet I could not have him. Nor would I ever.

“He’ll pay for this,” he said.

“Please don’t try and avenge me.”

“He deserves to die for what he’s done.”

“Then he will. But at the hands of Allah and no one else.”

“But why?”

“Because what we build is more important than what happened tonight. And because of what happened tonight Aurangzeb will leave me in peace. I’ll pretend to be humiliated in his presence and hence I’ll be safe. But if Khondamir were to die, I would surely be at risk.”

“You are at risk.”

“His rage is spent, Isa. And we can’t jeopardize your project.”

Outside, my horse neighed. “You’re a clever and fearless woman,” he said so quietly that I had to strain to hear him. “Perhaps I should call you a hawk and not a swallow.”

“I like Swallow better.”

“May I… ” he paused, collecting himself. “I’d like to lay down beside you.” The fact that he’d ask brought more tears to my eyes. I nodded and he spread himself next to me. His arm went around my back and he held me closely. “What a gift you are,” he said. “What a wondrous gift.”

Though my pain had only relented a little, his flesh was warm and soothing. I wanted to feel more of him, more of his joyous touch. For the first time I truly understood how my parents had felt for each other. I understood the taste, the insanity of love. Because as sure as the sun would rise tomorrow I loved him so.

Chapter 8

Allah Smiles

T
he Qur’an is a book of many faces. As much as Aurangzeb liked to quote its passages concerning revenge, misdeeds and hellfire, it is also a text that speaks often of forgiveness, charity and goodwill. Unlike my brother, I always found these verses to be the most profound. They comforted me tremendously.

“For God loves those who do good,” the Qur’an says.

In the wake of my beating, I’d never have named myself as a doer of good, but I liked to think that before I died, much decency would come of my life. And so I tried to offset my mistakes with notions of the good I’d create. Yes, I had endangered my friend for a selfish cause. And yes, the poor had benefited little from my presence.

But I’d endangered Ladli only by having tried to save the boy. I had always treated the poor kindly, and in the future I’d seek to find them work at the mausoleum. For surely a man who has labored for his bread shall sleep better than a man who has been given his. And surely any man having worked on the mausoleum would feel closer, whether Muslim or Hindu, to Allah or his gods.

I often explored such thoughts as I healed from Khondamir’s blows. Following that first night with Isa, I returned to the Red Fort and withdrew to my room. It was a fortuitous time to rest, because not two days after my beating began Islam’s Month of Blessing, known throughout the land as Ramadan.

Some ten centuries before, during the ninth month of the lunar year, a caravan trader named Muhammad wandered the desert near Mecca while pondering his faith. One night the angel Gabriel whispered to him that he had been chosen to receive the words of Allah. In the following days, Muhammad found himself speaking the verses that were later transcribed into the Qur’an.

Since the Prophet Muhammad’s enlightenment, Muslims have always celebrated Ramadan by forgoing any sort of indulgence. For instance, we renounce food and drink from dawn until dusk for the entire month. Allah, we knew through Muhammad’s words in the Qur’an, expected this sacrifice. Fasting, He said, made us appreciate the poor’s suffering, as well as learn the peace that accompanies spiritual devotion.

And so I fasted and healed in my room. I recited one-thirtieth of the Qur’an each day until I finished the scripture. By the end of Ramadan, celebrated with the festival of Eid al-Fitr, I was fully recovered. While Muslims throughout Agra hung lanterns and decorations from their homes, and dressed in their finest clothes, I ate dates with Father and watched our city sparkle through the night.

The very next day I revisited my duties. Despite the success of my ruse with Aurangzeb, I was careful in the coming months, because Khondamir never forgave me and punished me whenever possible. His beatings, praise Allah, were much less severe than what I’d endured that awful afternoon. I think Khondamir realized—though he’d drink boiling wax before admitting it—that I could have gone to my father after his assault and the Emperor would have made him disappear. Consequently, my husband treated me more like a slave and less like a criminal.

As my scars faded into thin lines, the cool winds of fall transformed into the hot air of summer and then the driving monsoon rains. Only three seasons visit Agra. Each is sacred in its own way, though none more than the season of the monsoon, for these rains usher life to our crops. And it was during the monsoon of my twenty-first year that I found myself on a barge with Isa, Nizam, and a group of trusted craftsmen.

During the previous months I had been forced to see Isa only at the site, as meeting elsewhere was simply too dangerous. Though Aurangzeb was rarely in Agra due to the fighting at our borders, I was certain he had spies among our workers. In fact, Ladli had told me so at a clandestine meeting. She didn’t know the names of our watchers but could say with certainty that several existed. They were ordered to record my actions, as well as document the expenses we incurred.