Beneath a Marble Sky (39 page)

“So beautiful,” I stammered. “My girl is so beautiful!”

She laughed, and I noticed that even her voice had changed, become more confident. “But how did you find us?” she asked, squeezing my hands.

“Later. For now I want to just look at you.”

Isa could no longer restrain himself and picked me up again. The room twirled about us. “What a woman you are!”

“Indeed,” Shivaji concurred, clearing his throat. “I’ll have food and drink brought to you. May I ask that you stay within these walls?” After I thanked him, he bowed politely to Arjumand. “Good night, ladies.” He started for the door, then paused. “Nizam, if you’d like to join me tonight, you may. I’ll return in the morning.”

“I’d be honored, my lord.”

I bade good night to Nizam, and he smiled and shut the door. I was still too animated to sit, and so we spoke while standing. They listened intently as I told of all that had befallen me during the past five years. Arjumand and Isa hadn’t known Dara well, but my mention of his death caused their smiles to vanish temporarily. Their grins reappeared when I spoke of my escape.

Isa, in turn, described their capture. Their fates would have been infinitely worse if Isa hadn’t convinced his jailers that the Sultan would find his skills useful. At first, Arjumand was to be sold to the highest bidder, but Isa swore to build no mosque unless she was his apprentice. They had lived thus ever since, sharing a home always locked from the outside. The mosque, which Isa took little pride in, rose slowly because the Sultan gave him only old men and boys as workers. Great domes and courtyards were expected, but since Isa had limited supplies, the mosque was forever in disarray.

“It would be a sorrier thing,” Isa said fondly, “if our daughter lacked a keen eye. I design the walls and ceilings, but she ensures that plans are followed. And better yet, she now comes to me with drawings of her own, bold creations that surprise us all.”

“But when we make models of them, they always fall,” Arjumand added sheepishly. She obviously basked in her father’s attention, and I was pleased that they had become so close.

“Someday, Arjumand, perhaps you can design your father and me a house,” I suggested.

“Certainly, though you’d pray whenever it stormed.”

Isa winked at her and we laughed. How lucky I felt then to have found her thus. Many girls, it seemed, would be saddened by imprisonment. But Arjumand appeared almost happier than she had as a child. Perhaps because she was learning skills that no other girl would. Or perhaps she had simply blossomed in Isa’s presence, as had I.

Whatever the cause, I offered a quick prayer of thanks to Allah, adding another when our food arrived. A pair of servants—each bearing a silver tray—brought us a feast of roasted duck, pickled vegetables and rice wine. We asked them to tell Shivaji of our appreciation, and then Isa locked the door. The duck was the first fresh meat I’d tasted in weeks and I forced myself to eat slowly. Isa didn’t eat at all but sipped his wine and stared at me. I think he was still in shock at finding me here.

“You made the right choice, Jahanara,” he said finally.

“To stay in Agra?”

“You were right to stay. I know that now.”

I made no reply, and my silence caused Isa’s face to wrinkle. He realized then that I held something back. “Perhaps,” I said hesitantly. “But I couldn’t save Dara and…and I’ll have to leave you both again.”

“What?” Arjumand exclaimed, setting down her goblet of wine.

I told them of my bargain with the Sultan and Isa groaned. “I had no other choice,” I said. “He’d never just let you go, and I had to give him something.”

“I don’t care of your brother’s fate, but of ours,” Isa replied. “And it will take—”

“Build it faster,” I interrupted. “Build it not to last ten centuries but one.”

“But you can’t leave.”

“Surely you can hurry the process. The Sultan says it could take three years, but you could finish it in two.”

“Why not stay here?”

“How many Deccans, Isa, would like to kill Alamgir’s sister?”

A stillness ensued between us. I knew how painful these words must have been for them and regretted telling them the truth so soon. Perhaps I should have waited until our last day together. Perhaps—

Arjumand sat upright, scattering my thoughts. “We’re forever waiting for marble, Father,” she said determinedly, and my pride for her swelled. “We shouldn’t throw away the marred pieces but should use them for ceilings and other places where the eye won’t see their imperfections. And we could use more timber and less sandstone. We could—”

“Do much,” Isa added, trying to smile. “And yes, we might finish in two years. But is there no other choice?”

I shook my head. “None better. Even if we escaped here, we’d never make it to Agra. He’d hunt us down and…” I paused before reaching out to grasp their hands. “We’ve lasted five years. Another two will pass and then we’ll never be separated again.”

“Promise?” Arjumand asked.

“I do, my child, I truly do.”

Isa tugged at his beard, an old habit I’d forgotten about. “Then his beloved mosque shall be but a mirror, beautiful to behold, but easy to break.”

“The Sultan knows nothing of architecture,” Arjumand added. “It would be harder to fool a bullock.”

We laughed, and despite our looming separation, our mood brightened. Wanting to let the subject die, I said, “I think, Arjumand, that Shivaji took a liking to you.”

“He did?”

Her perplexed look made me sigh, for while she might have been an expert on building, she obviously knew little of men. “We’ve much to talk about,” I replied.

Isa refilled our goblets and we drank together. Our bellies were warmed by the wine; we ate more, laughed, and cared little how late it became. We conversed as only the closest of families might—listening carefully, offering praise or compassion when needed. As dawn readied to unravel the night, Arjumand kissed us good night and went upstairs to a second bedroom. Isa and I, having restrained ourselves so long, stood and held each other. It had been necessary that I act strong in front of Arjumand, but now, as he sheltered me, I no longer held back my tears. Nor did he.

“How I’ve missed you,” I whispered. “It was almost…too much.”

“The same for us.”

“Is Arjumand well? Truly well?”

“She’s fine, Swallow. The first year was terrible, of course. But even though I thought you were dead, I promised her that you lived. She made me repeat my promise each night. I promised and promised and promised. And, in time, she believed me. She grew happier, and I taught her how to build, watched her become a woman.”

“And you? How did you manage?”

He stroked my cheek with a callused thumb. “I didn’t,” he said softly. “On the outside, perhaps. But if you ever see this mosque, you’ll know that a part of me left when you did. For the mosque doesn’t inspire. I couldn’t see you when I built it, and thus its walls appear tired. There’s no grace to them, no love.”

“From our cell in the Red Fort,” I replied, feeling his warmth, “I could eye the Taj Mahal. I stared at it until my legs trembled. I think Aurangzeb gave us that view so that we’d go mad. But he misjudged us. It gave Father more fulfillment than pain, and it made me smile, and sometimes laugh. Because it reminded me of all that was good in my life, of all that I had to be thankful for.” Isa’s lips touched mine. His was a gentle kiss, a kiss of rediscovery. He started toward me again, but I took a slight step back. “Have I grown old?”

“What?”

“Men seem…to tire of old things.”

“We grow together, my Swallow. Not grow old, but simply grow.”

“But my beauty shall not last.”

“Your beauty? Beauty is a feeling, and feelings last forever.”

“How so?”

Isa’s dark eyes, so piercing, locked on mine. “There’s a range of mountains, my love, far from here. Some of the leaves in the tallest of these mountains change with the seasons. It’s an astounding evolution. They turn from green to gold to crimson, and I tell you that the leaves of fall are even more beautiful than those of spring.” He leaned forward, kissing me again. “Your beauty, Jahanara, is like those leaves. It will only become richer.”

“This is why I missed you,” I whispered thickly, “for you see things when everyone else is blind.”

He smiled, his hands working on my tunic, which fell to the floor. We didn’t rush into our love as the young might but explored each other’s bodies as if for the first time. And Isa was right—they were still things of beauty.

When at last we finished, we simply held each other. “You must show me these leaves,” I said.

“We’ll climb a mountain together,” he promised. “But you should see them alone, my love, for only alone will you come to understand their true nature.”

T
he next morning
ensued with a surprise.

“There are four horses,” Shivaji pronounced cheerfully as Arjumand and I finished the remnants of a late breakfast, while Isa and Nizam spoke upstairs. “Split into pairs and ride separately from town,” he continued, “then come together and head directly west. Goa is on the coast. It’s full of Jesuits but not without charm. Still, you’ll wish to ride north when you near Goa. Beyond the city, bungalows sit near the sea and you can rent these for a pittance.”

“The sea?” I asked.

“It’s just a two-day ride,” he replied, handing me some coins.

“But the Sultan said I was to only have a few days here.”

The little Hindu shrugged. “Ahmed isn’t always a good man, but neither is he as bad as he seems. I asked him to give you a week together, and he said no. And so we drank a flask of wine, and he said yes.” Shivaji laughed. “Perhaps it was two flasks.”

“But why do you help us?” Arjumand wondered.

“Because I’d like to think of you as friends, not foes.”

I pocketed his coins. “What’s to stop us from fleeing?”

“Because, good wine or not, Ahmed will have my head if you escape.”

“You’d take that risk?”

Shivaji bowed slightly. “I’m a fool when beautiful…no, when wise women are near. Nevertheless, the horses are tethered outside. When you return, perhaps you’ll do me the honor of saying good-bye.” The warlord glanced quickly at Arjumand before turning to leave.

I reached out to touch his arm. “I pray that we can be friends.”

“Kingdoms war, my lady. But we mustn’t.”

We exchanged farewells and I hurried upstairs to tell Isa and Nizam the joyful news. Scant time was needed to pack our few possessions and leave Bijapur. Nizam and I departed first, pausing just beyond the city. Waiting for my family was wrenching and, overtaken by restlessness, I was about to return for them when they finally appeared. Neither had spent much time on a horse, and I was unsure who looked more ill at ease on the saddle. Both, however, shouted gleefully when they spied us, and soon we trotted in single file to the west.

It took us the better part of the morning to leave the foothills around Bijapur. I was sad to see them vanish but also felt giddy at the prospect of the ocean. None of us had ever seen the sea, and we were eager to reach Goa. Nizam led us, setting a swift pace, his eyes constantly scanning our environs, even as he spoke with Isa. Arjumand and I talked incessantly. It had been years since I’d gossiped so, and as much as I’d thought myself above such chatter, I confess I enjoyed telling her the many stories visitors had conveyed to me about Agra’s citizens.

By evening we could faintly smell the sea. It was a foreign scent —almost as if an infinite kitchen were nearby and something sweet baked on its stove. At first I thought myself to be imagining things, but my companions confirmed that salt-laden air teased their lungs. The sea’s taste invigorated us, and though Isa and Arjumand grimaced in their saddles, we rode harder.

Long after the sun hid itself, we made camp. Dinner consisted of kichri, a simple stew of lentils and rice. Talk was short, as we were weary and faced another full day of riding. Isa and I lay close on our sleeping carpet, sharing the gift of each other’s warmth.

The following morning we left early, pushing our mounts. The land flattened, the trail broadened. A breeze carried the ocean to us, and we inhaled its wonders like an exotic perfume. The Deccans we met didn’t trouble us. They seemed a more contented people than their brethren to the east, and I wondered if Aurangzeb’s war parties had spared this land.

We ate lunch as we rode. While Nizam asked Isa about building, Arjumand and I whispered of men. The more I was reacquainted with my daughter, the prouder I became. Somehow, despite all her hardships, she had remained happy in her outlook. She joked and laughed often, and was much less serious than her scheming mother. I felt younger in her presence and wondered if all parents experienced this same slippage of time.

The trail unspooled. By late afternoon we could see the faint outskirts of Goa, a city nestled in gentle hills and thus somewhat discrete. Yet I could discern enough to determine it to be a place unlike any I’d witnessed before. Several minarets rose above the verdant hills from unseen mosques, but so did the steeple of what Nizam said was a Christian church. More distantly, the masts of Portuguese trading ships reached skyward. Eagerly I looked between these towering pillars for the sea, wondering what shade of blue it might be. Alas, I saw only the horizon.