The Twentieth Wife (39 page)

“Your place belongs with your husband, Mehrunnisa. I wish things were different, had been different all those years ago—”

“Hush!” Mehrunnisa put a hand on his arm. “Do not berate yourself. You made a promise to Ali Quli and were obligated to honor it. It was Emperor Akbar’s wish. My place is with my husband. It is for him to decide what to do with me. I shall immediately make preparations to leave for Bardwan.”

Ghias looked at her in sorrow. His own daughter had to flee from her father’s house, but it was the right thing to do. Perhaps time and distance would make the Emperor forget Mehrunnisa. Father and daughter sat in silence. To be Empress of Mughal India was an honor beyond their wildest dreams, but Ali Quli stood in their way. Thoughts rose to their minds simultaneously, thoughts that could not be spoken aloud, and the two looked at each other with the understanding that had always existed in their relationship.

Ghias rang the bell for his writing materials. It had to be done. Jahangir had hinted his wish to have Mehrunnisa, and it fell to Ghias’s lot to write of this wish to his son-in-law.

Ali Quli was sure to refuse Jahangir. What would the Emperor’s reaction be? Jahangir was still irascible. His new responsibilities as Emperor had not changed his childish whims. How would he answer this disobedience by one who had already been treacherous to him?

Ghias sighed again as he dipped his goose-feather quill into the inkpot and started writing. He filled the page haltingly, stopping to think long and deep for words of diplomacy and tact. He knew that no matter what he wrote, or how he wrote it, there was going to be trouble ahead. By Allah’s grace, Jahangir would remember Ghias’s long years of service and loyalty to the empire and would not wreak vengeance on his household.

The next morning Mehrunnisa left for Bardwan with Ladli. She carried with her the letter to Ali Quli. Ghias had not informed her of its contents, but she knew that he had written to her husband telling him of Jahangir’s wishes.

Now, it was for her husband to decide.

What can I write of this unpleasantness? How grieved and troubled I became! Qutbu-d-din Khan Koka was to me in the place of a dear son, a kind brother, and a congenial friend. What can one do with the decrees of God?

—A. Rogers, trans., and H. Beveridge, ed.,
The Tuzuk-i-Jahangiri

M
EHRUNNISA GROANED ALOUD AS SHE
stepped out of the palanquin. Every muscle in her body ached, turned raw by the rocking motion of the palanquin. It had been a long journey to Bardwan, almost two months. Somehow, the trip to Lahore had been easier. At least she had had something to look forward to then. But the journey back had been both physically and mentally tiring. With every step away from Agra the feeling grew that she would not see Jahangir again.

She had not wanted to return to Bengal to face an irate husband, who would doubtless accuse her of trying to captivate the Emperor. Of course, that was true. But whatever she might feel for Jahangir, she had returned to Bengal to be with Ali Quli. And then there was the matter of her father’s taking bribes. A dull ache throbbed in the pit of her stomach when Mehrunnisa thought of Ghias Beg. She knew that all the courtiers took bribes, but somehow she had thought her father above it. He had always seemed so honest, so untouched by the corruption in the Mughal court. His was one of the greatest minds in the empire, but even he was fallible . . . and human.

As a child she had seen Ghias talking with various men who had come to their house, and taking money from them or a basket of
golden sun-ripened peaches or an Arabian horse, but she had never realized the significance of what she had seen. Now those memories came rushing back. Mehrunnisa sighed as she straightened out her
ghagara.
Perhaps it was not wrong after all. But it wasn’t right, either. She looked around at the deserted front courtyard of her house. Where was everybody?

The slave girls came running out of the house. “Welcome home,
Sahiba.”

“Where is your master?” she asked, fatigue slurring her words, as she lifted a sleeping Ladli out of the palanquin.

“He has gone hunting,
Sahiba.”

“I sent word of my arrival yesterday.”

The servants carefully averted their heads and busied themselves with unloading the luggage from the pack horses.

Mehrunnisa wiped the sweat from her brow with a tired hand. This was the man she had come back to in such haste. And he was too indifferent to even be present at the house to welcome her back after an absence of almost five months. Perhaps it was for the best, she thought, dragging herself inside. She could rest now before the confrontation.

Ali Quli did not return from the hunt until late. The next morning, after he had bathed and eaten his breakfast, he went to his wife’s apartments.

Mehrunnisa looked up from her book as he entered.
“Inshah Allah.”

Ali Quli grunted in reply. “Did you have a good journey?”

“Yes.” They had nothing to say to each other beyond the greeting. Her hands suddenly became clammy, and she wiped them on her
ghagara.
How could she open the topic?

Ali Quli’s voice broke into her thoughts. “What is this?” He pointed to the embroidered letter bag on a table.

“A missive from my father. He wished for me to give it to you.” Her voice faltered.

Ali Quli picked up the letter warily. “Is there a problem?”

She shook her head. The previous night, Mehrunnisa had stood at her bedchamber window and looked out into the moonlight that painted shadows and silver over the low hills around the house. Two months had gone by since her father had written the letter. That was a long time. Perhaps, she thought with a pang, the Emperor had already forgotten his order to his
diwan.
Why ruffle seemingly calm waters? Why not just tear up the letter and let things be? Then she remembered Jahangir’s zest for the throne. For fifteen long years—sometimes with impatience, but mostly, because it had taken so long, with patience—he had yearned for it. She knew he would not easily forget her either. A shiver went up her back. Her husband would see the letter.

“It is best you read it, my lord.”

Ali Quli ripped open the bag and pulled out the letter. Mehrunnisa’s heart thudded loudly in her ears as the paper crackled in his hands. She watched him with care. Ali Quli’s face became expressionless as he read. A deep color started on his neck and spread upward to his face.

He threw down the letter with shaking hands. “Do you know the contents of the letter?”

Mehrunnisa bit her lip. “I have a fair idea, my lord.”

“How did the Emperor see you? You are my wife. You should have taken care not to reveal your face to him, instead of brazenly attracting his attention. Why were you near the Emperor in the first place?”

“It was during Arjumand’s betrothal ceremony. I had to be present.”

“I will never agree to this.” Ali Quli glared at her, his face ugly in anger. “You are my wife and will remain so. Even the Emperor cannot command me to give you up. Emperor! Bah!” He threw up his hands in disgust. “If I had played my cards right, that weakling
Khusrau would have been Emperor today, and I would have been the commander of the imperial forces instead of rotting in this hell-hole.” He looked angrily at Mehrunnisa, and she stared steadily back at him.

“Lower your eyes as becomes a modest woman,” he yelled. “I did not want to let you go to Lahore, and now see what has come of it. You wretch, I know all about your previous flirtation with the Emperor.”

Mehrunnisa’s eyes opened wide in shock. She felt as though she had been punched in the stomach. Yes, she had flirted with Jahangir as a prince, but only a few people knew. . . .

“Oh yes! You thought I didn’t know,” Ali Quli said, a deadly malice coloring his voice. “But I knew the day I married you that I was taking you away from Prince Salim. He wanted you then; I had you. He wants you now, and I still have you. I shall never forgive him for spoiling my hopes of a military career.”

He turned to leave. Mehrunnisa looked down, her mind in panic.

Ali Quli spoke harshly from the door. “You are confined to your rooms. Do not leave here until I give you permission to do so. I will be away for a few days, and you are to stay here.”

Mehrunnisa grimaced. This was the man she had married, and she was bound by duty to be his wife. He was going mad. Did he think he could take on the Emperor? Their family would be ruined.

“My lord,” she said hurriedly, forcing her voice to be neutral. “Don’t do anything rash. A simple no to the Emperor will suffice. It is ill advised to raise his anger.”

“So you still have feelings for your old lover,” Ali Quli mocked. “That is a fine way to talk to your husband.” He gave her an evil smile. “We shall see how long he remains Emperor.”

Mehrunnisa watched him go with foreboding, knowing it was useless to talk with him. Ali Quli would be senseless enough to try another rebellion. He rode off that very morning, looking secretive.
Raja Man Singh was away from Bengal, but in this land of dissidents, there were plenty of others who were willing to listen to him. So far from the imperial court, and drunk with the heady feeling of freedom, he felt that anything was possible.

But Jahangir was no fool. Bengal was full of spies in the Emperor’s service. All designs on the throne invariably found their way to the court and to the Emperor’s ear.

•   •   •

J
AHANGIR SAT IN
the
jharoka
window overlooking the main courtyard outside Lahore fort. The
jharoka
was a special balcony built in the bulwark of the castle, where the Emperor gave audience to the public three times a day: morning, noon, and evening. Even when Jahangir was ill, he dragged himself to the
jharoka.
Early in his reign he had decided that people must see their sovereign; they must assure themselves of his well-being so that civil unrest would not start in the country.

Today, an elephant fight was in progress. Jahangir was reminded of the other elephant fight many years before. He had come out victorious, and Khusrau had been defeated. His mouth twisting, he turned and looked at the object of his thoughts.

Prince Khusrau sat by his father’s side with a frown on his face. The spirit of rebellion has not left this boy, Jahangir thought. He would have to watch his son carefully. It was necessary to be thought of as a generous and just king; hence he had pardoned Khusrau publicly. That meant enduring his presence on public occasions like this one. He turned away from his son, not even willing to look at him anymore. Any affection he had felt for Khusrau was gone after the prince’s numerous attempts to win the crown for himself. Now Jahangir could hardly bear to sit near him; waves of antipathy colored the air around them.

Jahangir sighed. He wished he could follow Mahabat Khan’s suggestion and have Khusrau executed. He certainly would not miss
him. But the ladies of the harem would harangue him continuously, and he would have no peace in the palace. However, something had to be done about Khusrau before he put up any serious resistance to his position as Emperor.

The two elephants rammed into each other with a loud thud. The crowd cheered, but the Emperor paid no attention, a deep, aching pain dulling his senses.

Ghias Beg had come to him earlier in the day with the information that Ali Quli had refused his command. Jahangir rubbed his chin, feeling sudden tears prick behind his eyelids. All this waiting had fatigued him. Every morning on waking he had thought of Mehrunnisa. Ghias had sent her back to Bengal, and when he had asked why, his
diwan
had said he was merely performing a father’s duty. So Jahangir had said nothing. He would wait, with patience. Time would also tell him if that brief glimpse was enough to fix her in his love. It had—he hadn’t stopped yearning for her presence. And then to get such a reply. How was it he did not even have the power to get the woman he wanted? How did a scoundrel like Ali Quli dare deny his Emperor? And he, Emperor of Mughal India, could do nothing. He had sent Ali Quli a direct order; it had been disobeyed. Already, there were rumors around court of his wish to have Mehrunnisa. Doubtless, Ali Quli’s refusal too was the subject of gossip. He could not force Ali Quli to give her up. What else could he do?

At least the news from Qandahar was heartening. The imperial army had reached the outpost in the past month, and the attackers had fled upon seeing Jahangir’s standards and flags. The Shah of Persia had sent an ambassador, Husain Beg, to the Mughal court to assure Jahangir of his friendship and to apologize for the behavior of his governors. The Emperor had been polite to the ambassador, accepting his apology with diplomatic heartiness. But he had not been deceived either by him or by his master. The attack on
Qandahar had been orchestrated not by insubordinate governors but by the Shah himself, to test Jahangir’s prowess in foreign policy.

Jahangir closed his eyes tiredly. Somehow, he had imagined that life would be easier once he was Emperor. But he had too many things on his mind, and he was constantly haunted by those blue eyes. That one glimpse of her, after so many years, was enough to bring back memories he had buried away deep inside. Now uncovered, they plagued him with longing and restlessness. And she was out of reach.