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Authors: John Speed

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Turning to Basant as he leaves, he says, “You were right, brother—it wasn’t her menses. I wonder if she even is a woman. Don’t say I said so—though I imagine she’d take it as a compliment. Be careful, brother.”
 
 
Basant soon finds himself walking the corridors of the harem with Breakfast and Lunch.
At last they enter the purdah room. The girls’ eyes are unfocused, glazed, but burning with fierce, purposeful desire. They glide across the room arm in arm, heads close, whispering secrets to each other.
In the dim light that filters through the jali their heavy pearl necklaces slide across their perfect, perfumed breasts perfectly visible through blouses of silk mesh. A heat rises from them; they glow like hot coals; eyes dark and wild that both mock and invite; lips red and full, licked by nimble tongues; nipples painted with kumkum and opium; silk skirts whispering across sleek thighs. The girls seem to float to cushions at the edge of the jali screen, attracted by the light. Basant takes a seat in a darker corner, and nearly trips over the legs of someone already seated in the shadows.
It is Hing.
Basant mixes an apology and a greeting into an embarrassed confusion. “Well, well,” Hing rasps, his red, rheumy eyes looking up at him through globelike spectacles. “Spring Blossom, as I live and breathe. The very brother I wanted to see. And accompanied by two such upstanding young women. Why are you with them, I wonder? Taking a step down, are we?” He casts a disdainful glance around the room. “Or maybe a step up.”
“Let’s see,” Hing continues, “I gave three strict orders to protect our beloved emperor from his own outsized desires, to wit. One: No daytime visits from Breakfast and Lunch. Two: Absolutely those two strumpets will be kept from the purdah room. Three: Never feed those animals aphrodisiacs before evening. But what have we here?” Hing looks around the room, as if surprised to find the twin nautch girls nearby. “Really, how amusing you are, Spring Blossom. Why one might think you didn’t care a fig for my orders.”
Hing enjoys Basant’s discomfort. “I am old, Basant. I enjoy so few things anymore.” He stares at Basant with those wet, sick eyes. “You won’t believe me, but it amuses me to see you gaping there. Makes me feel like a child again.
“So, darling, enjoy yourself. Disobey whenever you wish! Pay no mind to me.” Hing’s breath wheezes. “You see, that’s the way of things these days. You can do almost anything if you amuse the right people.”
Hing waves a shriveled, jewel-laden hand, and his eunuch boy suddenly appears from the shadows. He steps to Master Hing’s side, and the feeble old eunuch begins the long process of standing. “I know better, Basant, than to be your enemy. You have so many friends now. I too shall be your friend. But, dear Spring Blossom, let me give you some advice: You would do better to have me as an enemy than as a friend.”
Basant scarcely knows what to say. “But I would want you as my friend, master, unworthy though I am.”
“So you disregard my advice?” Hing sighs. “No matter, Spring Blossom. Oh, dear, look at this …” Hing grimaces, gesturing toward the activity in the Diwan-i-Khas.
Through the screen, they see the nobles standing at the silver rail, and an attractive slim-hipped youth in a fine, sky-blue jama steps forward.
The youth calls on Dara to recite. Dara agrees, glowing at the request, and the youth turns aside, blushing. Without any preamble Dara starts to recite his latest work: a translation of the Hindu Upanishads into Persian. He lifts his head and closes his eyes, intoning his majestic words with artful solemnity. Those in attendance nod appreciatively, extending their hands at particularly poignant passages. Only about half of them understand Persian.
“Look at Dara, look!” Hing says. “Head over heels for a little boy who scarcely has a beard. Disgusting.” Hing snorts. “In my day, a prince would be happy with his wife, or he’d take a concubine. Worse come to worse, he’d find a eunuch. What was wrong with that?” He scowls at Dara, shaking his head. “This modern custom of bringing your fancy boys to the palace—it makes me ill. And think of what he has given him—a
mandsab
of five thousand horses. For what, I ask you? For having long hands and a soft ass.” He fixes Basant with a glare. “Remind you of anyone?”
Outside the jali, Dara lilts along in perfect Persian. Inside, Hing is struggling to stand. Basant puts a hand under his elbow, and Hing twists away. Then he relents. “I forgot you wanted me for a friend,” he wheezes, offering his elbow. With Basant’s help the old eunuch gets to his feet.
Hing is nearly to the door when he stops and looks down at Basant’s feet. “Ever think about those shoes of yours, Spring Blossom? I think about my shoes, sometimes. Once I wore satin slippers. Now see! They are covered with jewels. Same as yours, my boy. I wear them wherever I want. I am the
khaswajara
now, at least for a little while. The only place I remove my slippers is in the emperor’s own bedroom.” He looks wryly at Basant. “And what about you? Where do you remove your slippers, Basant? At the emperor’s quarters, and at my door. And nowhere else! Think of that, Basant. What
other people in this palace—slave, free, princess or prince, can say as much? We are so very fortunate, Basant. I thank Allah each day for my good luck.”
He pauses, and Basant wonders if Hing might be dying. “How hard it is to be patient, Basant. Yet I would advise you to be patient. Though I am old, I still I have my teeth. Do you see?” He looks to Basant as if he wants pity. “I used to be young like you, my darling. Like this one, too,” he adds, gazing at the sweet face of his bejeweled eunuch boy. Hing shuffles to the door. “Don’t follow those girls when they leave the purdah room, not if you know what’s good for you.”
Before can Basant can answer, Hing is gone.
 
 
At the jali screen, leaning against the pierced marble, the sisters snuggle. Heads touching, their hands caress each other through transparent silk.
And they are moaning.
Through the jali, Basant sees Shah Jahan’s attention waver. He has heard the moans, of course; they were intended for his ears. Breakfast slips her long, pink tongue through a space in the jali screen and wiggles it. Basant is amazed to see that it is long enough to pass clear through the cutouts of the white marble. The girls now can barely hold back their laughter. Their eyes glitter with the dreamy, manic light of opium and
dravana
.
Maybe Shah Jahan sees the moist red tip of that extraordinary tongue through the jali screen, or maybe his ears are tuned to the music of the moans and giggles of his favorites, or perhaps he senses their dark heat, which seems to spill through the jali and spread across the room like smoke.
Basant thinks, They’d never try it if Aurangzeb were around.
Even Dara notices. He pauses in his endless recitation and reluctantly glances over to the jali screen; he looks away, clearly disturbed. Now all pretense of order in the hall has ceased; all eyes are fixed on that screen. And the men around Dara stare at the jali with disgust, envy, fascination, trying to make out the shadows of Shah Jahan’s women.
Without any explanation or fanfare, Shah Jahan stands. His pants tent out obviously, forcing everyone around to glance away. The emperor appears unconcerned. He leaves the velvet cushions of his throne and slips quickly through the door to his private apartments. He is gone with such suddenness, the pretty young eunuch boy who holds the peacock feather umbrella over his head must hurry to catch up.
A few alert courtiers manage to bow before Shah Jahan has entirely left the room, those less alert bow toward the door that closes behind him.
Everyone in the room, however, shares a sense of gratitude that they no longer must observe the emperor’s embarrassing behavior.
In the purdah room, behind the jali, the two sisters watch the emperor head for his chambers. They nuzzle against each other, and then, unable to contain themselves, they kiss each other full on the lips, lingering long, tongues and teeth darting, gazing into each other’s eyes. Then they leave the purdah room to join the emperor. Basant watches with disgust and fascination. How much of what occurred was part of Roshanara’s plan?
He heeds Hing’s advice, and lets the girls go without following them.
 
 
When Basant enters her rooms, Roshanara is staring at the river, her back to him. Her hands play idly with something in her lap; Basant sees only a flash of gold and white—a miniature portrait. Of whom, he wonders.
Without looking up, she dismisses her other servants, and asks him for a full report.
Basant sketches out the events. He speaks softly, barely loud enough for his voice to reach the princess’s ears—someone might be listening.
As he speaks, he realizes that his feeling of dread and doom is growing. He finds it increasingly hard to speak. By the time he tells the story of the nautch girls and Dara’s spoiled recitation, his throat is so tight his voice is husky and barely above a whisper. He just manages to tell the story of her father’s exit before his voice seems to altogether fail him.
“My father. My father.” She spits out the words, like a cobra spitting venom. And then Roshanara begins to shake with laughter. Or so it seems at first. But the shaking continues too long and Basant realizes that sobbing racks her slender body.
The sight of her tears overwhelms Basant; for a while he merely stares at her. His own troubles and uncertainties seem so ominous and large, but he realizes that something is working on Roshanara as well. He places a tentative hand on her shoulder. She turns to him, her face wet with tears.
“Basant,” she says, her voice full of desperation, “do you love me?”
Basant blinks and his mouth drops. “Do you love me, dear?” she demands. She clutches his pudgy hand.
“My princess, yes, of course!” He bends close to her. His voice is so husky, he wonders if she can hear him.
“Tell me. Tell me you do!”
“Of course, of course. How could you not know? I love you!” He strokes her dark hair. “I love you, Little Rose.”
“Darling, darling,” she whispers and kisses his hand. She has never done that before. Her eyes, dark as wet jasper, stare into his. “Would you still love me if I were bad, darling?” Basant uses his thumb to dry her tears on her cheek and shakes his head: the question is too ridiculous to answer. “I can be very bad, you know. I think I shall live in hell, I am so very bad.” She grasps his fingers. Both their hands are wet with her tears. “Promise you will never stop loving me, no matter how bad I have to be.”
Basant stares solemnly at Roshanara’s anxious face. “I promise, Little Rose, oh my dear little rose! always, always, always!”
“Darling, you must write a letter for me,” she says when she has at last recovered her voice. Basant nods. He moves a small writing table near her and kneels before it. Taking a piece of paper, he chooses a quill pen and dips its tip in the ink and waits.
Then she begins to dictate a letter. Basant transcribes her whispered words, which seem on their surface entirely benign—but of course he can guess for each a dozen deeper meanings.
When she is done, he again dips his pen, but she interrupts him. “Don’t sign it!” she hisses. He nods, confused, and flips the paper over. “And don’t, for heaven’s, sake, seal it! Hide it. Give it to my brother only. Destroy it rather than let another read it!”
Basant places the letter in the folds of his shirt.
“Go quickly to my brother in the Rambagh. Take my palanquin.” She crosses to him and pats his heart, where the letter lies hidden. “Go with God,” she whispers. “Go with God.” Basant is so touched he can barely respond.
“Remember your promise!” she calls as he leaves her. “Keep your promise to your Little Rose!” For a moment he can’t place the promise she refers to, but then he understands: to love her always, even if she is bad. Well, that shouldn’t be too hard, he thinks. He lowers his head, walking backward from the room. He finds her maid outside the door, and tells her to have Roshanara’s bearers bring the palanquin.
Basant looks up to see Roshanara slink through her door, head down. Keeping her eyes to the floor, she shuffes toward her father’s chamber, like a condemned man going to the gallows.
The eunuch guards at the chamber door eye her uncertainly—she shouldn’t be here, but she is the princess; what are they to do? Before they have time to act, she bursts forward and throws open the bedchamber door. Basant catches a glimpse of the emperor, naked with the two nautch girls. Before he can blink, Roshanara slams the door behind her.
 
 
Carried on the shoulders of sweating men, Basant floats above the fragrant streets of Agra. His palanquin bearers must brave the open sewers. They squeeze through the market crowds, and tiptoe past the garbage.
Through curtains of silk gauze Basant watches as hawkers cry out for customers, housemaids bargain at the top of their lungs, beggar children whine for coins, dogs bark. The road is jammed: the palanquin is outpaced even by the skinny cows that amble through the twisting streets.
Basant adores Agra.
Unlike the palace, no one planned Agra; no one owns it, or controls it. The city streets dance to a wild, secret music unheard inside the palace walls. Just as the smack by a heavy wave renews an ocean swimmer, so the tumult of Agra restores Basant. Agra, bursting with life, gives Basant hope.
The brothers say that hope clouds the will and muddles the judgment. Hope is a cruel joke.
But right now, inspired by the unfettered bustle of the city, Basant dares to do his sums: Fourteen hours have passed since the guards were murdered in his rooms, yet no one has arrested him. That fool Ali Khalil found his bloody carpet in the moat and let him go. Somehow, by the grace of the Lord All-Merciful, he has managed to squeak through.
Here in the streets of Agra, carried on the shoulders of sweating men, Basant floats on a cloud of hope. He ignores the dangers on every side: the eunuch guards, the strange actions of the princess, Hing and all his riddles, the murder of his servant. He would rather die in hope than live in fear.
Across the Jumna, a few miles from the palace, lies a perfect garden, built by Babur, the first Mogul emperor. Babur never loved the land he conquered. Compared to Samarkand, his home, Agra seemed wild and misbegotten. So he built a garden like paradise, with fountains and orchards, with peacocks and deer.
His garden, the Rambagh—so simple, so pure—fell into disfavor as his grandchildren built ever grander gardens of their own. But Aurangzeb has loved that old garden since he was child—its simplicity and calm. It is there that Aurangzeb has set up his tents, using its sandstone pavilion for his temporary headquarters. It is there Basant will meet him.
The palanquin approaches the Rambagh. The road grows wider, and the way more sunny. Set in the clearing are a dozen large tents. War tents, not the majestic harem tents with gilded tent poles that Basant is used to: these are no-nonsense affairs, quick to set up and quick to strike; soldiers’ tents, arranged in a circle, surrounded by bedrolls and makeshift cots. Near one tent a green banner flies; the flag of the viceroy of the Deccan.
After they set him down, Basant pads along the sandstone walkway that leads through the gardens. The sun is bright, but in this expanse of green, its light feels gentle. Water chatters beside the walkway in sandstone channels cut through the lawn. Tall trees shade the walk; fountains send sprites of water dancing. The air is damp and fresh.
Soon Basant reaches the marble platform that marks the center of the garden. As Babur would have wanted, Basant takes a moment here to enjoy the layout of the garden; a large enclosed lawn cut by four causeways, like the four rivers of paradise meeting at the throne of God. Then he follows the walkway to Aurangzeb’s pavilion.
It’s an informal building surrounded by columns of red sandstone. Basant notices the peacocks and elephants carved into the tops of each of the columns, for it was built by a man who considered charm more important than majesty. Silk drapes of gold and green hang from chains run through large iron rings embedded in the walls.
A slender young man in elegant clothing the color of old ivory walks toward him. As he approaches, Basant sees that he is a brother, but one he has not yet met. The slender eunuch bows. “You must be Basant. Prince Aurangzeb told me to expect you. I am your younger brother, Alu.”
“Your master is Aurangzeb?” Basant asks as he lifts his head.
Alu leads Basant to the anteroom. “I have the honor to be of occasional service to his highness. But my master is General Jumla, the Persian. I am his
khaswajara
.” Basant blinks with surprise. This sweet-spoken eunuch
seems too young to be
khaswajara
to one so grand as Jumla. It makes Basant feel old and backward that he is only Roshanara’s
mukhunni
. He examines the brother with a bit of envy. Alu is striking: tall, thinner than most of the brothers, who tend to get padded with fat . He speaks with a charming, husky voice. His eyes are dark, sensuous, set far apart, and one of them trails off to the side, giving him a mysterious, crafty air.
“The prince is with my master. There’s quite a storm brewing, of course.” Alu looks at Basant as though he were fragile. “You
are
ready aren’t you? When the storm breaks, we’ll all need friends. Do you know who your friends are?”
Alu’s words confuse Basant. They remind him of Master Hing’s mysterious comments—like he is being given a password, but doesn’t know the countersign. “I think many people like me,” he replies uncertainly.
“I forget with whom I speak.” Alu lowers his husky voice to a whisper. “Who of all the brothers is more fortunate than you?” Alu inclines his head in a respectful bow that confuses Basant even more. Alu for a moment manages to fix both of his dark eyes on Basant before his right eye starts to wander. “You will remember me, won’t you, brother?”
Before Basant has a chance to puzzle through what this might mean, they hear angry words from the behind the wall. Suddenly General Jumla wheels angrily into the courtyard, shouting over his shoulder. “I’ll give you one day!” he bellows. “If you can’t deliver on your promises, you’ve seen the last of me!” The general stomps off.
“Aren’t you going to him?” Basant asks Alu.
Alu shakes his head. “What could I do for my master in such a state?” he asks. “Besides,” he says confidingly, “my master learned the value of bluster when he was a merchant—how do you think he got so rich? His anger means little. My duty now is to attend the prince. After sundown, he refuses any service. Did you know Aurangzeb eats with the regular soldiers? He even sleeps on a mat, under the stars, with his saddle for a pillow.” Basant of course has heard all this before. “He asked to see you when the general left. Do you wish to go in?” Not waiting for an answer, Alu claps his hands twice; the sound
pings
against sandstone walls.
A huge shape lurches around the corner into the courtyard—a man so large Basant gasps. The peak of his turban brushes against the doorway as he bows his head to enter. His face looks craggy, like thick skin stretched across a grotesque skull: a heavy brow and protruding cheekbones; an uneven,
shaggy beard covers his thick, misshapen jaw. The giant bows, but Basant is too overwhelmed to move.
“This is Karm, the prince’s bodyguard,” Alu explains. “He needs to search you. The prince will have no weapons in his presence. Please don’t take any insult, brother. Even Jai Singh was searched.”
“Jai Singh?” Basant asks. “Is he here?”
“Of course. He came for his chess game.”
Odd that Dara’s own commander would be visiting Aurangzeb, Basant thinks, but then the thought is driven from his mind as Karm’s fingers (the size of cucumbers) delicately press and probe his person.
Karm finds the silver tube tucked into Basant’s turban and lifts it questioningly. The dark palm of Karm’s hand, big as a platter, dwarfs the slender silver quill that rests on it. “It’s nothing, Karm,” Alu assures him. “Just the same as my gold one.”
Gold? thinks Basant.
The giant gently returns the quill, and then his fingers, massive and delicate, probe along Basant’s arms to his neck and shoulders, where he finds the necklace; a chain and pendant.
Drawing it out, he holds it up and frowns. The giant lifts his huge eyes to Basant, staring at him from deep beneath his shaggy eyebrows. “It’s just a keepsake,” Basant explains. His lips are dry and his voice is hoarse; he hadn’t come prepared for a giant. “A gift from long ago.”
Karm tilts his head inquiringly. Alu moves to get a better view.
“Well, I think it’s from my mother, if you must know,” Basant blurts out. “I’ve had it as long as I remember.” He takes the pendant—a coin from an unknown country, the writing indecipherable, sawed in half on a rough, jagged line—and thrusts it back under his shirt.
The giant’s enormous face peers at Basant. His breathing sounds labored and phlegmy, like an old camel. He finds nothing else. Basant’s skin tingles as though he has been massaged. “Thank you, Karm,” Alu says.
The giant grunts and moves back to the prince’s room. “He can hear, but he can’t speak,” Alu says softly to Basant. “They pulled his tongue out by the roots when he was a child. He can barely swallow.” Alu
namskars
. “Go in, brother. Talk to me afterwards if you have the chance.”
Basant slips into the receiving room, where Karm stands by the entranceway. Basant looks up into his huge eyes and he sees in them deep wells of sadness, loneliness, and pain. They share a bond, Basant thinks,
that only a maimed child can know. But he forces himself to look away from the giant’s dark eyes, steeling himself for his talk with Aurangzeb.
 
 
A huge Persian carpet covers the entire floor. Cushions of various sizes, covered in velvets and brocades, are scattered haphazardly around the room, as if many people are expected. But other than Karm and Basant, and a tired-looking manservant who stands patiently by the back wall, only two men are in the room, seated near a low ivory chess table, at the far end where they can catch the river breeze.
Basant recognizes Aurangzeb right away. He wears his simple white jamas. Even his cushion is simple, covered in cheap muslin. The other man, of course, dressed in elegant silks, is Jai Singh, Dara’s general. The silver scabbard on his belt is encrusted with gems to resemble the scales of a fantastic fish (one of the many gifts Jai Singh received from Shah Jahan in gratitude for donating the land where he built ‘taj Mahal’s tomb)—but it holds no sword.
The prince will have no weapons in his presence,
Alu had said.
Even Jai Singh was searched …
Of course, Jai Singh ties his jama on the left side to show he is a Hindu, but the robe is cleverly tailored so that at first glance, the fastenings appear to be on the right, the Muslim side.
Like Aurangzeb, Jai Singh wears a neat white turban—but Jai Singh’s is pinned at the front with an elegant peacock feather made of diamonds and emeralds. His beard is manicured, rust-colored from henna. Aurangzeb just lets his gray whiskers show.
Basant waits for someone to acknowledge him. Finally he falls back on protocol, which never fails, and he forces a long bow. He knows he will grunt with the effort, and that will surely draw attention his way.
In response, Aurangzeb waves his hand without looking up from the game board. “No ceremony here, Basant. Save fawning for others. Come. Sit. Jai Singh is teaching me a lesson.”
Jai Singh shrugs as if the compliment were undeserved. It seems to Basant a very simple gesture for a man so great. He motions for Basant to sit on a dark velvet cushion near his side.
Jai Singh plays the white pieces, Aurangzeb the black. Both men have lost their viziers; Jai Singh has his king, two horses and an elephant; Aurangzeb has the king, a camel, a horse, and an elephant—so they are fairly matched. Jai Singh, however, has four
pyadas
; while Aurangzeb has only two.
Basant can play chess, but not well. Still he appreciates the contest. He speculates about how important those extra pieces will be. After all, these men are both generals—on a real battlefield would an extra foot soldier or two make any difference to the outcome of a battle? So why should it on the chessboard?
“What will you do about Jumla, lord?” Jai Singh asks quietly. He seems unconcerned that Basant will hear.
Aurangzeb strokes his beard thoughtfully but doesn’t look up. “I will do what I can. I don’t wish to lose Jumla, not any more than I wish to lose Golconda, or the Deccan for that matter.”
“Yes, he is the key to the Deccan,” Jai Singh agrees. “You know that I suggested you attack Bijapur, not Golconda. Those forts guarding the trade routes could have been ours, you know. We could have allied with that rebel, Shahji, but we moved too slowly. Now what do we face? Danger.”
He says this in an offhand way, but Basant notices how Aurangzeb’s breath grows still. “Then why not attack Bijapur?” Aurangzeb asks.
“Sadly, Prince Dara does not agree.”
Aurangzeb moves his elephant to the last file of the chessboard, a few spaces from Jai Singh’s king. “Excuse me, uncle,” he says softly, “but my brother does not yet rule the land. Our future rests not on him, but on the emperor my father. Danger!”
Basant is surprised by Aurangzeb’s last word. Then he realizes that Aurangzeb refers to the chessboard, saying that Jai Singh’s king is in danger.
Jai Singh now stares relentlessly at the chessboard, and Aurangzeb lifts his head for the first time “Do you play chess?” he asks Basant.
“Very badly, lord.”
Jai Singh moves his camel between his king and Aurangzeb’s elephant. “Death in three moves, I think, sir,” he says.

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