Shadow Princess (21 page)

•  •  •

The wedding was held in the Shah Burj at Agra fort—and here, they deviated from established custom that it take place in the bride’s house. The house that Nadira’s mother had rented was small, inconsequential, and unsuitable for the wedding of the heir to the Mughal Empire.

Upon his accession, Emperor Shah Jahan had begun to build in earnest, laying foundations in stone, marble, and semiprecious inlay, for he knew that he would die eventually, his bones would crumble to dust, his imperial
farmans
shrivel in the mouths of white ants, but stone would survive and stand to proclaim to the people of Hindustan how powerful and wealthy their Emperor had been. The first place he had turned his architect’s gaze upon was the fort at Agra, built originally by his grandfather Emperor Akbar and added on to by his father, Jahangir. He had demolished, without a scruple, the buildings fronting the Yamuna River within the walls of the fort and made plans for them to be replaced by faultless white marble in a series of halls, both public and private, and
zenana
apartments. One of these was the Shah Burj. It was situated where the walls of the fort curved sharply inward, and here the Shah Burj stood, an octagonal tower topped with a beaten copper dome that had already taken on a gold-green sheen. The tower had a flat roof below the dome with thick and jutting
chajjas
, eaves that rinsed rainwater away from the building and provided an impenetrable shade even when the sun was aslant. Five of its eight sides faced the Yamuna, each held up by elaborately carved marble pillars. The walls were slabs of marble inlaid with jewels in reds, golds, greens, and blues. The entrance to the Shah Burj, on the western side, away from the river, was an open chamber with a lotus pond carved entirely in marble placed in the center of the floor. The “pond” was shallow, not even six inches deep, set with a single flute of water to form a fountain fed from an underground pipe, and when the water ran, it bubbled out of its source and rippled down the sides of the basin, barely breathing over the carved stone.

There were seven people at the wedding ceremony—officially, that is—a
qazi
to officiate, the Emperor, his sons, and the bride. The
qazi
said a short prayer and then asked, as was expected, about the
mehr
, the settlement from the groom’s father. Emperor Shah Jahan replied that he gave his daughter-in-law five hundred thousand rupees, which was hers to keep and use, no matter whether the marriage survived or not. The
qazi
gestured to ask for one of Dara’s hands and one of Nadira’s. He did not touch either his prince or the bride but brought them together anyhow—and in the joining of their hands, the marriage contract had been accepted and signed by both of them, and they were married.

Jahanara and Roshanara stood hidden behind the pillars leading into the Shah Burj, their heads covered, listening but not leaning out to see. Jahanara heard the tinkle of the gold bangles on Nadira’s arms—twenty-five on each—as she clasped Dara’s, heard also the rustle of the thickly embroidered chiffon veil as Nadira moved closer to her brother. The
qazi
melted away, passing the two women outside noiselessly, and Roshanara moved into the room to add her congratulations. Only Princess Jahanara Begam stayed where she was, feeling the cool of the marble seep through her clothing as she leaned against the pillar. One part of her mind was on the arrangements for the festivities—the alms to be distributed, the feast prepared for the night, the entertainment—and another part of her was beset by an unexpected yearning.

She glanced at her Bapa, who stood with a smile on his face, a contentment rarely seen since Mama’s death. Would he look at her thus one day, when he gave her away in marriage to Najabat Khan? Or would he flinch at having to part from his daughter?

In the far distance, along a bend in the river, a fog of dust from the Luminous Tomb’s worksite clogged the horizon. Jahanara went into the Shah Burj to kiss and hug her brother and his new wife, to hold her father’s hand, to watch her other brothers glowing with joy.

She did not know that one day this octagonal room would become intensely familiar to her with its unchanging view of the Taj Mahal. Because her father would die here, bedridden for nine long years after one of his sons would snatch his crown and rule in his stead. And those nine years in the future would be the final shadow cast upon her, upon a life that held such promise today.

The first daughter whom he had was Begom Saeb
(Begam Sahib)
, the eldest of all, whom her father loved to an extraordinary degree . . . and this has given occasion to Monsieur Bernier to write many things about this princess, founded entirely on the talk of low people. Therefore it is incumbent on me . . . to say that what he writes is untrue.

—
WILLIAM IRVINE
(trans.)
Storia do Mogor, or Mogul India, by Niccolao Manucci 1653–1708

Agra

Wednesday, February 2, 1633

22 Rajab
A.H.
1042

L
ater that night, after the eunuchs had left, Princess Roshanara Begam rested against the door on the inside of the bedchamber prepared for Dara. The aroma of roses in heated bloom filled the room, mixed with the scent of frankincense from the censers. Pink rose petals shimmered on the deep carpets. The bed, made of soft cotton stuffing, was in the center, and four teak bedposts were festooned with garlands of roses, which hung in plush swathes, closely knitted to form a curtain of fragrance around the bed. The sheets were of fine cotton muslin, embroidered in delicate patterns of flowers in gold
zari,
so carefully done as to merely caress Dara and Nadira as they lay on the bed. Perfumed oil lamps glowed in the corners, casting domes of light upon the marble-embellished ceiling and shadows everywhere else.

Roshanara took a breath and exhaled gently. She was afraid to move from the door, for fear of crushing the rose petals underfoot—that privilege was to be Dara’s and Nadira’s when they came in. But she had a sudden craving to feel the smoothness of the sheets, to lay her head upon the feathered pillows, to look up into a lover’s gaze. A breeze came in from the waters of the Yamuna below the apartment, billowed the chiffon curtains, and sent light skittering around Roshanara. And so, Dara was married to the woman he loved, she thought. What would they do here tonight? Her mouth twisted in a wry smile. She knew what they would do, as they all did, living in the imperial
zenana
, where every woman’s thoughts went to love, to the caress of silks, to the pearling of sweat on skin. There was no mystery in that, but this, the first night of love, held a special magic, a togetherness; it was a private moment never to be captured again.

She picked up the heavy skirts of her silk
ghagara
and nudged a rose petal with her toe. It felt cool, and she shivered. Once she had thought it possible for her to have a night such as this . . . with Mirza Najabat Khan. But since last December, when the eunuch had bent to her ear with his tale of Jahanara’s nocturnal meeting with Najabat Khan in the
chaugan
fields, she had become afraid and bitter. What Jahanara wanted, she usually got, because she was Bapa’s favorite daughter, the one who had his affections, the one who had hosted Dara’s wedding. So it had been before Mama died, so it was now. Roshanara settled herself against the door more comfortably and listened to the sounds of celebrations around the fort. The Naubat Khana, the imperial orchestra, was still playing this late into the night. The kettledrums boomed, the
shenai
let loose its wail, men’s voices clamored in song in the darkness. It was the first time in almost two years that Bapa had allowed music in the capital, and Dara’s wedding had become for all of them a time to celebrate not just his joining with Nadira but the official end of mourning for Mama.

And one day she would have all of this too—the music, the lights, the rich presents, a man whose home she would be supreme in, as she was not here in the
zenana
. But which man?

Roshanara raised her
ghagara
again and went to the bed, uncaring now that the rose petals lay scattered in her wake. She sat on the mattress and leaned back on her hands, looking up at the ceiling. She had not been allowed, no, invited to perform even this little duty for Dara and Nadira, preparing their chamber for the night. Jahan had been here, shouting orders, snapping her fingers in disgust when she found one wilted rose in a long garland and sent the eunuchs scurrying in search of fresh roses and a seamstress to stitch another one together to hang in its place. She had been harried, restless, perhaps thinking herself of a room in which to spend a night such as this . . . with Najabat Khan. Roshanara knew with a certainty that came from long association with her sister that Jahanara was in love with the courtier, or she would not have risked scandal in meeting him under the cover of darkness, she would not write to him as often as she did. And yet, when she, Roshanara, had sneaked into his tent to take his measure, he had seemed almost welcoming. She sat up. Were his affections still not fixed then? Was that possible?

She stepped away from the bed and slipped out of the room, thinking all the while. As women, even as imperial women, Jahanara and Roshanara had only one precious possession—reputation. In that lay a woman’s entire worth. One report, well placed, could demolish it.

When she returned to her apartments, Roshanara sent her eunuchs out into the city of Agra. They followed her orders faithfully, letting fall a word in conversations around fires, speaking casually to travelers and merchants who had come in for the wedding celebrations, dropping hints at the shopkeepers’ open windows as they passed by with a wink and a nod. And the next day, and in the days that followed, the rumors were reborn, blossomed, burgeoned that Emperor Shah Jahan had indeed left off mourning his dead wife because he had found another, in the person of the Begam Sahib of the Empire.

•  •  •

After attending to the decoration of Dara’s bridal chamber, Jahanara went to her Bapa’s apartments to see him to bed, as she had done every night since her mother died. Emperor Shah Jahan was waiting for her by the windows of the balcony. On the streets below, men shouted, women sang, drums were beaten in drunkenness.

“They still enjoy themselves,” he said when Jahanara came to rest her head against her father’s shoulder and twine her arm in his. “It is so late.”

“You are good to them, Bapa,” she said. “They have missed the raucousness of mindless celebration, and they enjoy it now with Dara’s wedding. Will you sleep?” She tugged at his arm and led him to the bed. The nights were still cool this early in the year, and coal braziers wrought in gold and silver filigree were dispersed around the bed, their warmth enough for Shah Jahan to require only a sheet to cover him. When Jahanara gestured toward the open doors and windows of the balcony, he shook his head.

“I’ve ordered for them to be left open. Read to me,
beta
.”

“From the
Baburnama,
Bapa?” She reached for a book beside him, covered in red leather embossed with gold leaf, ran her finger along the slit created by the jade bookmark, found the page, and opened it.

When she had read for ten minutes, Emperor Shah Jahan leaned out from his bed and put a hand over the pages. “What a pity it is that I never learned Turki, in which Emperor Babur wrote this memoir, or that I never taught you. You and I, we have to read his words translated into Persian; I think he must be grieving at our ignorance. You see how learned he was, a warrior first, but a keen, observant one who detailed every bit of his life in these pages, studied the characters of his generals and his men, thundered in to take Hindustan for us.”

“But he hated India, Bapa,” Jahanara said softly. “He loathed the heat, he did not understand the people—if there were empires to be conquered in cooler climes, he would have done so.”

“And you, Jahan?”

She shrugged, a graceful upward movement of her shoulders. “I am at peace where you are, Bapa.”

The silk curtains covering the windows were a slip of a cloud, and the skies lit up as the late-night fireworks began. Now a cerulean blue, now a pale lime green, now a coral pink. The lights came on and disappeared without a sound, for these last festivities, unlike the evening fireworks, had been ordered to be noiseless. Itimad Khan moved around the room, extinguishing the lamps and torches one by one, and father and daughter were silhouetted against the glittering sky. They looked at each other in delight, seeing the shades of colors brighten each of their faces and dwindle into darkness.

“It was a good wedding, Jahan. Dara is happy, and so am I in his choice of a bride. But weddings seem to beget weddings. I am thinking of another one now.”

“Are you?” Jahanara asked, her heart pounding. She would be nineteen years old in April, and if Mama had been alive, perhaps she would have been married to Mirza Najabat Khan long ago. She searched her father’s face, but he was looking at the windows.