Shadow Princess (36 page)

Shah Jahan had picked out the stones himself over the years, as merchants and governors of provinces far and near brought him these jewels from their lands. He had paid for the stones according to the value assessed on them by the court jewelers and rewarded the men who brought them with increased
mansabs
and grants of estates, so that it would never be said that the Emperor took and did not give back in return. And this, he thought in wonder, looking up at the inside of the canopy—a sky filled with an impossible sparkle—was the final result. The canopy was studded with thickly set emeralds, diamonds, and rubies, with a fringe of perfectly matched teardrop-shaped pearls. Each of the pillars was also made of gold, and emblazoned on each of them were two peacocks, their tails set with sapphires and rubies, their eyes of emeralds. Bouquets of flowers sprang to life on either side of the peacocks, their details picked out in rubies, diamonds, and topazes. The sides of the steps leading up—for these too were part of the throne and would not be used anywhere else in his palaces—were also inlaid in patterns of flowers and geometric designs. In the center of the backing for the throne was a diamond the size of his fist, some one hundred carats in weight. When he sat on his throne, this diamond would shimmer over his turban, meant to inspire awe in his audience as it shed its dazzling shine over him.

He felt the light from the throne glow over him, encompass him, lend him its glory even on this hazy morning. With the sun caressing the stones, as it would when it leaned over west later this evening, he would seem on fire. This, he thought, was not only the privilege of kingship but the duty of a king—to present his person as omnipotent, all-knowing, commanding, ablaze in the radiance of jewels and precious stones, which represented wealth and power. The Peacock Throne had cost the imperial treasury, in its making, a little over ten million rupees, twice the expense of the Luminous Tomb. And that was just the price for the exquisite workmanship—the jewels had cost another hundred and ten million rupees.

Emperor Shah Jahan rose and walked from the throne until he was a few feet away, then turned to look again at the marvel he had created out of gold and stone. As valuable as the gemstones of the throne were on the open market, there was one ruby—a Balas ruby from the mines at Badakhshan, which was embedded into the tail feathers of the central peacock—which had a history dear to him. Many years ago, Shah Abbas of Persia had sent this Timur ruby to Shah Jahan’s father, Emperor Jahangir, and on it were engraved the names of the descendants of Timur the Lame. First, Timur himself, then Mir Shah Rukh, Ulug Beg, Shah Abbas, Akbar, and Jahangir. The ruby had come as a gift from his father in happier times, just after his victories in the Deccan, because Jahangir had recognized his son’s fondness—nay, fascination—for jewels of the first water and was aware that no other present would be as welcome. Shah Jahan had had his own name inscribed below, knowing with a certainty even then—when his hold on the crown was so shaky—that only kings had their names engraved on the ruby and that he intended to be Emperor or die in the attempt.

Now, he thought, no other king whose name was on that jewel would leave a legacy such as his for posterity. The
rauza-i-munavvara,
the gorgeous apartments at the fort at Agra, the entire new city of Shahjahanabad, the gardens in Kashmir, his own father’s tomb at Lahore . . . and this glorious throne.

As the mists around the fort and in the courtyard of the Diwan-i-khas loosened in the heat of the wakening sun, the Emperor saw a lone figure striding up and down the terrace on the riverfront. Jahanara moved awkwardly, with none of her usual grace and elegance, hampered by the skirts of her
ghagara
and the long, full cloak she wore over it. Her arms were crossed over her chest and rested on the small bulge of her belly.

He leaned against one of the pillars and watched her stumble, trip, right herself. She cast a quick glance at him, but at that moment the sun broke over the roof of the courtyard and blinded her. She was waiting, he thought, to see if he was ready to retire to his apartments for a nap before his breakfast and the first of his duties at the Hall of Public Audience. He had known she would be there, even though he had ordered the Diwan-i-khas emptied before he stepped in, wanting to savor the beauty of the Peacock Throne for himself. And so she was. How far along was she? To his experienced eye—and he had sired sixteen children, including those from his other wives—it seemed like five months, perhaps six. Yet she barely showed. In a month she would be ungainly and big, and there would be no hiding her fatigue and her still-present nausea from him or anyone else. The women of the
zenana
knew, of course, as they were wont to, yet not a word had been breathed in his presence or in the corridors or at court.

His heart ached as he watched his beloved daughter negotiate this hurdle all by herself. He could not talk to her about it; she would not want it, for it would mean admitting the presence of Najabat Khan, and admitting also that his strict injunction against her ever marrying had led her to this. She had asked him to let her go on a pilgrimage to Ajmer and Delhi and had said that it would take a few months, four, maybe five or more. Could he spare her for that time?

Two days ago, they had both received Aurangzeb’s letters, filled with his exhausting praise of Orchha and the victory there. Earlier intelligence had informed the Emperor that Raja Jhujhar and his son had escaped into the Deccani kingdoms and been killed there—all of the Raja’s possessions were now in imperial hands. Jahanara’s eyebrows had knotted in anger as she read her letter, but she did not offer to show it to him.

Emperor Shah Jahan sighed, the Peacock Throne forgotten, the troubles of his children overwhelming him. Dara was his firstborn son, the one to whom he intended to leave this Empire, yet he was unsatisfactory, too flighty in matters of politics, too interested in books and learning. Never a good combination for a sovereign—for the hand on the sword must always be mightier than the one holding the quill. Shuja and Murad were disappointing in their own ways, fire and frost, not enough of one, sometimes too much of the other. Aurangzeb was strong, levelheaded, cut from the cloth of kings, but far too intolerant to be a good one. And—Shah Jahan rubbed the back of his neck slowly, there was that one incident from the past . . .

When Arjumand had been pregnant with Shuja at Ajmer, in the last days before giving birth, she had craved apples. Servants had been sent into the June heat to look for them; there were none to be found in that season, but Arjumand had been so insistent and unreasonable that they had all doubted her ability to survive the confinement. Shah Jahan had gone out himself, scouring the bazaars in the hope of an early apple from Kashmir or Persia or Qandahar, his pockets laden with gold
mohurs.
And then a passing
fakir,
unshaved and unwashed for many days, had reached into his filthy robes and brought out two perfectly formed golden red apples, their skins smooth, fragrant in the sun-fired air. Shah Jahan had given him a bag of gold, which the
fakir
had waved away, accepting only one gold
mohur
instead and leaving him with this prophecy—that a son would be born to him who would be, in the end, the death of him. And that son would be marked with a scar at birth.

Of his four sons, only Aurangzeb had a birthmark, on the middle of his back in the indentation of his spine, shaped like a scorpion’s claw. Over the years it had faded, but Shah Jahan had seen it and had never been able to find much empathy with his third son because of it, much as Arjumand herself had tried to dispel his fears.

The
fakir
had also curiously said that when Shah Jahan was going to die, his hands would smell of apples—it was a fruit he never ate after that day, even though his wife did not lose her love or fascination for it.

When it came to his daughters, Shah Jahan thought only of one; the others hardly mattered to him. And in Jahanara, Shah Jahan saw all the qualities her brothers lacked . . . but she was a mere woman.

He stepped onto the terrace and joined her along the balustrade, where they stood in silence, their fingers linked, looking out at the Luminous Tomb’s white marble dome.

“When do you leave, my dear?” he asked.

“You give me permission then, Bapa?”

He put his arm around her and kissed her forehead. “I have decided to take the court with me to the south to sample some of the fine hunting Aurangzeb boasts about.” Her eyes widened in relief—she had been dreading that he would want to join her, he knew—and he continued, “It will also give me a chance to oversee the campaign there. You will go safely?”

She nodded, watching her hands.

“And return to me safely?”

She held his gaze. “I have nowhere else to go, Bapa. My place is with you.”

“Go then, prepare for your travels. I will miss you, my love.”

They parted as he gently nudged her toward her apartments in the
zenana,
leaving him to go to his alone. Her steps were hurried. Emperor Shah Jahan knew that he sent his heart with his oldest child, and if she were to die, as his wife had, in childbirth—this time he would no longer have the capacity to rule, and the Empire would fall into Dara’s hands even if he had not yet proved himself capable.

•  •  •

The next three months passed in a daze for Jahanara, alone at the Taragarh fort at Ajmer with her ladies-in-waiting and Ishaq Beg. Her stop at Delhi on the way here had been brief—she had visited her great-great-grandfather Emperor Humayun’s tomb and meditated at the
dargah
of Shaikh Nizamuddin Auliya, a Sufi saint of the Chisti order who had died in the early part of the fourteenth century. She had not known what she was praying for as she knelt by the saint’s grave, then rose to her feet clumsily, for even that little effort had caused a shortness of breath. She had thought that she would stay here for a while, but Ishaq had insisted that they continue their journey, fearful that the child would come too soon if she exerted herself.

And so they had found their way to Ajmer and the hill fort of Taragarh, a meager five hundred feet above sea level, meager only compared to the mighty Himalayas she had left behind some six months ago. Ajmer was on the southern lip of the great Thar Desert, which laid itself out in bands of brown sand over the northwestern edge of the Empire. Here, there was the hint of desolation in the orange and red hills of the Aravalli Range, which curved and humpbacked like mystical animals in repose, their sides dotted with faded green shrubs and the occasional tree that defied the sun, the heat, the aridity to provide a scant shade under its desiccated branches. The fort itself had been built in the fourteenth century, the stronghold and residence of the Chauhan kings, who had bowed to Emperor Akbar’s suzerainty. The building inside climbed up the hillside, sharply vertical, the heavy stone bleached to a whiteness, perforated with arches, topped with ornate
chattris,
with curved eaves over the windows that mimicked the arcs of the verandah arches. The stone, quarried from the womb of the Aravalli, was unyielding to the chisel and the hammer, and, consequently, the walls of the palaces, both inside and out, were uncarved. Instead, on her first visit to the fort, Jahanara found painted walls in her apartments and in all the public spaces—lushly brushed with indigos, greens, reds, oranges, yellows, turquoise, each painting a story from Hindu mythology, panel after panel lit by the western sun as it flooded the plains on its way to rest.

Here, in these decorated halls of the
zenana,
Jahanara spent many an hour, tracing her hand over the warm stone, marveling at the forever unknown artists—merely men for hire—who had left their marks in color and fable. The city of Ajmer, mostly composed of the mansions of the nobles who had accompanied the Mughal Emperors here on their own pilgrimages to the
dargah
of Khwaja Muinuddin Chisti, another Sufi saint, spread out below the crenellated walls of the fort near and around the saint’s tomb. And this was why Jahanara had made the journey to Ajmer also. Her interest in Sufism had been fueled by Dara, who had given her books to read, allowed her to sit behind a curtain when the holy men came to visit him and discuss their philosophies, read poetry with her. In the early days after discovering herself to be with child, Jahanara had felt bereft, not knowing to whom to turn for help, if indeed help was available to her. She had been deeply fearful of Bapa’s reaction to the news, not that she intended to talk with him about it, but . . . he would be disappointed. Najabat Khan had stayed back in Srinagar, and she had written to him, knowing he would be happy, as she was, happy and afraid. His response had been for her to fly to him, find sanctuary in his
haveli
in Srinagar, and give birth to their child under his protection—as things ought to be. For a while, a few weeks, Jahanara had cherished this thought also, until her Bapa had fallen ill with a fever that left him shivering in the torrid heat of Agra, and, exhausted herself, she had nursed him back to health.

That dream had shriveled. She had taken the bold step of accepting Najabat Khan as her husband without the sanction of a marriage; now she would have to carry and have their child by herself—this was the path she had chosen. Over the next five months, she had continued her duties in the
zenana
and at court as always, thinking and planning for the future, and, most surprisingly, the suggestion to visit the
dargahs
of the Sufi saints had come from Dara by way of Nadira. They knew, they all knew, Jahanara thought, and accepted their discreetness gratefully, for she could not have borne a public proclamation of her plight. The only person who had genuinely been unaware had been Aurangzeb, his ears buzzing with rumors of a possible alliance with Najabat Khan; he had not grasped how far matters had come. But Aurangzeb had always been this self-centered, stifling her with his supposed love but unwilling to think of her—what she wanted and needed.