Beneath a Marble Sky (45 page)

I
learned later
that news of Father’s death spread throughout Agra like fire amid thatch. The city’s inhabitants—be they Hindu or Muslim; man, woman or child—wore colors of mourning the following day. No task was undertaken, no squabbles pursued. Indeed, Agra itself appeared to grieve. The city teemed only with silence, not the elephants, horses and merchants that usually inundated its streets.

Aurangzeb decided to hold an immense funeral at the Taj Mahal. Nobles of every rank were welcome to attend the ceremony, which was to ensue at dusk. After a public viewing, Father would be laid to rest beside Mother. They’d then be left forever in peace.

Initially I was puzzled by my brother’s magnanimous gesture, for I knew he would rather bury Father in a pauper’s grave, as he had Dara. But the more I pondered his path, the more obvious it became that Aurangzeb had no choice but to honor his father. If he spurned the former emperor—who was suddenly revered again in light of Hindustan’s recent woes—what little support Aurangzeb retained would vanish.

My vile guards told me that I was to attend the event, that Aurangzeb wanted me at his side, smiling and looking my best. Evidently he thought my presence would ease any tensions regarding Father’s imprisonment and death. I cursed my jailers as they relayed this message. And I cursed my brother until a guard’s cool blade pressed against my throat. Since I was too weak to walk properly, Aurangzeb’s men placed me on a litter and carried me to the royal harem. At its gates they ordered the harem’s keepers to ensure that I was presentable by mid-afternoon. I was to be bathed, my hair and nails cut, my body dressed in the finest clothes.

Four female servants carried me toward the harem’s innermost reaches. Deep within this labyrinth, I was left alone in a communal bathing room, which sparkled like an immense jewel. Thousands of miniature mirrors adorned its walls and ceiling. No windows were present, and with the door tightly shut, light from a solitary lamp was reflected and magnified by each mirror. A marble channel carried fresh river water into the room, and in my dazed state I lay on a granite bench and watched starlike images flutter atop diminutive waves.

The door opened and a number of seasoned women gathered about me, women I had not seen for many years. They were artists who once entertained my parents but were presumably ignored by Aurangzeb. The oldest and most powerful concubines remembered me well. Though I never thought they had liked me, they now fawned over me as if I were a child of their loins. They trembled at my appearance, for I was gaunt, filthy and aged.

These women asked of Father and I told them that he had died peacefully. Then came queries regarding my wishes, and with freedom seemingly so near, I wept, knowing Aurangzeb would send me back to prison after the funeral. The thought of a solitary life in that cell was almost more than I could shoulder.

What happened next, as my clothes were removed, caught me unaware. These women, whom I never gave much acclaim, started planning on how to free me. While they scrubbed my body with soap and hemp, they spoke of bribes and unwalked passages, of boats and horses and men. Their tongues were so quick that I could barely follow the exchanges.

My eyes sought their faces as they dressed me in simple but clean garments. Each woman, I recalled from my childhood, had rarely left the harem. They never spoke of politics and power, but laughed, lounged and refined their crafts. I had once believed them weak and now begged their forgiveness. How wrong, how foolish I’d been. To my surprise, the concubines told me to still my words. They cackled as old women do —each chatting, none listening. I asked why they were willing to risk so much to free me.

“Many of us within these walls, my lady, were saved in some manner by your mother,” said the most outspoken woman of the group. Her face was horribly disfigured, as if it were a wax mask that had started to melt.

“She saved you?” I asked weakly.

“My mother once stitched your robes,” she replied, tenderly combing my locks. “Stitched them for your brothers as well.”

“Did I know her?”

“You were but a girl. I was hardly older when fire swept through our home, stealing my parents from me. I’d have died on the streets if your mother hadn’t brought me here. She paid for me to learn music. And learn I did. Of course, with my face I could never play for most lords, but in time, I taught younger girls my art. And I performed for your family on occasion.”

“I remember,” I said, recalling nights by the Yamuna, wonderful nights when a scarred girl played her sitar beautifully. As I slipped deeper into the past, two eunuchs entered the room, quickly stripping off their fine robes. One of the women smeared grease on their faces as the diminutive men stepped into filthy clothes.

“We all have such stories,” a younger concubine added.

“But you risk too much,” I said. “My brother will—”

“He doesn’t frighten us, my lady, for he knows nothing of our world,” the musician interrupted. “And freeing you will make your mother happy. It will do honor to her memory.”

Before I could think what to say, the eunuchs placed me again on the litter and carried me from the room. I cried out my thanks as the concubines disappeared from sight. An ancient eunuch then appeared, draping a thin blanket over my body and face. He set a reeking, bloody sack of what must have been decaying flesh between my feet before covering me with a foul carpet.

In this newfound darkness I heard only footsteps. Though the stench made me gag, I purged it from my mind. Breathing through my mouth, I prayed fiercely to Allah to protect my saviors, who had spoken of spreading dozens of rumors about the harem, each tale offering a different version of my escape. Some stories had me faking my frailty and darting outside the cloistered walls. In others, a fictitious servant or concubine rescued me. If the women created enough confusion, as I suspected they would, Aurangzeb might never learn the truth. He’d be enraged, certainly, but without proof, I didn’t believe he would punish those responsible for my escape. His hold on power was far too precarious to upset nobles who patronized these women.

I was carried for some distance. At one point we must have come upon the Red Fort’s sentries, for my bearers abruptly halted as voices rang out.

“What’s your load?” a guard demanded.

No response was given, and my pulse quickened. Someone coughed. I tensed at this outburst, my body twitching. Certain that someone must have seen me move, I felt a wave of fear wash over me. I wanted to tumble from my litter, and somehow to outrun my pursuers. Resisting the powerful urge, I remained still. Aurangzeb would kill me for trying to escape, for he would understand that I wasn’t broken but, in fact, had tricked him once again.

“Your load, boy? Have dirt in your ears? I asked—”

“A leper, sir. Dead…dead and full of boils and ready to burn.”

The guard grunted and I heard him step forward. Light invaded my cocoon as the carpet above my feet was lifted. I shut my eyes, unable to look upon the man who would send me to death.

I’m sorry, Arjumand, I thought desperately, as a mailed arm brushed against my leg. Please forgive—

“The stench!” the guard roared. “You ought to burn yourselves with him! You’re paid to keep the fort free of such filth!”

“We only found him today, sir.”

“Ten days too late by the smell of it! Now leave before you infect us all!”

The litter bounced beneath me and we were under way again. The eunuchs didn’t speak as they walked. My heart slowed only when the sounds of the guards behind us faded completely away. When all was quiet, I cried, wracked by relief and sorrow. I whispered to my bearers, explaining where they could find a large cache of Father’s gold. I told them to share it with the concubines, to spend it on whomever needed bribing. So much gold would make it harder for my brother to discover what happened.

Soon I heard sandals against wood, then felt myself being settled on the ground. A series of splashes came next, followed by a sense of wind. “Safe to rise,” a hoarse voice finally advised. I struggled upright, pushing aside the carpet and blanket, my lungs drawing in sweet, unspoiled air. The broad deck of a trading boat sprawled beneath me. “Nothing to fear here,” said a man beset with wrinkles.

I blinked at the sunlight. “Where are we headed?”

“South.”

“To Calcutta?”

“If you like.”

I glanced at the distant Taj Mahal, which faded slowly as the current gathered us up. Already groups of nobles assembled atop the mausoleum’s gleaming platform. Soon the ceremony would begin. “Farewell, Father,” I said gently.

I waited to hear his voice. But nothing came.

I
t was a long,
albeit uneventful journey. The boat’s captain seemed a decent man and tried his best to ensure that I recovered my strength. He brought me a dozen varieties of fish soup, and while he claimed that each was different, they all tasted as one to me. After not eating properly for almost a year, my appetite was as fickle as the wind.

Over the next ten days we drifted southeast. The land along the Yamuna was mostly devoid of man’s presence. One morning I saw a tiger amid a bamboo grove, stalking something I failed to detect. We also came upon a massive banyan tree—a relic of a forgotten age. Its branches, falling straight to the shore, were thicker than its original trunk. Hundreds, if not thousands, of bats slept in these branches. The bats screeched eerily, and their droppings coated the ground white. Indeed, much life thrived on that river. Life seeking to kill, such as the alligator we spied one afternoon. And life seeking to blossom, such as the fields of lotus flowers gracing the water.

I watched all Allah’s creatures, including the few people inhabiting the muddy banks, with fleeting interest. Certainly, I was thankful for these sights. Yet how could I truly appreciate the cunning of the alligator, as impressive as it might be, when the fate of my family was uncertain?

I passed much of the time praying. My mind was otherwise occupied by my parents, Aurangzeb and visions of my family’s reunion. It seemed so long since I’d embraced Isa and Arjumand. My questions regarding them were infinite. Had our daughter fallen in love? Was Isa still a joyous man? Had Ladli found them and relayed my message?

When at last the river bore us to Calcutta, I was strong enough to stand and walk unaided. I could again taste the sea as I shuffled through the city, which was much more compact than Agra. Its buildings, so chaotically ordered, seemed stacked against each other. I saw fewer palaces and gardens than in the north, and those I did stumble past looked neglected. Brown lichen covered most structures, as did hordes of monkeys.

A bazaar occupied the street I followed. After asking directions to Calcutta’s greatest mosque, I hurried ahead, hardly noticing the piles of fish, fruit and meat dressing the endless tables. Merchants shoved wares before me, but I paid these men no heed. I forced myself to continue on, even as my legs trembled with fatigue.

When I found the mosque—a narrow building supported by four identical arches—dusk was still distant. Seating myself under a cypress tree, I watched Muslims come and go from the holy place. Though I stayed outside the site, I did pray, begging for the safe return of my family. I prayed and beseeched all afternoon. Moments before the sun set, my prayers were answered.

Isa appeared in front of me, his face aflame and his body clad in white. Despite conventions against such interaction, I couldn’t resist leaping up to hug him. Nor did he seek to curb my excitement. Instead, he held me tightly, and I felt the hard muscles of his arms contract about my shoulders. My joy eclipsed all conscious thought. I was uncertain what to say to him. Only a poet might aptly describe the feelings shuddering within me. Enough people were about that I refrained from kissing him, though I did press my lips against the back of his hand. “Take me from here,” I said, wanting to be alone with him.

He grinned, and I followed him through the cluttered streets of Calcutta. We came to a stable and found his horse. He helped me onto the saddle before gathering the reins and leading his mount toward the setting sun. I asked of Arjumand, and he replied that she, as well as Nizam and Ladli, were living by the sea, less than a quarter day’s ride from here.

“Are they lovers?” I asked eagerly.

“As if they’d been forever.”

I clapped, immensely pleased that I had finally done my friends some good. “And what of Arjumand? Is she still well?”

“She’s fine, Jahanara. Put your worries to rest.”

“Can worries rest?” I asked happily. “I hope mine learn how.”

It took scant time to reach the outskirts of the city. Once free of its confines, and far from the stares of its inhabitants, Isa leapt on his horse, moving forward until his chest pressed against my back. I turned around to kiss him, passionately enough that I tasted salt on his lips. Our stallion trotted slowly, and I held his reins with a firm hand, so that he wouldn’t quicken his pace.

I told Isa things then, whispered to him of my love and my longing. He echoed my words and I thanked Allah again for delivering him to me. As Isa spoke, his hands sought to renew their friendship with my flesh. He caressed my face, then wrapped his arms about my stomach.

“You’re thinner, my Swallow,” he said quietly.

I nodded, staring at the sea, which stretched eastward like a mirror image of the sky. “Father died,” I whispered, thinking that there were many things Isa would never discover. What good would it serve to tell him of Khondamir? Or of how Aurangzeb had nearly killed me?

“I’m sorry, my love,” he said forlornly. “He was the rarest of men.”