Set between the gardens and the river, the mausoleum rose with the sluggishness of a crippled elephant. But rise it did. The platform, as high as a palm tree, was a massive rectangle of reinforced stone slabs. Though structurally intact, it would be later encased in white marble. Children tried to run from one end of its vastness to the other while holding their breath. Not surprisingly, only a few succeeded in the game.
The base of the mausoleum had been finished and stood atop the platform. Isa had designed the building to resemble the offspring of a square and an octagon. A square for the most part, its corners were angled. The eight sides of the mausoleum would be graced with magnificent arches, towering structures that would support the enormous weight of the tear-shaped dome.
The arches were scantly begun, and I struggled to envision them rising as in Isa’s drawings. Bamboo scaffolding obscured much of the site, hindering my imagination. The scaffolding, intricate and stout, held thousands of men and looked like a colossal birdcage. Certain sections were reinforced with brick towers, and within the towers master builders had fixed pulleys and block tackle. Elephants below pulled ropes to hoist stone slabs upward where men used poles to push them into place. Masons secured the blocks with plaster, and used iron dowels to join them together.
The process was becoming more dangerous as the structure rose, and we were lucky to go a week without a death—a fact that weighed heavily upon Isa’s conscience, as well as my own. The peril, surprisingly, deterred few. We had more workers than we could accommodate. Craftsmen journeyed here from distant lands, and Isa conferred with these artisans long into the night.
Isa wanted the entire mausoleum to be inlaid with intricate patterns of semi-precious stones. Hindustan’s finest carvers showed him majestic works of jade flowers, while calligraphers brought marble slabs bearing lapis-filled inscriptions of poetry and scripture.
It seemed at times that the project might never cease. And yet on that morning, when coolness still prevailed and the sky carried sheltering clouds, my mood was elevated. A messenger had informed me that Father would inspect the mausoleum shortly, and I looked forward to seeing him. Architecture was a hobby of his, and Father often made helpful suggestions to me, as well as exchanged ideas with Isa.
I watched with pride as Father strode through the gardens with the gait of a much younger man. He was a noble ruler, and the workers sensed his kindness. He repaid their bows not with the curt nod of a superior, but with friendly greetings. Wonderful with names, Father honored many of the master builders by inquiring after their children or wives. He applauded their progress and praised their ingenuity. Father’s armed escorts, trailing slightly behind him, stopped as he approached me. “Good morning, my child,” he said.
I took his arm and we walked toward the platform, circumventing heaps of sandstone, dowels, rope and bamboo. The hot season was ending and the ground was dry. Dust rose as we walked beside hardened elephant footprints and mounds of dung. “We need more barges, Father,” I said. “We’re short on stone and long on men.”
He nodded, and I knew the matter would be handled. One of Father’s profoundest fears was that he’d die before we finished. “The gardens,” he said, pointing to the four squares, “shall be beautiful. Does the river fill them properly?”
Isa had designed the gardens so that underground passages from the river would always keep their canals and fountains flowing. “Perfectly,” I replied. “It would take a terrible drought for them to dry.”
We arrived at the platform’s central staircase and ascended wide steps. From atop the mammoth rectangle of stone Father motioned toward the tower at each corner. “The minarets rise quickly.”
Indeed, they were halfway completed, and when finished would be only slightly lower than the dome. As with the rest of the structure, they hadn’t been dressed yet in white marble. Immense stacks of the precious marble lay beyond the platform and would only be added once additional sandstone was in place.
Father, replete in a silk tunic and jewels, climbed the scaffolding surrounding the main edifice. I followed him up a ladder into the bamboo latticework. A wooden walkway connected the scaffolding to the mausoleum and we crossed the abyss below. Dust-covered workers stood, sat, or knelt at endless stations about the scaffolding. Some chiseled, some plastered, some shouted commands. Hundreds more pursued other tasks.
Suddenly we stood at the highest point of the unfinished site. If the mausoleum had truly been a woman—after all, Isa had designed it to mirror a woman’s grace—we’d be only as high as her knees. Walking upon a makeshift path set on the rising structure, Father headed toward the center of the mausoleum. There he wiped the sweat from his brow and seemed to lose himself in thought. I left him in peace. Mother, as she often did, now consumed him. His grief for her, even if it had lessened slightly with time, was still acute.
I would never forget the first two years after her death, when he gave up every worldly pleasure to mourn her. He wore no fine tunics, and left his jewels in their chests. He attended no festivals or dances or plays. Music he forbade in his presence. He even renounced the lure of flesh during this time and never entertained women. Father had since returned to the life of an emperor, but his mood had only partially improved.
“She’s right below us,” he said softly, “my Mumtaz Mahal.”
Mother’s pearl-encrusted tomb was buried beneath the main structure, accessible only by an underground passageway. As he’d promised on her deathbed, Father always visited it on the anniversary of that terrible night.
“One day, Father, one day you’ll rest beside her.”
“May Allah be so kind.”
“She’ll adore you for the creation of this mausol—”
“Taj Mahal,” he interrupted quietly. “Allah sent me a dream last night, and in that dream, as was true in life, I saw you born.”
“And?”
“It was during your birth that, for the first time, I called your mother ‘Taj Mahal.’ ”
An elephant trumpeted below. “The mausoleum should be named after her,” I said, remembering that he’d called her Mumtaz Mahal in private. “But where does ‘Taj’ stem from?”
“Mumtaz turned to Taz as the years passed. Then she was simply Taj.” A faint smile crossed his face. He took off his spectacles and closed his eyes. “When we were alone, she was always Taj to me.”
I reached for his hand, saddened and honored by how much he still missed her. “Shall you ever marry again?”
“No. I await our reunion.”
I nodded but don’t think he saw me, for he drifted somewhere into the past. I wandered back through the years as well, envisioning the two of them walking along the Yamuna, oblivious to everything but each other.
“Father?”
“Yes?”
“If Mother had been married to another, and you were only friends, and could never be lovers, would you…could you have endured?”
He shook his head. “Would a bee be content to sip water all his life, when there’s nectar before him? Would a stag live in a valley, when there’s a mountain he could climb? No, my sweet child, I would never have known contentedness. Indeed, I’d be much sadder than I am today.”
“What might you have done?”
A pause lingered between us, and his eyes found mine. I realized then that he knew I didn’t speak of him, but of myself. Father, unlike most men, was keenly observant. He understood women, as his heart and ours were akin. “Love, Jahanara, is more precious than gold. It should above all things be pursued.” He took my hand. “But let that pursuit be a quiet one, a chase other hunters won’t hear. For love, especially the love you seek, with the man you seek, can be most dangerous.”
Far from surprised by his perception, but pleased that he had discovered my secret, I leaned forward to kiss his cheek. “I adore you, Father.”
He seemed to consider my words. “Never deny yourself love, my child. For to deny love is to deny God’s greatest gift. And who are we to deny God?”
. . .
Throughout the following week I pondered Father’s advice. Concentrating on my duties was unduly taxing and I made uncharacteristic mistakes. At one point Isa snapped at me when I ordered iron dowels of the wrong size. Livid, I stormed out of his hut. How could I think of dowels when so much more was at stake?
I avoided Isa for the remainder of that day, as well as the next and the next. I lost my desire to share his company, for his smile was like lime juice on a cut lip. It hurt me to be with him but not be able to touch him, to talk with him but not through words of my choosing. No matter how feverishly I fretted over our quandary, I could derive no solution that brought us together. After all, my husband would kill me if he discovered my unfaithfulness, despite his nightly debaucheries. And Aurangzeb would surely use such information against me. The entire Taj Mahal, as it was now being called at Father’s request, would be at risk. For surely if its chief architect were caught in a major misdeed, the project would stumble.
Isa misunderstood my sudden coldness. He often motioned to me from the distance and I pretended not to see him. He asked Nizam to seek my feelings, but I resisted my friend’s awkward probes. How Isa could interpret my emotions so aptly, and yet be blind to this particular state, galled me. Father would sense such misery. Unfair as it might be, I expected Isa to reach the same conclusions. Alas, he didn’t, and so we drifted apart. When he left for Delhi suddenly, I was relieved. And I hated myself for it.
I spent less time at the Taj Mahal and more with my worthless husband. He was still determined that I give him a son, and sensing that Isa and I would never be as one, I tried to fulfill his demand. One night I was so despondent that I even sought his affection, whispering kind words into his ear. Yet he laughed at me, his chuckles continuing as I cried myself to sleep. Days passed and my misery increased.
When a letter arrived from Father, requesting that I settle a dispute between two important nobles with palaces to the east, I was quick to leave Agra. Occasionally I undertook such missions, and as much as I usually dreaded them, on that day I was pleased to escape. Nizam, as well as four of Father’s most trusted warriors, accompanied me. We rode forth before dawn and traveled without rest.
After leaving Agra we followed a great road northward. English traders had named this fabled passage The Long Walk. It certainly was of notable length, paralleling the Yamuna all the way to Delhi and then Lahore. Rows of shade trees spanned both sides of the road, as did numerous inns and shops. Beyond the trees to the west, rice fields, as well as plots of melons, grapes, mangos, onions and lettuce, sprawled into the distance. To the east, set close to the river, rose the gleaming palaces of nobles. I’d been in several as a girl and knew their grounds contained marble pools and channels filled with lotus flowers and fish. The surrounding gardens were home to peacocks and cranes, as well as pavilions topped by golden cupolas. Hordes of servants ensured the sanctity of such realms, while armed guards kept unwelcome visitors at bay.
The Long Walk was inundated with camel-driven caravans, war parties, pilgrims and the occasional Jesuit. These priests wore black robes of velvet and bestrode fine mounts. About their necks hung rosaries, quite similar to the prayer beads Muslims used to count invocations. The Jesuits often read Bibles as they rode. Beneath broad-rimmed hats these devout men whispered in strange tongues.
We followed innumerable travelers for the better part of the morning, then turned east and crossed the river on a sandstone bridge. Once we traveled beyond the Yamuna’s influence, the land we passed became parched. No banyan trees towered above flower-choked meadows as in Agra. Nor did groves of bamboo groan as trunks rubbed against each other. Instead, sickly bushes hugged the trail. Our horses stepped on cracked earth and kicked up clouds of dust. The grit found its way into our ears, mouths, eyes and hair. We tried to spit, but our throats were so dry that it hurt to hack.
Gradually, the land began to undulate. The horizon changed from brown to green and our spirits improved. The sun fell behind us, the shadows we cast lengthening, then disappearing altogether. As we neared our destination, the four warriors dismounted on a grassy knoll. Here they would make camp. The men were under strict orders to go no farther and would await my return before departing to Agra.
Father had arranged that Nizam and I stay at an inn flanking the Ganges River. Hindus had named the vast stretch of water after their compassionate river goddess, Ganga, and believed that it poured from the heavens until striking Shiva’s head. The god’s brow stopped the water’s fall, and with his encouragement, it ebbed southward. Hindus claimed that if they touched the Ganges they would be cleansed of sin.
I’d never seen the legendary Ganges, but when we finally arrived at the inn I was too weary to study its broad face. Nizam helped me dismount and we sought the innkeeper, an old woman who greeted us kindly and showed us to our rooms. Nizam preferred to sleep on the river’s bank and asked for only a blanket. I bade him good night before heading to my quarters.
My room was a diminutive affair with only a table, sleeping blankets, a bucket of water and a lantern. About to unpack, I noticed a letter on the floor. It bore the Emperor’s seal, and I wondered what advice Father would impart concerning the dispute.
The letter, crafted in his elegant hand, read:
Sweetest Jahanara,
How can a father tell a child some things? How can he say that he loves her above all his children? Are not all children equal? Allah would say yes, but, may He forgive me, I cannot. For it is you, and you alone, who gives me my greatest joy. Surely Mumtaz Mahal, my love and the harborer of all things good, resides in you. Sometimes, when you laugh, or cleverly outthink my best advisors, I see her in your face, hear her in your words.
You asked me what to do if love struck you down, as it does to a lucky few. I said you should seek it. And I believe in those words, no matter that our culture defines such a search as contemptuous. Your mother often argued that women should be able to pursue love as men do, and now, in secret, I shall tell you that I agree.
But how, Jahanara, can you seek love when to do so could mean your death? Does an ant seek to cross the web of a spider? No, child, it does not. And nor should you. Instead, let love seek you. For tonight is my gift and shall commence that journey.
No conflict of nobles demands your attention. This inn is a safe place, its owner a trusted friend. Your secret will know silence here. Stay three days. Enjoy your time together and return on different paths on different eves. And when you return, all I ask is that you save one kiss for your father.
Your love I hold against my heart.
I trembled as I gripped the paper. Though I hated to destroy such beauty, I tore the note into shreds, fearful it might find the wrong hands. My chest tightened in marvelous excitement and I pulled a mirror from my bag. The legacy of a day in the saddle was inscribed on my face. I quickly undressed and, using cotton rags dipped in cool water, cleaned myself as best as I could. I then put on a robe painted with butterflies, drawing it tighter than usual to enhance my figure. A few drops of lotus perfume rubbed into my skin; an orchid stolen from the inn’s garden to grace my hair.
As I started to tidy my belongings, I paused, aware of shuffling feet.
“Jahanara?”
I opened the door and found him there, dripping wet and quite confused. He still must have thought me upset with him, for his face contained none of its usual happiness. “I was taking…a bath in the river,” he said haltingly, “and saw Nizam.”
“Father brought me here,” I replied, wanting to invite him in, but hesitating.
His uncertainty didn’t waiver. “He sent a letter asking me to meet an architect here immediately.”
“I’m the architect!”
/> “You?”
“Father planned it all, Isa. He ordered us here so that we could be together.”
“He knows?”
“Only that I love you.”
“But this past week you’ve—”
“I’ve despised myself,” I interrupted. “My love for you, and my fear of what that love would betray, made me so cold. But there’s no fear here, no watchful eyes, no deceit. There is only us.”
He took a step into my room, his hand sailing out to touch my chin. “But your father, he truly condones our love?” When I nodded, Isa’s crooked smile, so long departed, returned. “A remarkable man.”
I wanted him in my arms, yearned for him with a passion that quickened my pulse. I pulled him close and his damp hands were about me, drawing aside my hair, caressing my neck. He kissed me. I felt his urgency in that kiss, yet it was almost impossibly tender. I muttered his name and his fingers dropped to my robe. His eyes sought mine and when I nodded he untethered my clothes, letting them fall. He made no move to touch me but stepped back, as if to study a mosque of his design.
“So beautiful,” he whispered. “How can you be so beautiful?”
I placed his hands on my breasts. He traced their soft contours, almost in awe. I’d always been ashamed of my nakedness, as if it somehow made me weak. But now I quivered with a strange power. As Mother had often said, being a woman is nothing to be ashamed of, and this man, unlike so many others, didn’t seem to think of me as something to belittle, but to behold.
My skin responded to his touch, tingling beneath his fingers. My hands worked upon his clothes and soon he was naked as well. His body was lean and muscular. Unlike my husband, his chest and long legs were almost free of hair. Isa lifted me to the sleeping blankets. My mouth found his and our kisses grew frenzied. I wanted him inside me and, reaching down, guided him forward. I sensed a coolness at first, a breeze between my thighs that quickly warmed. Isa didn’t move with the wild haste of my husband but eased forward and back like an oar upon water. I found myself, much to my surprise, moving with him.