Arjumand’s first year was one of the finest of my life. Many nights I put her in a sling tight against my chest and carried her to Isa’s home. There we simply held her, our lips often against her cheeks, our fingers forever tracing the curves of her calves and feet. We delighted in her eyes, which opened further each day and sometimes seemed to follow our movements. She spoke to us as best she could, her coos reminding me of doves calling to each other. No matter how tired I was, these sounds made me smile, almost as if invisible strings tethered her voice to the corners of my mouth. Isa, not surprisingly, needed no such strings. His love for Arjumand so overwhelmed him that occasionally I felt a twinge of envy. Yet such moments were insignificant compared against the rapture I experienced when the three of us were together.
After her nighttime feeding, a beautiful ritual that I almost always found myself looking forward to, we put her to rest. She slept and fussed in a crib of my lover’s making, padded thickly with cotton and lined with silk. Though the nearest house sat twenty paces away, I initially worried that a neighbor might hear her cries. Isa, however, reassured me that sound scarcely escaped his home. When I expressed skepticism, he quickly went outside and yelled as fiercely as his lungs permitted. Passersby must have thought him quite mad, but his point was well taken, for I hardly heard his voice.
As dawns unraveled, I returned with Arjumand to Mother’s room. We spent each morning together and I marveled at how she grew, how she smiled at odd moments, how her chubby legs kicked in the bath. Sometimes we napped together, usually after she had fallen asleep against my chest. Before letting dreams overtake me, I’d whisper to her of Isa, describing her father in great detail. I told her what she’d not know until much later in life, about his delight in kissing her fingers, in humming as he soothed her to sleep.
I rarely took Arjumand to see Khondamir, for while he was pleased to have finally sown his seed, he would have traded her for a silver button. Rot his soul, he viewed Arjumand, I think, as simply another expense. And because I clearly loved her, and not him, he punished me by never showing her any semblance of affection.
After lunch I usually left Arjumand with a nursemaid in Mother’s quarters or within the royal harem. An abundance of work needed attending at the Taj Mahal, and I knew Isa still counted on me. Besides, even though I’d become much more adept at hiding my feelings for him, sharing his company remained joyous.
As the months passed, thousands of slabs of marble were inlaid with semiprecious stones, set against structural bricks, and plastered into place. Elephants died, men succumbed to fever, and barges laden with supplies sank in storms. Despite these tragedies the mausoleum continued to rise. By now it was about half its intended height, and tales of its beauty spread throughout the Empire. Travelers—whether visiting nobles or pilgrims on their way to Mecca—always stopped to gaze at the Taj Mahal. Sometimes they even helped for a few days. In such cases, men left strangely content, as if awash in the knowledge that their hands had contributed, however slightly, to the creation of a legend.
Aurangzeb’s return, alas, spoiled this year of progress and serenity. As usual, he had been campaigning against the Persians, though the fighting was fiercer than ever. He conquered and commandeered their fortifications, then was besieged in turn as enemy reinforcements arrived. His army dwindled until he was finally forced to flee south, arriving in Agra with tattered and starving troops.
Aurangzeb had never tasted defeat, and while the Red Fort teemed with stories of his forces vanquishing Persians thrice their number, the retreat home was humiliating for my brother, no matter that he was badly outnumbered. To worsen the situation, the Deccans, knowing that we were weakened, rebelled once again, declaring their independence. Our garrison to the south was overrun and thousands of our men died dreadfully.
Thus my brother was in a foul mood when he returned home. At his first appearance in the Diwan-i Am, he blamed his retreat on the Hindus in his army, claiming they fought without the same fever as Muslims. Father might have believed him but was certainly wise enough to guard his tongue, for he had gone to significant efforts to cultivate powerful Hindu friends, many of whom were present. Dara, who I think had finally started to loathe our brother, disagreed vehemently with Aurangzeb’s complaints, and my siblings, to Father’s somewhat hidden horror, argued openly. Soon the court was in an uproar, with Muslims and Hindus exchanging insults.
Although the Hindu population was the majority, Muslims had ruled for generations. We had succeeded in doing so by treating Hindus, for the most part, as our equals. Yet now the Emperor’s son was deriding those of the other faith. One might think Aurangzeb would fear offending Hindus, who comprised a small part of his forces, but he seemed unconcerned by such matters, perhaps because Muslims were fiercely loyal to him and held virtually all positions of rank within his troops.
I did nothing to intervene in these boisterous proceedings but watched closely. I wanted to see which nobles flocked to Aurangzeb and which stayed loyal to Father and Dara. As far as I could tell, the split was nearly even. Balkhi, Aurangzeb’s bodyguard, stayed close to his master during the argument, eyes scanning for potential danger. At one point he turned toward me and we glared at each other. He licked his lips while I shuddered inwardly.
It’s only a matter of time, I thought, until blood flows between us. When Father dies—please Allah let it be many years hence—Aurangzeb shall take the Peacock Throne by force. Dara might stand against him, but will he be strong enough?
While I ought to side with the brother I loved, I wondered if, for the sake of my daughter, I should betray Dara and flock to Aurangzeb’s standard. Clearly it was the safer course of action, for Aurangzeb slew his enemies, whereas Dara tried to befriend them.
Later that night, what little doubt swirled in my mind was put forever to rest. A prominent Hindu temple was mysteriously set ablaze, and four monks died within. Though no evidence linked Aurangzeb or any of his underlings to the crime, I believed that he was the culprit. But why, I asked myself, would he aim to upset the delicate balance of the Empire? How might anarchy aid his cause?
The answer emerged when a mosque was burnt in retribution. Clashes erupted between our people, and scores, if not hundreds, died that night. More Muslims perished than Hindus, and the next day additional nobles backed Aurangzeb. It seemed that he strove to build loyalty through a common fear of the Hindu majority.
Father, however, was no fool. He ordered the army to commandeer the streets and quell any further rioting. Regardless of Aurangzeb’s quick rise through the ranks, the Emperor was our supreme ruler and men would follow him through hellfire. No one questioned his commands. The troublemakers, at least those still fighting and murdering, were captured. To show his allegiance to both Muslims and Hindus, Father had these men executed. He then provided equal amounts of gold to rebuild the temple and the mosque. And he let it be known that anyone breaking the peace would die without appeal.
Father summoned Dara and Aurangzeb. I was also present. We met on Father’s private balcony atop the Red Fort, essentially a courtyard overlooking the river that boasted miniature cypress trees in glazed pots, tubular cushions and a cashmere carpet depicting a riverside garden. Father and I already leaned against one cushion when my brothers entered. Both looked angry.
Since dawn had just unfolded, servants brought us fruit and chai. They had spent enough time around the royal court to know of the rift between my brothers and hurriedly departed, pulling bronze doors shut behind them. Dara and Aurangzeb sat as far apart as the carpet allowed. Aurangzeb now wore a trim beard. Rumor claimed that he observed an ancient Islamic custom and wouldn’t shave off the beard until all his enemies were dead.
Father made no move to speak. Nor did I. Instead, I looked to the southeast, my gaze resting on the Taj Mahal. Though scaffolding obscured much of its face, white marble sparkled beneath the wood. Men scurried about the scaffolding like an
ts on their hill. Steel tools glistened in the early light as masons worked stone.
Somewhere amid the chaos was Isa.
“The idiocy of yesterday shall never happen again,” Father said simply, his fists tightening on his knees. “Not while I live.” His features, usually so loving, were quite severe this morning. “Why, Aurangzeb, why in the name of Allah, would you create such upheaval, especially as our enemies attack our northern and southern flanks?”
My younger brother stiffened. “I lied about nothing.”
“I mentioned nothing of lies. But your mind must dwell on them to raise the matter.”
“The Hindus are worthless as fighters. More worthless than dogs. Their lines broke and the cowards fled their positions.”
“Then have the officers who commanded them demoted, or executed if you wish, but don’t come into my court and insult men who fought for the Empire while you suckled at your nursemaid!”
“We need peace with the Hindus—”
“I’m not finished, Dara, so hold your tongue!” Father exclaimed. Aurangzeb relaxed at his brother’s rebuke and Father turned on him. “Setting the temple aflame was a treasonous act!”
“I did nothing of the sort.”
“You didn’t?”
“No.”
“Do I look like a camel? Because if I don’t, stop treating me like one!” Father bit hard into an apple. I had never seen him so angry. “Do you think, Aurangzeb, that you’re the only one with spies? Of course I know you ordered the temple burnt. But why you would act like a vindictive child is between you and Allah. I certainly can’t comprehend it. Oh, I understand the favor you seek to curry, but the nobles you endear are far fewer than those you inflame! Now, my son, I fear many Hindu blades shall seek your back.”
“My enemies are always dealt with,” Aurangzeb replied quickly, perhaps too quickly. Ladli had once told me of his paranoia of being assassinated, and it seemed that Father had struck upon his most profound fear.
Father bit again into his apple. “I’ll tell you something,” he said, glaring at Aurangzeb. “Enemies breed like rats. You stomp them, poison them, burn them, but more still come! It makes no difference if you live in times of peace or war, feast or famine! Enemies shall always plot behind you.”
“Yet you still live.”
“Because I don’t strive to insult the very people who give me power! Who cook my food, field my armies and pay my taxes!”
“Muslims field my—”
“You’re a fine soldier, Aurangzeb, but a child in matters of the court! You would be a leashed cheetah in the hands of a skilled noble, and Jahanara’s puppet were she to sit on the Peacock Throne.”
Aurangzeb clenched his teeth, his jaw knotting. “You’d let a woman—”
“She’d rule brilliantly!” Father retorted. “Do you think your mother couldn’t have led the Empire? Surely she wouldn’t divide our people, or spend all day studying religions.”
Dara, who had thus far been spared Father’s wrath, grimaced. I understood then my father’s situation. However much he loved Dara, clearly he feared that his oldest son was too weak to lead us against our foes. He was prodding him now, hoping he’d take his duties more seriously.
“I need you, Aurangzeb,” Father pronounced. “But I cannot have you undermining the Empire! From this day forward you’ll treat Hindus with respect. We must have their support! If I hear of another temple being desecrated or some other such nonsense, I’ll have you scrubbing stables!”
Aurangzeb’s hand twitched, and I thought he might reach for his sword. Surely he debated taking his blade to us then. With us gutted, he could claim the throne. Ladli had said he feared that by killing Father he’d incur the wrath of the nobles. And while I believed she was partially right, I suspected his religion had more to do with his hesitation than anything else. For in Islam, no greater sin exists than to kill one’s father.
“Where do I march?” he asked finally, hate simmering in his gaze.
“Take fifty thousand men north to deal with the Persians. They’re the more imminent threat. The Deccans can be subdued later. Scatter the Persians before you. Raze their forts, poison their wells and burn their grain. Make it impossible for them to war against us.”
Aurangzeb had never led so many men. Though Father had humiliated him, my sibling must have been pleased at the command. “How many heads would you like?” he asked, looking at the floor.
“Hurt them badly, Aurangzeb. We’ll be the ones to dictate the terms of peace.”
Aurangzeb gracelessly excused himself. After he left, Dara straightened. “Do you remember the battle of—”
“The point, Dara?” Father interjected.
My oldest brother winced, for he was accustomed to speaking circuitously. “Is it wise, Father, to leave Agra so defenseless?”
Father and I both knew Dara was more concerned about having fifty thousand of our finest warriors under Aurangzeb’s command. “Agra,” Father countered, “is more than capable of defending itself. We have an even larger army within a half-day’s march of the city.”
“So close?”
“So I said. Now perhaps you should attend to your duties. That is, if no books need attending.”
Dara sought to smile. “My books, Father, will rest unopened.”
In my brothers’ absence the sun seemed much warmer. The Emperor and I sat facing it, nibbling on cubes of melon. Father was suddenly quiet, and I hesitated to interfere with his mood. Instead, I pondered how to best deal with Aurangzeb. Obviously, Father and Aurangzeb wielded ample networks of spies. I had only Ladli. And to be of any use to Dara, I’d need more information than she could garner. But whom could I trust to help me?
“Mosquitoes,” Father said. “My sons are like mosquitoes.”
Far below, a monkey sprang from one rooftop to the next. The Red Fort was inundated with these creatures, which we often kept as pets. “Forgive me for saying so,” I whispered, “but I think you rely too heavily on Aurangzeb.”
“But what am I to do, Jahanara? The throne was always intended for Dara, but is he a man who will strike fear into the black hearts of the Persians? The Deccans? The Portuguese? Sadly, I think not. And Aurangzeb, though I…bear him little love, can defeat our foes.”
“Defeat them at what price? He’ll never want peace with our neighbors or with the Hindus. He’ll destroy everythi—”
Father held up his hand. “That is why we must help Dara become a ruler. He’s wiser than Aurangzeb. Now we must teach him to be almost as ferocious.”
I deemed it an impossible task but said nothing. My mind was weary of such conversations. I wanted to tell Father about my little Arjumand, of how fast she could crawl. Or speak to him of our mausoleum. Instead, we sat and worried.
I shall think of his world for this day, I thought. I’ll plan and plot as Mother would wish. But come evening, only Isa and Arjumand will occupy my mind.
I kissed Father good-bye and headed toward the Taj Mahal. I chose to make the lengthy walk rather than ride. As I navigated Agra’s streets and then the wide avenues leading toward the mausoleum, my mind focused on how I could better understand Aurangzeb. A solution revealed itself, but I hesitated to pursue its intricacies. For the solution placed in danger the life of yet another I adored.
Deciding with reluctance, with vast reluctance, to leave the choice to my companion, I proceeded through the mausoleum’s garden. Its fruit trees, planted several years before, had grown to the height of my head. Beneath their slight trunks ran tidy rows of tulips, crocuses and dahlias. Koi swam in the canals along the path, gobbling at insects that landed in the water.
It took little time to locate Nizam. Atop the neck of a bull elephant, he urged it to drag a bundle of bamboo to the platform’s base. When the elephant obeyed his command, he treated i
t to a piece of sugarcane, which the beast grasped with its limber trunk. Nizam, who had always seemed so feminine in the confines of the harem, was now more a man than most I knew. Years of toiling on the Taj Mahal had given him the muscles of a wrestler. His chest and shoulders had broadened. He even seemed to stand straighter.
Nizam leapt from his elephant with the agility of a cheetah. Without my asking, he followed me toward the river, away from the thousands of workers. A trio of barges were moored at its shore. We walked past these brooding giants to a quiet place where women beat clothes against rocks. I shivered, recognizing it as the spot where I had almost drowned.
“My lady?” Nizam said as we rounded a bend and found no one near.
“How are you, Nizam?”
“I’m well, thank you.”
“I mean, how are you really?”
He glanced at the Taj Mahal, seeming to soak up the sight. “Content.”
I almost discarded my question then, for I didn’t want his happiness to be fleeting. But I was always taught that duty should supersede all such emotions. And so I forced myself to speak. “Would you care to leave this place?”
“Leave? But why?”
I debated again if I could seek anyone else. Perhaps I could simply employ a soldier to do what I desired.
“Why, my lady?”
Pulling my veil farther back on my brow, I said, “Aurangzeb will soon head north to fight the Persians.”
“I’ve heard as much.”
“You understand, Nizam, better than anyone, of his…dislike for Dara and me.” After making certain no one had crept closer, I continued. “Only a few people know this, but he tried to murder Dara not long ago. Your rotten meat saved him.”
“How?”
“It doesn’t matter. What does is that I’ve become intimate with his tactics. His military tactics, that is. He commands fifty thousand warriors, Nizam. Fifty thousand. But how does he wield them? How are his traps sprung and what do his enemies dread most? I must learn of his strengths and weaknesses, for I fear that someday, when Father dies, Aurangzeb and Dara shall meet on a battlefield. If that happens I plan on being at Dara’s side. And I need to give him sound advice.”