ONE
After the passing of midnight…a daughter was born to that tree of the orchard of good fortune; whereupon her feverish temperature (mizaj-i-wahhaj) transgressed the bounds of moderation…The unexpected incident and soul-rendering disaster filled the world with bewilderment.
—From the Padshah Nama of Abdal-Hamid Lahauri, in W.E. Begley and Z.A. Desai, Taj Mahal: The Illumined Tomb
Burhanpur
Wednesday, June 17, 1631
17 Zi’l-Qa’da A.H. 1040
THE EMPRESS’S HOWL, SPLINTERED AND EXHAUSTED, STRETCHED THINLY INTO THE NIGHT air and then fractured into little pebbles of sound. One AM. The coming dawn, still hours away, smudged the horizon in ghostly gray. Oil diyas and candles rippled in an impulsive draft of air, spilling light from the apartments fronting the Tapti River.
Mumtaz Mahal screamed again without a sound, lips drawn back over even, white teeth, eyes shut.
“Mama,” Jahanara desperately said, grasping her mother’s hand in her young, strong ones. “Can I give you some more opium?”
Mumtaz shook her head and leaned back on the pillows, shivers racking her body. Now, once the contraction had passed—despite the long day and night of suffering—her features settled into an immeasurable beauty. It was there in the perfect cut of her nose, the seamless curve of her chin, the glowing skin and liquid eyes, irises ringed in darkening shades of gray. She had retained the newness of youth, though she was thirty-eight years old this year.
Empress Mumtaz Mahal, the Exalted One of the Palace—a title Emperor Shah Jahan had bestowed upon her a few years after they wed—let her hand lie in her elder daughter’s comforting hold. In another minute, the pains would begin again. As she struggled to give birth to her fourteenth child in nineteen years of marriage, she was grateful even for the fact of it, for she was married to a man more beloved to her than anyone else, Khurram. He had been Shah Jahan for many years now, but she still thought of him as Khurram—the name his grandfather Emperor Akbar had bestowed upon him at birth.
A roar filled her ears. Opium. She briefly considered it in the filigree silver bowl, sweet to the taste, mixed with dates, the juice of the tamarind, a sprinkling of crushed cashews and almonds, studded with raisins. She had already eaten five round balls, each the size of a jamun fruit, since her waters broke…when was that? But the opium, always effective before, had only just razed the edges of the pain this time; she was hesitant to take more. The midwives, with their constant chatter and advice, had said that it would not harm the child already formed inside her. Mumtaz did not believe them. Her belly began to throb again, and she screamed, frantic with worry that Khurram would hear; he was sure to be nearby, though he was not allowed to enter the birthing chamber. There were some rules even the Emperor of the Mughal Empire could not circumvent.
A gaggle of midwives flitted around the room, keeping their distance from the bed where their Empress lay. She could not bear their touch upon her so soon.
Jahanara’s fingers constricted, and Mumtaz, through her screaming, gasped, “Let me go, beta.”
The girl did in fright, covering her own face instead. When Mumtaz could rouse herself, she reached out blindly.
On her left side, a voice said, “I am here too, Mama. I will comfort you. If you do not want your hands held too tight, I will hold them lightly.”
The Empress sighed. She turned to her second daughter, Roshanara, and then back to Jahanara. How similar they were to each other, though, and she smiled within; they would hate that comparison. Jahan was seventeen years old, willowy and upright. She had a thin, sharply structured face, all planes and angles, brows that had been plucked to arch thickly above the bones surrounding her eyes, hair drawn back in this heat and plaited down her back. Roshan was a smoother version of her older sister, her skin more fair, her eyes colored with flecks of green, her face round. And yet, despite this outward physical sophistication, she was only fourteen years old, three years younger than Jahan in age—a lifetime in understanding. She should not have been here, but she had insisted and Mumtaz had given in, unable to argue once the labor began. After all, the girls would one day be mothers themselves; let them see and learn and know what a woman was to do in her life. Between the two of them, there was already a slender rivalry, so inconsequential now as almost not to exist. But, Mumtaz thought, she was here to control them, for they needed a mother’s hand; Khurram was of little help, he had too much love for one child and a bland indifference to the other.
When her belly strained with the next contraction, Mumtaz wondered why her thoughts were so clear. During the thirteen previous births, she had no memory of actually thinking anything. Those experiences had been simple, practically easy, an ache in her lower back, a sucking of opium, the child brought out splitting the room’s seams with its cries, each successive yell painting smiles on all of their faces. Laughter from outside as Khurram heard the news, his ear pressed against the wood of the door. Then there had been those early years when Khurram and she, and the children, had been sent in official exile to stumble around the Empire, pursued by his father Emperor Jahangir’s troops. Some of the births had taken place in tents, on the roadside. Even now, in these comparatively restful times, with the whole Empire in the palms of their hands, Mumtaz could hear the distant rumble of pursuing horse hooves and felt an overwhelming fear for their lives if they were caught.
Not all the children had lived. There had been a girl before Jahanara who had died when she was three years old, and Mumtaz had to struggle to remember her name…and her face. They were still in Emperor Jahangir’s good graces at that time, and so he had sent his condolences to his son and his daughter-in-law upon that child’s death. Some of the other children had been stillborn, mercifully so, not giving her the time to create an attachment with them. Some had died within a few days; some, like that oldest girls, had died of the smallpox or of a mysterious and stubborn fever just as they were beginning to crawl, or walk, or babble or talk. But she still had six children. Jahan and Roshan—the only two girls—here with her and four fine boys in the outer room with their father. And if this child lived also…She touched her belly gently, and for the first time came this thought—if this child lived and she herself did not die, there would be seven. And she still had some childbearing years left in her, and though Khurram and she had been married so many years, despite the burdens of the Empire, despite the women in his harem, he would visit her bed. And so there would be other children. In the end, this, and everything else, was in Allah’s hands.
“Jahan, you are of an age to marry soon,” she said faintly when the contraction had passed.
“I am?” And then, softly, “I am.” Those two words were fraught with longing, and Mumtaz watched her child. So she felt too at her age, well before her age, with none of the patience Jahan had. “We will speak of it when you are feeling better, Mama.”
“Your Bapa and I have been talking,” Mumtaz said, the words rushing from her mouth, determined to use this precious, snatched moment of calm. She had realized the truth of what was to happen to her, suddenly and with clarity. Her only anxiety was that she would not be able to see Khurram before…and she wanted to see his face, touch him, hear his voice. But she had her duties to her children too. She beckoned with a tired hand. “Come closer.”
She had meant this for Jahan, but Roshanara also crowded over her. “There is an amir at court, of a good family who have been servants of the Empire for generations. They hail from Persia, descended from the Shah, though their ancestral lands are in Badakhshan. Your Baba and I will not force you into a marriage you do not want, Jahan, but—”
“You know that I will want what you do, Mama,” Jahan said. “Why all this now? We will have plenty of time later, save your energy for the child.”
Empress Mumtaz Mahal closed her eyes, exhausted, and lay unmoving on the bed for so long that the two girls gazed at each other in trepidation. Roshanara bent to her mother’s ear and whispered, “What is his name, Mama?”
“Najabat Khan.”
Neither of the girls knew anything about Mirza Najabat Khan. They had been at court only a few times in the zenana balcony behind their father’s throne, not paying attention to the names of the nobles presented to the Emperor, mesmerized instead by the glittering gold and silver standards, the absolute quiet in a room thronging with men, the rows of turbaned heads bent in deference to their Bapa.
Mumtaz took a deep breath as pain bit into her lower back again. “Jahan, call for your father.”
Jahanara rose; orders from her mother were obeyed almost before they left her lips. When she realized what was being asked, she dithered. “Bapa cannot come here, Mama.”
“He has not until now,” Mumtaz said. “But I want him.”
The midwives grabbed veils and drew them over their heads, falling into submissive attitudes even before the Emperor had stepped into the room. Someone clucked, in disapproval, and Mumtaz, though she heard the sound, paid little heed to it.
“Tell him to come.”
Jahanara bowed to her mother. “He will be here, Mama, as soon as I can open the door.”
“Go, Roshan,” Mumtaz said to her younger daughter. “I want to be alone with your Bapa now.”
Roshanara went from her mother’s bedside, her mouth pursed with discontent, and sat down with the slave girls, who had made a space along the wall for her. When Jahanara put her hand on the latch, the metal chill against her skin, she heard the midwife mutter, “The head is showing, your Majesty.” It will not be long.”
