The Twentieth Wife Read online

  Acclaim for Indu Sundaresan’s

  ◆ The Twentieth Wife ◆

  “Sundaresan [is] a bright addition to the new generation of women writers from India.”

  —The Seattle Times

  “If all history lessons were spun outwards from a legendary love affair and enlivened with sensuous details of an exotic time and place, fewer kids would sleep through class.”

  —The Sunday Oregonian

  “In Mehrunnisa, Sundaresan has found a fascinating subject. . . . The Twentieth Wife offers a rich and intimate view into palace life during the late 16th and early 17th centuries—and an incisive look at gender roles of that period.”

  —USA Today

  “This epic tale is . . . informative, convincing, and madly entertaining. The reader comes away with an unexpected vision of the power behind the veil.”

  —Marilyn Yalom, author of A History of the Wife and A History of the Breast

  Thank you for downloading this Atria Books eBook.

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  For my parents, Group Captain R. Sundaresan and Madhuram Sundaresan

  For all of who I am

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  My deepest thanks:

  To my “writing buddies,” for kind praise and unstinted critique, and because they love to write as much as I do: Janet Lee Carey, Julie Jindal, Vicki D’Annunzio, Nancy Maltby Henkel, Angie Yusuf, Joyce O’Keefe, Beverly Cope, Louise Christensen Zak, Gabriel Herner, Sheri Maynard, Michael Hawkins, and Laura Hartman.

  To my agent, Sandra Dijkstra (who is an unexpected gift and blessing), and others in her agency, for their knowledge and experience and for their passionate belief in my writing.

  To my editor at Pocket Books, Tracy Sherrod, for her vision and for astute and generous insights on the manuscript.

  To my publisher at Pocket Books, Judith Curr, for her confidence and trust in me and my work.

  To my husband, Uday, who has always supported my writing habit and who read the novel in its very first avatar and liked it beyond the call of duty.

  To my sister Anu, who stayed up nights reading the story while taking care of my two-week-old niece (and despite the excitement of a new baby was still thrilled by it).

  To my sister Jaya, whose unbounded love and vivacity spills into every aspect of my life, and who is fired with the utmost faith in her little sister.

  To the excellent libraries of the King County Library System and the University of Washington Suzzallo and Allen Libraries, for giving me a place to rest my thoughts, and because my research would have been hugely incomplete without their collections.

  PRINCIPAL CHARACTERS

  (In Alphabetical Order)

  Abdur Rahim

  The Khan-i-khanan, Commander-in-chief of the imperial army

  Abul Hasan

  Mehrunnisa’s brother

  Akbar

  Third Emperor of Mughal India

  Ali Quli Khan Istajlu

  Mehrunnisa’s first husband

  Asmat

  Mehrunnisa’s mother, Ghias Beg’s wife

  Ghias Beg

  Mehrunnisa’s father

  Hoshiyar Khan

  Chief eunuch of Salim’s harem

  Jagat Gosini

  Salim’s second wife

  Jahangir

  Salim’s title upon becoming the fourth emperor of Mughal India

  Khurram

  Salim’s third son, born of Jagat Gosini

  Khusrau

  Salim’s first son, born of Man Bai

  Ladli

  Mehrunnisa’s daughter by Ali Quli

  Mahabat Khan

  Salim’s childhood cohort

  Mehrunnisa

  Ghias’s daughter, later titled Nur Jahan

  Mirza Aziz Koka

  Khusrau’s father-in-law

  Muhammad Sharif

  Salim’s childhood cohort, later made Grand Vizier of the Empire

  Muhammad Sharif

  Mehrunnisa’s eldest brother (not the same as the Grand Vizier)

  Qutubuddin Khan Koka

  Salim’s childhood cohort, later Governor of Bengal

  Raja Man Singh

  Khusrau’s uncle

  Ruqayya Sultan Begam

  Akbar’s chief queen, or Padshah Begam

  Salim

  Akbar’s first son, later Emperor Jahangir

  PROLOGUE

  THE WIND HOWLED AND SWEPT down, almost ripping the tent flap from its seams. Frigid air elbowed in, sending arctic fingers down warm napes, devouring the thin blue flames of the fire. The woman lying on the thin cotton mattress in one corner shivered. She clasped her arms around her protruding stomach and moaned, “Ayah . . .”

  The midwife rose slowly from her haunches, aged joints creaking, and hobbled to the entrance. She fastened the flap, came back to the woman, lifted the blanket, and peered between her legs. The woman winced as callused dirt-encrusted fingers prodded her.

  The ayah’s thick face filled with satisfaction. “It will not be long now.”

  The brazier in the corner flared to life as the midwife fanned the camel-dung embers. The woman lay back, sweat cooling on her forehead, her face worn with pain. In a few minutes, another contraction swept her lower back. She clamped down on her lower lip to keep from crying out, not wanting them to worry outside the tent, unaware that the screeching gale swallowed even the loudest wail.

  Outside, an early night closed in on the campsite. Men huddled around a fire that sputtered and crackled as the wind lashed about their ears, kicking sand in their eyes and under their clothes, stinging their faces.

  A few tents, tattered and old, crowded in a tight circle at the edge of the desert on the outskirts of Qandahar. Camels, horses, and sheep clustered around the camp, seeking warmth and cover from the storm.

  Ghias Beg broke away from the group around the fire and, picking his way past the animals, trudged to the tent where his wife lay. Barely visible in the flying sand, three children crouched against the flapping black canvas, arms around one another, eyes shut against the gale. Ghias Beg touched the shoulder of the elder boy. “Muhammad,” he yelled over the sound of the wind. “Is your mother all right?”

  The child raised his head and looked tearfully at his father. “I don’t know, Bapa.” His voice was small, barely audible; Ghias had to lean over to hear him. Muhammad clutched at the hand on his shoulder. “Oh, Bapa, what will happen to us?”

  Ghias knelt, drew Muhammad into his arms, and kissed the top of his forehead gently, his beard scratching the sand on Muhammad’s hair. This was the first time he had shown any fear in all these days.

  He looked over the boy’s head at his daughter. “Saliha, go check on your Maji.”

  The little girl rose in silence and crawled inside the tent.

  As she entered the woman looked up. She stretched out a hand to Saliha, who came immediately to her side.

  “Bapa wants to know if you are all right, Maji.”

  Asmat Begam tried to smile. “Yes, beta. Go tell Bapa it will not be very long. Tell him not to worry. And you don’t worry. All right, beta?”

  Saliha nodded and rose to leave. On impulse, she bent down again and hugged her mother tightly, burying her head in Asmat’s shoulder.

  In her corner, the midwife clucked disapproval, rising as she spoke. “No, no, don’t touch your mother just before the baby is born. Now it will be a girl child, because you are one. Run along now. Take your evil eye with you.”

  “Let
her be, Ayah,” Asmat said weakly as the midwife hustled her daughter out. She said no more, unwilling to argue with the woman.

  Ghias raised an eyebrow at Saliha.

  “Soon, Bapa.”

  He nodded and turned away. Adjusting the cloth of the turban over his face, he wrapped his arms around his chest and walked away from the camp, head lowered against the shrieking wind. When he had reached the shelter of a large rock, he sat down heavily and buried his face in his hands. How could he have let matters come to this?

  Ghias’s father, Muhammad Sharif, had been a courtier to Shah Tahmasp Safavi of Persia, and both Ghias and his older brother, Muhammad Tahir, had been well educated as children. Brought up in an increasingly prosperous household, the children were happy growing up, moving from one posting to another: first to Khurasan, then to Yazd, and finally to Isfahan, where Muhammad Sharif had died the past year, 1576, as wazir of Isfahan. If things had remained at an even temper, Ghias would have continued his life as a nobleman with few cares, debts to tailors and wine merchants easily paid off every two or three months, and his hand open to those less fortunate. But this was not to be.

  Shah Tahmasp died; Shah Ismail II ascended the throne of Persia; the new regime was not kind to the sons of Muhammad Sharif. And neither were the creditors, Ghias thought, reddening under cover of his hands. Like pariah dogs sniffing at a rubbish heap, the creditors descended upon his father’s household, running practiced eyes over the furniture and carpets. Bills came piling onto Ghias’s desk, bewildering both him and Asmat. The vakils—his father’s clerks—had always taken care of them. But the vakils were gone. And there was no money to pay the creditors because his father’s property—Ghias’s inheritance—had reverted to the state upon his death.

  One of the Shah’s courtiers, a longtime friend of his father’s, informed Ghias of his fate: death or imprisonment in the debtors’ prison. Ghias knew then that he could no longer live honorably in Persia. His head sank lower into his hands as he remembered their hurried escape at night, before the soldiers came to arrest him. They had bundled Asmat’s jewels, her gold and silver vessels, and any other valuables they could carry with them to trade on the way.

  At first, Ghias had no idea where he would seek refuge. They joined a caravan of merchants traveling south, and during the trip someone suggested India. And why not, Ghias had thought. India was ruled by the Mughal Emperor Akbar, who was known to be just, kind, and above all open to men of education and learning. Perhaps he could find a position at court, a new start in life.

  Ghias raised his head as the howling wind faltered for a second and the faint scream of a newborn babe pierced through the sudden lull. He immediately turned west toward Mecca, knelt on the hard ground, and raised his hands. Allah, let the child be healthy and the mother safe, he prayed in silence. His hands fell to his side when the prayer was done. Another child now, when his fortunes were at their lowest. He turned to look toward the camp, the black tents barely distinguishable in the dust storm. He should go to Asmat, but his feet would not move toward his darling wife.

  Ghias leaned back against the rock and closed his eyes. Who would have thought the daughter-in-law of the wazir of Isfahan would give birth to her fourth child in such surroundings? Or that his son would have to flee his homeland, a fugitive from justice? It was bad enough that he had brought dishonor upon his family, but what followed on their journey had been worse.

  On the way south to Qandahar, the caravan had passed through the Dasht-e-Lut, the great desert of Persia. The arid country had its own beauty: miles of land barren of vegetation, and spectacular dusky rose cliffs rising, it seemed, out of nowhere. But those cliffs were treacherous, too; they had hidden a group of desert bandits until it was too late for the ill-fated caravan.

  Ghias shuddered, drawing the coarse woolen shawl closer around his shoulders. The thieves had swept over them in a confusing cloud of shrill noise and violence. They had left almost nothing; the jewels were gone, the gold and silver vessels gone, the women raped where they lay. Asmat had been left untouched only because she was so heavily pregnant. After the pillage, the caravan dispersed as people fled in search of refuge. And in the aftermath of the carnage, Ghias found two old mules, on which they had taken turns riding toward Qandahar, begging for hospitality from the numerous caravanserais along the way.

  Exhausted, dirty, and bedraggled, the family wandered into Qandahar, where a group of Afghan kuchi—nomads—had offered them shelter and what little food they could spare. But they had little money, and even the journey to India seemed impossible. Now they had another child.

  A few minutes later, Ghias stirred and made his way slowly to the tent.

  Asmat glanced up from her bed. With a heavy heart, Ghias noted the dark shadows under her eyes as she smiled at him. Her face was almost impossibly thin, the skin stretched to breaking over her cheekbones. He reached out and smoothed the still sweaty hair from her forehead. Cradled in Asmat’s arms and swathed in some old cloth lay a perfect little child.

  “Our daughter.” Asmat handed the baby to Ghias.

  As he held the child, Ghias felt helplessness overcome him again. She lay in his arms, cleaned and clothed, a tiny infant, dependent on him for her life and sustenance. She was beautiful, with well-formed arms and legs, a thick head of shiny black hair, and long, curling, black eyelashes resting against delicate cheeks.

  “Have you thought of a name for her?” he asked his wife.

  “Yes . . .” Asmat replied, hesitating a little. “Mehrunnisa.”

  “Meh-ru-nnisa,” Ghias said slowly. “Sun of Women. It is an appropriate name for this beautiful child.” He touched the baby’s little fist, curled against her chin in sleep. Then he handed Mehrunnisa back to Asmat. It was almost certain Asmat could not feed the baby herself. She would have little milk. Months of near starvation had made sure of that. Where would they find the money to pay a wet nurse?

  Someone prodded him in the ribs. Ghias turned to see the ayah with her hand stretched out, palm open. He shook his head.

  “Sorry. I have nothing to give you.”

  She scowled and spat out a stream of brown tobacco juice on the ground. “Nothing.” He heard her grumble as she went out of the tent. “Even a girl child should be worth something.”

  Ghias drew back to one corner, rubbing his forehead tiredly, and watched as their children—Muhammad Sharif, Abul Hasan, and Saliha—crowded around their mother and the new baby.

  They could not afford to keep the child. They would have to give her up.

  • • •

  THE WIND DIED down during the night as suddenly as it had started, leaving a clear sky jeweled with twinkling stars. Ghias rose early the next morning while it was still dark and sat outside his tent. A hot cup of chai, more watery milk than tea leaves, warmed his hands and his chilled body. A few minutes later, the eastern sky was brushed with glorious reds, golds, and amber, the aftermath of the storm lending nature a new wardrobe of colors.

  He reached inside his shawl and drew out the four precious gold mohurs nestled in his cummerbund. The morning sun touched the modhurs with a liquid fire, set off by his grimy hand. This was all they had left in the world. The thieves had overlooked the mohurs that Asmat had hidden in her choli, and Ghias was determined to buy his passage to India with the money. But this was all the gold would pay for; they needed more to survive.

  Ghias turned to look at the turquoise domes and minarets rising in the distance, framed against the red morning sky. Perhaps he could find some work in Qandahar. Ghias had not worked a day in his twenty-three years. But Asmat needed lamb’s meat and milk to regain her strength, the children needed more clothing as winter approached, and the baby . . . Ghias would not even think of her, not even by name. What use was it, when someone else would look after her? He rose as the sun broke from the horizon and climbed in the sky, sending golden rays to embrace the camp. His jaw was set, and in his eyes there was the steely glint of newfound determination.

&
nbsp; • • •

  THAT AFTERNOON, GHIAS stood, shoulders hunched, outside a bakery in the narrow street of the local bazaar. The long folds of his qaba dragged on the cobbled street. People milled about, jostling him, yelling to their friends, calling out greetings to acquaintances.

  Ghias raised his head and stared unseeingly into the distance. At first, he had tried for a job as a tutor to children of the wealthy nobles in the city. But everyone, looking at his torn clothes and grimy face, turned him away from their doorsteps. Then he sought work as a laborer, but his cultured accent and speech gave him away as a nobleman.

  Suddenly Ghias was aware of the delicious smell of fresh baked nan, the local bread. His stomach growled insistently, reminding him that he had eaten nothing after his morning cup of chai. He turned to watch the baker pat out the thick white dough with his hands, scoop it with a wooden paddle, and then carefully slap it against the walls of the flaming-hot underground oven through a hole in the floor. Fifteen minutes later, the baker used a pair of iron tongs to peel the freshly baked bread off the walls of the oven. He stacked the bread, cream and rust-golden, on a pile near the front of the shop.

  The aroma wrapped itself tantalizingly around Ghias. He drew out one gold mohur and looked at it. Before he could change his mind, he had bought ten pieces of nan and, with the change, some skewers of freshly grilled lamb kebabs, glistening with a lime and garlic marinade, from a nearby shop.

  He tucked the valuable hoard under his qaba, the hot nan warming his chest, the smells watering his mouth, and wound his way through the bazaar. Asmat and the children would have something to eat for a few days. The weather was cold, the meat would keep, and perhaps their luck would change . . .