He had first seen Mumtaz at a Royal Meena Bazaar on a warm night just like this … Standing beneath the gold awning of the imperial tent he began to regret allowing Roshanara to persuade him to allow the bazaar to take place once more, arguing that it was the most important event of the year for the women of the royal household. The Meena Bazaar recalled too many bitter-sweet memories perhaps best forgotten … how the fourteen-year-old Mumtaz had looked standing behind her stall, pearls and diamonds shining in her hair … the sweet smell of the white jasmine growing on the wall behind her … the bright golden mohurs he had tipped into her hand in payment for a small vase.
But he must do his duty. The emperor’s tour of inspection was the official start of the Royal Meena Bazaar. He climbed into the gilded palanquin waiting for him and it rose shudderingly into the air as eight muscular female Tartar haram attendants raised it to their shoulders. Then, preceded by the khawajasara bearing her carved ivory staff of office, and escorted by smooth-faced eunuchs, he began his tour, smelling the attar of roses made by Jahanara to a recipe invented by her Persian great-grandmother and tasting sweetmeats of sugar and butter prepared by elderly royal matrons.
As he reached the less prominent parts of the courtyard where the wives and daughters of his courtiers and officials had their stalls and went through the motions of praising the wares and pretending to bargain, it was the women not their goods who increasingly caught his attention. He recognised some but others he’d never seen, like a tall woman in a purple silk robe whose plaited hair was interwoven with marigolds. She was broad-shouldered for a woman but had a slender waist. Her black eyes looked boldly into his as, play-acting the role of stallholder, she beckoned to him, urging the claims of her wares over the other women’s.
‘Who is that?’ he asked the khawajasara.
‘Kalima Begum, wife of your governor in Lahore. He married her while you were in the Deccan but she is not his favourite. He has another wife he wed five years earlier whom he has taken with him to Lahore, leaving Kalima behind. Do you wish to inspect her stall, Majesty?’
‘No. But I want you to send her to me tonight.’
‘She is a married woman, Majesty …’
‘That isn’t your concern. So long as she herself is willing, do as I have ordered.’
Why had he done it, Shah Jahan asked himself an hour or two later. It was one thing ordering the khawajasara to select him suitable women from among the occupants of a haram he’d taken no interest in for over twenty years, quite another to ask her to procure him the wife of one of his governors. What could have possessed him? The hope of assuaging his grief by a coupling as meaningless and crude as a dog mounting a bitch in the street? … No … He would tell the khawajasara that he had changed his mind.
He reached for the enamelled bell to summon an attendant, then paused. No one could ever replace Mumtaz in his heart … every time he bedded a woman it only left him feeling more bereft. Yet the feel of a woman’s body beneath his brought a fleeting comfort. Also, making love to other women demonstrated their imperfections in mind as well as body compared with Mumtaz, proving yet again the perfection and uniqueness of their love.
What would be in Kalima’s mind now as the khawajasara prepared her for his bed, he wondered. That assumed, of course, that she was willing, but recalling the look in her eyes he didn’t doubt it. Would she be nervous or perhaps already planning how to turn the situation to her advantage? And what about himself? He was intending to use his power to take another man’s wife, just as David had stolen Bathsheba. Was that the act of an honourable man? Probably not, though if Kalima were willing to make love with him it would prove she didn’t deserve whatever love her husband had for her. He would be robbing neither husband nor wife of anything that mattered, like the love that Mumtaz’s death had robbed him of.
Shortly before midnight he heard a gentle tapping at the door and the khawajasara entered, the taller figure of Kalima close behind enveloped in a cream robe, its deep hood concealing her face. ‘I have brought Kalima Begum, Majesty,’ said the khawajasara. ‘Should I return to the haram until you send for me again?’
‘No, wait outside.’ Now that the woman was before him, Shah Jahan’s doubts had returned and he wondered afresh why he was doing this. As soon as he was alone with her, he stepped towards her and gently pushed back her hood. This time, instead of being tightly plaited, her hair was loose about her shoulders, shining and luxuriant. She smiled at him as confidently as she had at the Meena Bazaar. Her right hand went to her throat and she started to undo the silver clasp securing her cloak.
‘No, not yet.’
‘Majesty?’ Her hand dropped.
‘Why do you think I sent for you tonight?’
‘Because I please you. I saw you watching me at the bazaar.’
‘What about your own feelings? Will you willingly give yourself to me?’
‘Of course, Majesty.’
‘But you’re married. What about your husband?’
‘I haven’t seen him for many months. Anyway, I mean as little to him as he does to me. He married me for my dowry — my father’s lands adjoin his in the Punjab — and he has another wife whom he prefers to me.’
‘Isn’t it your duty to be faithful to him?’
‘Isn’t it also my duty to obey my emperor when he calls for me?’
Smooth words came easily to her, thought Shah Jahan. She was no better than the courtesans of the imperial haram who had instructed him in the arts of love when he had been a young prince, ignorant of women and fumblingly eager to learn.
‘Take off your robe.’ Shah Jahan watched her undo the clasp and let the cream robe slide to the floor. She was naked, her skin shining with scented oil, save for a gold chain hung with tiny golden leaves about her waist. ‘Turn around for me.’ She revolved slowly, the golden leaves shivering as she moved. Her square shoulders were more like a boy’s than a woman’s; so were her tapering back, high, rounded buttocks and long, muscular legs. She was striking enough but far from beautiful — at least not to him. As she turned to face him once more, he was about to order her to pick up her robe and cover herself. Then, unbidden, she raised her hands and throwing back her head ran them through her glorious hair. The gesture was achingly familiar. How often had he watched Mumtaz do the same? An urgent, unexpected desire possessed him.
‘Lie down over there.’ As she walked across to the low brocade-covered divan he undid the coral buttons of his own robe. Lowering his body on to hers, he sought her nipples with his lips. Moments later, as with his right hand he parted her lean thighs — so different from Mumtaz’s soft, yielding flesh — and began to caress her, Kalima began to whimper with pleasure — simulated or real, he couldn’t tell — and then to cry out, sharp-nailed hands clinging to his back. Yet it wasn’t her voice he heard but Mumtaz’s gentler one, urging him on and whispering her eternal love for him.
Two hours later, Shah Jahan sat up, body soaked with sweat. He put his head in his hands, grateful for the comforting darkness, though through the casement the paling sky told him dawn wasn’t so far off. He had dismissed Kalima as soon as he had slaked his desire but her scent still clung to the bedding. He reached for a silver ewer on the marble table beside him and poured a cup of water, emptying it with a single gulp. His body was still shaking with the horror of the dream from which he had just awoken, and which had nothing to do with Kalima. He had seen Mumtaz’s tomb rising up ghost-like on the banks of the Jumna, perfect in its marble purity. He’d stood at the gateway marvelling at the beauty of his creation but then the sharp, rigid outline of the white dome had begun to soften and tremble — no longer a piece of cold inanimate stone but the warm mound of a woman’s breast, Mumtaz’s breast. Suddenly, before his horrified eyes, bright red blood had begun spurting from the tip of the dome, running down in scarlet rivulets …