The Feast of Roses Read Free

to the platform through the warm water, and when she reached it, she put her elbows on the marble and rested her head in her hands, looking at Jahangir. She traced a finger over his brow, then put it in her mouth, tasting his skin. He stirred.
    “Can’t you sleep?”
    He woke like this always, not needing to shake off dreams. Once she had asked him why. And he had replied that when she wanted him, he would give up sleep.
    “It is too warm, your Majesty.”
    Jahangir smoothed her wet hair from her forehead, his hand lingering on the curve of her cheek. “Sometimes I cannot believe you are here with me.” He looked intently at her face, then reached into the water for a leaf lamp. Holding it close to her, he said, “What is it?”
    “Nothing. The heat. Nothing.”
    The Emperor laid the lamp back in the water and pushed it on its way. Clasping her hand, he pulled her out of the pool. A eunuch slid into view, holding out silk towels. Mehrunnisa knelt at the edge of the platform, lifted her arms, and allowed the Emperor to peel off the kurta she was wearing. He wiped the water from her body slowly, bending to inhale the musk scent of her skin. Then he dried her hair, rubbing the strands with a towel until it lay damp around her shoulders. He did all this with great deliberation. She waited obediently until he was finished, the warm night air on her shoulders, her waist, her legs.
    “Come here.” Jahangir pulled her onto his lap, and she wrapped her legs around him. He framed her face with his hands and pulled it close to his own. “It is never nothing with you, Mehrunnisa. What do you want? A necklace? A jagir ?”
    “I want them out of here.”
    “They are gone,” he replied, knowing what she meant. Jahangir did not look back as one of his hands left her face to signal the eunuchs in dismissal, but Mehrunnisa clasped it and pulled it back.
    “I want to do this, your Majesty.”
    “You have as much right as I do, my dear.”
    Still looking into his shadowed face, she raised her hand. Out of the corner of her eye she could see the eunuchs tense, hold still, then glance at each other. They had strict orders not to leave the Emperor’s presence unless commanded by him . . . and only by him. No wife, no concubine, no mother had that power. But this wife, she was different. So they waited for a sign from Jahangir. But he did not move, did not nod his head in assent. A minute passed thus, then one of the eunuchs stepped out of line, bowed to the royal couple, and shuffled out of the verandah. The others followed, hearts suddenly wild with fear—afraid of obeying, yet more afraid of disobeying.
    Mehrunnisa dropped her hand.
    “They have gone, your Majesty,” she said, wonder in her voice.
    “When you command, Mehrunnisa,” Jahangir said, “do so with authority. Never think you will be ignored, and you will not be ignored.”
    “Thank you.”
    The Emperor’s teeth flashed. “If I were to thank you for all you have brought to me, I would be doing so for the rest of my life.” His voice echoed near her ear. “What is it you want? Tell me or you will fret for it.”
    She was silent, not knowing how to ask, not really knowing what to ask for. She wanted to be more of a presence in his life, and not just here, within the walls of the zenana.
    “I wish to . . . ,” she said slowly, “I wish to come with you to the jharoka tomorrow.”
    Early on in his reign, Jahangir had instituted twelve rules of conduct for the empire. Among those rules were many he did not obey himself—prohibiting consumption of alcohol was one. But these, he thought, would provide a framework for the empire, not for himself. He was above those rules. Wanting to be fair and equitable to his subjects, he imposed the ritual of the jharoka, something his father, Emperor Akbar, had not done, something that was exclusively Jahangir’s.
    He called it thus—a jharoka —a glimpse, for it was to be, for the first time since the Mughal conquest