walls were the height of a rearing elephant and created a boxlike structure two hundred paces from side to side. The tent contained every conceivable luxury.
I was quartered here with my parents. While Father spent day after day scheming with his officers in an adjacent pavilion, Mother and I listened to the distant fighting from atop cashmere carpets and silk cushions. I’d have infinitely preferred to hear songbirds chattering as I knelt on jagged rocks, for the clamor of battle was far too unsettling. Unceasing cannons rumbled during daylight. At night the screams of the wounded kept us flinching in prayer until dawn once again spread its colors.
Servants burned sandalwood incense within the imperial tent to mask the smells of camp. They needn’t have bothered. Whenever the tent’s flaps were opened, foulness entered along with whomever was calling. Scents of damp hay, unwashed soldiers and cooking fires mingled with the stench of rotting flesh. Not only did hundreds of men decay in the hospitals surrounding us, but scores of ravaged elephants and horses were also attended to. The elephants were immeasurably valuable to our army, and no expense was spared to heal their wounds.
Considering the sights, sounds and smells, Burhanpur was a dreadful place to give birth. Yet Mother and I had done little but pray for an end to the killing since our arrival at the front. And while the killing remained unchecked, the life within Mother eased our sorrow.
The baby grew impatient during our second week in Burhanpur. After Mother’s water broke, the royal physician who always accompanied Father on such ventures was immediately summoned. I was present, as was Father and three midwives. Though husbands rarely witnessed births, Father had never missed the rise of one of his children. He told me once that he knew no happier moments than during Mother’s deliveries.
The night was auspicious for a birth, cool and full of wind. Beyond our canvas walls a storm raged. The rain was heavy and, for once, the roar of guns was only a memory.
Mother lay on blankets with her head and back propped against cushions. The physician felt her pulse before ordering clean linen. A silver bowl of water steamed beside him and spread upon cloth were instruments of steel. One resembled a pair of joined ladles. I’d been to several of Mother’s birthings and wasn’t unduly nervous. Though in pain, she seemed more radiant than ever. I thought she looked beautiful without all her jewels and told her so.
“Sometimes,” she quietly confided in me, “I loathe the jewels. But diamonds mean power and without power I’m without worth.”
I’ll never equal her, I remember thinking then. Impossible that I should be as lovely or well loved.
I kissed her and held Father’s hand. We knelt by her side, leaning toward her. When the first contraction came she whimpered. “It comes,” she said, beads of sweat appearing on her forehead despite the night’s coolness. The physician had counted to two hundred and ninety-five when the next contraction arrived. It seemed stronger than the first.
Candles flickered in the drafty room as the physician felt the contours of her belly. He was an old man, with a chest-long beard and a slight limp. He had delivered more babies than a water buffalo has ticks, yet the Emperor’s child must have unsettled him, for he seemed ill at ease.
“What should we name him?” Father asked, brushing her hair aside.
“Him?”
“He kicks too hard to be a girl. And, my love, your belly’s never been so swollen.”
“We—” a contraction spawned within her and she bit her lip. She breathed deeply, collecting herself. “We could name him after an artist,” she muttered. “Too many names of warriors and emperors float about this land.”
The physician handed her a cup of tea. “Drink this, my lady. It will ease your discomfort.”
She thanked him. The tea must have been bitter, for she grimaced. “Is it poison?” she
I was quartered here with my parents. While Father spent day after day scheming with his officers in an adjacent pavilion, Mother and I listened to the distant fighting from atop cashmere carpets and silk cushions. I’d have infinitely preferred to hear songbirds chattering as I knelt on jagged rocks, for the clamor of battle was far too unsettling. Unceasing cannons rumbled during daylight. At night the screams of the wounded kept us flinching in prayer until dawn once again spread its colors.
Servants burned sandalwood incense within the imperial tent to mask the smells of camp. They needn’t have bothered. Whenever the tent’s flaps were opened, foulness entered along with whomever was calling. Scents of damp hay, unwashed soldiers and cooking fires mingled with the stench of rotting flesh. Not only did hundreds of men decay in the hospitals surrounding us, but scores of ravaged elephants and horses were also attended to. The elephants were immeasurably valuable to our army, and no expense was spared to heal their wounds.
Considering the sights, sounds and smells, Burhanpur was a dreadful place to give birth. Yet Mother and I had done little but pray for an end to the killing since our arrival at the front. And while the killing remained unchecked, the life within Mother eased our sorrow.
The baby grew impatient during our second week in Burhanpur. After Mother’s water broke, the royal physician who always accompanied Father on such ventures was immediately summoned. I was present, as was Father and three midwives. Though husbands rarely witnessed births, Father had never missed the rise of one of his children. He told me once that he knew no happier moments than during Mother’s deliveries.
The night was auspicious for a birth, cool and full of wind. Beyond our canvas walls a storm raged. The rain was heavy and, for once, the roar of guns was only a memory.
Mother lay on blankets with her head and back propped against cushions. The physician felt her pulse before ordering clean linen. A silver bowl of water steamed beside him and spread upon cloth were instruments of steel. One resembled a pair of joined ladles. I’d been to several of Mother’s birthings and wasn’t unduly nervous. Though in pain, she seemed more radiant than ever. I thought she looked beautiful without all her jewels and told her so.
“Sometimes,” she quietly confided in me, “I loathe the jewels. But diamonds mean power and without power I’m without worth.”
I’ll never equal her, I remember thinking then. Impossible that I should be as lovely or well loved.
I kissed her and held Father’s hand. We knelt by her side, leaning toward her. When the first contraction came she whimpered. “It comes,” she said, beads of sweat appearing on her forehead despite the night’s coolness. The physician had counted to two hundred and ninety-five when the next contraction arrived. It seemed stronger than the first.
Candles flickered in the drafty room as the physician felt the contours of her belly. He was an old man, with a chest-long beard and a slight limp. He had delivered more babies than a water buffalo has ticks, yet the Emperor’s child must have unsettled him, for he seemed ill at ease.
“What should we name him?” Father asked, brushing her hair aside.
“Him?”
“He kicks too hard to be a girl. And, my love, your belly’s never been so swollen.”
“We—” a contraction spawned within her and she bit her lip. She breathed deeply, collecting herself. “We could name him after an artist,” she muttered. “Too many names of warriors and emperors float about this land.”
The physician handed her a cup of tea. “Drink this, my lady. It will ease your discomfort.”
She thanked him. The tea must have been bitter, for she grimaced. “Is it poison?” she
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