must stay with us, Mother.”
Her head wobbled and she tried to smile. “I…fall asleep.”
The physician and his midwives left the tent. I kissed her brow fiercely, clinging to her as I had to that log in the river. “Please don’t go,” I begged, my world dying with her.
“Come closer,” she said, her lips scarcely moving.
I leaned forward until my face was a hand’s breadth from hers. “Stay.”
“I…need you.”
“Me?” I asked.
She tried to raise her head, and I bent even lower. Mother twisted so that her mouth was against my ear. “Watch over him,” she whispered faintly.
“But, Moth—”
“You are strong enough…more than strong enough.”
“No, I want you here. You should be here.”
“Please.”
“You can’t leave!”
“Please, Jahanara.”
Her eyes were unguarded, and despite my overwhelming grief, I recognized her distress. I looked to Father, who knelt with his head upon her feet. “I’ll try,” I promised, my voice choked with tears.
“I love you. And I’m proud, so very, very proud of you.” She motioned for me to kiss her. Holding her tightly, I touched her lips with my own, feeling the warmth of her, not wanting to let go. I finally withdrew for Father. He kissed her more gently than I, and when he eased away, she smiled. “My love?”
“Yes?”
“Will you…” She seemed to fade and return much weaker. “Will you grant me favors?” He could only nod. The power of speech seemed to have left him. “First,” she continued, “always…care for our children. And second, fall in love again.”
“No, my love is with you.”
She feebly shook her head. “Then build me something…something beautiful. And visit my tomb…on the anniversary of my death.”
“I shall,” he said, weeping like a child.
She seemed to gulp for air. “Let me die…feeling you…touching you.”
He leaned down. Cradling her, he whispered, “I’ll always be with you, my love of all loves.” Her lips quivered, but no sound came forth. “Always, my love,” he whimpered. “Always.”
Then he kissed her. He held her long and soon she did not stir.
We cried together.
And the sky wept with us.
Part 2
Those who believe in the Qur’an,
And those who follow the Jewish scriptures,
And the Christians and the Sabians,
And who believe in God, and the Last Day
And work righteousness
Shall have their reward.
They shall have nothing to fear,
nor will they sorrow.
—The Qur’an
A cup of chai cools in my hands. A breeze gathers in the distance, unsettling tranquil waters. Though I am a hard woman with a barbed tongue, I’m still sentimental and prone to the welling of emotion. And breezes, especially those rising from beyond the Taj Mahal, can make tears bloom within me. For breezes remind me of kisses.
And kisses can be eternal.
“What happened, Jaha,” Gulbadan asks quietly, “after she died?”
I force a memory aside. “My father,” I say, “locked himself in a small room and wouldn’t show himself to anyone. Not even me.” I pause, recalling how profoundly I had wanted to comfort him. Of course, I needed him also, for my sorrow was unyielding. I longed to sense his love for me, even if it were nothing compared to his feelings for Mother. “We heard him weeping and praying without end,” I add distantly, setting down my cup. “When he finally emerged after two weeks, his eyes were so red and damaged from weeping that from then on he had to wear spectacles.”
“Truly?” Rurayya asks, her young voice cracking, her hand reaching out for mine.
“Indeed, child. Father emerged from that room a changed man. Part of him was broken, and he would never love again.” I squeeze Rurayya’s fingers, stroking them with my thumb. As a young woman, I couldn’t have grasped the totality of Father’s loss. But I do now. For I feel that grief is the most potent of all emotions, save love.
“But then he began to build,” Gulbadan offers.
“Yes,” I reply, and
Her head wobbled and she tried to smile. “I…fall asleep.”
The physician and his midwives left the tent. I kissed her brow fiercely, clinging to her as I had to that log in the river. “Please don’t go,” I begged, my world dying with her.
“Come closer,” she said, her lips scarcely moving.
I leaned forward until my face was a hand’s breadth from hers. “Stay.”
“I…need you.”
“Me?” I asked.
She tried to raise her head, and I bent even lower. Mother twisted so that her mouth was against my ear. “Watch over him,” she whispered faintly.
“But, Moth—”
“You are strong enough…more than strong enough.”
“No, I want you here. You should be here.”
“Please.”
“You can’t leave!”
“Please, Jahanara.”
Her eyes were unguarded, and despite my overwhelming grief, I recognized her distress. I looked to Father, who knelt with his head upon her feet. “I’ll try,” I promised, my voice choked with tears.
“I love you. And I’m proud, so very, very proud of you.” She motioned for me to kiss her. Holding her tightly, I touched her lips with my own, feeling the warmth of her, not wanting to let go. I finally withdrew for Father. He kissed her more gently than I, and when he eased away, she smiled. “My love?”
“Yes?”
“Will you…” She seemed to fade and return much weaker. “Will you grant me favors?” He could only nod. The power of speech seemed to have left him. “First,” she continued, “always…care for our children. And second, fall in love again.”
“No, my love is with you.”
She feebly shook her head. “Then build me something…something beautiful. And visit my tomb…on the anniversary of my death.”
“I shall,” he said, weeping like a child.
She seemed to gulp for air. “Let me die…feeling you…touching you.”
He leaned down. Cradling her, he whispered, “I’ll always be with you, my love of all loves.” Her lips quivered, but no sound came forth. “Always, my love,” he whimpered. “Always.”
Then he kissed her. He held her long and soon she did not stir.
We cried together.
And the sky wept with us.
Part 2
Those who believe in the Qur’an,
And those who follow the Jewish scriptures,
And the Christians and the Sabians,
And who believe in God, and the Last Day
And work righteousness
Shall have their reward.
They shall have nothing to fear,
nor will they sorrow.
—The Qur’an
A cup of chai cools in my hands. A breeze gathers in the distance, unsettling tranquil waters. Though I am a hard woman with a barbed tongue, I’m still sentimental and prone to the welling of emotion. And breezes, especially those rising from beyond the Taj Mahal, can make tears bloom within me. For breezes remind me of kisses.
And kisses can be eternal.
“What happened, Jaha,” Gulbadan asks quietly, “after she died?”
I force a memory aside. “My father,” I say, “locked himself in a small room and wouldn’t show himself to anyone. Not even me.” I pause, recalling how profoundly I had wanted to comfort him. Of course, I needed him also, for my sorrow was unyielding. I longed to sense his love for me, even if it were nothing compared to his feelings for Mother. “We heard him weeping and praying without end,” I add distantly, setting down my cup. “When he finally emerged after two weeks, his eyes were so red and damaged from weeping that from then on he had to wear spectacles.”
“Truly?” Rurayya asks, her young voice cracking, her hand reaching out for mine.
“Indeed, child. Father emerged from that room a changed man. Part of him was broken, and he would never love again.” I squeeze Rurayya’s fingers, stroking them with my thumb. As a young woman, I couldn’t have grasped the totality of Father’s loss. But I do now. For I feel that grief is the most potent of all emotions, save love.
“But then he began to build,” Gulbadan offers.
“Yes,” I reply, and
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