because he wanted a chance to select new bedfellows. If any unmarried woman caught his eye he would order the
khawajasara
to prepare her for his pleasure.’ Looking at the frown on the old woman’s usually genial face, Mehrunissa guessed that long ago something had happenedat the bazaar to offend her. Perhaps she had resented Akbar’s promiscuous sexual appetites. Deep down Mehrunissa felt as excited as Arjumand – the bazaar was one place she could be sure of seeing the emperor. But would Fatima Begam allow her to attend?
As the evening candles were being lit in Fatima Begam’s claustrophobic apartments a week later Mehrunissa had her answer. Ever since she’d told her of the invitation the old lady had equivocated. Now, even though Mehrunissa had dressed herself in her finest clothes and put on her best jewels, Fatima Begam had assumed a stubborn expression Mehrunissa knew well.
‘I have decided. You are a widow. It would not be seemly for you to attend the bazaar. And I am too old for such things. Read some Persian poetry to me instead. That will be pleasanter for us both than all that noise and vulgarity.’
Biting her lip, Mehrunissa picked up a volume of poems and with fingers trembling with frustration slowly undid the silver clasps on the rosewood covers.
The great courtyard of the Agra fort had been transformed, thought Khurram as, to three trumpet bursts, he and his elder brother Parvez entered it behind their father Jahangir, all three dressed in cloth of gold. Candles burning in globes of coloured glass suspended from the branches of trees and bushes and from artificial trees of silver and gold cast moving jewel-bright shadows – red, blue, yellow, green – in the soft breeze. Around the walls he could see the velvet-drapedstalls heaped with trinkets and the women waiting behind them. It looked as splendid as in his grandfather’s time. He could vividly recall Akbar’s pleasure in the whole Nauruz festival. ‘Being wealthy is good – indeed it is a necessity. But showing that you are wealthy is even more important for a monarch.’
Akbar had understood the meaning of magnificence. Some of Khurram’s earliest memories were of sitting by his grandfather’s side in a glittering howdah as they rode through the streets of Agra. Akbar had always believed in showing himself to his people and they had loved him for it. Akbar had been like the sun and some of his radiance had fallen on himself, Khurram thought. Yet his father Jahangir who, sparkling with diamonds, was now moving among his nobles had been kept in the shadows. Even as a child Khurram had sensed tensions all around him – between his father and his grandfather and between his father and his eldest half-brother Khusrau who, instead of being here to share in the first Nauruz of their father’s reign, was incarcerated in a dungeon in Gwalior. Khusrau had been a fool as well as disloyal, Khurram thought, following his father towards a dais draped in silver cloth that had been erected in the centre of the courtyard beneath a canopy of the same material, which shimmered in the light of the torches burning on either side of it.
Jahangir mounted the dais and began to speak. ‘Tonight is the climax of our Nauruz celebrations when we hail the new lunar year. My astrologers tell me that the year ahead will be one of even greater glory for our empire. Now is the time to honour the women of my court. Until the stars begin to fade from the heavens they, not us, are the masters here. Unless we can persuade them otherwise, what theydemand for their goods we must pay. Let the Royal Meena Bazaar begin.’
Jahangir descended from the dais. It seemed to Khurram that his father stopped for a moment and looked round him as if seeking someone in particular, and then an expression of disappointment crossed his face. But Jahangir composed himself and made his way towards a table spread with maroon velvet presided over by a smiling matron Khurram recognised
khawajasara
to prepare her for his pleasure.’ Looking at the frown on the old woman’s usually genial face, Mehrunissa guessed that long ago something had happenedat the bazaar to offend her. Perhaps she had resented Akbar’s promiscuous sexual appetites. Deep down Mehrunissa felt as excited as Arjumand – the bazaar was one place she could be sure of seeing the emperor. But would Fatima Begam allow her to attend?
As the evening candles were being lit in Fatima Begam’s claustrophobic apartments a week later Mehrunissa had her answer. Ever since she’d told her of the invitation the old lady had equivocated. Now, even though Mehrunissa had dressed herself in her finest clothes and put on her best jewels, Fatima Begam had assumed a stubborn expression Mehrunissa knew well.
‘I have decided. You are a widow. It would not be seemly for you to attend the bazaar. And I am too old for such things. Read some Persian poetry to me instead. That will be pleasanter for us both than all that noise and vulgarity.’
Biting her lip, Mehrunissa picked up a volume of poems and with fingers trembling with frustration slowly undid the silver clasps on the rosewood covers.
The great courtyard of the Agra fort had been transformed, thought Khurram as, to three trumpet bursts, he and his elder brother Parvez entered it behind their father Jahangir, all three dressed in cloth of gold. Candles burning in globes of coloured glass suspended from the branches of trees and bushes and from artificial trees of silver and gold cast moving jewel-bright shadows – red, blue, yellow, green – in the soft breeze. Around the walls he could see the velvet-drapedstalls heaped with trinkets and the women waiting behind them. It looked as splendid as in his grandfather’s time. He could vividly recall Akbar’s pleasure in the whole Nauruz festival. ‘Being wealthy is good – indeed it is a necessity. But showing that you are wealthy is even more important for a monarch.’
Akbar had understood the meaning of magnificence. Some of Khurram’s earliest memories were of sitting by his grandfather’s side in a glittering howdah as they rode through the streets of Agra. Akbar had always believed in showing himself to his people and they had loved him for it. Akbar had been like the sun and some of his radiance had fallen on himself, Khurram thought. Yet his father Jahangir who, sparkling with diamonds, was now moving among his nobles had been kept in the shadows. Even as a child Khurram had sensed tensions all around him – between his father and his grandfather and between his father and his eldest half-brother Khusrau who, instead of being here to share in the first Nauruz of their father’s reign, was incarcerated in a dungeon in Gwalior. Khusrau had been a fool as well as disloyal, Khurram thought, following his father towards a dais draped in silver cloth that had been erected in the centre of the courtyard beneath a canopy of the same material, which shimmered in the light of the torches burning on either side of it.
Jahangir mounted the dais and began to speak. ‘Tonight is the climax of our Nauruz celebrations when we hail the new lunar year. My astrologers tell me that the year ahead will be one of even greater glory for our empire. Now is the time to honour the women of my court. Until the stars begin to fade from the heavens they, not us, are the masters here. Unless we can persuade them otherwise, what theydemand for their goods we must pay. Let the Royal Meena Bazaar begin.’
Jahangir descended from the dais. It seemed to Khurram that his father stopped for a moment and looked round him as if seeking someone in particular, and then an expression of disappointment crossed his face. But Jahangir composed himself and made his way towards a table spread with maroon velvet presided over by a smiling matron Khurram recognised
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