have your grandfather’s blue eyes. You have his smile. You have your brother Abul’s stubborn spine.”
“And of you, do I have nothing of you?”
“My wisdom.”
She laughed then, the sound spilling over the silence of the shikar grounds. “And of Maji?”
Ghias thought of his wife. “Maji gave you her gentleness, her soft speech, her kindness.”
“Do I have anything of me, Bapa?” They played this game each time he told her the story. Of late he seemed to tell her the story more often, marveling at how far they had come. He would say that he had had four gold mohurs tucked into his cummerbund the day she was born. The day he gave her away, his cummerbund was empty. The moment she came back, their hearts were full, their lives brimming with wealth.
“You have in you the ability to be anything you want, beta. ”
She drew back to glance at her father. Ghias had never ended the story this way before. For the first time, he told her she could do what she wanted.
“Your Majesty,” the Mir Shikar said. They both turned to see him standing there, holding a loaded matchlock.
Mehrunnisa rose from the carpet. Her tears were gone, and in the half-light from the torches dug into the ground, she knew her face would show nothing. “I must practice now, Bapa.”
“Do so,” he said. He put out a hand to her. She clasped his elbow and helped him up. “But in moderation. Don’t tire yourself out too much, Mehrunnisa.”
Suddenly, by his saying so, she was tired. A wave of nausea came to slap her in the stomach, and she felt the jamuns rise up her throat. Her limbs were loose and heavy, moving with slowness. She took the matchlock from the Mir Shikar and hauled it up to her shoulder again. When the Mir Shikar shouted out his order, the servant set fire to the round wedge of palas wood used for night practice. She watched as he moved his arm, first below his waist, then above his head, clutching the burning pigeon in his mail-clad hand. The pigeon shot out into the night, smearing the darkness with a streak of gold. It spun in circles. Mehrunnisa traced its path, and as it went downward, she pressed the trigger. The shot bolted from the matchlock, the recoil almost knocking her off her feet, but she kept her eye on the ball of fire. It seemed to be suspended for a moment, and then it exploded, sending shards of burning wood in all directions—a thousand pieces of gold.
Mehrunnisa looked back with a delighted smile to see if Ghias Beg had been watching. He had. She saw him raise his hand in a wave, and his voice came across the dusty grounds. “Now hit ten more in a row, beta. Then you will truly have reason to celebrate.”
• • •
The next day, as court matters were being wrapped up in the Diwan-i-am, the Hall of Public Audience, Ghias Beg came forward and performed the taslim in front of the Emperor. He did this four times, not lifting his gaze until the last.
“Mirza Ghias Beg?” Jahangir said from his throne.
“Your Majesty,” Ghias said, “I beg pardon, but may I beg a private audience? It is not a court matter.” He was uncomfortably aware of the curious glances from the other nobles in the hall. Mahabat Khan and Muhammad Sharif were a few feet from him. They too were attentive, clad in the etiquette of the court, but their eyes questioned. Ghias had spoken in a low voice, as near to the throne as he dared to be. He had not known how else to approach Jahangir other than at court. He was the Emperor’s father-in-law, but so new at his position that he did not realize he could have sent a message directly to Jahangir.
“Of course,” the Emperor said immediately, rising as he spoke. “You can accompany me to the zenana and talk as we walk.”
They went back through the arched corridors leading to the harem quarters. Ghias Beg walked a few steps behind Jahangir; the servants were ordered a few more paces away. They walked in silence for a while, Ghias worrying with the words in his
“And of you, do I have nothing of you?”
“My wisdom.”
She laughed then, the sound spilling over the silence of the shikar grounds. “And of Maji?”
Ghias thought of his wife. “Maji gave you her gentleness, her soft speech, her kindness.”
“Do I have anything of me, Bapa?” They played this game each time he told her the story. Of late he seemed to tell her the story more often, marveling at how far they had come. He would say that he had had four gold mohurs tucked into his cummerbund the day she was born. The day he gave her away, his cummerbund was empty. The moment she came back, their hearts were full, their lives brimming with wealth.
“You have in you the ability to be anything you want, beta. ”
She drew back to glance at her father. Ghias had never ended the story this way before. For the first time, he told her she could do what she wanted.
“Your Majesty,” the Mir Shikar said. They both turned to see him standing there, holding a loaded matchlock.
Mehrunnisa rose from the carpet. Her tears were gone, and in the half-light from the torches dug into the ground, she knew her face would show nothing. “I must practice now, Bapa.”
“Do so,” he said. He put out a hand to her. She clasped his elbow and helped him up. “But in moderation. Don’t tire yourself out too much, Mehrunnisa.”
Suddenly, by his saying so, she was tired. A wave of nausea came to slap her in the stomach, and she felt the jamuns rise up her throat. Her limbs were loose and heavy, moving with slowness. She took the matchlock from the Mir Shikar and hauled it up to her shoulder again. When the Mir Shikar shouted out his order, the servant set fire to the round wedge of palas wood used for night practice. She watched as he moved his arm, first below his waist, then above his head, clutching the burning pigeon in his mail-clad hand. The pigeon shot out into the night, smearing the darkness with a streak of gold. It spun in circles. Mehrunnisa traced its path, and as it went downward, she pressed the trigger. The shot bolted from the matchlock, the recoil almost knocking her off her feet, but she kept her eye on the ball of fire. It seemed to be suspended for a moment, and then it exploded, sending shards of burning wood in all directions—a thousand pieces of gold.
Mehrunnisa looked back with a delighted smile to see if Ghias Beg had been watching. He had. She saw him raise his hand in a wave, and his voice came across the dusty grounds. “Now hit ten more in a row, beta. Then you will truly have reason to celebrate.”
• • •
The next day, as court matters were being wrapped up in the Diwan-i-am, the Hall of Public Audience, Ghias Beg came forward and performed the taslim in front of the Emperor. He did this four times, not lifting his gaze until the last.
“Mirza Ghias Beg?” Jahangir said from his throne.
“Your Majesty,” Ghias said, “I beg pardon, but may I beg a private audience? It is not a court matter.” He was uncomfortably aware of the curious glances from the other nobles in the hall. Mahabat Khan and Muhammad Sharif were a few feet from him. They too were attentive, clad in the etiquette of the court, but their eyes questioned. Ghias had spoken in a low voice, as near to the throne as he dared to be. He had not known how else to approach Jahangir other than at court. He was the Emperor’s father-in-law, but so new at his position that he did not realize he could have sent a message directly to Jahangir.
“Of course,” the Emperor said immediately, rising as he spoke. “You can accompany me to the zenana and talk as we walk.”
They went back through the arched corridors leading to the harem quarters. Ghias Beg walked a few steps behind Jahangir; the servants were ordered a few more paces away. They walked in silence for a while, Ghias worrying with the words in his
Similar Books
