The Mountain of Light by Indu Sundaresan

reception of Fakir Azizuddin’s embassy at Simla had not been quite as enthusiastic. They had set up an encampment on the lower slopes of the valley, and an hour later a thunderstorm had come booming in over all of them. Thetents had been shattered, the downpours dug deep gouges into the hillsides, and it had rained for two days and two nights. At the end of the storm had come a polite note from Lord Auckland’s office asking if they were all right, and of course, Azizuddin had written back saying that the bond between the British and the Punjab had created a shelter for them from the storm. In reality, he had rented a mansion in Simla within the first hour of the storm, after the tents collapsed. When the Maharajah had heard of this, he’d sent for the state treasurer, Misr Makraj, and had him count out sovereigns into Azizuddin’s hands until his palms curved around a pile of shimmering gold.
    Maharani Jindan Kaur sighed. She didn’t think that the British were a threat to the Punjab. Wanting to see Emily and Fanny Eden was just . . . curiosity; if nothing else, asserting her right as the Maharajah’s wife, as the mother of his child.
    â€œI will be meeting the Governor-General’s women,” she said.
    â€œI will also,” Ranjit Singh said. “They are very free and open with their women, these British. I hear General Avitabile is . . . interested in the older one. I don’t see—”
    â€œAnd this Lord Auckland does not mind?”
    â€œShe’s his sister, my dear, perhaps he’s looking for a way to get rid of her.”
    â€œAh,” Jindan said, and then her frown cleared. “They’re both his sisters ? What man travels with his sisters to India? Where are his wives? What kind of a man does not have a wife?” There was a genuine perplexity in her questions. In India, everyone married. It was as simple as that. There was no question of falling in love, of course, unless you were fortunate enough to do so after you were married, as Jindan herself had, but every man had a woman—someone, somewhere, anyhow—who fitted into his life.
    The Maharajah’s mouth deepened into its lopsided smile. “I will ask him.”
    Prince Dalip Singh gurgled in his sleep. Jindan rose, ran to the cradle, and placed a soothing touch on her child’s brow. Ranjit Singh could hear a hiss of breath from his son, and a chomping of his gums before he settled down again. He watched his young wife, saw the intent look on her face as she gazed down upon the boy, and felt a pang in his heart. He had had two strokes already, and another one would finish him off—this was Honigberger’s studied opinion. He had one useless heir in Kharak Singh, weak of face, weak of character, with a marked weakness for wine and the women of his harem. He had another son, and Kharak had a son with an ambitious mother, and they would all fight one another for the throne, and perhaps one of them would hold it long enough for the Punjab Empire to survive. There was already an intense jealousy among his sons and their wives, that he had allowed Jindan to wear the Kohinoor. Since he had taken it from Shuja, no one, other than Misr Makraj, who was treasurer, had been allowed to touch it. But he liked seeing the massive diamond upon the arm of the woman who had attempted to carry a water bag up from the Ravi, who wore with such grace a stone whose value was, even now, to her unimaginable and impossible. Who had, after all these years when he had considered himself old, desiccated, given him a son. A new boy. A new life.
    He smiled to himself. If there was a curse upon the diamond, that no man could keep it and retain his kingdom, he had shattered the curse, looked upon it and spat at it, stomped it into the ground. The Lion of the Punjab had kept the Kohinoor within his mammoth paws for twenty years. The smile faded from his mouth and he grew grave. He had built