dear.”
“Can I say no?”
Ghias frowned. “Have you been talking with your mother?”
“What does Maji have to do with this? I am the one who is to be married to a soldier,” Mehrunnisa said bitterly. “Why? . . .” Why could it not be Salim?
Ghias stared at her until she lowered her eyes. “It would seem I was too indulgent with you, Nisa, have given you too many liberties. But in this matter there will be no argument. It is not your choice who you marry. I am telling you of the rishta; most fathers would not even have done this.”
With every word, Mehrunnisa felt shame and guilt flood over her. She had addressed her Bapa without respect. Ghias had never before spoken to her like this; he always hid his anger well.
“I shall do whatever you want.”
“Don’t you want to know more about your bridegroom, my dear?” Ghias asked.
She shook her head. “No.”
A flash of pain crossed Ghias’s features, so Mehrunnisa forced a smile on her face and added, “I do want to know, Bapa. Perhaps later. All this . . . it is so sudden.”
Ghias leaned over and kissed her forehead. “Yes. It is not every day a girl gets such a wonderful proposal of marriage. We are very lucky, beta.” He drew back. “Now go see that dinner is readied. I am hungry.”
Mehrunnisa wanted to fling her arms around her father’s neck and plead with him. Was it decided already? Just like that? Was the rishta fixed? Was there no turning back from it? When she looked at her father, his expression was forbidding. She could ask other questions—abouther husband-to-be—but not these. She rose tiredly from the bench. Her father’s voice stopped her. “You can tell your Maji that I will call upon Ali Quli tomorrow to discuss the marriage.”
“Yes, Bapa.”
Mehrunnisa stumbled to the verandah in a daze, her heart filling with despair. She turned back to glance at her father.
Ghias sat motionless on the bench, his shoulders hunched, a dissatisfied look on his face.
• • •
T HE NEXT DAY , Mehrunnisa went to the royal palace as usual to pay her respects to Ruqayya Sultan Begam. It seemed everyone knew of her pending engagement to Ali Quli. The guards at the zenana gate, tough Kashmiri ladies, smiled at her knowingly. The eunuchs giggled and called out Ali Quli’s name as she walked through the courtyard, and the slave girls smirked as she passed. Mehrunnisa ignored all the well-meant jibes and went swiftly to the Padshah Begam’s palace. Ruqayya was being attended to by three slave girls, who were massaging her body with perfumed oils.
“So, what do you think of your bridegroom?” Ruqayya demanded, lifting herself on an elbow.
“I have not seen him yet, your Majesty.”
“Of course not. No self-respecting girl sees her husband before the engagement. But tell me, what do you think of my choice?”
“Your choice, your Majesty?” Mehrunnisa lifted surprised eyes at the Empress.
“Yes.” Ruqayya laughed with abandon, her plump face round with glee. “Have I not made a good selection?”
“Yes, your Majesty,” she replied in a low voice. So the Empress was behind the decision. Why? And why had Ruqayya not told her of this earlier?
“It is high time you got married, my dear. Ali Quli is a little older than you are, but he will mold you into the perfect wife. And he is asoldier. Perhaps when he goes on campaign, he will leave you here with me,” Ruqayya said.
Now Mehrunnisa knew why Ruqayya had made such a choice. Her instincts, although charitable, were also somewhat selfish.
“I shall always be at your command, your Majesty.”
“Yes.” Ruqayya lay back and closed her eyes. She reached out for Mehrunnisa’s hand. “Now you shall always be with me. It is a good rishta, Mehrunnisa. The Emperor himself wants it.”
“I thought you . . .” Mehrunnisa started.
“What the Emperor wants, I want.” Ruqayya looked hard at her. “Are you unhappy? Is there someone else your heart
“Can I say no?”
Ghias frowned. “Have you been talking with your mother?”
“What does Maji have to do with this? I am the one who is to be married to a soldier,” Mehrunnisa said bitterly. “Why? . . .” Why could it not be Salim?
Ghias stared at her until she lowered her eyes. “It would seem I was too indulgent with you, Nisa, have given you too many liberties. But in this matter there will be no argument. It is not your choice who you marry. I am telling you of the rishta; most fathers would not even have done this.”
With every word, Mehrunnisa felt shame and guilt flood over her. She had addressed her Bapa without respect. Ghias had never before spoken to her like this; he always hid his anger well.
“I shall do whatever you want.”
“Don’t you want to know more about your bridegroom, my dear?” Ghias asked.
She shook her head. “No.”
A flash of pain crossed Ghias’s features, so Mehrunnisa forced a smile on her face and added, “I do want to know, Bapa. Perhaps later. All this . . . it is so sudden.”
Ghias leaned over and kissed her forehead. “Yes. It is not every day a girl gets such a wonderful proposal of marriage. We are very lucky, beta.” He drew back. “Now go see that dinner is readied. I am hungry.”
Mehrunnisa wanted to fling her arms around her father’s neck and plead with him. Was it decided already? Just like that? Was the rishta fixed? Was there no turning back from it? When she looked at her father, his expression was forbidding. She could ask other questions—abouther husband-to-be—but not these. She rose tiredly from the bench. Her father’s voice stopped her. “You can tell your Maji that I will call upon Ali Quli tomorrow to discuss the marriage.”
“Yes, Bapa.”
Mehrunnisa stumbled to the verandah in a daze, her heart filling with despair. She turned back to glance at her father.
Ghias sat motionless on the bench, his shoulders hunched, a dissatisfied look on his face.
• • •
T HE NEXT DAY , Mehrunnisa went to the royal palace as usual to pay her respects to Ruqayya Sultan Begam. It seemed everyone knew of her pending engagement to Ali Quli. The guards at the zenana gate, tough Kashmiri ladies, smiled at her knowingly. The eunuchs giggled and called out Ali Quli’s name as she walked through the courtyard, and the slave girls smirked as she passed. Mehrunnisa ignored all the well-meant jibes and went swiftly to the Padshah Begam’s palace. Ruqayya was being attended to by three slave girls, who were massaging her body with perfumed oils.
“So, what do you think of your bridegroom?” Ruqayya demanded, lifting herself on an elbow.
“I have not seen him yet, your Majesty.”
“Of course not. No self-respecting girl sees her husband before the engagement. But tell me, what do you think of my choice?”
“Your choice, your Majesty?” Mehrunnisa lifted surprised eyes at the Empress.
“Yes.” Ruqayya laughed with abandon, her plump face round with glee. “Have I not made a good selection?”
“Yes, your Majesty,” she replied in a low voice. So the Empress was behind the decision. Why? And why had Ruqayya not told her of this earlier?
“It is high time you got married, my dear. Ali Quli is a little older than you are, but he will mold you into the perfect wife. And he is asoldier. Perhaps when he goes on campaign, he will leave you here with me,” Ruqayya said.
Now Mehrunnisa knew why Ruqayya had made such a choice. Her instincts, although charitable, were also somewhat selfish.
“I shall always be at your command, your Majesty.”
“Yes.” Ruqayya lay back and closed her eyes. She reached out for Mehrunnisa’s hand. “Now you shall always be with me. It is a good rishta, Mehrunnisa. The Emperor himself wants it.”
“I thought you . . .” Mehrunnisa started.
“What the Emperor wants, I want.” Ruqayya looked hard at her. “Are you unhappy? Is there someone else your heart
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