_ The Love Story _ 1017/AD 1607
Arjumand

WAS IT thunder that woke me? I sat up, startled, listening. It was not yet the monsoon season, but the air was tense with that same sense of expectancy, and still, as if waiting to rage. I could hear nothing, except the first caw of the crows, the bul-bul practising its enchanting scales, and the squirrels scolding shrilly. The sky was pale and dear with the smoke of night still lingering at the edges of the horizon. The mango and peepul and banyan trees outside the window appeared transparent in the delicate light.
     It might have been my dream that woke me, although I could not recall it dearly. The thunder had struck at my heart which still beat hard and fast. Was it a warning? I felt no fear, no leaden weight of eternity such as the condemned man might on the dawn of his last day on earth. Instead, to my surprise, I seemed to feel a lightness, a delight. The excitement was not in the air, but in myself, in the sweet remnants of my dream.
     I had glimpsed a silvery plain beneath a clarion sky, and in the shadow where earth and heavens met, it flushed with delicate red. In the far distance I saw an object, but could not distinguish what it was. A boulder? A man? It shimmered in the glare. What might my astrologer foretell from this dream? Wealth? Happiness? Love? The common greeds of all who exist? Yet even without his guidance I knew the day ahead would be filled with meaning, somehow important. I was eager for it, impatient with waiting.
    The zenana was still in darkness, but the commerce of the day had begun outside and I could hear the call of a street merchant, the creaking wheels of bullock carts, a child singing in a clear sweet voice. From far away the beat of the dundhubi proclaimed the appearance at the jharoka-i-darshan of the Great Mughal Jahangir. Each day, one hour before sunrise, he showed himself to the nobles and the people from the top of the Lal Quila. The sight of his person reassured his subjects that he still lived, that the kingdom was secure. He had to prove his existence anew each day. I could imagine him sitting on his silver throne, gazing east to the very edge of the earth where his empire ended. It was known that it took a camel train sixty days to cross from the eastern boundary to the western one, the land between Persia and Bengal, and a further sixty days to travel from the Himalayas in the north to the Deccan Plain in the south. The heart of this immensity was the emperor  in Agra, but wherever he travelled in his empire, there was the centre.
   The dundhubi was also the signal for our household to wake. The sounds were familiar; they had always been the same. All my life I had followed the movements from the noises: the slaves starting the kitchen fires, the rhythmic 'rush-rush' of the brooms, and the stirrings of the men in our household from the rooms below. Within, I heard the whispers of my mother and grandmother and aunt. Today I could hear a new note in their voices, an undertone of excitement as though they too had been woken by the thunder. I had thought myself to be the only one, and this largesse of anticipation scattered throughout the zenana disappointed me.
   'Are you awake, Arjumand?' my mother called. Usually the haram woke languidly, and it often took half the day for the women to complete their ablutions and dressing, but today there was a fluster of activity. Servants and slaves were running hither and thither, fetching and carrying and dropping as my aunt Mehrunissa gave one order, my mother another, my grandmother a third, and other wives and female relatives still more. Caskets of jewels, bolts of silk, boxes of ivory and silver and jade were being gathered together, for this was the night the Royal Meena Bazaar was to be held. Like a comet, it made only one appearance each year, in late spring, causing great excitement among the ladies of the Imperial court.
   'Aren't-you getting ready?' Mehrunissa asked me. 'Am I going as well?'
   'Why not? You're old enough now. Someone might notice you and propose marriage.'
   I was twelve years old in this year 1017, and nearly of marriageable age. I was my parents' only child and had led a cloistered, unexciting life. My education - reading, writing, painting, music, history, the Quoran- was as much as was considered suitable for the narrow existence of a nobleman's wife. My arranged marriage would inevitably be a dry coupling of bodies and wealth. There could be no avoiding this future. I dreamed of romance of course; all girls do.
  'Or propose something else,' one of my relatives suggested lewdly, causing great laughter.
  'I have nothing to sell,' I said, ignoring the remark.
  'You can sell anything - fruits, spices, carvings. It's not important. But of course,' Mehrunissa added slyly, 'if your stall has precious things on it, you will attract the great nobles, possibly even the Emperor.'
  'What will you sell, Aunt?'
  'Gold jewellery and the silks I designed.' She plunged her hands into one of her caskets, and lifted emerald and diamond bangles and necklaces, ruby rings and sapphires, then spilled them carelessly back. She frowned at the treasures. 'Do you think they're good enough?'
  'What could be better?'
  She shrugged, still doubtful, then glanced at me speculatively, secretively. Mehrunissa was an overwhelming woman, though very beautiful. She beguiled or bullied those who did not bend to her wishes, and even her husband, General Sher Afkun, whose bravery on the battlefield was unquestioned, fell silent in her presence. She wanted to dazzle and enchant. If she could have plucked the moon and the stars from the sky, she would have set them atop the great pile of precious metals and gems and cascades of silk.
  'But they will not only come to buy, but to stare at us. They will stare and stare, but show no courage.'
  'What other chance do they have to look on us? The ordinary market women can show their faces to the world and go where they like, but we have to spend all our lives caged in purdah.'
  'It is better not to be seen, but to see everything,' Mehrunissa said sharply. 'It makes men wonder about us and dream.'
  'And that is all they can do,' I said in exasperation. 'Who else will be at the bazaar, besides the Emperor?'
  'Many of the great nobles.' She lowered her voice conspiratorially. 'Maybe even the prince Shah Jahan. Who knows what wonderful things will happen tonight?'
  She sighed hopefully. All the women were transformed with excitement, but Mehrunissa seemed especially enchanted. This evening she could forget her marriage and her young daughter, and pretend to be a girl once more, dreaming of romance and composing poetry for an unknown lover who would, with a breath of magic, snatch her heart away. I wondered whether she already had one in mind.
  'What things do you expect to happen?' I asked.
  'I was just talking,' she said gaily. 'Where is Ladilli?' 'Still asleep.' Ladilli her daughter was, like me, an only child. She was my close companion, ashy, quiet girl, incapable of any boldness.
   I did not have as much for my stall as Mehrunissa. I was young and unmarried, and apart from a heavy gold chain and some bangles, most of my jewellery was silver. I heaped the anklets, ear-rings, bangles, necklaces and rings together, but they amounted to very little. They were worth hardly anything - a thousand rupees, perhaps less.
  As I gazed at them the feeling of thunder struck me again, shook me. It was as if the dream were trying to return, to remind me that this day was to be different. I had seen the colour red, but could not tell whether it was of blood or silk - in dreams they run one into the other - and I heard a voice, a man's voice, soft with wonder, but could not tell what he had spoken. I had not seen his face in my dream; I only knew we were waiting for each other.
  'You are very distant, Agachi,' Isa interrupted my thoughts. 'You don't look as excited as the other begums.'
  Isa was a chokra whom my grandfather, Ghiyas Beg, had found and freed three years earlier. Though older than me by a few years, he was still small and scrawny. Isa told us that he had been stolen from a village south of Golconda by a magician while he was still only a boy, and they had travelled together for years. He had tried to escape his master, but had been caught and was being soundly beaten when my grandfather came upon him. He was allowed into the haram because he claimed to be a eunuch and this was attested to by Mehrunissa's own eunuch, Muneer. Sometimes I doubted this story of Isa's, but he served me more loyally than any woman would have done.
  'I had a dream, Isa, and I was trying to remember it.' 'When you sleep, it will return,' he said.
  'Possibly. Here, you can carry this.' I gave him my silver, wrapped in a silk cloth. 'Are the others ready?'
  'Yes, Agachi.'
  The bazaar was to be held in the gardens of the emperor's palace. This was hidden deep inside the Lal Quila which stood like a small mountain of red sandstone on the bank of the river Jumna. It had been built by the Padishah's father, Akbar the Great. It was Akbar who so generously gave employment to my grandfather when he first arrived in Hindustan from Persia. They had met .through the owner of a camel caravan who presented my grandfather Ghiyas Beg to the Great Mughal; if that had not happened we would have remained luckless and poor, like the thousands who crowded the streets of Agra.
  My grandfather's advancement had been brilliant but disappointingly brief. He had risen swiftly in the service of Akbar but, misjudging the emperor, he had been too bold in accepting bribes. It was the custom in Persia and Hindustan to accept gifts in return for favours, but Akbar believed his ministers should be above such practices, and dismissed my grandfather. Since Akbar's death two years ago, my grandfather had wanted to serve his son, Jahangir. It was possible that Jahangir had relented at last, for we were being shown great favour by being invited to the Royal Meena Bazaar. It is understandable that this event should have caused such great excitement in our household.
  Our family procession from the house to the fort, a distance of four kos, was small: three palanquins. Muneer cleared the way through the crowds with a lathi which he wielded with cruel delight. I had protested to Mehrunissa, but she seemed to take equal pleasure in the whack of wood on flesh.
  I chose to walk, with Isa following a pace behind me, preferring the dust, the heat and the wondrous sights of this vast city to the suffocating enclosure of a palanquin. There was no other city as large and as varied in the whole world. Here I saw men and women from Bengal, from Persia, Greece, Uzbeckistan, Cathay, Firingis from beyond the western seas, Afghanis, and people from every suba in Hindustan. Here the roadside bazaars sold the riches of the world: porcelain, gold, silver, ivory, silk, rubies, diamonds, spices, slaves, horses, elephants. Behind us trailed our own little procession of beggars. Isa gave each a dam or a jetal, depending on their wretchedness. Left to his own discretion, he would have driven them away with blows and curses. The poor are always harsh to each other.
  We entered the La! Quila by the Amar Singh darwaza. The Delhi darwaza and the Hathi Pol darwaza were reserved for the use of the Mughal army who occupied half of the fort. We passed the Imperial soldiers who wore scarlet uniforms, burnished armour, and were armed with swords and shields. We stepped from one world into another.
  The fort itself is shaped like a great bow with the 'string' facing the river. Its walls are seventy feet high and ten feet thick, and the top is carved with serrations like the teeth of a saw. There are towers placed at regular distances along the wall, which runs for two kos, all manned by Imperial guards. We waited for a while in the Amar Singh courtyard with countless others before we were permitted to enter the narrow tunnel that led to the palace. The commander of the guards sat here on a raised platform and checked that we were indeed invited. The street now sloped steeply upwards, between two high walls. At the top of the slope the ground levelled out. Ahead of us was the pillared diwan-i-am with its wooden roof and beaten silver ceiling. The palace itself stood beyond the garden to our right on the eastern wall of the fort, overlooking the river. It was exquisitely constructed out of red sandstone, the walls and pillars covered in intricate carvings. In spite of its size, it seemed delicate and fragile.
  However, the emperor himself seldom used it. He lived and slept in the bargah pitched in the garden. This is a huge and elaborate tent of many rooms, furnished with beautiful carpets from Persia and Kashmir, the walls covered with paintings and silk cloth decorated with precious stones. Timur-i-leng, the first Mongol conqueror, had decreed that none of his descendants should sleep under the roof of a building, and every emperor had obeyed this command. The remainder of the fort was occupied by the bazaar, the administrative offices and countless workshops.
  There had been little change during the three years of our exile, yet I saw everything anew: the palace, the fountains, the courtiers in their brilliant plumage, the musicians, the jugglers, the elephants and horses, even the very air seemed to sing. It was not so much the occasion as the proximity to power. The empire had one heartbeat - Jahangir's - and we were all near it. The bustle and chaos and heat made one feel giddy: countless palanquins bearing the harams of princes and nobles pushed and jostled to unload their precious burdens at the steps of the palace. The emperor's haram occupied most of this building and it was not an easy place to enter, for, apart from his women, it also housed the incalculable treasure of the Great Mughal.
  First we had to pass through a ring of Imperial guards, all armed with jezails or lances. They did not search the women, but the servant men in our company were inspected rigorously. The next ring, guarding the corridors within the palace itself, was composed of Uzbeck slave women. They were no less ferocious warriors than the Imperial guards, and equally well-armed. They were manly in their build, with strong broad shoulders, powerful arms and humourless manners. They searched each of us women, too familiarly at times, though some appeared to enjoy those energetic hands on their bodies. I did not. Within the haram itself stood the eunuchs. Their sole concern was to ensure that no man capable of lying with any of the women could enter the haram. But they have been known to be so influenced that they become careless in their task. I had never seen so many excited women gathered together in one place as on this day. I couldn't count them all, but Isa, who seemed to know most things, told me there were more than eight thousand. It was possible: Akbar had had four hundred wives and five thousand concubines, and many of them still lived in the palace. Most of his marriages were merely political alliances, as were Jahangir's. These mata marriages ended after an agreed period of time and the women would return to their homes, heaped with gifts of gold from the Great Mughal. Those married by nikah stayed all their lives and were paid handsome salaries, granted great jagirs, and grew richer still through their efforts in trade and commerce. Women of many nations and tongues were gathered within: Rajput, Kashmiri, Persian, Bengali, Tartar, Mongol, Tibetan, Russian, Circassian.
  The palace was a vast honeycomb of rooms. They varied in size and in the luxury of their furnishings to accord with the importance of their occupants. The air was suffocating and sweet with perfumes that seemed to ooze from the walls, and I felt as if I were wading through soft and sulphurous flesh. Our progress was slow, partly due to the intense throng and partly because Mehrunissa knew many of the ladies, and stopped to greet each and every one effusively and lovingly; although later she would make some disparaging remark in a low whisper. Many of the ladies looked at us with surprise. But if Mehrunissa was guilty of insincerity, it was only equal to that which we met. At court affection is measured out carefully according to one's proximity to the emperor. I was far removed from him, therefore insignificant. But I could interpret each look: why had we been invited? Had my grandfather been forgiven? Soon I found myself unable to breathe, not so much for the lack of air - it came off the Jumna in cooling breezes - but because of the false friendliness.
   I escaped to the balcony and looked down on to the palace garden. It was a peculiarity of the Mughals that they were filled with the desire for these oases of verdant beauty. The gardens gave them not merely a sense of permanence, but a reminder of the nomadic life of their distant ancestors; water, trees and flowers were then rare pleasures. Amidst a luscious green filled with every imaginable flower - roses, jasmine, frangipani, cannas, violets - and ringed with great shady trees, flowed a fountain. The water ran musically as thirty-six teams of bullocks drew water from the wells night and day. This sight alone was cooling and calming in the intense spring heat. The workmen had already begun to erect the stalls for the bazaar where I would sit, offering my small pile of silver. The earth lanes between would soon be hidden by carpets.
   'There you are. I've been looking everywhere for you.' Mehrunissa dragged behind her a small, shy woman, as soft and frail as the silken clothes she wore.
   'Your majesty, this is my niece, Arjumand.'
   I bowed to Jodi Bai, Jahangir's empress. She stood waiting uneasily, even unhappily, as if expecting me to speak. I could not think what to say to this quiet, sad woman, and watched her as Mehrunissa chatted exuberantly about the bazaar. Jodi Bai was a Rajput and a Hindu, the mother of prince Shah Jahan. I had not expected my aunt to be so friendly with the empress, and this gaudy display of affection made me suspect her motives. Mehrunissa calculated such things with the precision of a mathematician.
   'Oh, she's such a silly woman,' Mehrunissa whispered when Jodi Bai fled from us like a small bewildered animal taking cover in the long grass.
   'Then why are you so friendly?'
   'Because I can't be discourteous to the wife of Jahangir.' She looked back to the crowded rooms. 'Besides, I wanted to know what kind of person she was. What an empress! No wonder Jahangir drinks himself to death.'
   'They say he drank before he married her. Both his brothers died from drinking.'
   'And he won't last very long if he continues with her.’
   'What are you going to do about it?'
   'That is none of your business.'
   She was gone suddenly, plunging into the throng of flesh and laughter and talk, like a bird swooping with the wind. I knew that beneath the beauty of my aunt flowed an ice-cold current of ambition. I could not foretell her ambitions; they were obscured by her secretive mind which was closed to everyone.
   At the appointed time, three hours before midnight, we heard the distant women proclaiming: 'Zindabad Padishah, Zindabad Padishah.' The noise welled gradually and as he came near, all the women rose to greet him.
   Jahangir strolled on the specially laid velvet cloth, deep in conversation with my grandfather Ghiyas Beg. The Padishah wore a turban of scarlet silk from which sprang a long plume of nodding heron feathers. On either side of the feathers, set in claws of wrought gold, were a ruby and a diamond, each the size of a walnut. In the middle, holding the feathers in place, was a brooch set with a great, glittering emerald. Around his waist he wore a belt of gold, studded with diamonds and rubies. The sword of Humayun was buckled to his left side, and tucked into his sash on the right side was a curved dagger with a ruby inlaid hilt. A three-strand pearl necklace hung about his neck, and on each arm were gold bracelets studded with diamonds, a thick one above the elbow, and three around each wrist. His fingers too were weighted with rings holding precious stones, and on his feet were slippers stitched with gold thread and seed pearls. Behind him walked two men, one carrying a quiver of arrows and a great bow, the other a book. Behind the book bearer came an Abyssinian boy carrying pen and ink, for Jahangir had a passionate curiosity about the world, and would painstakingly record his every thought and impression.
   My small stall was set at some distance from the entrance, in the shadow of a neem tree. Mehrunissa was near the brightest light by the fountain. I arranged and rearranged my jewellery, but no effort could turn it into a lavish display. The trinkets lay forlornly on the small blue carpet.
   'Who will buy these, Isa?'
   'Some most fortunate man, Agachi. I feel it.'
   'He would be a fool. He would have a better chance anywhere else in the Bazaar.'
   The nobles now no longer followed the emperor, but scattered to prowl the lanes between the stalls. I was not totally at ease without my veil in the presence of complete strangers, although secretly it was what I had wished. It was not enough to do it merely for one night; the spirit soared like a bird sadly aware of the string attached to its leg.
   My reverie was broken by my grandfather.
   'You are well hidden, Arjumand.'
   'This was the stall given to me. I am only a girl.'
    He laughed. 'But what a beautiful one!'
    I smiled. He always said that. I loved him. He was a kind, calm man, tall and slim, with eyes the colour of the evening sky, like mine.
    'Will you buy something, please? Otherwise, no one will. '
    'No, that is to be the luck of other men. It is early yet.' Then he whispered: 'But if they are all fools, I will return and buy everything. A good price for me, remember.'
    'I saw you with the Emperor.'
    'Yes. He was kind enough to note my humble presence.'
    'What were you talking about? Will he take you into service?'
    'I'll tell you later.' He pinched my cheek conspiratorially.
    Then he was gone, and other men strolled by, boldly staring at me, whispering and laughing among themselves, but lacking the courage to approach. The other ladies, like the women in the bazaars, flirted and called to them, but I could not act so boldly. Instead, I watched the tamasha: I saw Jahangir pause by Mehrunissa's stall, purchase something, whisper to her, and stroll on. She looked happy and delighted, but soon turned her attention back to the other nobles.
    It was then that I sensed someone's eyes on me. They were insistent, wanting me to turn in their direction. I almost felt their caress. I was filled with weakness and when I turned I saw in the lane beyond, through the intervening stall, the prince, Shah Jahan.
   Through the narrow opening of the stall between us, where the flickering candlelight created a barrier of dark shadow, I was held by his eyes. Jet black, longing, lonely, alight with a fire of their own, they held not the fierce flame of a prince, a  ruler, a Mughal, but the glow of a boy afraid. I knew I was the cause of his fear and could not turn away from him. He was the thunder that had roused me in the darkness. He was the red dream, not of blood, but the crimson turban of the crown prince. In my dream I had stretched out my hand to touch him, and he had clung to it knowing I was his only companion in the lonely and splendid existence of a prince. He moved out of my sight; it was my turn to fear, to lose suddenly a hope that I had not even known a moment before. I turned this way and that, searching the narrow lanes crowded with busy, laughing women and nobles. I wished them to disappear off the earth; I cursed them too. And then I saw him rudely pushing his way through them. He looked as if he ran, and then the hope, the placid calm, settled deep into me, and I was sinking into a soft, warm dream.

_ Shah Jahan _

I, Prince Shah Jahan, no longer the boy named Khurrum, but Sovereign of the World and heir to the Emperor Jahangir, Padishah of Hindustan, though still only fifteen, strutting in the mantle as my father's favourite son, had been invited to attend the Royal Meena Bazaar. I had trembled with the excitement of the event, for my presence was a sign of the favour not only of my father but also of the court. They all adjudged me to be the heir to this vast empire, over my three brothers. To rule, to hold the sceptre of power, can be the only ambition of a young prince. On this night, I felt the bazaar would be a fortuitous event.
    The Royal Meena Bazaar had been established by my great-grandfather, Emperor Humayun. It was a delightful idea for, by imperial decree, the women could appear unveiled in front of a chosen audience of men. The silken masks worn all year round were, for a single evening, discarded. The narrow world of the haram was to be turned inside out; for a few brief hours we would gaze on the naked faces of the noble ladies.
    In spite of the heat and the stillness of the air, it seemed a current flowed through the palace as the evening approached. Stalls had been erected by the workmen in the garden and, doubtless, the women had chosen the wares they would offer for sale. I had heard they bargained and haggled like the women in the street chowk, and that the buyer purchased, if he were lucky, not only the wares, but the favours of the lady herself. I had heard nobles, a favoured few, boast about their conquests, sigh longingly of the pleasurable nights spent with a lady. I too was not inexperienced in these matters. I had lain with my slave girls and sometimes, for amusement, had gone with companions to the dancers in the bazaars and….(Buy the novel)

THE MURDER OF KHUSRAV

ARJUMAND
     And then, after silence, my husband's implacable reply: 'Takhta.'
     'No.' I whispered. My beloved stared at me, but did not move. His voice was hard, like the hills, and his words had the same immovable quality.
    'Go. This my business.’ The soldier uncurled from sleep, and drew his weapons. He looked first at Khusrav, then at me. He hesitated, uncertain of his move.
    'Strike. Strike quickly " Khusrav whispered.’He is unarmed. Kill him, you fool.' Khusrav crouched on all fours. The soldier continued to hesitate. His head swung towards the door, and he peered as if trying to see through the walls. He was a young man, his face still creased with sleep, his beard black and straggly. 'I will make you governor of Bengal when I am Padishah. Strike!'
    My beloved crouched waiting. He could have called out, but remained silent. The soldier was aware now of men outside. Slowly, he lowered his sword. Khusrav hissed in despair, in rage.
   'It is not your destiny, your highness,' the soldier said. 'I am your army, but I am only one man. There are too many battles to fight before you will become Padishah. You have already lost so many. God meant it not for you.'
Carefully, he placed his sword and dagger down on the carpet and approached Khusrav. He knelt, took his hand, pressed it against his forehead. It was a gesture of love, a sad farewell. Khusrav bent forward and embraced the soldier.
   'Oh God, my dreams,' Khusrav whispered. He released his friend, and took a heap of jewellery from the small table: rings, gold chains, arm bands. 'Here. Keep these in my memory.'
    'I've no need of such riches, your highness.’
    'Take them. Let someone benefit from the fool Khusrav.'
    He thrust them at the soldier; a ring fell and rolled, neither looked at it. The soldier rose awkwardly, his hands filled with gold and diamonds. They might have been stones from the riverbed. He stared at Khusrav for a while, trying to  remember his face; the room was light now. Then he looked towards Shah Jahan.
   'I cannot kill a prince,' but before my beloved could acknowledge the confession, the soldier added coldly, '1 leave such killings to princes.'
    In surprise, we watched him leave. He walked with the dignity of a victorious man. Khusrav chuckled. ' A wise man. He leaves the killing to princes. Without us, without our ambitions, soldiers revert to men. Doubtless he will return to his village and tell his children stories about the madness of his prince.' A thought occurred to Khusrav and he touched Shah Jahan's shoulder gently: 'Don't harm him. Let him go. At least one of us spoke with honesty tonight. Tonight? Today. I speak as if time matters and I should be accurate.'
   'Leave us,' Shah Jahan repeated to me.
   'Why?' said Khusrav. 'Don't you want the beautiful Arjumand to be a witness to my death?' He turned towards me, squinting. .'She is of the same blood as that whore Mehrunissa. She sent you.'
   'I came without her command. I am not my father.' Shah Jahan took my arm to lead me to the door. I pulled away from him.
   'You must not kill him. Please, I beg you, my beloved, my husband. You must not kill him.'
   'Must not? It has to be done. He still has some followers; his shadow falls on the throne. Let it fall in a coffin.'
   'Send him into exile. Keep him chained. Lock him in prison. Do not kill him.'
Shah Jahan looked at me with dark anger. I knew he would not be moved. I had never seen such determination in his face before; it frightened me.
  'What affection do you have for my brother?'
   'None. I only speak because of my love for you. His death will be our curse, a curse on our sons, and on the sons of our sons. Look at him. His blindness already haunts us. His death will drag us down. If you kill him you will be the first to break the Timurid law. Your ancestor Timur-i-leng first proclaimed it three hundred years ago: "Do naught unto your brothers, even though they may deserve." It has been obeyed by every prince since then. Babur told Humayun, Humayun Akbar, Akbar Jahangir .They have obeyed that law, whatever the provocation. It is the law that protected Khusrav from your father's anger. Khusrav's blood is your own, you must not spill it. It will stain our lives for generations.'
Shah Jahan began to laugh. He roared and then embraced and kissed me.
  'I didn't know I'd married a superstitious woman as well as a beautiful one. All that will happen is that the throne will be secured for me.'
  'I don't want it at such a price.' I pushed him away. I couldn't control the dread that rose in me. Like smoke, it choked me. 'I dreamt, on the day we met, of red. It was the colour that stayed in my mind when I woke. I did not know then what it meant. When I met you, I thought it was the crimson of the crown prince. I was wrong. It was blood. It will wash us away, my beloved. Spare him.'
  'Listen to her,' Khusrav croaked. 'I'm not afraid of dying. Each day I have woken expecting the assassin. But even my father obeyed Timur-i-leng's law. He couldn't kill me. You must not either. I swear I will renounce the throne, not for my own sake, but for yours.'
  'Everyone offers me his life not for His sake, but for mine. What generosity.' Shah Jahan turned to me and with great gentleness took me by the arm and led me away from Khusrav. '1 have listened to you, as is our tradition, but I cannot allow him to live.'
  ‘And what,' Khusrav called after him, 'will happen to Parwez and Shahriya? Are they to die too? But they're not here, alone and helpless; they are in Lahore, surrounded by the army.'
  'No. Please, my beloved. You can't.'
  'I must. Go.'
  I wept all day for my husband, my children, myself. I had never known such fear as that which now enveloped me. It shook me and squeezed tears of despair from my eyes. The red of my dream was blood; it always had been. I had interpreted it, to my own inclination, as the turban of my beloved. I had not lowered my gaze and seen the bloody hands. My tears could not wash them clean, but dropped and dropped and, as they touched his flesh, they too turned into blood. Even the tresses of my hair with which I wiped them turned red.