often wandered to my chest, which had swollen during the past months. I was painfully aware of his gaze and tried not to ponder my fate later that evening. Instead, I absently stared at my parents and siblings, who stood a step below me on a gilded platform. My two baby sisters, whom I last saw a moon ago, were swathed in gossamer silk and held by servants. Father wore his military casings, and the emerald-studded hilt of an ancient sword jutted from his hip. Mother might have been a rose. Draped in a thin green robe and a scarlet dress, she radiated beauty, somehow spreading it beyond my brothers, who filled indigo tunics and stood shoulder to shoulder between our parents. Dara seemed saddened by the day, whereas Aurangzeb grinned maliciously. Shah and Murad could have been asleep.
Our wedding, like all such tableaux, was long and dull. Prayers were offered to Allah and pleasantries exchanged. I’d wept after last night’s festivities and today sprang no tears. I smiled and bowed. I stood beside my husband.
When the ceremony ended, servants assembled an enormous feast. A dozen lambs were roasted over open flames. On gold and silver platters skewers of beef and vegetables steamed. Vast piles of rice, nuts and fruits were everywhere, and mounds of kulfi—a dessert fashioned with sugar, mango, lemon juice, cream and roasted pistachios—were served in marble bowls. Before eating, we reassembled under the shade of hastily erected red tents. After servants placed fresh linen atop Persian carpets, we sat and sampled morsels endlessly. Throughout the meal, attendants fanned my family, the breezes drying sweat and keeping flies at bay.
Imperial dancing girls entertained us while we ate. Their torsos were covered with the thinnest of fabrics, leaving little to one’s imagination. The girls moved like saplings amid wind and were accompanied by the trumpets, drums and stringed instruments. Beyond our tent, jugglers and acrobats competed to further amuse us.
When the feasting concluded we left the courtyard and proceeded outside the Red Fort. Father had suggested that a polo match be held to entertain the nobles and the general population. Polo had been invented by tribal horsemen inhabiting the plains to the east of Agra, and was one of our favorite spectacles. For my wedding day an immense stretch of open ground near the river had been groomed of weeds, and goals were erected at either end of the playing field. Surrounding it rose tents of the nobles, filled with more food, as well as wives and concubines. The largest tent shielded my family from the sun. We sat on wool carpets and watched the players prepare their mounts.
My brothers took to the field. Dara and Shah had changed into tunics and turbans of black, whereas Aurangzeb and Murad wore white. Father raised a water buffalo’s horn to his lips and blew. A guttural cry emerged from the instrument and the teams gathered on their respective sides. Horses, their manes combed and tails braided, pranced and neighed. Gold and silver bells about the stallions’ necks rung vigorously as the riders practiced swinging long poles. These were straight and true for more than the height of a man but curved at their bottom ends.
A rosewood ball was dropped upon the field and the game began. Khondamir, his bride suddenly forgotten, roared with the crowd. Mother tried to get my attention, but for the first time in my life I ignored her. Though my parents believed Khondamir would make a decent husband, and I believed I was performing my duty, I felt betrayed nonetheless.
I prayed to Allah that Khondamir was honorable, and I watched the match with fleeting interest. However, I could hardly fail to notice that Aurangzeb was by far the best rider of my brothers. The ball seemed to always be against his stick. Once, when only Dara was between him and his goal, Aurangzeb sent his mount careening into Dara’s stallion. Dara was flung from his saddle and Aurangzeb scored easily. When he
Our wedding, like all such tableaux, was long and dull. Prayers were offered to Allah and pleasantries exchanged. I’d wept after last night’s festivities and today sprang no tears. I smiled and bowed. I stood beside my husband.
When the ceremony ended, servants assembled an enormous feast. A dozen lambs were roasted over open flames. On gold and silver platters skewers of beef and vegetables steamed. Vast piles of rice, nuts and fruits were everywhere, and mounds of kulfi—a dessert fashioned with sugar, mango, lemon juice, cream and roasted pistachios—were served in marble bowls. Before eating, we reassembled under the shade of hastily erected red tents. After servants placed fresh linen atop Persian carpets, we sat and sampled morsels endlessly. Throughout the meal, attendants fanned my family, the breezes drying sweat and keeping flies at bay.
Imperial dancing girls entertained us while we ate. Their torsos were covered with the thinnest of fabrics, leaving little to one’s imagination. The girls moved like saplings amid wind and were accompanied by the trumpets, drums and stringed instruments. Beyond our tent, jugglers and acrobats competed to further amuse us.
When the feasting concluded we left the courtyard and proceeded outside the Red Fort. Father had suggested that a polo match be held to entertain the nobles and the general population. Polo had been invented by tribal horsemen inhabiting the plains to the east of Agra, and was one of our favorite spectacles. For my wedding day an immense stretch of open ground near the river had been groomed of weeds, and goals were erected at either end of the playing field. Surrounding it rose tents of the nobles, filled with more food, as well as wives and concubines. The largest tent shielded my family from the sun. We sat on wool carpets and watched the players prepare their mounts.
My brothers took to the field. Dara and Shah had changed into tunics and turbans of black, whereas Aurangzeb and Murad wore white. Father raised a water buffalo’s horn to his lips and blew. A guttural cry emerged from the instrument and the teams gathered on their respective sides. Horses, their manes combed and tails braided, pranced and neighed. Gold and silver bells about the stallions’ necks rung vigorously as the riders practiced swinging long poles. These were straight and true for more than the height of a man but curved at their bottom ends.
A rosewood ball was dropped upon the field and the game began. Khondamir, his bride suddenly forgotten, roared with the crowd. Mother tried to get my attention, but for the first time in my life I ignored her. Though my parents believed Khondamir would make a decent husband, and I believed I was performing my duty, I felt betrayed nonetheless.
I prayed to Allah that Khondamir was honorable, and I watched the match with fleeting interest. However, I could hardly fail to notice that Aurangzeb was by far the best rider of my brothers. The ball seemed to always be against his stick. Once, when only Dara was between him and his goal, Aurangzeb sent his mount careening into Dara’s stallion. Dara was flung from his saddle and Aurangzeb scored easily. When he
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