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Authors: John Shors
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raised his arm in triumph, many in the crowd cheered. Dara nodded to Aurangzeb before limping back to his horse.
Though Islam forbade alcohol, and many devout Muslims refrained from this vice, on my wedding day an abundance of wine flowed. I had my first taste of its sweetness sitting next to my husband, the only pleasant experience I was to know that afternoon. We drank from jewel-studded goblets and much liquor was consumed. Men and women normally bound by the strict rules of our society began to unravel. Khondamir actually smiled at me, a grin revealing yellowed teeth and swollen gums. I started to feel somewhat clumsy. My head seemed inordinately heavy, and my mind, usually so sharp, dulled. Yet I drank more, for I’d heard of men escaping in drink, and thoughts of escape occupied my mind. If wine could somehow save me, I’d sip it until no grapes remained in all of Hindustan.
I didn’t even realize when the polo game had ended, but dusk was falling when strong arms lifted me atop a palki, a short couch mounted on twin poles. Four men then carried my litter toward Khondamir’s home. A palace of sorts, the rambling structure stood far from the river. I’d only seen it from a distance and dimly recalled it to be a sandstone edifice encircled by palm trees.
Khondamir’s servants lit torches as they walked, surrounding my litter. My husband rode beside me on a gray stallion with black spots. When he saw me looking at him, he grinned, then removed something from a saddlebag and began to eat. My thoughts moved like slugs and I moaned quietly, pulling flowers from my hair and pocketing uncomfortable jewelry. The world seemed to spin in frenzied arcs that threatened to make me ill.
I dared to close my eyes. When I finally opened them I was being carried down a candle-lit corridor. A door opened and I was laid atop a sleeping carpet. I mumbled graciously to my bearers, staring at the revolving ceiling. Horns jutted from every wall, and somehow in my wicked state I deduced that Khondamir must have been a hunter.
When I saw him stagger drunkenly into the room, I pretended to sleep. At first I thought he might rest beside me, but then I felt his hands on my clothes. His fingers were greedy and ripped my precious robe. He peeled it from me with such strength that I was rolled to my side. Terrified, I continued to feign sleep, desperately hoping he would lose interest.
But when I sensed his breath on my bared chest I knew he wouldn’t. Suddenly his mouth was upon a nipple and I fought the urge to gag. Mumbling to himself, he attacked it like a piglet might suckle a sow. Though repulsed, I felt it harden, which seemed to fuel his passion even more. My heart raced as he licked and tasted my flesh. I trembled at his teeth, for they weren’t gentle. Nor were his fingers, which clawed and poked at my secret places.
I heard him spit, then sensed wetness between my legs. There came an unbearable weight as he pressed down upon me, his breath fouling my lungs, his belly slapping against mine. A sharp pain erupted when he thrust himself inside me. He was moving next, rising and falling, and suddenly I could no longer make any pretense of sleep and cried out. I thought my hurt might make him pause, but instead it served to motivate him further. His gyrations became more frenzied. His hands pinned my arms to the carpet, pushing down, holding me in place.
My body seemed to split apart. Mother had warned me of pain, but not such fire as this. I gritted my teeth as my husband licked my neck, cried as I tried to break free of his grasp. Though I knew nothing of lovemaking, I doubted it was meant to be so full of woe. I’d heard other women speak of it fondly, and believed Mother even enjoyed it. Yet here I lay, biting my lip until it bled, weeping as my husband battered away at me.
When I thought I’d surely die, he suddenly howled like a wild beast. I felt him grow even larger, drive himself deeper. He convulsed, then abruptly
Though Islam forbade alcohol, and many devout Muslims refrained from this vice, on my wedding day an abundance of wine flowed. I had my first taste of its sweetness sitting next to my husband, the only pleasant experience I was to know that afternoon. We drank from jewel-studded goblets and much liquor was consumed. Men and women normally bound by the strict rules of our society began to unravel. Khondamir actually smiled at me, a grin revealing yellowed teeth and swollen gums. I started to feel somewhat clumsy. My head seemed inordinately heavy, and my mind, usually so sharp, dulled. Yet I drank more, for I’d heard of men escaping in drink, and thoughts of escape occupied my mind. If wine could somehow save me, I’d sip it until no grapes remained in all of Hindustan.
I didn’t even realize when the polo game had ended, but dusk was falling when strong arms lifted me atop a palki, a short couch mounted on twin poles. Four men then carried my litter toward Khondamir’s home. A palace of sorts, the rambling structure stood far from the river. I’d only seen it from a distance and dimly recalled it to be a sandstone edifice encircled by palm trees.
Khondamir’s servants lit torches as they walked, surrounding my litter. My husband rode beside me on a gray stallion with black spots. When he saw me looking at him, he grinned, then removed something from a saddlebag and began to eat. My thoughts moved like slugs and I moaned quietly, pulling flowers from my hair and pocketing uncomfortable jewelry. The world seemed to spin in frenzied arcs that threatened to make me ill.
I dared to close my eyes. When I finally opened them I was being carried down a candle-lit corridor. A door opened and I was laid atop a sleeping carpet. I mumbled graciously to my bearers, staring at the revolving ceiling. Horns jutted from every wall, and somehow in my wicked state I deduced that Khondamir must have been a hunter.
When I saw him stagger drunkenly into the room, I pretended to sleep. At first I thought he might rest beside me, but then I felt his hands on my clothes. His fingers were greedy and ripped my precious robe. He peeled it from me with such strength that I was rolled to my side. Terrified, I continued to feign sleep, desperately hoping he would lose interest.
But when I sensed his breath on my bared chest I knew he wouldn’t. Suddenly his mouth was upon a nipple and I fought the urge to gag. Mumbling to himself, he attacked it like a piglet might suckle a sow. Though repulsed, I felt it harden, which seemed to fuel his passion even more. My heart raced as he licked and tasted my flesh. I trembled at his teeth, for they weren’t gentle. Nor were his fingers, which clawed and poked at my secret places.
I heard him spit, then sensed wetness between my legs. There came an unbearable weight as he pressed down upon me, his breath fouling my lungs, his belly slapping against mine. A sharp pain erupted when he thrust himself inside me. He was moving next, rising and falling, and suddenly I could no longer make any pretense of sleep and cried out. I thought my hurt might make him pause, but instead it served to motivate him further. His gyrations became more frenzied. His hands pinned my arms to the carpet, pushing down, holding me in place.
My body seemed to split apart. Mother had warned me of pain, but not such fire as this. I gritted my teeth as my husband licked my neck, cried as I tried to break free of his grasp. Though I knew nothing of lovemaking, I doubted it was meant to be so full of woe. I’d heard other women speak of it fondly, and believed Mother even enjoyed it. Yet here I lay, biting my lip until it bled, weeping as my husband battered away at me.
When I thought I’d surely die, he suddenly howled like a wild beast. I felt him grow even larger, drive himself deeper. He convulsed, then abruptly
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