different matter. Yasaman was blood kin to her own child; a royal Mughal princess, not some foreigner whom she held in contempt. Tall and thin, her hair was now iron-gray, and her Mughal nose had grown more hawklike with age.
“How old are you now, child?” she demanded of Yasaman.
“Thirteen this day, my honored aunt,” was the polite reply. Yasaman had learned early that the prickly Salima Begum was not to be trifled with.
“You have the breasts of an older woman,” remarked Salima Begum bluntly. “It is time you were married.”
“So my mother says,” Yasaman agreed pleasantly.
“ Does she indeed? ” Salima Begum noted. “Well, she is right for once!” Then she passed on to sit with Zada Begum, who was her best friend.
The other consorts arrived. Almira, the mother of Prince Murad, had once been a beautiful, passionate creature over whom Akbar had caused a minor scandal. Now she was a hollow-eyed and embittered woman. Strangely for one so young, Yasaman understood this aunt . She greeted her in a kindly fashion, but received barely a nod from Almira in return.
Leila, the princess of Khandesh, the mother of Akbar’s second daughter, Shukuran Nisa Begum, kissed Yasaman politely and passed on. After her came Roopmati, the princess of Bikaner, the mother of the charming but weak-willed Prince Daniyal, Yasaman’s youngest brother. There was Kamlavati, the princess of Jaisalmer, and her cousin Sadera, the princess of Puragadh. They were pleasant ladies, but none of them really knew Yasaman, for she lived apart from them in her own palaces in Lahore and Kashmir. The lady Waqi and her daughter, Yasaman’s sister, Aram-Banu Begum, arrived and were warmly welcomed. Waqi had been a mere concubine who had somehow managed, in a very brief encounter with Akbar, to conceive his child. She was a goodhearted woman whose life revolved about her impaired daughter, now aged twenty-two, and the many works of charity she performed, for she was a devout Muslim.
“I knew that shabnam peshwaz would look perfect on you!” said Akbar’s favorite wife, Jodh Bai, who arrived last.
Yasaman hugged her happily and kissed her cheek. “I love it, dearest aunt! I have never had such a fine peshwaz.” Then she leaned over and whispered softly in Jodh Bai’s ear, “Salim was here! He is coming back to see me when Father is gone.”
“ I know, ” Jodh Bai whispered back. “That is why I am late. My son came to see me too!” Time had changed the mother of Akbar’s heir little. She was petite in stature, her famed long, dark hair still as black as a raven’s wing. Golden-brown eyes twinkled conspiratorially in a remarkably smooth-skinned face. She adored her only child and was delighted by the close bond between him and his half sister.
“Why are you the only one amongst us who does not grow old?” grumbled Rugaiya Begum as she joined them.
Jodh Bai laughed her tinkling laughter. “Perhaps my face remains young as did my mother’s and my grandmother’s before me; but my bones are old now, Rugaiya, I swear it! On damp summer mornings my knees ache most fiercely.”
The guests having all assembled, it was time for Yasaman’s traditional birthday weighing. The double scales were brought forth and set up in the middle of the terrace. The young princess was helped into her seat on one side of the scales. Then two servants, carrying an open chest of loose gemstones, came forth. They set the chest upon the ground and slowly, using small gold scoops, began to carefully fill the other scale pan with brightly colored jewels and vari-colored pearls. After a while the scales began to tilt, until finally they were balanced so finely that a feather would have created an imbalance.
“You do not look as if you weigh more than last year, my daughter,” Akbar said, “but you do. It is, I think, the height you have attained.” He helped her from her seat. “My birthday gift to you will be a nice addition to your personal
“How old are you now, child?” she demanded of Yasaman.
“Thirteen this day, my honored aunt,” was the polite reply. Yasaman had learned early that the prickly Salima Begum was not to be trifled with.
“You have the breasts of an older woman,” remarked Salima Begum bluntly. “It is time you were married.”
“So my mother says,” Yasaman agreed pleasantly.
“ Does she indeed? ” Salima Begum noted. “Well, she is right for once!” Then she passed on to sit with Zada Begum, who was her best friend.
The other consorts arrived. Almira, the mother of Prince Murad, had once been a beautiful, passionate creature over whom Akbar had caused a minor scandal. Now she was a hollow-eyed and embittered woman. Strangely for one so young, Yasaman understood this aunt . She greeted her in a kindly fashion, but received barely a nod from Almira in return.
Leila, the princess of Khandesh, the mother of Akbar’s second daughter, Shukuran Nisa Begum, kissed Yasaman politely and passed on. After her came Roopmati, the princess of Bikaner, the mother of the charming but weak-willed Prince Daniyal, Yasaman’s youngest brother. There was Kamlavati, the princess of Jaisalmer, and her cousin Sadera, the princess of Puragadh. They were pleasant ladies, but none of them really knew Yasaman, for she lived apart from them in her own palaces in Lahore and Kashmir. The lady Waqi and her daughter, Yasaman’s sister, Aram-Banu Begum, arrived and were warmly welcomed. Waqi had been a mere concubine who had somehow managed, in a very brief encounter with Akbar, to conceive his child. She was a goodhearted woman whose life revolved about her impaired daughter, now aged twenty-two, and the many works of charity she performed, for she was a devout Muslim.
“I knew that shabnam peshwaz would look perfect on you!” said Akbar’s favorite wife, Jodh Bai, who arrived last.
Yasaman hugged her happily and kissed her cheek. “I love it, dearest aunt! I have never had such a fine peshwaz.” Then she leaned over and whispered softly in Jodh Bai’s ear, “Salim was here! He is coming back to see me when Father is gone.”
“ I know, ” Jodh Bai whispered back. “That is why I am late. My son came to see me too!” Time had changed the mother of Akbar’s heir little. She was petite in stature, her famed long, dark hair still as black as a raven’s wing. Golden-brown eyes twinkled conspiratorially in a remarkably smooth-skinned face. She adored her only child and was delighted by the close bond between him and his half sister.
“Why are you the only one amongst us who does not grow old?” grumbled Rugaiya Begum as she joined them.
Jodh Bai laughed her tinkling laughter. “Perhaps my face remains young as did my mother’s and my grandmother’s before me; but my bones are old now, Rugaiya, I swear it! On damp summer mornings my knees ache most fiercely.”
The guests having all assembled, it was time for Yasaman’s traditional birthday weighing. The double scales were brought forth and set up in the middle of the terrace. The young princess was helped into her seat on one side of the scales. Then two servants, carrying an open chest of loose gemstones, came forth. They set the chest upon the ground and slowly, using small gold scoops, began to carefully fill the other scale pan with brightly colored jewels and vari-colored pearls. After a while the scales began to tilt, until finally they were balanced so finely that a feather would have created an imbalance.
“You do not look as if you weigh more than last year, my daughter,” Akbar said, “but you do. It is, I think, the height you have attained.” He helped her from her seat. “My birthday gift to you will be a nice addition to your personal
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