Free Wild Jasmine by Bertrice Small

water and soft towels to the ladies that they might remove the sticky sweet residue of the dessert from their fingers. Yasaman politely saw her guests to their boats and, kissing each aunt and her elder sister, waved them all off. Only Akbar and her mother remained. Hugging her parents, the princess bid them a good-night and sought her own bed. It had been a most exciting day, but she knew that her mother and father wanted to discuss possible plans for her marriage. As for herself, she wanted to examine in detail the Pillow Book Jodh Bai had brought her, the book that had once belonged to Candra—the woman who had given her life and then disappeared back into her own world.
    Akbar called to Adali, “Come and help me out of these clothes, old friend, and then bring me a cup of light wine.”
    The steward quickly divested the emperor of his jama coat and his patka. “Bring his majesty a lungi,” he instructed a slave woman. Then, kneeling, he removed Akbar’s slippers and cuddidara pajamas. He handed each garment to a young eunuch who stood attentively by his side. When he had removed all of his master’s clothing, he swathed him in the lungi which the slave woman had brought him. The garment was a simple length of cloth that wrapped about his hips several times and was tucked in at the waist. It was the traditional at-home garb of the Mughals. “There, my gracious lord,” Adali said, finishing his task and impatiently waving the young eunuch away.
    “Ahhhh,” Akbar replied, comfortable at last.
    Adali permitted himself a small grin as, hurrying over to a little table, he poured his master the required beverage, handing it to him and bowing himself off the terrace. He knew the importance of the conversation about to take place. He wanted that conversation to begin. Carefully, he stationed himself in the shadows where he could hear all, but not be seen.
    The emperor lowered himself onto a large couch and, stretching out, sipped his wine. Rugaiya Begum sat on a low stool by his side and waited for her lord to broach the subject she had already attempted with him. Finally he said, “She is still too young to marry under our law, Rugaiya.”
    “Nonetheless, we must choose a husband for her, my lord, for that day, a year from now, when she will not be too young to marry,” his wife replied.
    “You love her so dearly,” he observed, “that I did not believe you would ever want to discuss her marriage. Well, now that you have brought it up, there are several eligible princes available for Yasaman. The raja of Orissa, or perhaps the heir to Khandesh or Mewar.”
    “Orissa would be too hot for Yasaman,” Rugaiya Begum said. “You know she absolutely wilts in the heat, and the dampness off the Bay of Bengal would kill her before her time. I see a similar problem with Khandesh, and besides, I’m not certain how the lady Leila would like it if you married Yasaman to the son of the man who overthrew her father. As for Mewar, you cannot make peace with them or bribe them with our daughter. I am astounded you would even suggest it. They are very troublesome people, the folk of Mewar,” Rugaiya Begum concluded.
    Akbar hid a small smile. Rugaiya Begum had obviously already decided upon Yasaman’s future husband. It was a mere formality that she consult with him. “Perhaps,” he said slowly, “you are right about Orissa, Khandesh, and Mewar, my dear. Do you have another suggestion you want to make to me? You, of course, are Yasaman’s mother and want only what is best for her.”
    Rugaiya Begum chuckled. How well he knew her. “Yasaman,” she began, “loves Kashmir above all places. Each year she manages to spend more and more time here and less in Lahore and Agra. She has actually spent most of this year here. I think that nothing would make her happier than if she could remain here for the rest of her life. Yusef Khan, the former ruler of Kashmir, who is now your most loyal general, has several surviving sons. The