Free Tiger Claws by John Speed

when he stops and looks down at Basant’s feet. “Ever think about those shoes of yours, Spring Blossom? I think about my shoes, sometimes. Once I wore satin slippers. Now see! They are covered with jewels. Same as yours, my boy. I wear them wherever I want. I am the khaswajara now, at least for a little while. The only place I remove my slippers is in the emperor’s own bedroom.” He looks wryly at Basant. “And what about you? Where do you remove your slippers, Basant? At the emperor’s quarters, and at my door. And nowhere else! Think of that, Basant. What
other people in this palace—slave, free, princess or prince, can say as much? We are so very fortunate, Basant. I thank Allah each day for my good luck.”
    He pauses, and Basant wonders if Hing might be dying. “How hard it is to be patient, Basant. Yet I would advise you to be patient. Though I am old, I still I have my teeth. Do you see?” He looks to Basant as if he wants pity. “I used to be young like you, my darling. Like this one, too,” he adds, gazing at the sweet face of his bejeweled eunuch boy. Hing shuffles to the door. “Don’t follow those girls when they leave the purdah room, not if you know what’s good for you.”
    Before can Basant can answer, Hing is gone.
     
     
    At the jali screen, leaning against the pierced marble, the sisters snuggle. Heads touching, their hands caress each other through transparent silk.
    And they are moaning.
    Through the jali, Basant sees Shah Jahan’s attention waver. He has heard the moans, of course; they were intended for his ears. Breakfast slips her long, pink tongue through a space in the jali screen and wiggles it. Basant is amazed to see that it is long enough to pass clear through the cutouts of the white marble. The girls now can barely hold back their laughter. Their eyes glitter with the dreamy, manic light of opium and dravana .
    Maybe Shah Jahan sees the moist red tip of that extraordinary tongue through the jali screen, or maybe his ears are tuned to the music of the moans and giggles of his favorites, or perhaps he senses their dark heat, which seems to spill through the jali and spread across the room like smoke.
    Basant thinks, They’d never try it if Aurangzeb were around.
    Even Dara notices. He pauses in his endless recitation and reluctantly glances over to the jali screen; he looks away, clearly disturbed. Now all pretense of order in the hall has ceased; all eyes are fixed on that screen. And the men around Dara stare at the jali with disgust, envy, fascination, trying to make out the shadows of Shah Jahan’s women.
    Without any explanation or fanfare, Shah Jahan stands. His pants tent out obviously, forcing everyone around to glance away. The emperor appears unconcerned. He leaves the velvet cushions of his throne and slips quickly through the door to his private apartments. He is gone with such suddenness, the pretty young eunuch boy who holds the peacock feather umbrella over his head must hurry to catch up.
    A few alert courtiers manage to bow before Shah Jahan has entirely left the room, those less alert bow toward the door that closes behind him.
Everyone in the room, however, shares a sense of gratitude that they no longer must observe the emperor’s embarrassing behavior.
    In the purdah room, behind the jali, the two sisters watch the emperor head for his chambers. They nuzzle against each other, and then, unable to contain themselves, they kiss each other full on the lips, lingering long, tongues and teeth darting, gazing into each other’s eyes. Then they leave the purdah room to join the emperor. Basant watches with disgust and fascination. How much of what occurred was part of Roshanara’s plan?
    He heeds Hing’s advice, and lets the girls go without following them.
     
     
    When Basant enters her rooms, Roshanara is staring at the river, her back to him. Her hands play idly with something in her lap; Basant sees only a flash of gold and white—a miniature portrait.