Free Mistress of the Throne (The Mughal intrigues) by Gupta Ruchir Page A

kos from his home, yet he’d stopped the royal caravan to plead for rations for my people, while we, the royalty, were ready to merely drive past the people’s plight. Such gentleness was rare in the Mughal household. Perhaps Dara had it, I thought, but even he now spent more time on religion than in practical community service.
    As we arrived at the imperial fortress in Burhampur, I helped my pregnant mother to the harem quarters, using the opportunity to talk to her about this encounter with the firangi. Though only three months pregnant, her face had turned pale white, and she was losing weight from her face and arms, as if this child was literally draining the life out of her. She was unable to walk without the assistance of another, and even then she moaned with every step.
    The marble staircase in the fortress was poorly maintained, its edges cracked and uneven. One could see the wear and tear on the tiles of the steps, on which thousands of people had stomped through the ages. Ami moaned every time she raised a leg to take a step up.
    I asked her, “How long was it before you knew you loved Aba?” as we limped up the stairs.
    Ami looked at me as if annoyed that I would choose such an inopportune time to ask such a question. “How many times do I have to tell you the story?” she asked me wearily. I stared at her feet as we continued to climb, pointing her where to step and trying to bear her weight as she leaned on me.
    “I know the story,” I replied, “but you never told me how
long
before you
knew
.”
    Still moaning and limping, she huffed, smiled at me and said: “Instantly!”
    Indeed, I’d heard the story of my parents’ romance many times. In fact, nearly everyone in the Mughal kingdom knew it. It had become somewhat of a legendary fairytale. While every king and queen would have some stories recited about them praising theirbeauty and greatness, my parents didn’t need any court chronicler to create a mythical tale about them; their story was popular long before they were crowned – and it was factual!
    My parents had met 23 years earlier, in 1607 at the royal Meena Bazaar, a private marketplace where the women of the aristocracy purchased dyes, oils, waxes and perfumes that were essential for their elaborate daily beauty rituals. Men were strictly forbidden, however, and any man caught in the bazaar would have his hands and feet cut off at the minimum. Certain dates, however, were reserved as ‘contrary dates’ during which men and women were all welcomed in the bazaar regardless of rank. The bazaar on these dates looked less like a traditional marketplace and more like a lusty pleasure garden, with courtship and flirtation flowing in both directions between men and women.
    Some otherwise passive and docile aristocratic women and concubines would even reverse their roles and become noisy shopkeepers, selling goods from behind the store pavilion and flirting with the young male customers, who, momentarily emancipated from the restrictive routine, would show off their courtly wit by asking prices in rhyming Persian verse.
    One such stall was being managed by my mother, the daughter of the then Prime Minister, Asaf Khan, which prevented otherwise interested young courtiers from approaching the stall or striking a conversation with my immensely beautiful, fair-skinned mother. But if there was one courtier who was intoxicated by her beauty without being intimidated by her title, it was the young Mughal Prince, my father. Aba wasn’t intimidated by anyone else’s title or status, much to the chagrin of the other young men there. He moved from stall to stall, flirting and charming, but realising that as a prince, bargaining was beneath him, so his act of doing so was only to entertain the fair maiden and afford him the opportunity to flirt with her and give her the chance to flirt back. And though he knew he was off-limits to most of the young maidens, he enjoyed the game of flirtation.
    But when my