Beneath a Marble Sky Read Online Free PDF

scent of opium lingered in the air.
    I was expected to read widely, and a thick book rested on my thighs. The text was written in Persian, the official language of the court. Though we were now enemies with the Persians, they had profoundly influenced Hindustan. This inspiration began when my grandfather married a remarkable Persian princess, Nur Jahan, who thereafter fostered Persian culture within Agra’s court. In all but title, Nur Jahan had, in fact, ruled the Empire.
    Of course, I also spoke Hindi. I liked this unassuming tongue and used it when dealing with servants or the local population. Not many commoners could speak Persian, and most who could preferred Hindi.
    Persian is certainly pleasing to the eye, often inscribed in graceful calligraphy that takes a lifetime to master. The text I was reading was one such masterpiece and concerned the history of our empire, boasting of the deeds of the emperors preceding my father. I memorized what each ruler had accomplished and the troubles he faced. Mother would test me later this evening, as she always did.
    I was reading of my grandfather when I heard a distant muezzin’s cries. I imagined him on a mosque’s tower, filling the sky with his calls to prayer. As I set aside my book, many of the harem’s inhabitants unrolled beautiful prayer carpets to stand upon. We prayed while standing, turned westward toward Mecca, with our palms facing the heavens. At certain times of prayer, we reverently bowed, touching our carpets with our foreheads. When the prayers ceased, we rolled up our carpets and continued with our activities.
    I returned to my history, not closing my book until I knew the assigned pages like the patterns of my favorite robes. I then turned to Mother, asking her with my expression if she’d join me for a walk outside. She nodded and, accompanied by Nizam, followed me through the door.
    “Who wrote the Akbarnama ?” she asked abruptly.
    The Akbarnama chronicled the life of my great-grandfather, Akbar, the most revered of our former emperors. “A writer, I think.”
    “Jahanara!”
    “A writer named Abu’l Fazl.”
    Mother straightened my veil. “A simple answer would have been sufficient.”
    “Have you ever given such an answer?”
    Her hands dropped and her face softened. She smiled, affectionately nudging me. “Only to please your father.”
    Our walk soon took us through a bazaar. Under its tents and canopies lounged dozens of vendors, tired men sitting behind iron scales, their tables brimming with dried fish, bolts of silk, sandalwood statues, incense, and, above all, reed baskets heavy with spices. Hindustanis have always loved spices. If goat cheese or spinach wasn’t drenched in curry or saffron, it would hardly be worth eating.
    The scents of these seasonings mingled with smells lingering about each stall. Fragrances to savor abounded, fresh naan, roasting mutton, flowers, oiled leather, perfume. Less pleasant scents sometimes overpowered these wares, for within the towering walls no breeze removed the stench of sweat, of burning dung, of gunpowder, urine and caged animals.
    Mother was polite enough to look at many goods, though she purchased only a pair of sandals for Nizam. As we left the bazaar she said, “You seem restless, Jahanara. Instead of acting so distracted you should simply ask your question.”
    How she could so easily read me was disconcerting. “Yes, Mother,” I replied haltingly. “It’s just that…well, we’ve done little but study these past days.”
    “And you propose?”
    “My friend Ladli—”
    “The child who helps in the kitchen?”
    “She’s going to the river later and asked if I’d join her.”
    “Today?” When I nodded, she paused, dust settling about her feet. “Only if you take your brothers. You should do these things together.”
    “But Aurangzeb is cruel to her.”
    “You won’t have to swim with your brothers,” Mother replied. “After all, it would be unseemly for girls and boys to