Beneath a Marble Sky Read Online Free PDF Page B

bathe together.”  The sarcasm in Mother’s voice was uncloaked. I was accustomed to such remarks, for she despised the confining customs of our society. While men pursued whatever game they desired, women were forced to act as shadows, hiding from the light, following only the movements of their husbands.
    And how Mother abhorred shadows!
    The Empress was one of the few women in Hindustan who could do almost anything she wanted. She didn’t dress like a man, of course, but she spoke like one, unafraid to voice her true thoughts. Father indulged her behavior, and thus it usually went unchecked. I sought to be bold like her but worried more than she about offending my elders.
    “We women must be cautious,” she advised, stopping at a stand of lemons. She squeezed a few. “Dealing with men is like juggling hot coals. They’re fairly harmless if you take precautions, but by Allah, they can burn you if you don’t pay attention.”
    “Have you ever juggled coals?”
    “No, but I juggle men every day. And I’m sure coals would be much less frightening.”
    We shared a laugh as we turned back to the harem, Nizam taking his usual place behind Mother. His hair was black, coarse and curly, while his face and nose were flat. Oddly, his right eye was somewhat bigger than his left. Still a young man, Nizam was already taller than many of Father’s soldiers.
    Whenever I looked at Nizam, he glanced away. Yet I often felt his gaze on my back. In many ways he was like an older brother, protecting me from dangers I was too young to discover. Though Nizam was her slave, Mother treated him sometimes as if he were my sibling. She abhorred that he had been maimed and made her thoughts well-known on the more common practice of castration. It was an ancient custom, however, for lords are leery of ungelded servants among their women. Her pleas for abolishment were ignored.
    Mother was hardly one to retrace her steps, and she returned to the harem via the imperial workshops, known as the Karkhanas. An oversized courtyard housed hundreds of studios, which sheltered thousands of craftsmen, some of whom were Europeans and Persians. The complex reminded me of a honeycomb, as it was replete with narrow alleyways and sandstone dwellings. Artists and workers created weapons of every sort, colorful fabrics, silver drinking vessels, and jewelry for seemingly each part of the body.  The most prestigious workshops contained book-makers.  Among these craftsmen were translators, painters, calligraphers, papermakers and gold leaf experts. They produced thousands of books each year, some even written in Portuguese, English and Chinese.
    Mother wove through artisans, camels and bare-chested Hindu priests with equal ease. When at last we were beyond the Karkhanas, the alley widened so that we could stroll arm in arm. “We rarely take such walks anymore,” she said suddenly. “I do miss them.”
    “As do I.”
    “Soon your father shall find you a husband, and then, I suppose, these walks will cease altogether.”
    A trace of sadness lingered in her voice. Her tone was infectious, for I replied gloomily. “But how am I to find love, as you did, if Father weds me to a stranger?”
    She adjusted a diamond brooch in my hair. “Remember that many marriages of love begin as marriages of politics. Yours may be no different.”
    “And yet it could be.”
    Almost imperceptibly she dropped her head, which was Mother’s way of nodding. “Sometimes, Jahanara, I wish that duty weren’t such a sacred word,” she admitted, slowing her pace. “But few words are more revered. Even if it is a weaker feeling than a mother’s love for her daughter, men die for duty, and women…we women suffer for duty in more insidious ways. Our duty, just as those leading the Empire, is to follow whatever path is best for our people. And while marrying a silversmith might make you happiest, it wouldn’t be best for Hindustan. For how could you help your people if you were to