Indu Sundaresan - The Twentieth Wife

Acclaim for Indu Sundaresans

The Twentieth Wife

Sundaresan [is] a bright addition to the new generation of women writers from India.

The Seattle Times

If all history lessons were spun outwards from a legendary love affair and enlivened with sensuous details of an exotic time and place, fewer kids would sleep through class.

The Sunday Oregonian

In Mehrunnisa, Sundaresan has found a fascinating subject.... The Twentieth Wife offers a rich and intimate view into palace life during the late 16th and early 17th centuriesand an incisive look at gender roles of that period.

USA Today

This epic tale is... informative, convincing, and madly entertaining. The reader comes away with an unexpected vision of the power behind the veil.

Marilyn Yalom, author of A History of the Wife and A History of the Breast

Thank you for downloading this Atria Books eBook.

Join our mailing list and get updates on new releases, deals, bonus content and other great books from Atria Books and Simon & Schuster.

C LICK H ERE T O S IGN U P

or visit us online to sign up at
eBookNews.SimonandSchuster.com

For my parents, Group Captain R. Sundaresan and Madhuram Sundaresan

For all of who I am

My deepest thanks:

To my writing buddies, for kind praise and unstinted critique, and because they love to write as much as I do: Janet Lee Carey, Julie Jindal, Vicki DAnnunzio, Nancy Maltby Henkel, Angie Yusuf, Joyce OKeefe, Beverly Cope, Louise Christensen Zak, Gabriel Herner, Sheri Maynard, Michael Hawkins, and Laura Hartman.

To my agent, Sandra Dijkstra (who is an unexpected gift and blessing), and others in her agency, for their knowledge and experience and for their passionate belief in my writing.

To my editor at Pocket Books, Tracy Sherrod, for her vision and for astute and generous insights on the manuscript.

To my publisher at Pocket Books, Judith Curr, for her confidence and trust in me and my work.

To my husband, Uday, who has always supported my writing habit and who read the novel in its very first avatar and liked it beyond the call of duty.

To my sister Anu, who stayed up nights reading the story while taking care of my two-week-old niece (and despite the excitement of a new baby was still thrilled by it).

To my sister Jaya, whose unbounded love and vivacity spills into every aspect of my life, and who is fired with the utmost faith in her little sister.

To the excellent libraries of the King County Library System and the University of Washington Suzzallo and Allen Libraries, for giving me a place to rest my thoughts, and because my research would have been hugely incomplete without their collections.

(In Alphabetical Order)

T HE WIND HOWLED AND SWEPT down, almost ripping the tent flap from its seams. Frigid air elbowed in, sending arctic fingers down warm napes, devouring the thin blue flames of the fire. The woman lying on the thin cotton mattress in one corner shivered. She clasped her arms around her protruding stomach and moaned, Ayah...

The midwife rose slowly from her haunches, aged joints creaking, and hobbled to the entrance. She fastened the flap, came back to the woman, lifted the blanket, and peered between her legs. The woman winced as callused dirt-encrusted fingers prodded her.

The ayahs thick face filled with satisfaction. It will not be long now.

The brazier in the corner flared to life as the midwife fanned the camel-dung embers. The woman lay back, sweat cooling on her forehead, her face worn with pain. In a few minutes, another contraction swept her lower back. She clamped down on her lower lip to keep from crying out, not wanting them to worry outside the tent, unaware that the screeching gale swallowed even the loudest wail.

Outside, an early night closed in on the campsite. Men huddled around a fire that sputtered and crackled as the wind lashed about their ears, kicking sand in their eyes and under their clothes, stinging their faces.

A few tents, tattered and old, crowded in a tight circle at the edge of the desert on the outskirts of Qandahar. Camels, horses, and sheep clustered around the camp, seeking warmth and cover from the storm.

Ghias Beg broke away from the group around the fire and, picking his way past the animals, trudged to the tent where his wife lay. Barely visible in the flying sand, three children crouched against the flapping black canvas, arms around one another, eyes shut against the gale. Ghias Beg touched the shoulder of the elder boy. Muhammad, he yelled over the sound of the wind. Is your mother all right?

The child raised his head and looked tearfully at his father. I dont know, Bapa. His voice was small, barely audible; Ghias had to lean over to hear him. Muhammad clutched at the hand on his shoulder. Oh, Bapa, what will happen to us?

Ghias knelt, drew Muhammad into his arms, and kissed the top of his forehead gently, his beard scratching the sand on Muhammads hair. This was the first time he had shown any fear in all these days.

He looked over the boys head at his daughter. Saliha, go check on your Maji.

The little girl rose in silence and crawled inside the tent.