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Indu Sundaresan - The Feast of Roses

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The love story of Emperor Jahangir and Mehrunnisa, begun in the critically praised debut novelThe Twentieth Wife, continues in Indu SundaresansThe Feast of Roses. This lush new novel tells the story behind one of the great tributes to romantic love and one of the seven wonders of the world -- the Taj Mahal.
Mehrunnisa, better known as Empress Nur Jahan, comes into Jahangirs harem as his twentieth and last wife. Almost from the beginning of her royal life she fits none of the established norms of womanhood in seventeenth-century India.
Mehrunnisa is the first woman Jahangir marries for love, at the old age of thirty-four. He loves her so deeply that he eventually transfers his powers of sovereignty to her.
Power and wealth do not come easily to Mehrunnisa -- she has to fight for them. She has a formidable rival in the imperial harem, Empress Jagat Gosini, who has schemed and plotted against Mehrunnisa from early on. Mehrunnisas problems do not just lie within the harem walls, but at court, too, as she battles powerful ministers for supremacy. These ministers, who have long had Emperor Jahangirs confidence and trust, consider Mehrunnisa a mere woman who cannot have a voice in the outside world.
Mehrunnisa combats all of this by forming ajuntaof sorts with three men she can rely on -- her father, her brother, and Jahangirs son Prince Khurram. She demonstrates great strength of character and cunning to get what she wants, sometimes at a cost of personal sorrow when she almost loses her daughters love. But she never loses the love of the man who bestows this power upon her -- Emperor Jahangir. The Feast of Roses is a tale of this power and love, the story of power behind a veil.

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For my husband Uday For quite simply everything The mask is offthe - photo 2

For my husband Uday,

For, quite simply, everything.

The mask is offthe charm is wrought

And Selim to his heart has caught,

His Nourmahal, his Harams Light!

And well do vanishd frowns enhance

The charm of every brightend glance;

And dearer seems each dawning smile

For having lost its light awhile:

And, happier now, for all her sighs,

As on his arm her head reposes,

She whispers him, with laughing eyes,

Remember, love, the Feast of Roses.

THOMAS MOORE , Lalla Rookh

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Thanks go, again and always, to the members of my critique groups, and especially to those who so kindly put aside their own work and speed-read through the manuscript: Louise Christensen Zak, Laura Hartman, Joyce OKeefe, Julie Jindal, and Janet Lee Carey.

I believe everyone should have a literary agent in his or her life, and quite preferably someone like mine, Sandra Dijkstra. She is a joy to work with, and very engaged in all aspects of my writing, from early reading of drafts to marketing and championing the book through all of its stages. I am also grateful for the effort Sandys entire agency puts into my work.

The Feast of Roses is thrice blessed at Atria Books. My publisher, Judith Curr, continues to be enormously supportive and friendly, and still willing to put her faith in me. Then there are my two editors: Rosemary Ahern, who worked through the early drafts of the novel and whose vision shaped the final story; and Malaika Adero, who willingly adopted this child of mine and lavishes her care upon it. I am deeply thankful to all three of them.

A disclaimer: I do not play chess. If the chess scene in The Feast of Roses is authentic at all, it is due to these people: Santosh Zachariah, who found the game for me, given strict restrictions on number of moves and ease of comprehension; David Hendricks of the Microsoft Chess Club, who, one afternoon, laid out a chess board on a table in the cafeteria and painstakingly took me through the moves and explained the motivations of the players; and my brilliant nephews Gautam and Karthik, who whisked through the game and had to be begged to slow down to a pace more understandable by their doddering old aunt. If, despite all their efforts, there are still mistakes in the game, I readily claim them as mine.

I could not do without the three women who constantly give me love and strength and form my family: Amma, Anu, and Jaya.

And finally, I must acknowledge the libraries of the King County Library System and the University of Washington Suzzallo and Allen Libraries for their treasure trove of literature on Mughal Indialetters, documents, memoirs, books, and maps, which have allowed me to travel through time and distance without leaving home.

PRINCIPAL CHARACTERS In Alphabetical Order Abdur Rahim The - photo 3
PRINCIPAL CHARACTERS In Alphabetical Order Abdur Rahim The - photo 4
PRINCIPAL CHARACTERS

(In Alphabetical Order)

Abdur Rahim

The Khan-i-khanan, Commander-in-chief of the imperial army

Abul Hasan

Mehrunnisas brother

Arjumand Banu

Mehrunnisas niece and Abul's daughter, later Empress Mumtaz Mahal

Akbar

Third Emperor of Mughal India

Ali Quli Khan Istajlu

Mehrunnisas first husband

Ghias Beg

Mehrunnisas father

Hoshiyar Khan

Chief eunuch of Jahangirs harem

Jagat Gosini

Jahangirs second wife

Jahangir

Akbars son and fourth emperor of Mughal India

Khurram

Jahangirs third son, born of Jagat Gosini

Khusrau

Jahangirs first son, born of Man Bai

Ladli

Mehrunnisas daughter by Ali Quli

Mahabat Khan

Jahangirs childhood cohort and minister

Mehrunnisa

Ghiass daughter, later titled Nur Jahan

Muhammad Sharif

Jahangirs childhood cohort, now Grand Vizier of the Empire

Nur Jahan

Mehrunnisas title upon become Empress

Parviz

Jahangirs second son

Ruqayya Sultan Begam

Akbars chief queen, or Padshah Begam, now a Dowager Empress

Shabryar

Jahangirs fourth son

Thomas Roe

First official ambassador from England and the court of James I

CHAPTER ONE

Nature had endowed her with a quick understanding, a piercing intellect, a versatile temper, sound common sense. Education had developed the gifts of nature in no common degree. She was versed in Persian literature and composed verses, limpid and flowing, which assisted her in capturing the heart of her husband.

BENI PRASAD,
History of Jahangir

T he months of June and July passed. The monsoons were tardy this yearthe nights hinted rain constantly with an aroma in the air, a cooling on the skin, soundless lightning across skies. But when morning came, the sun rose strong again, mocking Agra and its inhabitants. And the days crawled by, brazenly hot, when every breath was an effort, every movement a struggle, every night sweat-stewed. In temples, incantations were offered, the muezzins called the faithful to prayers, their voices melodious and pleading, and the bells of the Jesuit churches chimed. But the Gods seemed indifferent. The rice paddies lay plowed after the pre-monsoon rains, awaiting the seedlings; too long a wait and the ground would grow hard again.

A few people moved torpidly in the streets of Agra; only the direst of emergencies had called them from their cool, stone-flagged homes. Even the normally frantic pariah dogs lay panting on doorsteps, too exhausted to yelp when passing urchins pelted them with stones.

The bazaars were barren too, shopfronts pulled down, shopkeepers too tired to haggle with buyers. Custom could wait for cooler times. The whole city seemed to have slowed to a halt.

The imperial palaces and courtyards were hushed in the night, the corridors empty of footsteps. Slaves and eunuchs plied iridescent peacock feather fans, wiping their perspiring faces with one hand. The ladies of the harem slept under the intermittent breeze of the fans, goblets of cold sherbets flavored with khus and ginger resting by their sides. Every now and then, a slave would refresh the goblet, bringing in another one filled with new shards of ice. When her mistress awoke, and wake she would many times during the night, her drink would be ready. The ice, carved in huge chunks from the Himalayan Mountains, covered with gunnysacks and brought down to the plains in bullock carts, was a blessing for everyone, nobles and commoners alike. But in this heat, ice melted all too soon, disappearing into a puddle of warm water under sawdust and jute.

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