But however much better her brother’s reputation was today than it had been before, it would come under severe stress if it became known just how fragile his health remained. Dara Shikoh had become almost comatose after he’d been brought into the harem. Priscilla had told Jahanara that none of his injuries were dangerous, physically speaking. He was simply beyond exhausted, the demands of his condition and recent days having drained him of the meager reserves of strength he’d managed to build since Father’s assassination. And Dara had never been one to seek exertion even before his injury.
She looked down over the river and toward Mother’s tomb, glad of the moment of solitude she’d obtained by the simple expedient of sending her body slaves to assist Nadira.
Jahanara heard Firoz Khan’s slippers pacing the dense carpets. Looking up, she saw that Smidha had entered the chamber. She seemed very tense. Her eyes flicked back and forth from Jahanara to the eunuch.
“Leave us, please, Firoz,” Jahanara said.
Firoz bowed and left. When the sound of the eunuch’s slippers faded from hearing, Jahanara looked back up at Smidha. Gesturing to a nearby cushion, she said, “Sit. You look tired.”
“Tired!” Smidha folded herself onto the cushion. “Tired of folly, perhaps! When were you going to tell me?”
Jahanara frowned. “Tell you what?”
Smidha turned her head and looked at the doorway, then peered at the shaded alcoves where Jahanara’s body slaves usually lingered. Apparently, to satisfy herself that no one was listening. Finding they were as alone as they were likely to ever be, Smidha turned back and nodded her head sharply. The gesture was…
She was pointing with her brow, Jahanara realized. At Jahanara herself.
No, at her midriff.
“You’re pregnant.” The words were soft, but the tone was not. It combined accusation, exasperation and…sorrow, perhaps.
“I told you it was folly to meet with Salim alone. At least, if either I or Firoz had been there we could have restrained that…that…adventurer!”
Jahanara’s mouth opened and she waggled her head a little. Part protest, part denial, and part acknowledgement that Smidha was correct about the pregnancy.
Smidha sniffed, a lifetime’s experience with the princess letting her read Jahanara’s expression. “Fine. We could have restrained you.” She threw up her hands. “Both of you!”
Realizing she’d raised her voice, even if only slightly, Smidha turned her head again to peer at the balcony entrance. Then, not satisfied, she replaced her veil, climbed to her feet and looked out over the balcony, then moved to the entrance.
“No one,” she muttered, returning to her cushion. After she was seated, she said: “So, an answer. When were you going to tell me?”
By then, Jahanara had regained some composure. “Ah…soon.”
Smidha sniffed again. “When your belly was showing for all the world to see?”
“I was going to tell you…maybe tomorrow. Or the day after.” She gestured at the pile of missives still stacked before her. “I have been very busy! Dara is in no condition to handle such matters now.”
“He’s well enough to order your death once he discovers the truth.”
Again, Jahanara opened her mouth and shook her head. But no protest came forth. Smidha was probably right, she knew. Her brother might, if Nadira had her way, spare Jahanara herself—though she’d certainly be imprisoned—but there would be no such mercy for Salim. None at all.
“I don’t know what to do,” she admitted, hanging her head.
“There is the dancing girl’s remedy. The up-timers probably know better and safer ways to do it, and I think we could trust them to keep silent. We certainly cannot rely upon any of the old guard at court.”
Jahanara had already considered that option herself. For hours, now, she had only pretended, even to herself, to be fully occupied with her brother’s correspondence. So when she shook her head, the gesture was firm and final.
“No. It is impossible.”
“Nonsense. Not until one hundred and twenty days after conception—and don’t tell me you don’t know what day that was. We still have plenty of time.”
Jahanara knew that herself, because she’d studied the matter once she realized that she was pregnant. The Koran said nothing directly about induced miscarriage, so guidance had to be found in the Hadith—which, for Sunni Muslims like herself, meant the words, teachings and actions of Muhammad and his companions. The Hadith could be construed in different ways, however. So, over time, four major schools of Islamic law had emerged: the Hanafi, Maliki, Shafi’i and Hanbali. The Mughals followed the Hanafi, with some modification.
She had one hundred and twenty days from conception, when the law did not consider a fetus to have a soul and thus be a human.
“I will tell you what is forbidden,” said Smidha. “Suicide is forbidden—and that applies just as much to killing yourself by inaction as doing it directly.”
Jahanara knew that also. The fourth Surah said it clearly: And do not kill yourselves, surely God is most Merciful to you.
“No,” she repeated. “I forbid it.” She placed her hand over her womb. “I will not kill my child. Who is also Salim’s child. No.”
“Stubborn, like your mother.” Smidha sighed.
Jahanara glanced at her advisor.
“Oh, don’t look at me so. Your mother didn’t have to keep bearing children, not after supplying Shah Jahan with four sons! She could have let one of the others run those risks, bear those burdens.”
“But, she loved us. Loved being mother to us all.”
Smidha nodded, face pinched with sorrow. “She brooked no competition for Shah Jahan’s love, either.”
Knowing what Smidha said was true, Jahanara had no reply.
“In truth, I was afraid you’d say you wanted it,” Smidha said, placing her hands on her thighs and leaning back a little. “There is only one other option, then. We must place you in seclusion—and for months. But how? Where?”
Jahanara heard Firoz’s approach first. Smidha, despite her nervous disposition today, was older, with an older woman’s ears. The scuffed heaviness of the eunuch’s slow tread was a signal to Jahanara. The
