Wild Jasmine by Bertrice Small Page A

dear child, haven’t we, Adali? Do you remember the time she felt sorry for her father’s fighting elephants and let them loose?”
    “And they wandered through the city of Lahore trumpeting piteously and frightening the general population, who thought they were under attack?” Adali wheezed with laughter.
    “Even Akbar found it funny,” Rugaiya Begum chuckled, “although afterwards he scolded her most severely. He had to pay for all the damages too, particularly in the open market where the fruits and vegetables were sold. Those elephants ate everything in sight!”
    “But our good and gracious master also explained to our little princess that the fighting elephants were trained to go into battle and, indeed, enjoyed it. When Yasaman understood that by loosing the beasts she had frightened them, for they felt lostand afraid, she repented of her naughtiness. I remember our lord Akbar telling her that if ever again she thought that a cruelty was being perpetrated upon an animal, she was to come to him first. How he loves the creatures, and he has taught his daughter to love and cherish them too.”
    Before they might continue with their reminiscences, however, they heard the sound of the drums that accompanied the emperor in his travels. Akbar was approaching the palace.
    “Find Yasaman!” Rugaiya Begum instructed Adali, and he ran off to do so.
    Rugaiya Begum turned to look at herself in the full-length mirror that she possessed, and was pleased with the reflection that looked back at her. She wore a jaguli: a high-waisted dress long favored by her Mughal ancestors. It had an open neck and long, tight-fitting sleeves. The skirt flowed regally about her. The midnight-blue color was particularly flattering, and the silken skirt was dotted with silver stars that seemed to match her hair. She wore a long necklace of fat Indian Ocean pearls and Ceylon sapphires that echoed the sapphires in her ears.
    “Well,” she said to herself in a low voice, “I am becoming an old woman, but by Allah, I am a handsome old woman!” She chuckled and patted her beautiful silvery hair, which she wore parted in the center and wound into an elegant knot at the nape of her neck. Her plain but kindly face was lined around her lively black eyes, but barely touched elsewhere. She took great pride in her soft, fine skin which quite belied the fact that she would be sixty on her next birthday in the spring.
    “Mama Begum! Mama Begum! Papa is almost in the courtyard!” Yasaman danced into her view. “Ohhh, how beautiful you are!”
    Rugaiya Begum smiled happily and replied, “You far outshine me, my daughter. I am astounded by the evidence of my eyes. You are really quite grown up.”
    “ Am I? ” Yasaman’s voice was somewhat breathless with her excitement.
    Rugaiya Begum turned from her mirror and gently patted her daughter’s cheek. “Yes you are.”
    “Do you think Papa will be pleased with my costume? My aunt, the lady Jodh Bai, sent me this shabnam peshwaz. It is the muslin of the morning dew. Only a Mughal’s daughter may have peshwaz of shabnam.”
    “Yes, I know that,” said Rugaiya Begum, a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “There are other fine muslins,like White of the Clouds when the Rain Is Spent; the Jasmine Rower White; White of the August Moon; but, of course, only plain princesses can wear those. Only a royal Mughal princess can wear the shabnam muslin. It goes quite well with your peacock-blue and cloth-of-gold pajama and kurti. I like what Toramalli has done with your hair too.”
    Yasaman’s long black tresses were loose, but her maidservant had fashioned a single braid amid the thick cloud of hair, weaving it with small pearls and diamonds, which hung down her back and glittered with her every movement. Then she had powdered Yasaman’s hair with gold dust. In the princess’s small ears, diamonds sparkled also.
    “You look perfect,” her mother assured her. “Let us go now and greet your