Wild Jasmine by Bertrice Small Page B

father.”
    Hand in hand they entered the courtyard just as the emperor arrived. Akbar would be sixty-one in the autumn. He was still a handsome man, and if his concealed ill health had taken a toll on him, it was not visible. He was dressed all in white, from the silk dastar turban on his head to the jama, a long coat-tunic with a full skirt that covered his long pants, which were called cuddidara pajamas. Only his patka, a sash of cloth-of-gold studded with sparkling diamonds, broke the pristine purity of his snow-white costume.
    Climbing off his horse, he turned and opened his arms to his wife and daughter. “At last!” he said with a deep sigh, and then he pretended to look about. “Rugaiya, my dear, where is Yasaman? Why is she not here to greet her old father?”
    “Papa!” Yasaman giggled and ran into his embrace. “It is me!”
    The emperor set her back down and declared, “No! You cannot be my little daughter! You are far too seductive a maiden. My Yasaman is but a child.” His dark eyes were twinkling.
    “Papa! This is my thirteenth birthday! I am a grown woman now,” Yasaman declared.
    “Are you certain that you are Yasaman Kama Begum?” he teased her. “You are not some fairy maid come to steal her presents, are you?”
    “ Presents? ” Yasaman pretended she was offended, but then she began to giggle.
    “You are not entirely grown-up yet, I am relieved to see,” Akbar told her dryly.
    “Do you not want me to grow up?” Yasaman asked her father, taking him by the hand to lead him into her palace.
    “The older you grow, my little rosebud, the older I grow,” he told her. “It is the natural order of things, but not necessarily how I would want it.”
    “If you could change anything, Papa, what would it be?” she asked him curiously.
    “There is not a great deal I would change, my child,” he answered slowly. “I think I would have wanted my twin sons, Hussein and Hassan, to live instead of dying at birth. And, of course, I would have wanted Candra to remain with us. And perhaps if the great God would give me the opportunity to change things, Abul Fazl would be here with us today.” He sighed and a sad look came into his eyes. “So many people I have loved. Gone. ”
    “Do not be sad, Papa,” Yasaman said, looking up at her father. Mama Begum and I love you. We are here, and for all those gone, there are others yet with you.”
    The emperor looked into his daughter’s young face for a long moment. “You are growing up,” he said quietly. “You have said a very wise thing, my daughter.”
    They had moved from the courtyard through the palace and were now coming out onto the lakeside terrace where the celebration was to be held.
    “Good evening, my gracious lord,” Adali said, coming up to Akbar and bowing low. “The boats are even now approaching with the royal ladies.”
    Akbar nodded and, with his daughter and senior wife, watched as the barges, festively decorated with twinkling lanterns, made their way over the placid waters to bump against the small marble quay at Yasaman’s palace, at the foot of a short flight of steps. As each boat disgorged its passengers, it moved back into the lake to bob at anchor. Yasaman greeted her guests individually.
    Watching them come, Rugaiya Begum considered that time had not been kind to most of Akbar’s other wives. Zada Begum, the second wife Akbar had taken, never changed. She had been a gray-brown mouse of a woman her entire life. Older than her husband by several years, she was now wizened and stooped. Still, she managed a smile for Yasaman, who sweetly kissed her wrinkled cheek and personally led her to a comfortable cushioned seat. Zada Begum had always been a haughty woman and had never acknowledged Candra; but forsome unknown reason she had always had a soft spot for Yasaman.
    The third wife, Salima Begum, was the mother of Yasaman’s eldest sister, Shahzad-Kanim Begum. She, too, had never accepted Candra, but Yasaman was a