Nurjahan's Daughter (19 page)

From the prayer room they walked to die empress’ chamber, where the attendants waited with petitions from destitute women and orphans. The empress had a soft corner for widowed women and their children–perhaps because of her earlier plight–and she spared no effort to help them. Nur Jahan had arranged the marriage of many orphan girls. Laadli was amazed at the efficient manner in which her mother handled all kinds of problems. Whoever asked for her protection was given refuge.

To the nine-year-old Laadli, her mother’s virtues knew no bounds. She worshipped the ground her mother walked on: she followed her around like a tame dog, waiting for the crumbs of affection thrown at her by the empress. When Nur Jahan was busy with state affairs–which was most of the time–the girl wandered around the harem corridors, uncertain and unsure of herself. Laadli had neither the self-assurance nor the bravado to handle her new status as a princess. Although the emperor had stated that Laadli would be known as Shahzadi, and conferred upon her a tiny jagir after his marriage to Nur Jahan, she knew that the other princesses of the harem sniggered and called her the usurper’s daughter. They called her mother the Persian usurper and a Persian whore.

‘Can a Persian vagabond’s daughter be a princess, even if the emperor grants her the title? Princesses are not made; they inherit the title when they are born in royal families,’ Laadli once heard Princess Zohra Banu remarking to a friend. With so many real princesses floating around in the harem, no one bothered about a surrogate one.

The frightened girl–who still cowered each time she was brought in the presence of the emperor–struggled to keep up a brave front, her mother’s words ringing in her ears: ‘Don’t let them break your spirit.’

She tried hard to emulate the royal ladies, aping the ways and manners of the princesses. She watched her mother closely, although she realised that no one could ever imitate her mother’s powerful presence. Whether it was the nobles who came with their representations regarding some problem, the artists who came to her for guidance, or the harem women who wanted her counsel, everyone went back satisfied with her judgement. The emperor seemed to require her guidance on every matter, from English and Portuguese trading contracts to the layout of a new garden. Her vibrant energy, diplomatic excellence, perception, shrewdness, calculative intelligence, artistic skills–everything seemed to have an overpowering effect on Jahangir. Those who dealt with her either hated or loved her, but no one could ignore her.

‘I can’t help feeling sorry for the girl. It is no fault of hers that she is born to an ambitious woman like Nur Jahan,’ Queen Jagat Gosain had been heard remarking. For, now that Meherunnisa was empress, she had transferred her attentions to ensuring that her daughter would inherit the title one day.

The idea seemed to obsess the empress. ‘You
will
be an empress one day. No one can stop you from becoming one. I will ensure your ascendancy to the throne, if that is the last thing that I do.’

It frightened Laadli to hear her mother’s words.
Wasn’t it
for Allah to decide who would be a queen? How could a mere mortal control destiny or create royalty? Whatever he her powers, wasn’t the empress just another puppet in the hands of the Almighty
? Besides, Laadli had no desire to be an empress; she didn’t even want to be a princess. But there was no way she could tell her mother that. How could she describe to her mother the joy she felt sitting in the marble pavilion overlooking the river, enjoying the gentle breeze and the flitting butterflies? Or tell her that she only wanted to play the sitar. Fine dresses, jewellery and cosmetics didn’t interest her. The crown held no lure for her.

She pined for the open spaces and the luxuriant banana trees, mango groves, waving palm fronds, and the jackfruit trees with their cloying smell that had dotted the countryside of their Burdwan residence. She missed the soulful songs of the cuckoo, flamboyant parakeets, lark’s warble and the spirited chirping of the birds that nested in the trees. In her mind, she could see the black darters that combed the rice fields for food.

At Burdwan, she had had the freedom to wander around the large farm at the back of their house, searching for the different kinds of nests built by the birds on the trees. She remembered how she had marvelled at the lovely nest made by a weaverbird in a mango tree. A servant had offered to bring it down for her, but she had told him not to. She hated seeing any bird or animal hurt. Sher Afghan had once presented her a pair of canaries in a golden cage when he realised how much she loved birds. But Laadli had set them free. ‘I am sure they don’t like being caged,’ she told her father.

‘You are right, no one likes being imprisoned,’ he responded. ‘I think I know what will please you,’ he added mysteriously. A few days later he had given her an album filled with pictures of birds, drawn by a local artist. It became one of her prized possessions, and she carried it with her wherever she went. Over the years, Laadli had added pictures of different birds to it.

Laadli spent hours day-dreaming. Not for her were the many amusements that occupied the inmates of the harem. ‘The girl has a romantic nature,’ exclaimed her mother when she caught Laadli reading the Persian poetry of Sa’adi. To keep her daughter occupied, Nur Jahan arranged for tutors to teach her Persian, Arabic, Turkish and Urdu. Besides, there were lessons in painting, literature and music.

With the passing years, as Nur Jahan’s responsibilities increased, so did the time between her meetings with her daughter. Sometimes it was weeks before they saw each other. Firdaus could see that Nur Jahan’s preoccupation with state matters was affecting the girl, and it upset her. One day, during one of her visits to Laadli’s apartments, Nur Jahan sauntered over to the balcony from where she could see her daughter sitting in the garden.

‘How quickly the years have flown by, Firdaus. Laadli seems so grown up,’ she said, a tinge of regret in her voice. ‘I have not been around for her.’

‘You have no time for your daughter. I can’t understand what the point is in involving yourself in all kinds of matters. Can’t the gardens be left to the architects and designers? Aren’t there enough ministers to think about the empire?’ Firdaus complained.

There was a sudden flash of anger in Nur Jahan’s eyes. The empress did not tolerate advice. ‘Mind your own business Firdaus, and let me mind mine.’

Realising that she had overstepped her limits, Firdaus bowed herself out of the empress’s presence, muttering under her breath as she walked down the corridor. ‘What is the point in designing palaces and running an empire if one doesn’t have any time to spend with one’s only child? My suggestions rankle because they are blunt.’

At another of their rare meetings, the ten-year-old Laadli asked her mother, ‘Is there anything you can’t do?’

Nur Jahan was sitting propped against some cushions in her bed. The empress was unwell. For Laadli, it was a special occasion–just the two of them sitting together, without any distractions.

‘Of course, there are so many things I wish I could do but don’t have the time. For instance, I love music and would have loved to take lessons in singing from an Ustaad.’

‘People say that it is your ready wit and fantastic sense of humour that has the emperor enthralled. I wonder how you can remember the vast number of jokes, anecdotes and riddles.’

‘You can do whatever you want, provided you want it enough. Just remember those words, Laadli. I expect that someday you will be able to do the things I can do and your child will wonder at your inexhaustible capacities,’ laughed the empress, pinching her daughter’s cheek lovingly.

She drew her daughter close and hugged her tight. Guilt and remorse ran through her as she kissed the girl’s forehead with affection. ‘Laadli, you must remember that I love you very much. I may not spend much time with you, but you’re always on my mind and I am doing everything I can for your future and happiness.’

‘Of course, Ammijaan, I know you love me. It is just...it is just that I get a little lonely sometimes.’

‘You must make more friends and devote more time to the arts. No one is lonely when they read or create. It is only the uncreative who indulge in gossip.’

The warmth of her mother’s tone pleased Laadli. She sighed loudly, wishing the moment would never pass. It was as though Nur Jahan had read her thoughts, for she continued to hold her daughter in a tight embrace.

Although it was now six years since she had come to stay in the palace, Laadli continued to feel intimidated by the palace and its inhabitants. The harem was divided into many groups–the Rajput clique, the Persian faction, the Hindustani Muslim bloc–and she belonged to none of them. No one spoke to her–she was an outsider, the daughter of the empress, to be avoided and kept at a distance. Since no one could afford to offend the empress, the women who disliked Nur Jahan vented their resentment on the daughter. Unkind remarks came her way almost every day.

Laadli waited for festivals because then she could escape to her grandparents’ home and rejoice in the warmth of the large family. She was particularly close to her grandmother and her cousin, Arjumand. They mimicked the queens and concubines, laughed, bantered and poured their hearts out to each other.

M
arriage had changed Jahangir. With Nur Jahan by his side, he became a different person–generous, tolerant, and good-humoured. Gone was the tyrannical, sadistic man who had derived pleasure witnessing cruel torture sessions. He now spent more time in pursuit of the finer things of life–music, arts and architecture became his passion.

On Eid, Jahangir granted freedom of movement to the captive prince Khusrau. The semi-blind prince was allowed to ramble around the palace with an escort. But it was Prince Khurram who benefited the most from his father’s change of heart. One evening, the emperor invited the prince to his chamber and shared a drink with him. This was a rare honour. In fact, it implied the emperor’s permission for the request of a gift. Not willing to let the chance slip away, Prince Khurram asked for the gift of Arjumand’s hand in marriage.

‘Your Majesty, I have been waiting for your consent to marry the daughter of your trusted vizier, Asaf Khan, for a long time now. I beseech you to consider the match favourably.’

Inebriated with wine and happiness, the emperor smiled benignly at his son. ‘I can understand the agony of waiting. I waited for many years to marry the woman I love.’

‘I don’t want to spend the prime years of my life pining for Arjumand. I married the Persian princess on your command, what else can I do to please you, father?’

‘No, you don’t have to spend any more time pining for her. We are pleased to sanction your wedding with the lady of your choice.’

The news spread like wildfire in the palace. The emperor had conceded to the match. Khurram and Arjumand would be wedded at last. Nur Jahan decided she would personally make her favourite niece’s bridal attire and jewellery. Nur Jahan was fond of Prince Khurram and the two had formed an alliance of sorts, despite the tension that occurred when Prince Khurram had stonewalled her attempts to get him married to Laadli. Nur Jahan had now begun considering marrying Laadli to Prince Khusrau.

From the jharoka, pushed and jostled by excited harem women, Laadli watched Prince Khurram, resplendent in his bridal finery, riding a bejewelled white stallion. Slaves strew his path with rose petals, and sprayed perfumed water from silver sprinklers. A band of musicians dressed in brilliant clothes, followed the royal groom. The crowd cheered lustily and scattered petals in the path of the long wedding procession comprising hundreds of horses, elephants, soldiers and nobles.

The pageant wound its way through the streets of Agra towards the bride’s mansion leaving clouds of dust and dazzle in its wake. Gold and silver coins were thrown to the eager spectators who lined up the streets to catch a glimpse of the emperor’s son, who was finally marrying the woman he loved. The story of Khurram and Arjumand’s romance was as popular as the one of Laila and Majnu.

With a heavy heart Laadli retired to her chamber. She was about to lose the affections of Khurram, the only male friend she had ever had. Would he ever find time for her, wondered the girl.

‘Don’t you want to attend the wedding?’ asked her excited friends, ‘We are all going with the procession.’

‘I don’t think I will go. I am not feeling well.’

‘Don’t be stupid. It is not every day that a prince gets married. Besides, it is your cousin Arjumand’s wedding. She will be an empress one day and then she will recollect that you did not share her joy on the most important day of her life.’

‘To be truthful, I would have felt offended if I were her. Besides, the empress wouldn’t like your not attending the wedding,’ said Benazir.

Fearing her mother’s wrath, Laadli finally agreed to attend the wedding. There was a bustle of excitement as the harem women dressed up for the occasion. Nur Jahan had already left for the wedding venue early in the morning, laden with costly gifts for the bride. Hers was a dual role, for she was both the groom’s stepmother and the bride’s aunt. Arjumand had to be bathed and the ritualistic toilette of a bride had to be completed with the assistance of her aunt, before the ceremonies began.

‘Laadli, don’t loiter and day dream. We should have reached your grandfather’s house by now,’ Benazir goaded.

Laadli stood undecided between a green ensemble and a shell pink one. Her mother had designed the gorgeous dresses for the occasion–one for the morning rituals and the other for the evening feast. Alongside the dress, Firdaus had laid out the matching jewellery and accessories.

‘Let me help you dress,’ offered her friend picking up the green costume.

‘No, not that one. I will wear the pink one,’ said Laadli, snatching the dress away from Benazir. She remembered the occasion when both Arjumand and she had worn a green dress at their grandfather’s house to celebrate Eid.

Hurriedly, she dressed in the shell pink silk qaba embroidered with pink pearls. A pink churidar, and a crimson veil embroidered with silver thread work completed the attire. For jewellery, she wore diamond and amethyst encrusted earrings that reached to her shoulders, their pearl extensions pinned into her hair. A string of pink pearls rested on her hair, its crescent shaped diamond pendant falling gently on her temple. Her slender neck was adorned with a collar of gold ablaze with rubies and diamonds. Her arms were clasped with broad bands of gold inlaid with precious gems. Dozens of gold bangles tinkled on her wrists and her anklets jangled musically when she walked.