Nurjahan's Daughter (20 page)

Benazir braided Laadli’s hair and stuck rose buds in each twist of the hair. Her eyes were darkened with kohl and her lips coloured with a red salve.

‘You look beautiful,’ Benazir declared, standing back to admire the result of her labour. ‘But why do your eyes have sadness in them? A smile would certainly suit you better.’

‘Does it matter how I look, Benazir? We both know that these looks are not good enough to attract the attention of the princes. If I were beautiful, wouldn’t I be getting married to Prince Khurram today, instead of my cousin, Arjumand?’

‘Hush, don’t say such things. Destiny plans things for us; nothing can happen unless Allah wants it to happen. Not even a leaf can stir without His wish. There are better things lying in wait for you,’ the faithful Benazir consoled her friend. ‘Now, let us hurry before people miss us. We will enter from the back gate and mingle with the ladies. The empress will be very angry if she learns that you did not arrive on time.’

The girls climbed into a festooned palanquin and rushed towards the bride’s house. They were just in time to see the prince entering the house with his entourage.

The groom was led to the nuptial podium decorated with strands of jasmine and rose buds. Mullahs seated on the side recited from the holy Quran, their eyes not wavering for a moment from the text. The emperor showered a handful of diamonds, rubies, emeralds, gold and silver coins and many other precious stones on his son’s head. A large platter, full of gold and silver coins, was thrown to the beggars who lined the streets outside the house, after it had been touched by the groom.

Laadli rushed inside and joined the giggling women who were leading Arjumand towards the wedding dais. The mammoth hall had been divided into two–one for men and the other for women–separated by a screen made with strings of flowers.

The bride was glowing with happiness. Her bright eyes were lowered modestly as she walked across to the bedecked podium, surrounded by the harem women. As she passed Laadli, she looked up and gave her a mischievous wink. Laadli smiled and returned the wink. Her cousin looked stunning in a midnight-blue attire, embedded with tiny diamonds and pearls, winking like a million stars on a dark night. A silver veil obscured her radiant face.

‘Are you nervous?’ whispered Laadli. Arjumand’s hands were chillingly cold.

‘Oh, Laadli, at last you are here! I am so nervous–my hands just won’t stop trembling. Is this how brides feel on their wedding day? My heart is beating so hard I can barely breathe.’

‘I guess all brides go through this experience. Don’t worry, this feeling will last for a couple of hours and then you will be flushed with happiness.’

‘I wonder if he’s feeling the same way,’ mumbled the bride stealing a glance towards the other end of the hall where the prince was sitting.

‘I don’t think men feel the same way,’ announced her practical cousin. ‘They are much too engrossed in ribald talk. I do hope you are happy.’

‘I don’t have the words to express my happiness. It has been a long wait. Laadli, wish me luck and pray that I am never parted from him,’ Arjumand’s hennaed hands clasped hers tightly.

‘Of course. I want you to be happy.’

The two girls walked side-by-side, Laadli much younger but taller than her cousin, her serene loveliness a foil to the dazzling Arjumand. Their steps were sure as they walked–Arjumand towards her destiny and Laadli towards the beginning of a new chapter in her life. For the first time she realised that nothing was permanent in life–friends, circumstances, riches or parental love. Her heart ached with this insight. Even her mother’s affections could not be taken for granted anymore. The umbilical cord had snapped long ago.

I
t was early summer and the emperor was at Ajmer, the city of the great Sufi saint, Khwaja Muin-ud-din Chisti. It was said that, while returning from a hunt in the forests near Ajmer, Emperor Akbar–resting near a tree–heard songs of wandering minstrels praising the saint. The mendicants lauded the greatness of the saint and spoke about his mystical powers. Hearing them, the emperor decided to seek the saint’s blessings. Akbar was so impressed by the great saint, that he refused to take any major decisions without consulting Chisti.

After the birth of Jahangir, Akbar–in gratitude for the saint’s blessings–walked for seventeen days from Agra to Ajmer. Jahangir himself made an annual pilgrimage to the city.

But Jahangir had another reason for being in Ajmer this year. Prince Khurram had returned to the family fold after conquering Mewar, which had been a thorn in the emperor’s flesh for a long time. The link between the fertile Gangetic plains and the emporiums of trade on the Western coast passed through Mewar. So long as Mewar was independent, the merchants of the Delhi Empire could not expect adequate security of person and property on the highways.

The proud Rana of Mewar laid down a few conditions before he submitted to the Mughal emperor. He wanted the withdrawal of the Mughal garrison from Mewar, a pledge that the Mughals would honour the sanctity of the shrine of Eklingji, and lastly, that the Rana would be recognised as a sovereign prince within the borders of Mewar. The vanquished Rana also asked that no girl from the Rana’s family would ever be demanded in marriage by any Mughal, and that their heirlooms would be returned.

Jahangir acceded to all the conditions, but insisted that Prince Karan Singh, along with his son Jagat Singh, should attend the Mughal court in lieu of the Rana. It was Karan Singh who arrived to render homage to the Mughal ruler, along with his nobles. Emperor Jahangir sent Prince Khurram, with his most important ministers, to receive the scion of Mewar. The grand entourages met outside the city gates and then traversed the dusty lanes of Ajmer to arrive at the emperor’s residence. The spectators were being treated to one of the greatest events to have ever taken place in that town.

Kettledrums boomed and joyous shouts followed the young prince of Mewar as he rode through the streets. People showered his path with rose petals. In a rare gesture, Jahangir stepped down from his throne and crossed the hall to meet Prince Karan. Nur Jahan, seated behind the marble screen watched incredulously, as the emperor escorted Karan Singh to a seat of honour to the right of the throne. This was an unprecedented honour given to a defeated prince. From her vantage point, Laadli watched the proud Rajputs taking their seats in the durbar hall.

‘Who is the victor and who are the vanquished? The Rajputs seem to be honouring us with their presence,’ she whispered to her friend.

Grand celebrations followed the signing of a historic treaty. The empress had outdone herself in arranging the festivities. The best of food, wine and entertainment were laid out, surpassing any other festivity witnessed by the town of Ajmer.

Two days after the grand celebrations, there was another event to celebrate. The entire harem was buzzing–Laadli had come of age. From a child to an adolescent, the princess had blossomed unnoticed by the inmates of the royal zenana. ‘Late bloomer,’ some of the harem women sniggered behind her back. Laadli was almost twelve, a little too late to mature by their calculations.

To celebrate the occasion, Nur Jahan decided to hold a feast for ladies of the harem. The most exquisite tapestries were brought out and hung on the walls. Bright Kashmiri carpets covered the marble floors and fresh flowers were placed in the jade and porcelain vases that lined the courtyard. Silver incense containers were placed in the empress’ chamber, along with bright silk cushions embellished with pearls and sequins. Festoons and decorations were put up on all the pillars that surrounded the chamber. Musicians were called and nautch girls invited to perform f0r the evening.

Laadli, meanwhile, was bathed with saffron and milk after her body was massaged with unguents made out of almonds and cream. Fler hair was washed and dried over the fragrant smoke of sandalwood sticks. Her hands and feet were embellished with intricate designs of henna, and her eyes were carefully lined with fresh kohl. Strands of jasmine and roses were wrapped around her plaited hair and rose attar, especially made by her grandmother, was liberally sprinkled over her body. She was now ready to wear the beautiful dress designed by her mother.

The purple and pink striped trousers were topped with a diaphanous knee-length qaba in lavender, embroidered with small roses in dark purple and set with tiny amethyst stones. Nur Jahan seemed to favour the colour purple for her daughter. Left to herself, Laadli would have preferred to wear soft colours like ivory, shell pink or white. The lilac silk veil was held in place with a gold tiara set with diamonds. Her tiny waist was clasped with an ornamental belt–a gift from the empress. On her slender throat Laadli wore a necklace made of pink Basra pearls. A hair ornament made of diamonds dangled on her right temple. Gold bangles jingled on her slender wrists, and a solitaire glittered on her nose.

The queens and concubines strolled in to take their place on the assigned carpets, carrying gifts for the princess. Nur Jahan’s sharp eyes evaluated each gift to ascertain the level of allegiance to her. There were gold coins, pearl strings, diamond brooches and gold necklaces studded with precious stones. Yards of silk and velvet lay scattered along with embellished hand mirrors and perfume bottles.

Laadli felt suffocated with the attention. Her jewellery and clothes felt heavy on her body. If she were not the centre of attention, the circus around her would have amused her. But now, the music, chatter and the vulgar jokes irritated her. She wished she could escape from it all. It was all so tedious, to be smiling at women she knew disliked her. The harem women just needed an excuse to celebrate. Laadli would have given anything to escape to her grandfather’s house for the day. But that was not to be.

‘Tonight I have invited the emperor and his sons for the feast. I want you to dress up in your best clothes. Amreen will help you dress. I want you to pay special attention to Prince Khusrau, Laadli. I don’t want any trouble, is that clear? No running away to the garden or ignoring the prince. He is going to be the next emperor and I want you to impress him.’ Her mother’s instructions were loud and clear–Laadli was to flirt with the prince. She knew that her mother was trying to make a match between the two of them. She intended making an empress out of her daughter.

‘Did you hear me, Laadli?’ Her mother’s voice took on the ice-cold tone she was so familiar with.

The morning entertainment ended with a grand feast that sated the women. Stuffing their mouths with fragrant
paans
they complimented the empress for the arrangements as they sauntered back heavily to their chambers.

There would be a short reprieve for Laadli, before the evening function began. Nur Jahan had made meticulous arrangements for the evening, with music, dance, amusements, ending with a feast. Only the emperor, his Shah Begum, the princes and their wives, were invited. It was to be a close-knit family function. The empress did not want any distractions while she thrust her reticent daughter onto the unwilling blind prince. Khusrau, happily married to Rukhsana, was most reluctant to have anything to do with Laadli. He had always behaved like an indulgent elder brother and treated her like a child.

The empress, however, had not given up. She intended him to marry Laadli only because she knew that he was the most likely successor to the emperor. Nur Jahan tried to seduce the prince with promises of freedom and hinted at the possibility of her support in the matter of inheritance, if he married her daughter.

The idea had come suddenly to Nur Jahan just a couple of days earlier when she visited her father. ‘I have been toying with an idea for a long time now,’ she declared, seating herself amidst the soft silk cushions on the comfortable divan in his study. Illustrated copies of all kinds of books lay scattered around the room. She picked up a copy of the Quran, beautifully bound, and read through the first page, waiting for her father’s reaction.

Ghias Baig shot her a quizzical look. He was familiar with his daughter’s quirks and impulsive decisions.
What now,
he thought, taking in Nur Jahan’s opulent attire and bejewelled appearance.
She has changed so much. I can’t find my Meherunnisa among the jewels and royal trappings. Malika Nur Jahan is a stranger.
He sighed wistfully.

Patiently, he waited for the empress to speak.

‘Don’t you think it would be a good idea if Laadli were to be wedded to Khusrau?’ she asked, toying with the quill that lay on his writing desk.

The old man was stunned. ‘Marry Laadli to that blind, unfortunate man who is living on borrowed breaths? Even Allah has abandoned the wretched fellow. Mehru, his days are numbered. Don’t you know that your brother, Asaf, and Khurram are waiting to murder the man? He is the only obstacle in the path of Khurram’s accession to the throne.’

‘I know everything. There is not a thing in this empire that I don’t get to know. I am aware that Asaf and Khurram will try to murder Khusrau. But don’t forget he is still the eldest son of the emperor.’

‘If only that old fool, Aziz Koka, Khusrau’s father-in-law and his uncle, Raja Maan Singh, had not been so impatient to make him an emperor, Khusrau would have ascended the throne after the emperor’s demise,’ the minister sighed deeply. Like most people, he was fond of the prince. His tragic plight saddened the Mirza.

‘He can still be an emperor,’ stated his daughter enigmatically. ‘If he marries Laadli, I will champion his cause. He is young, intelligent and popular. He can be the next emperor if he collaborates with me. But the young fool does not want to listen to good advice.’

‘Mehru, my child, you must not involve yourself in the royal squabbles. You must remain steadfast in helping the emperor deliver justice to those who deserve it, without any ulterior motives. Advise the emperor to do the right thing,’ begged the Itmad-ud-daulah. But his words fell on deaf ears.

When did this change take place
? he wondered.
When did his daughter transform into the ambitious and ruthless queen who stood before him. Was this the child Asmat had borne in the harsh desert of Qandahar
? Ghias Baig shook his head dejectedly. She wouldn’t listen! She never did. His heart turned cold with premonition as he watched Nur Jahan stride out imperiously from his chamber, without a backward glance.