Nurjahan's Daughter (26 page)

‘By God, that’s true. I could never have told the difference. Please accept my compliments for your fine artistry,’ stated the envoy.

Jahangir was so pleased with the work of his new artist that he immediately conferred a mansab of two hundred on him.

‘Young man, I would like you to do my portrait. Although Mansur has been appointed as the official portrait artist, I would like you to do my portrait in the rose garden,’ ordered the emperor.

One morning, Jahangir summoned Imraan to the royal garden at Lahore. ‘Come young man, we would like you to begin the portrait that you promised to make for us. This is the most pleasant season of the year and Lahore is at its beauteous best.’

Since no one but high-ranking nobles were ever allowed inside the empress’ private rose garden, Imraan knew that Jahangir was endowing special privilege on him. As he entered the royal garden, the artist understood why the Persians referred to gardens as paradise. To them, paradise was interpreted as the ideal garden, and water was considered its soul. The royal garden was divided into four quarters and enclosed by a high wall with massive wooden doors studded with heavy iron nails and pikes. From a distance he could make out three terraces that formed a pattern. Water drawn from the adjoining river descended from one terrace to another after flowing through a network of canals, tanks and water chutes. As water streamed from one level to the other, it gathered momentum and descended with force, spraying a hundred droplets that appeared like tiny marbles let loose by a mischievous child. Marble steps ran along the sides of the water chutes, ending in a marble pond in which bloomed dozens of lotuses. Ornate niches, made of agate, marble and onyx, occupied the walls behind the waterfalls. At night, oil lamps–sheltered behind ornate glass shades of different geometrical shapes–were placed in the niches, making the waterfall appear like a curtain of flowing light.

Pathways along the central canal were lined with tall cypress trees, alternated with orange and lemon trees abloom with fragrant flowers. Imraan knew that the Persians believed that trees like orange, pomegranate, plum and white kachnar symbolised youth, life and hope, while the cypress was the symbol of death and eternity. The Mughals also believed in the efficacy of gardens to cure them of all ailments, mental and emotional. Water, trees, flowers and fruits: they surrounded themselves with these elements to bring a sense of peace and tranquillity to their war and strife-torn existence.

Hosts of carnations, hollyhock, peonies, lotus, marigold, violets, tuberose and zinnia shrubs dotted the landscape. The garden contained more than a hundred species of plants, including evergreens and screw pines. There was a profusion of roses standing against the lush background. Parrots and pigeons moved around freely among the flowers. Several peacocks strutted around fearlessly. Ornate pavilions with adorned cupolas and marble benches lined the garden. A wooden bridge covered with creepers ran over the water canal at one end.

For a few moments, Imraan stood mesmerised by the view before him, and then a few lines from the verses of Faizi came unbidden to his mind–

‘If there is paradise
on
earth, it is here, it is here, it is here.’

His creative energy was at its peak as Imraan rushed about selecting the right space and light for the emperor to pose in. Cool breeze from the river Ravi blew into the garden.

‘There is music in the air,’ said Jahangir. ‘It makes me wonder if this is what heaven looks like. The bliss in this garden makes one forget all worries.’

With a smile Imraan replied–‘Jahanpanah, it takes a poet to recognise the beauty of nature and express it in words and an artist to reproduce the beauty on canvas. You, Sire, are the poet, and I am the humble artist.’

The emperor chuckled at Imraan’s compliments–‘Young man, I believe that your skills extend beyond the limitations of a brush. You also have a way with words. Maybe you should try composing poems.’

Imraan adjusted the emperor’s robe so that it fell in graceful folds around his lap, and he began sketching the royal profile. The emperor was clad in perfect white muslin with a heron feathered turban adorned with emeralds and rubies; his feet, shod in green embroidered slippers, rested on a velvet upholstered footstool. It was a perfect setting. Imraan plucked a bright red rose from the garden and handed it to Jahangir. The flower softened the emperor’s appearance.

Jahangir watched as the artist’s charcoal flew in swift motions across the paper, his brows knitted in concentraton. There was no doubt about his proficiency. All of a sudden, his hands seemed to freeze. Muttering an oath, Imraan threw away the charcoal and wiped his hands with a disgusted look.

‘What holds you up, Imraan?’ The emperor was irritated at the artist’s tardiness. Jahangir was not known to be a patient person, and the delay annoyed him.

‘I am sorry Jahanpanah. Someone is attempting to play Raag Bahar, but the notes are absolutely wrong.’

‘How can you tell? You are an artist not a musician,’ said the emperor.

‘With all due respect, Jahanpanah, I am first a musician and then an artist. My uncle, Mian Tansen, was employed in Emperor Akbar’s court and I learnt some music from him during my childhood. I will not call myself an accomplished musician, but I can distinguish the right notes from the wrong ones,’ replied Imraan modestly.

‘Yah Allah! We have none less than Mian Tansen’s nephew in our court and no one has informed us. This is unpardonable. Why didn’t you let us know before?’

‘Pardon me Sir, I did not want to boast about my lineage. My talents are in no way comparable to those of my uncle.’

‘Besides being a talented person, you are an unassuming person. In any case, you have solved our problem. We have been looking for an Ustaad to teach our stepdaughter the sitar. Laadli has been trying to pick up the raag for a few days, quite unsuccessfully, as you must have realised. Our royal musician has stayed behind at Agra so she is unable to get his help. Will you teach her the correct notes?’

‘Your wish is my command, Jahanpanah. I shall strive to do my best to impart to the princess whatever knowledge I possess.’

‘Our daughter will be delighted to know that we have found her an Ustaad. We will also ask her to stop assaulting our senses with the wrong notes. Then there will be peace and you can paint my portrait without any disturbance,’ smiled the emperor. There was a twinkle of humour in his eyes.

Imraan knew that Laadli was the daughter of empress Nur Jahan. She was rumoured to be a recluse–a gentle and shy girl. He spent the rest of the morning trying to sketch the emperor, but his mind was restless. The thought that he would be imparting music lessons to a princess was a disturbing one. In all his twenty-three years, the young artist had not dealt with a woman. To be seated in the presence of a shehzadi seemed an incredible idea to him. His hands trembled; they had always been very steady. Was it nervousness or apprehension? he wondered, trying to steady his fingers.

Suddenly the emperor rose and began walking away–‘Your art will have to wait, young man,’ Jahangir told Imraan. ‘It is time for us to present ourself at the jharoka. We shall continue with the portrait tomorrow. You will be told when you have to begin music lessons with the princess.’

The young artist was relieved to be dismissed by the emperor. His mind in a whirl, Imraan tried to remember the words of caution uttered by Peer Shah Buland, the Sufi saint whom he visited regularly. Just after he was commissioned by the emperor for a portrait, Imraan had visited the holy man for his blessings. The Sufi fakir had been very precise in his advice: ‘Follow three edicts and you will never be sorry. Firstly, no matter how pleased the emperor is with you, keep your distance from him. The moods of an emperor are like the rain clouds that can be harmless one moment and spark lightning the very next moment. Secondly, no matter how many opportunities fate provides, do not get intimate with any woman from the royal zenana. They will bring you nothing but sorrow. Lastly, to be a good artist, do not let the lure of gold overpower your creativity.’

Imraan recalled the Sufi’s words as a eunuch approached him with the instructions that he was to present himself at the royal garden in the evening for the music lesson.

Later that evening, Imraan, dressed in a spotless white muslin dress, headgear in place, walked towards the royal garden. Dangling from his cummerbund was a brocade pouch with paan in it. He wasn’t rich enough to wear rubies or diamonds in his turban, but a string of small pearls adorned his neck. He had taken care to dab himself with the attar he kept aside for special occasions, and this was as special an occasion as any. Not everyone gets an opportunity to enter the royal garden or tutor a princess, he thought.

The evening was a pleasant one as Imraan arrived at the royal palace. The empress’ chief eunuch, Hoshiyar, met him as soon as he entered the rose garden. The eunuch led him through an aisle to a pavilion overlooking the gently flowing river. An elaborate arrangement had been made for the music lesson. Hundreds of red roses alternated with white jasmine buds were strung together and suspended from a golden bar to form a floral curtain. They fell from the roof to the floor, effectively dividing the pavilion. The air was heavy with the fragrance of flowers. The setting sun in the horizon completed the idyllic picture. Imraan experienced a sense of peace as he entered the pavilion. It was the perfect setting for a music session.

Piles of silk cushions lay on a spotless white sheet, which was spread over a thick Persian carpet. Jade and china bowls heaped with fresh and dry fruits were placed on one side while an ornate silver spittoon stood at the other end of the carpet. A sitar completed the picture.

A few eunuchs stood around the pavilion, whispering in low tones. Minutes later, one of the eunuchs announced the arrival of the princess. Imraan stood up and bowed his head so that the princess could arrive unseen. The melodious tinkle of anklets heralded the entrance of his pupil. The whiff of her perfume reached him. It was almost impossible for the young man to keep himself from stealing a look at the princess, but the words of the Sufi saint echoed in his head and he willed himself to keep his eyes down.

Imraan bowed in her direction and said–‘Salaam Alekum, Shahzadi, I am here on the Badshah’s command.’

‘Alekum Salaam,’ from within the veil emerged a soft voice; it had depth and melody. She settled down on her side of the pavilion with her ladies. With a resolute shake of his head, Imraan brought himself to the task at hand. He picked up the instrument and began tuning its strings.

From her vantage position, the princess stole a glance at her Ustaad. She took in the tall and graceful figure of the young man. He was more handsome than anyone she had ever seen. Something about him reminded her of her Abba. Maybe it was his stature. Her heart began to beat faster as she picked up the sitar in her hands.

The moment Imraan’s hands touched the sitar he became oblivious to the intoxicating ambience and the shehzadi. He performed a thanks giving prayer to his own Ustaad and, closing his eyes, he began strumming the strings with precision, remembering each note of the raag he was about to play. Laadli listened with growing fascination. This was the kind of music she wanted to play. It was magical. Even the eunuchs who were hovering around protectively stood enraptured. The ladies accompanying the princess cried out ‘Wah, wah, Subhan Allah,’ without any restrain. They were spellbound by his skilful rendition of the raag.

‘Subhan Allah,’ the princess exclaimed as he ended his rendition. ‘That was a superb piece. Will I be able to play the instrument as expertly, ever?’

Imraan blushed happily at the praises heaped by the small audience.

‘Why not? With devotion and dedication, you can learn to play even better than me. But before I begin teaching you, I would like to tell you something about raags themselves. You must be aware that Hindustani music is replete with raags which have been created very scientifically. Each raag is played at a specific time of the day. For instance, Raag Malkauns is a late night raag that is played between nine in the evening and midnight, in the third quarter of the night, while Raag Bhairavi is an early morning raag to be played between six and nine in the morning. You should not attempt to play a raag at the wrong time. The magic is lost when you do that. I heard you playing Raag Bahar at eleven in the morning, which was not correct. It is supposed to be played only between midnight and three a.m. This is the first rule you must obey. Since it is almost six in the evening, we will play Raag Bhoopali.’

Laadli sat captivated as Imraan taught her the basic rules. She picked at the strings in all earnestness, willing herself to learn the intricate notes of Raag Bhoopali. The magic of the setting sun and the melody of the notes mingled with the cool breeze laden with the scent of the roses. It was another world, another time. For the inexperienced girl, the atmosphere was intoxicating; it seemed nothing short of bliss.

Immersed in the music, neither the Ustaad nor his pupil realised the time gliding away silently. Slave girls placed crystal candelabras with dozens of candles flickering in them. A couple of silver incense burners were placed on either side of the pavilion to ward off mosquitoes. A bright new moon had made its silvery appearance before Imraan realised it was late.

‘I think that is enough for a day. I would like you to practice the notes I have taught you today. Tomorrow we shall take up another aspect of the same raag. Khuda Hafiz,’ he said tersely, and performed a respectful kornish to the princess. Then he stood with his head bowed to allow the princess to pass unseen. Once again he was fiercely tempted to steal a look at her, but the Sufi’s words echoed in his mind, warningly.

The princess reciprocated his salutation and made her way towards the royal harem, surrounded by her slave girls and eunuchs. Only after she had left the garden did the artist make his way back to his quarters outside the royal palace. As he walked through the narrow streets to his humble quarters, Imraan was overcome with the feeling that, in some way, his life had changed and would never be the same again.