Nurjahan's Daughter (39 page)

‘Most certainly, I will give whatever you ask,’ responded the emperor.

The holy man had then replied, ‘I only request that Your Majesty will not invite me to his palace again’.

After that day, Jahangir never called for the Pir again, but made it a point to visit the saint whenever he was in Lahore. Nur Jahan, who had been present during the interaction, became a zealous follower as well. When Hazrat Mian Mir was alive, she often consulted him on the difficulties she faced and took his advice seriously. After his death, she began praying at his mazaar, regularly. It was one of her desires to construct an impressive facade and a prayer hall at the saint’s tomb.

During one of his visits to Lahore, young Prince Dara Shikoh, the eldest son of Shah Jahan, who was also an ardent devotee of the saint, met Meherunnisa at the mazaar. The prince was a charming man of great learning. The two of them found a common ground and struck an instant rapport. Dara expressed great sorrow at the way Shah Jahan had treated her, delighting Meherunnisa’s heart greatly. She invited him to her mansion for dinner, which the prince accepted with alacrity. There was a flurry of excitement in the mansion as it was the first time that a member of the Mughal family had visited them.

After dinner, they sat down in the open baradari to chat about old times. Dara Shikoh updated them on all the happenings at the court and regaled them with stories of his family. Under a canopy of bright stars they conversed about diverse topics, finally launching into a long and animated discussion on theology and spirituality. The women were greatly impressed by the prince’s knowledge. He spent many hours telling them about his interactions with religious teachers of various sects. Dara told them that he was planning to construct a massive pavilion, where a thousand people could sit and pray, at the Hazrat’s mazaar. ‘It was one of the most interesting evenings I have spent in a long time, Meherunnisa told Laadli afterwards. ‘He is brilliant, not at all like his father.’

During the day, Meherunnisa involved herself in various activities, but come evening and she would sink into a state of depression. Nights were a torture; unable to sleep, she walked about restlessly through the long corridors of the mansion, till at last she would fall into an exhausted slumber towards the early hours of the morn. She dreaded the sleepless nights when the ghosts from her past assailed her pitilessly. A long string of misdeeds surfaced to chastise her on the lonesome nights.

Guilt and remorse haunted her mind. There were too many ghouls to inter. There was a haunted look in her eyes and dark circles had formed around them.

Alarmed at her mother’s condition, Laadli consulted Hakim Al-Badr who had been their physician for a long time. In times of crisis, Laadli had approached him for advice without hesitation. He was like a father figure to her.

‘Dear child,’ he said, ‘your mother has suffered intensely. It is not her body that suffers but her soul that knows no rest. In her heart, she carries humiliation and pain that refuses to heal.’ The physician assured Laadli: ‘It happens to many of us when we are old. We begin to feel insecure and lonely. There is nothing to be alarmed about. Just try to keep her amused.’

Laadli came back clutching the tranquillisers he had prescribed.

Seated in the garden, Laadli brought up amusing incidents from a shared past. ’Do you remember the time when the emperor had gifted you a beautiful tortoise and you named it Anwari because your maid with the same name was as slow as the tortoise?’

The memory brought a happy smile on the lined face. ’Oh, yes, I remember. Anwari was furious when the women teased her about it.’

‘I loved Anwari,’ said Laadli, a faraway look in her eyes. ‘She sang beautifully. On humid nights when I couldn’t fall asleep, I would ask her to sing for me. Her lullabies soothed me to sleep. Firdaus was so jealous of Anwari that she tried singing me to sleep one night.’

‘That would have been disastrous!’ Meherunnisa said, smiling.

‘Oh yes, remember how bad Firdaus’ voice was? I had to go sleepless for two consecutive nights after that!’

Both of them laughed at the recollection.

The end came sooner than expected. One morning, Meherunnisa didn’t get out of bed. Laadli smelt death as she entered her mother’s room. The room was as silent as a sepulchre. Her mind clouded with fear, Laadli bent over her mother.

Meherunnisa’s laboured breathing was erratic; her frail body trembled with each breath. The December chill of Lahore froze her bones into icicles of rigidity. The looming shadow of death reached out its ominous fingers to snatch the wasted body of the woman into its fold.

‘I am so cold, Laadli, cover me up,’ she wailed, unmindful of the three camel hair blankets resting on her. Laadli walked over to the boldly burning brazier and poked at the embers to spark off more heat. ‘Don’t go away, come near me,’ her mother’s feeble voice followed her.

‘I am here Ammi, don’t fret. Just rest. Talking will exhaust you.’

Laadli chafed the cold feet to warm them up. They were stone cold. A teardrop fell on the callused feet as she remembered their past beauty. Slave girls had massaged these royal feet with special emollients made of beeswax, fresh cream, saffron and honey. The henna adorned feet had never known a callus.

‘No! Don’t stop me from talking. I have to unburden my soul before I leave this earth, else I will not find peace.’

‘Hush!’ Laadli stroked the dry skin lovingly. It was burning up with fever. ‘Later, may be.’

‘No, no, I don’t have much time. Tell me, do you hate me, Laadli?’ the voice pleaded.

‘Of course not. Why should I? You are my mother.’

‘Because I wronged you. Because I ruined your life. I thrust you upon the princes, unmindful of the way you felt. I know how you winced each time I commanded you to entice Khusrau. I can recall the frightened look on your face. I kept pushing you because I wanted you to be an empress.’ The voice faltered.

Laadli moaned softly. The glorious Nur Jahan, feted, dreaded and revered, lay helpless on a cold bed. The fearless empress was cowering in the face of death. This woman had once walked with pride; a single expression of irritation on her face had sent nobles into panic. It now lay shivering under a mound of coarse blankets. Laadli cried at the injustice of it all.

‘Hush! Don’t talk.’

‘Let me finish.’ The frail body shook with hollow cough. Laadli held a glass of water to her lips. Meherunnisa pushed it away.

‘I loved the emperor. I really did. People said vicious things–they said I loved the crown more than the man. That’s not true.’

Laadli turned away. She had thought the same herself many times.

‘Please listen, Laadli. I cannot meet my maker unless I have confessed everything,’ she said, moving restlessly on the bed, her mind restive with a raging fever.

‘I understand,’ whispered Laadli, soothing her mother’s brow as she dabbed her forehead with a scented cloth.

‘That...that young artist...the one you loved...’ the voice tapered off.

‘Imraan,’ whispered Laadli, her voice choking with emotions. It had been such a long time since she had uttered that name aloud.

‘Yes, Imraan. I could never have allowed you to wed a commoner Laadli,’ Meherunnisa said agitatedly. ‘I...did you know that I had him killed?’

‘Yes, I did.’ She felt sick.

‘You knew! All these years...you knew that I was responsible for your lover’s murder!’

‘In my heart, I had always known my romance was doomed. Benazir warned me repeatedly, but I couldn’t help it. I loved Imraan, and foolishly I wanted to believe that we could get away with it. But I knew that you would not allow him to live. Love happened to me despite everything and I am happy it did. Those few months were the happiest of my life. I have never known more joy than those moments we spent together. My only regret is that he lost his life because of me,’ Laadli’s eyes misted.

‘My poor child. I am sorry.’ A trembling hand reached out for Laadli.

‘Everyone has the right to happiness. You, of all the people in the world, should know what it is to love. You found your happiness with the emperor...Tell me Ammi, did you ever love my father?’

‘I do not want to answer your question,’ her mother whispered petulantly.

‘You must–I have the right to know the truth.’

‘The truth is that I was married to him under pressure from Shahenshah Akbar.’ There was bitterness in the voice.

‘So, it is true that Prince Salim was in love with you before you were married off to Abba.’ There was sadness ir Laadli’s voice. ‘Was that why you married your husband’s murderer?’

‘Badshah Jahangir did not murder your Abba,’ said the empress, but Laadli suspected that she did not quite believe her own statement.

‘Anyway, what option did we have? How else would I have brought you up? There are compromises one has to make in life. I made some too.’

‘You were a good seamstress and a designer. We could have made a good living,’ cried Laadli. ‘You wanted to be the empress and that is the truth. All your life you wanted to be queen; that was your dream, wasn’t it? And it was more important to you than me.’

In her heart, Laadli knew this was no time to talk of these things, but she couldn’t stop herself. Words tumbled out of her mouth, unrestrained. The hot lava of her cached emotions poured into the room.

‘That’s not true, Laadli, my child. I always loved you more than anyone or anything else. I only wanted the best for you.’

‘Or for yourself.’

The room was still, save for the crackling of the fire in the brazier. Two pairs of feverish eyes accosted each other. ‘You must hate me,’ whispered Meherunnisa.

Hot tears rolled down Laadli’s eyes. All the sorrow she had locked in her heart after Imraan’s death broke loose. She wanted to hate her mother, but she couldn’t. The frail woman lying helplessly before her was to be pitied, not hated.

She shook her head. ‘Is it possible for anyone to hate her mother? How can I hate someone who has carried me in her womb for nine months? Nothing you did can alter the fact that you are my mother. Besides, I can’t forget the days at Burdwan when I mattered more to you than anything else. The memory of those beautiful years of my childhood have carried me through the long nights of my grief.’

Tears of remorse rolled down the parched skin on the gaunt face. Outside, the wind howled mercilessly, thrashing the windows with ferocity.

‘Forgive me, my child. I could never be a good mother to you. I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me before I die,’ the voice implored.

‘Don’t talk of death. You will live a long time yet. Don’t you want to see Arzani’s children?’

‘Arzani’s children! I am a greedy woman to want to hold her baby in my arms, but my maker beckons.’

A soft sigh escaped from the emaciated body. Moments later the head rolled to a side. Delivered from her guilt, the empress passed away. With a sob, Laadli hugged the wasted body.

The remains of the empress were interred in Dil Khusha gardens, where rested the remains of her beloved husband. ‘Bury me near the emperor,’ Meherunnisa had instructed Laadli. In her last days, she had marked the spot for herself. ‘I must lie under the shadow of my master. With him watching over me, I shall not be afraid.’

She had even written the verse that she wanted inscribed on her grave:

‘Bur muzaarey maan ghureebaan ney chiraaghey ney guley. Ney
purey purwaanaa soazud, ney suddaayey bulbuley’
‘On the grave of this traveller be so good as to light no lamps
nor strew any roses. This will ensure that the wings of moths
do not get singed and that nightingales will not sigh and weep
and lament’

For Laadli, it was as though she could finally breathe. Her last link with royalty had been laid to rest. She was just another middle-aged woman–no more, no less. Ironically, she looked forward to living the rest of her life, alone. No fetters, no regalia nor expectations–the beginning of a long and lonely life.

No one knows what happened to Laadli Begum after Nur Jahan’s death. No epic was written about her, nor was she the heroine of any saga. Unwritten, unfeted and unrecognised, the reluctant princess had spent her time on earth embroiled in the intrigues of an ambitious mother. If she bore grudges against the empress, she camouflaged them well in the deep vaults of her heart. Her loyalty and dedication towards her mother was unflinching, to the end.

History is heartless. It records facts as historians perceive them. It has no room for emotions and the intangible. Old monarchs slip into oblivion as new ones emerge. The magic wand of power passes from frail hands to the strong ones and historians are human too. The once feared and feted Nur Jahan simply dissolved into the mist as soon as the spotlight shifted to Shah Jahan and Mumtaz Mahal. History merely states that Nur Jahan lived a quiet life after the demise of Jahangir, at Lahore. She was later buried at Shahdara, where rested the remains of her indolent husband. It describes the unpretentiousness of her tomb as contrasted to the grand mausoleum of her husband.

Nur Jahan survived her husband by eighteen years, and these were spent in quietude, far away from the Mughal court. She had a generous pension to live a comfortable life. Shah Jahan was anything but miserly while granting her monies. But her creativity as a designer continued to delight the denizens of Lahore.

For herself, she desired just twenty-five yards of earth for a simple burial, nothing more. It is said that Nur Jahan, in a communique to Shah Jahan, had expressed her desire to be buried under the shadow of the tomb of Jahangir. She had also marked the twenty-five square yards where her body could be buried. Her humility towards the end of her life came from the spiritual disposition she had acquired in the company of her sedate daughter.

Nur Jahan’s final resting place was once a beautiful mausoleum filled with cypress trees, and blooms of tulips, roses, and jasmine. Fountains cooled the place with sprays of water and water channels quartered the gardens. There are accounts of an octagonal tower on each corner as well as a pavilion. The interior had arched and columned galleries through which sunlight filtered in gently on the tombs. The structure has since been stripped of its stone cladding, and the garden was irreparably damaged when the British cut a railway line late in the nineteenth century between the tombs of Nur Jahan and her brother, Asaf Khan. Today, her tomb is a sorry sight; hardly the place for the celebrated beauty who wielded so much power and was the de facto ruler of the mighty Mughal empire. It stands forlorn, desolate and uncared for, stripped of its original decorative work and pomp.