Begum Sahib : The Beginning of a Saga

“She who once dreamt of heaven had to live in hell, and find peace in God.”

Such can be a description if we look at Jahanara Begum’s life. 

Born in 1614 at Ajmeri Fort, and living there till the birth of Dara Shikoh, when she was just one and a half, she travelled with her parents through the Empire, living in tents while her father, Shehzada Khurram, fought wars. Jahanara, the Queen of the universe, named by Jahangir, was her mother's strength and father's pride. She took care of her siblings while her mother gave birth to fourteen children, some stillborn, some dying, in her nineteen years of marriage. While the sons stayed at Jehangir’s court, from a very tender age, she became her parents’ favourite child. She was back in Ajmer at the age of seven. That was the first time the Ajmer Sharif, Saint Salim Chishti and Emperor Akbar’s tales enchanted her. The fair, young, and innocent princess spends her days reading, her hair as dark as the night sky, and her eyes blackish brown, sparking intelligence. She was a reflection of the beauty her mother was known for. She was well-versed in Urdu and Persian. Luck turned when Khurram won the war of succession, and she spent four happy years with her siblings at Agra and Fatehpur Sikri. Away from the court in her own world, Jahanara enlightened herself with poetry and religion. But happiness was not to last.

17^th June 1631, Burhanpur.

" We were our own clouds of Dust, we are memories, we are memorials too." Juan Auliya

Mumtaz Mahal was dead. The light was gone from their lives. For a moment, as she cradled the crying baby in her bosom and saw her father hugging the lifeless body of her mother, it seemed to Jahanara that her life was slowly slipping away. She stole a glance at her siblings at the door. At seventeen years, she suddenly felt responsible. Watched her siblings stare, some in grief, sobbing, others silently. She had given the baby girl to the wet nurse's arms and placed her hand gently on her father’s shoulder. Dara was always the first to react. He had arranged for a state of mourning. Roshanara had given away alms. She stood watching them. Murad, Shuja and Aurangzeb had rushed to Burhanpur, leaving their work. The Empress was no more. Agra mourned. So did the country.

A few days seemed like a haze of eternity as she had helped Dara with administration work. Their grief-struck father was locked away in his room. For the first time, she was meeting so many people at once. Dara sought her advice on everything. Never had she stepped out to see how complicated running an empire was, a few days before. The day Shah Jahan decided to come back to the Durbar, her father looked older and tired. Worried she had given him her hand in the corridor. He had smiled at her. Jahanara reminded him a lot of his dead wife, not only in appearance but in generosity and kindness.

He remembered the first time he had held the baby in his arms. The wet nurse had almost whispered, “It’s a girl," scared that she might be rebuked, and he had seen his beloved Arjumand worried. He had held Jahanara with great affection and called her 'Janni'. Her eyes matched her mother’s. Even her cry seemed like a melody to his ears. He did not want to part with his favourite wife and children. They travelled with him. Emperor Jehangir was not very pleased, as the second child of his favourite son Khurram was a girl too, but the father couldn’t be happier. She was his and Arjumand’s first child. The fruit of their love. He would always love her the most. He had promised himself that. The empty seat of the Padshah Begum at the durbar made his heart sink that day. She had left a void in his life. Then he made up his mind.

Jahanara was glad to be back in Agra. Clad in a muslin dress she had ordered from Burdwan especially, she had sat down upon the cushion and removed the heavy jewellery. How they felt suffocated. She could breathe again. The air of Agra had a certain happiness in it. At least for her. She had mourned enough. Cried in silence, for the irreplaceable part of her life that was now missing. Sitting in her garden house overlooking the Anguri Bagh on one side and the Yamuna on the other, she was reading out a few lines from Dara’s copy. It was his notes on religion, something they would talk about for hours, just the two of them.  This gave her peace. His translation of Hindu texts really did teach her a lot. Her slave girl came running into the open area adjoining her Palki Mahal and bowed.

“Congratulations, Begum Sahib.” She smiled as Jahanara frowned cluelessly. Footsteps made her look up as Dara entered her garden house with a happy smile. She knew they were at the Diwan E Khas with their trusted ministers in a meeting. Her father had declared he would make a memorial for her mother. But why congratulate her?

“The Emperor declared that you will be the new Padishah Begum.” Dara dismissed the girl. “And will henceforth be titled Begum Sahib.” Jahanara kept away her notes and frowned.

“Me? What about his queens?” She had never heard of a princess being the harem head before; mothers and wives played their part in the country’s politics. What was her father thinking? Dara sat down on the marble floor, where the sunlight reached his glowing face.

“He perhaps trusts you more. It is indeed very good news, Sister. The official announcement is tomorrow." Jahanara sat staring at him for a moment as he continued, “The nobles will pay their respect to you standing at the Bagh, you can watch from behind the jharokhas and let the eunuchs accept the gifts for you. Congratulations, Begum Sahib” He left before she could utter a word.

“Begum Sahib..." Jahanara whispered the name as she stared at the ripples of the Yamuna. Even the name seemed to be someone else's. Like she didn't belong to it. What was in store for her with this changed identity? Could she really match up to the deeds of Noor Jahan and her mother at court? She missed her mother terribly at times like this. But a Mughal Princess must not be scared. She had promised her dying mother that she would be strong. No matter what. How beautiful was her mother’s face, even in death. She smiled in remembrance. How could a mausoleum possibly reflect that beauty and love in her eyes? She sighed. Her father loved architecture. Anything to keep him away from mourning would do.

She had expected the queens and concubines to hate her, or at least show their displeasure. But as Dara put it, she was indeed an overthinker of everything and was loved by all. The Akbarbadi Begum, his father’s third wife, had arrived at her chambers and congratulated her with gifts. She had placed her hand gently on the girl’s head and wished her luck. In a moment, her fears were gone, and she smiled at the lady accepting her gifts and blessings.

The next day she was bathed in milk and sandal. She was present at the court dressed in her finest muslin saree and her mother’s jewellery when her father gave her the title of “Mistress of the Harem” and also the rights to all the property that once belonged to her mother. After the day at court, taking gifts and respect from all the nobles present, when she had retired to her chambers, Princess Roshanara had come to visit. Three years younger, she was painted pretty with colour on her cheeks and lips and always had the best perfumes made for her. Roshanara gifted her some gems in a velvet wrap and sat down in front of her.

Jahanara asked her, “Have you been doing Charity regularly, Roshanara?”

“What’s the use of giving away the little I have left?” She had retorted.

“Pardon?” Jahanara frowned, displeased at her sister.

“Leave it.” Roshanara forced a smile. “So now, since you are the Padishah Begum, I suppose, you are going to run the country on behalf of our grief-stricken father?” Her tone had disturbed Jahanara. “With Shehzade Dara?”

“Shehzaadi Roshanara.” She had spoken calmly, “I have no intention to rule the country. The Emperor has his ministers who are and have been more competent. If I am entitled to give my advice to the emperor, you can give yours to me as well. And as for Dara, he is the future of the throne. If he runs the country along with our father, is it wrong?”

“May Allah bless your soul, Begum Sahib” Roshanara had left after a brief salutation. Jahanara watched her walk to her side of the pavilion, disturbed. 

She tossed in her bed that night. She tried to sleep on the cold marble floor. Something told her things were changing. Her siblings were no longer those innocent souls who had played hide and seek at the Paanch Mahal in Fateh Pur Sikri. She remembered those days of childhood. When Roshanara would pick flowers for her hair to look pretty. Dara once put a feather he found in his turban and sat down like a king. The wind blew away the feather as he chased it. Laughing, Aurangzeb picked up the feather and refused to give it back. Murad and Shuja would often play war with their wooden swords. Fatehpur Sikri would echo the sound of their laughter. She would sit for hours near Tansen's seat and imagine him singing to the emperor. She would sit in the silence of the Masjid for hours, even as a child. Roshanara was not her mother’s innocent daughter anymore, who spent all her time looking beautiful. Gauhara was growing up. Parvez Banu, her elder sister from her father's first wife Kandahari Begum,  spent most of her days away from politics and people, in drinks, perfumes and pleasure. Murad, Shuja and Aurangzeb were winning wars and leading armies successfully. Only Dara still indulged in his love for books and religion.

She now received fewer letters from Murad, Shuja and Aurangzeb. Most of them were formally addressed to Begum Sahib. Often, she would notice that the baby Gauhara was playing around the Anguri Bagh in the lap of her nurse and with the children of the concubines, carefree. She, who never saw her mother, never grieved the loss. Things were simpler with her mother around, or maybe the court politics and plans were kept well away from her, as she had indulged in poetry and music. She had a world of her own. She would have time to watch her siblings play and hold meetings with saints alongside her brother Dara. Carefree days of laughter had ended the day her mother passed away. Would her life be different if Arjumand Begum were alive?

Mughal Princesses of the Emperor’s harem were not supposed to marry. Akbar had made this a rule so that their heirs wouldn’t dare to claim the throne.

“He had made us victims for the sake of his country.” She had heard Parhez Banu Begum often say. Such a rule of marriage was not stated to her until she turned fourteen. She was then a little anxious, hearing that being a princess also came with a price.

Now, for Begum Sahib, it didn’t matter anymore. Her life was dedicated to the service of her heartbroken father, the path of Sufism and to her younger brother Dara Shikoh, the heir to the throne. She dreamt of a peaceful Hindustan that Dara had promised, with equality in the true sense. Where all religions would enjoy peace and equality, much as Emperor Akbar stated during his last days. But unlike Akbar, she found her brother to be more committed to the cause. He didn’t want to make a new religion or force people to follow it. Instead, he worked towards the common grounds of all religions. His thoughts often enlightened her. 

The rumours around the zenana were growing. At this rate, they feared the crown prince would become a saint. Jahanara herself heard the people gossip. She had called upon Dara and made her first decision as the Begum Sahib nearly six months after her mother passed away.  She had married off Dara to his childhood love Nadira, as her mother wanted. She had woven garlands and ordered dresses for everyone in the Harem for the occasion.  The festivities went on for a week at the beginning of spring.

That night, for the first time, she had taken out a piece of cloth from the chest in her room. A red robe, she kept carefully hidden. A bridal wear, similar to the one she had seen Nadira wear. There was no place for that in her life anymore. Or a husband or child she could call her own. She tore the veil away like her dreams. She watched the stars in silence and closed her eyes. In her dream, she had seen it all, a bridal canopy and herself. Her parents were happy, her siblings were making merry, and someone was waiting for her on the other side. Her heart was heavy, and she let her tears flow in the darkness of the night.

19th February 1632, Lahore Fort

"After wandering through so many incarnations, I have come to your Sanctuary" 

Jahanara had slowly started blending into her position as the Harem head. To make her job easier, everyone around the Harem has been cooperative. Nadira Begum and she spend hours talking about Dara and his thoughts. She had grown fond of the rose garden her father had set up at the Anguri Bagh, and in her free time, she made garlands and wreaths out of them. She arranged for the grand weddings of Shuja and Murad. Her mother’s first death anniversary was around the corner. As she helped her father select a perfect mausoleum design for his dead wife, she also arranged for charity and prayer meetings. It was the celebration of Shah Jahan's fifth year of Coronation as well. With the weighting ceremony of the emperor, many elephants and cattle were given away, and so were clothes and gems. Kings and Chieftains from all over the country came to pay homage to the emperor at Agra. The Diwan E Khas was buzzing with music and people every day for a week.

The Rajputs remained their closest aids because her grandmother belonged to their clan. There was something about Rajputs that always enchanted her. Perhaps, the numerous stories of bravery or the fact that she had Rajput blood in her veins. The blood she was proud of. Her wet nurse and slave girl had enchanted her with stories of Rajputana. Often looking away at the flickering lamp, Padmini’s sacrifice would give her goosebumps. Pratap’s might against Akbar made her wish she were that strong, like the Sisodia king, to stand against all odds, for what she believed in. Samyogita’s letter to Prithviraj made her blush. Dara also trusted them more than his other chiefs.

She had watched everyone pay their respect to the Emperor with keen eyes from behind the veils of the Diwan E Khas of Agra. The Rajputs sat opposite her end, in the courtroom. The Rao of Bundi was dead; his grandson had come to pay his homage. Perhaps a few years older than her. Stout, fair, and with a spark of intelligence in his eyes, his moustache was twirled with Rajput pride; he stood out among the crowd. He had silently walked up to the emperor and bowed, declaring, "My uncle sends you his good wishes, and he regrets not being able to come here today. He has sent me at your service with forty of Rajputana's best war elephants, some handwork and jewels for the emperor." She watched her father smile in approval and accept eighteen war elephants and return the rest to the prince. 

"We accept your service at court, Raja. You are welcome to fight for the Imperial army as and when we need you to." Dara had declared. He bowed again and went back to his seat, his face showing no happiness.

Raja Chattar Sal had always been a warrior. Being a descendant of the great Chauhans and a worshiper of the great Partap, the Hada Prince flaunted his pedigree with pride. His grandfather’s need for the alliance had driven him to unwanted marriage alliances and a visit to the Mughal court. Today, he had taken the oath to side with the emperor of Hind with a heavy heart. For his countrymen and their safety. What more could the Mughal court give him?

Jahanara watched the descendant of the great blood of Rajputs with keen eyes. Did a Prithviraja or a Pratap look like this? She had wondered, still staring at him, as the acceptance of gifts continued. She heard a whisper among the ladies. 

"I have heard he belongs to the clan of Prithviraj from his father's side and that of Maharana from his mother's"

"No wonder they said he is so brave."

"Seems intelligent too." Her stare made them stop.

For a brief moment, his warrior senses tickled with the sense of being watched. He looked around in vain until his eyes fell on the purdah of the Padishah Begum. A reflection of her mother’s beauty and her father’s nature, she was too young to be the Padishah Begum, or so he had heard from everyone around the court; he needed to pay her his due respects, too. Such was the rule of the Mughals.

Every significant courtier who met and interacted with the women of the Mughal Harem was often made the “Rakshabandhan Bhai” of the princesses of the Harem. This gesture had continued for centuries since a Karnavati once sent Humayun a thread. Akbar wanted to avoid any princess of his harem having affairs with his Hindu chiefs.  She had sent the same to him, a turquoise band for his left wrist in reply to the gifts he had to send her. He had replied to the same with a letter. He had stated that Rakhi was not for brothers, but for those you choose to protect your honour. “And I, as a Rajput, swear to protect you and your interests, as you chose me as your warrior.” Jahanara had smiled. She had found a sense of pride and humbleness in his letter. His words were those of a writer.

June 1632, Delhi Garden House 

It has been a year since Mumtaz Mahal passed away. She was mourned grandly. All of her father's chiefs came to pay their homage to the lady of his heart. Raja Chattar Sal had come to court with his uncle, Rao Madho Singh. She invited him for a meeting over Rajputana and its tales. Sitting in the Bagh, the Padishah Begum had, in her eagerness, asked about Bundi. And Rajputs. The Raja was pleased with this Mughal Begum’s eagerness and respect for his people. He had promised her many more stories of Rajput valour. She had thanked him as he bowed. As soon as he left and Jahanara watched him go, she sighed to herself. That night, his words and questions haunted her.

“Hind is condemned; we have condemned her, her own warriors and priests… “She tossed on her bed at the thought he had put forward.

After he had spoken of his state and his people, she had found a certain trust in him. She had shared with him the dream she and Dara wove, of the coming together of Islam and Hinduism under the same roof. The Raja had smiled like he didn’t believe it. He had reminded her that the seeds of hatred were sown deep in the soil of Hind by its warriors and conquerors. He had said that if at all the dream came true, he would be there to support Dara’s vision of peace. He would bring his fellow Rajputs as well. His thoughts had a deep impact on Jahanara’s mind.

Day after day, she waited for these meetings whenever the Raja of Bundi arrived at Agra, sometimes in her garden house, sometimes in the bagh, their sides separated by what she called the “Veil of fate”. They talked of everything under the sun, of Hind, its diversities, its nature, history, rivers and gods. Of the great kings and tales of chivalry.

“Tell me about the Maharana, hadn’t my great ancestor Babur won over his grandfather Sanga?”  She had asked one afternoon as the breeze blew gently. Her face was hidden in the veil carefully as she stared at his white angrakha-clad figure pacing the garden, listening to her talk about Padmini a while ago.

“Yes, but Sanga was equal.” He had stopped pacing and stared at the water of the fountain. Her reflection on its ripples. “Alone, Pratap stood at the Ghati, calling out to his brave men, to shed their blood for the motherland, and Maan Singh on the other side, against his own soil. For the imperial army.”

“Against his soil? But he…” She had frowned. Maan Singh was the nephew of Harka Bai and the Prince of Amber. The Raja called Mewar his soil. She frowned.

“Every time we fought our own people, Begum Sahib, there had always been outsiders who benefited. Hind had lost her own children and cried, soaking in their blood.” He had a certain flash of anger in his eyes.

“Akbar was no outsider.” Jahanara had retorted, “He was Hind’s own son. Born in a Rajput home…”

“I beg your pardon if I disappointed you, Shehzadi.” He was calm, and a smile curved his lips. “But the truth is, no true Rajput can forget the sin of Chittorgarh”

Jahanara sighed. “The Sin of Chittorgarh” was the greatest spot on Akbar’s otherwise spotless career. Sometimes, Jahanara had wondered. All the bloodshed for the throne among brothers, fathers and sons was perhaps a curse. Because of such sins.  She often got out of her bed and paced her room in such thoughts. When her father was fighting his own kin. Every time she heard him repent his actions against his father and Prince Khusrao. And every time she saw her brothers in an unsaid clash of ego and words. Karma, as she read, was true. Emperor Akbar also faced the pain of losing his sons and watching his beloved Salim rebel. He, too, had shed tears when Pratap died. Such great sons of Mewar, enchanted and inspired her. 

 “Great are the Mewar Royals and their blood, to which I proudly belong," he had smiled “Akbar, the great, was indeed an emperor of the entire Hind, but he was no match for the might of Pratap, you know why?” His smile was a proud one.

“Why?” Jahanara’s blood boiled to defend her pedigree, but in defence, she had none.

“Because there is a difference between love and power. Power creates lust. Greed is a sin. Love is never a sin. Love always wins. Pratap’s love for his motherland was always his strength against the Mughals. Akbar’s will for power was no match. Even your grandfather fought the Rana; he was told to retreat…” She had nodded. 

She had heard those stories a million times over. The war with Mewar was never-ending. She never admitted aloud how much she admired their self-respect and love for Hind. Something in his eyes told him he understood. That's why he dared to talk the way he did to her.

Before he took her to leave as dusk set in, he had asked her, “Begum Sahib, pardon my audacity, but can I ask you something?”

“ Raja of Bundi.” She smiled, “You don’t need to seek permission. You may ask.”

“ Why are you so enchanted by the deeds of Partap?” He’d asked.

“Because he could do what a poor, helpless Mughal woman cannot. Stand up for what you believe in.”

She had gasped inwardly for her own bashfulness. How could she say that out loud to a son of Hind, in front of the watchful eyes of her maids and eunuchs? Will the news hurt the emperor, who always provided her more freedom than the rest?

She had sat on a moonlit night with the water of the Yamuna glittering below as his words resonated in her soul. “Love always wins.” Love?  She didn’t have any idea of love that deep, could be so powerful.