Begum Sahib: Forbidden Love

2nd June 1634, Burhanpur.

" My heart is an endowment of my beloved, the devotee and lover of his sacred shrine, a soul that enchants mine." 

The Raja of Bundi had arrived at Burhanpur after a win in the war of Paranda. He had met the crown prince Dara and was honoured with a sword and elephant before he came to pay his respect to the Padishah Begum as per the norms of the court.

Jahanara was writing in her room. Her maid came with the news, “Begum Sahib, the Raja of Bundi has arrived at court; he is at the Bagh to pay you his respect.”

“Tell him to sit in the courtyard of my bagh, I will be there.” She had risen from her place, covered her face in the veil of her dupatta and walked to the place where he waited.

“ Begum Sahib”, he had acknowledged her presence with a salutation. She returned the bow with a nod. She was sitting inside the arch while he was on the other side of the Purdah, the sun shining over his head as he took his seat on the velvet carpet that had been laid.

She had asked him in a great hurry, “What do Rajputs define as love?”

“Pardon?” he looked confused.

“In our last meeting, you had said that Love wins over Power. I was thinking about that. What do you define as this love?” She reminded him, and the eagerness in her voice amused him. He smiled like she was an innocent pupil eager for the lessons of the day.

“Have you heard of Samyogita?” He’d thought for a while before asking.

“The consort of Raja Prithvi led even her child to the Jauhar Kund when he was captured by Mahmud” Her eyes had glittered like the light of the lamp. How she visualised everything!

“He had fought his kins in her love, fought for her honour, and she was his reason to return home. That strength and will the Rajputani promises when they say to die is to be immortal is what we Rajputs call love, Begum Sahib. They are the will to return home."

“Is it true that you people believe in afterlives?” She had frowned.

“I do not know Begum Sahib, but saints often say that the love that was incomplete today surely gets its ending in some other time and place, " he had said, like he believed each word “Neither do I know if it is true nor can I justify it to be not.”

Jahanara smiled. Cursed was she, who was not allowed to love. It would be beyond her royal ways to tell him how she longed for love, for a family to call her own, perhaps children. Every time, even the Gardener and his son smiled at each other and worked together, it made her feel jealous. Yes, Begum Sahib was jealous of a gardener. Who was poor and who was richer?

Aurangzeb had once again displeased their father. She read his letter with a sigh and called upon Dara to plead for the younger brother of the Emperor. Something in his letter disturbed her terribly. He had mentioned their father’s partiality towards Dara, who now had a golden throne beside the emperor. He was sent on an expedition to the Deccan by the emperor. Jahanara had written to the Rao on behalf of her father.

“Go with Aurangzeb, and prove your loyalty to the Emperor. Also, you should provide us with details of every movement of the imperial army.” The Rao frowned at the letter. He was sent as the spy of the emperor. There was no doubt about it. Probably because both Dara and Jahanara Begum trusted the Rajputs. Or perhaps him.

December 1635 to March 1642

Month after month, letters filled the room of the Begum Sahib. About the wars. About Aurangzeb and his plans. His movements. About the people around him. And the beauty and flora and fauna of the place. From sealed official letters of short formal messages, they became larger in length and no longer bore the official seal. There was a certain richness and poetry to the way the Raja wrote his letters. Jahanara replied with the urge to know more and be enlightened by his knowledge. She desired the soul that could enrich hers.

For Jahanara, the letters had become a part of her life. From the Deccan, the troops of Bundi were moved to Shuja’s army towards Gujarat and then towards Kandahar with Khane Khana. Months rolled into years. The letters didn’t stop. Even when the wars did. The description of places made her feel she had travelled with him, lived in tents and struggled. She celebrated his triumphs and mourned his defeats. She oversaw the construction of the Taj, and the white marble base was complete. She was planning a grand mosque once the construction of the beautiful Shahjanabad would be complete. Then she would build a Sarai or perhaps a market. She shared her plans with the Raja. He had praised her architectural ideas.

The year 1643...

The letters stopped. Jahanara was perplexed; was she in any way offending in her last letter? She assumed he wouldn’t feel bad about her views, like he didn’t about hers. Maybe she was wrong. But should the Begum Sahib Bow down and apologise? The vain Begum Sahib. Roshanara had learnt politics well. She whispered to Aurangzeb, who listened from afar. Did her letters fall into the wrong hands and get misinterpreted? Everyone, even the Emperor, knew she exchanged letters with one of his trusted chieftains. Was that the reason? Jahanara grew restless. She had, at times, in the carefully chosen words of her letters, mentioned how highly she felt about him. Was that what had made him stop writing to her? Had he thought otherwise?

Raja Chattar Sal was badly injured at war and went back to Bundi. The news reached her when he didn’t arrive at the imperial court with the victorious army. They praised his contribution. The Begum Sahib had visited the mosque after court hours. She knelt down and closed her eyes. She tried to find peace.

“Heal his wounds, he is a good man.” She heard herself pray. A sudden guilt crept in. Her brothers were in the war fields too, every day. Did she ever pray for them? Or worry if they didn’t write to her? She opened her eyes and breathed in heavily. Her heart was transformed. She denied it for too long. Why did she wait for his letters? Why did she care? Her heart had no room for anyone. Had Begum Sahib forgotten the rules laid down by the great Akbar?

She found her eyes moist that night. Those tears felt like blood. If she dared to show those tears, it could turn to blood. Bloodshed was the Mughal way to might. Dara and she were often called out of place rightly by Nadira. She, who was forbidden to love, was haunted by the stories around the zenana. Secret lovers, and commoners, who crossed their lines with princesses were never spared by emperors and princes. Such was the rule of the Harem. And she was to lead by example. She wiped away the hot tears lest someone saw them.  

She had dreams. Dreams that one day, as the city of Kanauj shook with Prithvi’s arrival as he swept away Samjogita in his war horse, against their kins, she too would someday feel a love that great. Jahanara did not deny her dreams, at least to herself. To love and be loved was probably the most common human dream that often remained unfulfilled around her. She remembered his words but didn’t believe them enough. Power and Might were always above Love. Then, while walking to her bed through the dark alleys, she stopped by the Khas Mahal, where the lamps still shone. She saw her father, tracing his hands lovingly over the painting of the mausoleum that was in the making. As though that was the face of her mother. She suddenly felt a strong urge to extend her hand to someone, wish he held it.

In a letter carefully penned, in the darkness of her cold chamber, she tried in vain to conceal her worries while asking about his health. The carefully chosen words did reflect her feelings, as her hands shook a little. What would he think of her? If he could read between her lines and understand her feelings, what would he say? Jahanara had smiled through her tears that night. The daughter of Shah Jahan was the most powerful princess of her time. But unlucky was she, who could not even love and choose willingly. The letter reached him when he was on the way to Kandahar for yet another war. 

A few months later, in October 1643, Shahjanabad

Jahanara Begum was overseeing the construction of the Sarai she had planned on the trade route to Agra. She was anxious every day as no letters arrived in her name. She prayed religiously at the mosque, hoping the Raja was in good health. Dara came by to give her news of Aurangzeb’s success in his latest expedition with great happiness. They would now request their father to forget all his childish, harsh actions for which he was often in his father’s bad books. Jahanara had called Aurangzeb home with honour. She also took care of the pregnant Nadira. After losing her first child, Nadira was anxious. Jahanara looked at her glowing face and smiled while telling her stories of Rajputana's brave hearts. For she had heard the midwife predict it was a boy. He was going to be the future of Hind like his father.

One day, a letter arrived from Bundi. It was addressed to the Begum Sahib and had no royal seals. She was on her way to the mosque when the messenger handed her the letter. She had gulped. Tried to take it with no shaking of her hand or a smile on her lips. The beating of her heart scared her. The eunuchs were trained to listen even to their thoughts. She ordered her bearers to travel to the most secluded part of the fort. She sat on a palki that once belonged to Empress Noor Jehan. Sitting away from the eyes of the Zenana, she opened the letter. The handwriting seemed a little shaky as he wrote that he was fine. He was at home in Bundi for the Holi before being summoned to Kandahar. His sons were growing up; during his war and travel, he had missed their childhood. He also had a daughter. “Will the Begum Sahib care to bless her with a name?” Jahanara’s heart sank. It was like someone had stabbed her heart and left it to bleed. She knew he had marriages, alliances, and children of his own. Yet, when he talked of them, she felt empty. A name for his daughter? She sighed. On the ridge was a lone magpie, singing a song. Wasn’t a lone magpie a sign of bad luck? She shivered.

“As I fought with my battle wounds, war after war, I had no desire to return home. My wives and children would always be taken care of. I may sound cold here, but I hadn’t found them reason enough not to die for my causes. But this time…” Jahanara’s throat was dry as she read. “This time… I had been injured, but I wished to live, I wished to fight and return to camp. To write another letter.” A lone tear drop blurred her vision “For had you been the Samyogita of Kanauj, I would have liked to fight for you like Prithvi.” Jahanara Begum held the letter tightly to her chest and let out silent tears. 

All these years, she had wished for a love, a love like this, and when it came, she could not gather the courage to extend her hand. She saw bloodshed, she saw fear. And with a heavy heart, she had written him a formal reply, carefully choosing her words, suggesting a name for his daughter and omitting any sign of feelings or reciprocating his. No reply came except for gratitude in the royal seal.

Around January 1644

She wondered in her lonely nights if he, like all other men, believed she was impure and found rumours of her incest with her brother and father as valid. He was one of those who believed in the rumours that dirtied her character and forgot her because his love, like all men, was limited to rejection. Dara had seen her restless and had assured her that once he was declared heir, he would talk to the emperor about her marriage. He even had a groom in mind. The brave Najabat Khan. Could she marry the man she didn’t love, if at all? But the desire to have a child of her own was immense whenever she saw Nadira cradle her child. Maybe the power of Hind could provide her with a little happiness.

But it was not to be. For that night, she had heard the Khan speak of her to Rahim. Speak of possessing her from the heretic prince and rising in power, to help Aurangzeb. She had sunk down at the fountain of the Anguri Bagh and hid her tears in the splashes of water on her face. They have linked her to several men, from the singer-boy Dulera to the kings of several states who enjoyed Dara's friendship.  Did men never honour women?

 26^th March 1644, Red Fort, Delhi

"By contracting her dress, fire has acquired such dignity that angels may well make their rosaries of sparks" ~ Karim.

Music and dance enchanted Jahanara to forget her sorrows. She had left her mother behind at Agra. She had yet again convinced the emperor and sent the Raja to war. Dara was weak. As much as Shah Jahan adored him, Jahanara saw the truth. Dara was not a warrior. He needed guidance at war. Chattar Sal could be the guide and protector he looked for. Shahjahanabad was beautiful and well-planned. A perfect capital. But her heart remained at Agra. Perhaps because her mother slept there now. How beautiful was the Taj and its architecture? The moment she entered her mother’s tomb, she felt goosebumps. She felt her mother was blessing her.

She was listening to Dulera sing. His voice enchanted her. How beautifully his voice reflected emotions. The dirty serpents of politics called him her lover. He had no pedigree. Jahanara Begum respected his art. But love? Her soul had always belonged to one warrior knight. This, they didn’t know. Shah Jahan hated Aurangzeb for his ways. Over the years, under the influence of Dara and Jahanara, he had learned to love all religions. Aurangzeb was called the white serpent by her father. This rift between them disturbed Jahanara. She was watching her mother’s family fall apart slowly. She felt guilty.

The Rao had gifted her Kachli in return for the rakhi she once gave him. She often held it to her chest and wished for his safety. The merriment ended, so did the flow of wines. The night was dark, and she struggled her way to her room following the dancing girl to give her some jewels for her performance. The veil of the girl caught fire from the nearest lamp. Without thought, the Begum Sahib threw her body upon the burning girl to help her. Her back was burnt completely. Two of her maids were injured trying to douse the flames. The girl died. The night of spring spelt disaster for the empire.

Shah Jahan left his darbar to be with his beloved child. As Jahanara lay unconscious for several days in her room, numerous doctors and fakirs tried their best to save her. The emperor gave away alms and prayed at Ajmer. When Jahanara opened her eyes after countless days, she was happy to find all her siblings together, worried, and standing by her bedside. Aurangzeb and Shuja left the next morning. Her sisters stayed by her. Dara informed her that he had left the war to the Rajputs and rushed to her side. The jealous Roshanara had tears in her eyes. She had seen the worried faces of her brothers. She had felt a sense of unending happiness. Not all the love was lost between them. It took her six months to stand on her feet again. She decided to visit Ajmer to thank the Almighty. Shah Jahan decided to build a Jama Masjid in her honour.

10th November 1647, Agra Fort

Aurangzeb had proved himself to be a great warrior. Ruthless too. The nobles who accompanied him were all gathered at the Diwan E Khas. The Emperor ordered the Begum to gift the chieftains gems and coins. One by one, they came to the court and bowed. She, from behind her veil, had sent them all trays full of gifts. Then came Raja Chattar Sal with his cavalry. He bowed to the Begum at court. Didn’t look up at the veil. She threw her pearl necklace upon his tray of gifts. He looked up with his eyes shining. Like he had got all the answers he ever sought. Jahanara’s cheeks grew hot as he bowed and left. The merriment continued.

That night, she had been lost in a dream, a dream of ruling Hind together with the Raja, and Dara by her side. They would together unite all of the Hind under the Imperial banner, and no Rajput or Mughal would fight among themselves. Stirring her best wine a little, she stared in awe at the newly made dome of the Taj. The white pearl drop as she called it, shone on a moonlit night. How she wished she could spend a serene night talking of their forefathers with him. Her father was leaving for Shahjahanabad. All she knew was that she was leaving behind a lot in Agra.

1654…

"This is obvious to every man of common sense, that kingship knows no kinship" ~ Qudsi.

Dara was more of a saint than a warrior. But Jahanara’s hopes were still on him. Her hopes for the liberation of women in the harem and peace in Hind were with Dara’s accession to the peacock throne. And her hopes were more with the warrior knight and his troops. He, who promised to fight for her, had he abandoned their side, like the others? Aurangzeb’s sword was indeed mightier. But wasn’t Dara’s cause reason enough? She sighed. He was, after all, the rightful heir. But wasn’t Khusrau too? She had heard the gossip of the Zenana; her father had killed his blind and helpless brother in prison. Were Aurangzeb and his men any different?

Probably not. Most of them called Dara a heretic. Her Father was ill. Jahanara tried in vain to write to Aurangzeb on the emperor’s behalf to reconcile before things went out of hand. The reply was cold: “He will suffer his misdeeds.” Begum Sahib shed powerless tears. First for her brothers, then her ailing father. And then for a love lost to fate. Power was proving to be mightier than love.

She had yearned to hear from the Raja. She had written to him for a picture of him that she might keep in her room. A cold and short reply shook her as it said, “Will the picture of a Chauhan Prince be worthy in a room of a Mughal Princess?” His coldness shunned her as she looked for peace in Sufism. Maybe love did wither with time. But what about his promises to protect her interests? Dara needed him more than ever with danger lurking.

Around the Autumn of 1657...

" Our world may crumble, our lives may end,
The soul remains with you, for eternity."

It had been years since that fateful day she received his letter, and she wrote no more. He was crowned king and was probably busy with his kingdom. Her father often sends him to war with his brothers. She spends most of these years planning and looking after the construction of the Jama Masjid of Delhi and the Chandni Chowk market. She had helped her father and arranged the weddings of her brothers.

On the emperor’s birth anniversary, Jahanara Begum arranged for a feast for the poor at Agra. Her slave girl Koli came running and waited for the eunuchs to disperse.

“Begum Sahib.” She tried to suppress her excitement. “ Shehzade Dara has finally found some alliances, it seems.” Jahanara stared at her in surprise.

“Nadira Begum has sent you the news.” She confirmed, “It's Rao Raja Chattar Sal, the king of Bundi.”

Jahanara’s heart skipped a beat. She remembered his cold reply. Dismissing Koli, she sighed in relief. Then an urge to see him made her heart flutter like a teenage lover. What if she never saw him again?

The position of Rao Raja Chattar Sal of Bundi had grown in the Mughal court because of his closeness to Dara and his valour in fifty-two-odd wars. He was still present at court when Jahanara had decided to visit Fatehpur Sikri and Sikandra. She had caught a glimpse of him paying his respect to her ill father and Dara, and she felt an ache in her heart. The gossip was doing the rounds as Shah Jahan fell ill and returned to Agra; the war for “throne or death” was soon to begin among his sons. Jahanara was restless. In her rushed decision to visit the tomb of the great Akbar and then Sikri, she took very few troops and her maid Koli with her.

Fatehpur is the beautiful city of Akbar’s dreams. She had moved around the almost abandoned fort. She had found peace sitting in the shrine of Salim Chisti. Like a prayer that came as easily to her as breathing, she had prayed for someone who would provide peace and enlighten her heart in this hour of need. She had heard horse hooves and footsteps. She assumed the soldiers were on their rounds. But like a dream, Rao Raja Chattar Sal came to sit before her, paying his respect to the saint. A moment of silence seemed like an eternity as she stared at him from behind her veil.

He finished his prayers and smiled at her. In his smile, she found peace.

“I haven’t received or replied to any letters, Begum Sahib.” He said much to her relief as they sat near the Turkish Sultana’s house. “In fact, the reason I am here is that I didn’t see you at court. And the lack of letters at such a time of crisis made me wonder if you had lost your faith in me.”

“The reactions of Aurangzeb and Shuja on hearing of our father’s illness scare me, Raja.” Jahanara frowned behind her veil. He nodded, “I had always defended their misdeeds, and so has Dara. Aurangzeb and Roshanara have been so hungry for…” She stopped. It now made sense. The letter was forged. Hence, it was short and unlike Rao’s previous letters. Perhaps Roshanara had a hand in this. Did she know of Jahanara’s feelings and convey the same to Aurangzeb? Her heart skipped a beat.

“Can we not stop Aurangzeb from such a sin?” She stared at him.

“You probably can. Give it a try. He still respects you. The rest he doesn’t care about.” He had said.

“I can write to him as I did previously. It will go in vain, for the people around him want him to fight, and he listens to them. He respects me but doesn’t care about me, and neither does Roshanara.” Jahanara’s voice seemed distant as she stared at the Panch Mahal. “People change.”

“They only care about power and alliances.” He had jolted her.

“And he hates us. He hates all the sons of Hind whose forefathers are not from a Turk house.” Jahanara sensed the tension in his voice, “The future of Hind only remains secure if Dara ascends the throne.”

“When… When Dara ascends the throne and I will sit beside his throne in Delhi and choose to live the life I want. Dara will think about the poor, the needy, the girl child and the women of his harem. He will think about the happiness of his sister.” Jahanara’s eyes shone as the Rao stared at the fountains, lost in thought.

“Except the Rajputs, none want to side with Dara.” He murmured. “And no Rajput will side with Aurangzeb.”

“My father’s loyal troops will help Dara, and so will mine,” Jahanara said softly. “And you help him lead.”

“If and when such a war happens, Begum Sahib, I hope Shehzada Dara will be ready to become a warrior”

“ Will Mewar help?” Jahanara asked, a little worried, “ If you…”

“No, the Mughal war of accession is of no use to Mewar. Or the Rajputs for the matter.” He had said coldly.

“But Akbar had Rajput wives, he married them and gave them all the comfort and…”

“He didn’t always honour them. Remember the Sisodia Princess, wife of the Raja Prithvi?” He had stopped her midway. Jahanara felt humiliated.

“I would have done anything to have an emperor like that set his eyes on me.” She retorted like a child, making him stare at her eyes.

“Had you been married to a Rajput, you wouldn’t have said that because Rajput wives honour their mind, heart and body only to one man.” He had said with a calm smile. The breeze blew gently.

“Had I not been in a Rajput’s heart, I would have died for his attention.” Jahanara corrected as her cheeks grew hot, and the Rao smiled.

“Had the princess remembered her Rajput warrior in her heart, all the while?” He had asked.

“All the while, and beyond this life and soul, she will forever remember her Warrior knight.” Jahanara had replied.

A silence made her heart thump loud as he said in a calm, soothing voice, “You know, Princess, when I received no letters, I still had an image of you I carried in my heart and believed would be waiting for me on the other side. Now that I hear you, I request you to tear a piece of your turquoise veil and wrap it around my wrist, as I promise you that nothing and no one can now stop Chattar Sal from protecting your honour and interest like a Ratan Singh once protected a Padmini”

Jahanara watched him kiss her torn veil now formed a band on his wrist, as he walked away to retire for the night. The night was sleepless for Jahanara. She remembered meeting a fakir once in Shahjahanabad. He had said, “Why do you seek happiness? Your soul has so much to offer beyond that,” Jahanara smiled melancholically. How she yearned for happiness that no title, power or riches could bring. How she craved to call him her own, have children of her pedigree.

“What are we but shreds of the past, and those who bear no seeds of the future are left to disappear in oblivion", she often wondered.

She wondered about his family. How would his Rajput wives treat a lady who could never jump into the fire for his life, or perhaps a lady who enjoyed more freedom and power than they did in their zenana? They would hate her. She sighed. They would hate her for who she was, her breed and her background. None, but they knew the love that was. She watched Koli sleep at the doorway, and the next threshold led to Rao’s room.

Her hand stopped at the wreath she was making. Tiptoeing out of her room, she reached his and slowly pushed the door open. He had been sleeping with a smile, so content that he had won a war that day. She watched him in the moonlight. Putting down her wreath beside him, she lay down on the floor beside him. Watching him sleep in peace. Such peace she knew not all her life. Suddenly, the sound of a vase falling startled her, and she rushed back to her room. Shutting the door behind her, she found her wreath missing. She had heard him enquire about the noise. How could she go back and face him? How could she face him?

Her action made her feel she had disrespected their love. He had never seen her without the veil. Neither did he ever cross his Rajput codes of conduct to reach her in any way. Yet, she had felt the urge to show herself to him, and an urge to feel his touch and kiss his hands like a wife kissed her husband’s. She lay down on the stone floor and cursed her thoughts.

At dawn, Koli said he had already left. Her father was ill and calling upon her as well. She peeped into the deserted room of the Rao. Her wreath was missing.