Memoirs of Emotions

“They alone become immortal who choose the pen over the sword,

They alone are treated as humans, of flesh, blood and soul,

Who leaves behind Memoirs of Emotions, than Monuments of Dust.”

Kashmir, the valley that was called Paradise on Earth, was a sight to remember. Her dark brown eyes spotted two swans frolicking in the waters of the lake in the distance while the wind blew over it gently. For the first time away from the clatter and noise of the camps and castles, she heard the trees whisper to each other.  They made music. In her mind’s eye, she could visualise it all. Her grandfather was accompanied by the Empress in a boat, enjoying the serenity of the place. She had often heard her father complain bitterly to her mother about how the Emperor was being lured away from power by his queen, and he was completely attracted by the ways of religion and saintly ways, once, during his visit to the valleys. She stared at the distant mountains, blue hues merging into the sky above, patches of snow white and shades of green. Could she blame anyone who would wish to let go of their worldly attachments to merge with God here, at this Jannat? The sun shone on her fair skin, turning it a little red as tiny drops of sweat appeared at her temple, and her slave girl immediately came to draw the heavy Persian curtains to make some shade. She stopped the girl with a silent gesture of the hand. Today, she didn’t mind the warmth of the sun. It felt like her mother’s hug. She sighed, drawing the already drawn muslin veil a little more over her face carefully as she sat at the open dome atop her chambers. The white muslin dress she wore probably looked like a cloud on the blue carpet on which she sat.

Jahan Ara had an eye for observation. From how the water created ripples as the wind brushed against it, to how the sun rays danced on the tip of each ripple, everything mesmerised her in a childlike eagerness. It was perhaps this innocence that made her a favourite of the otherwise suspicious father of hers, Emperor Shah Jahan. As much as she loved being here, for the first time in many years, she remembered that the last time, she was younger, naïve, and had the protective arms of her mother by her side. She arched her drawn brows into a frown slightly at the sound of voices coming from the hallway just below her chambers. It disturbed her peace. Koli, the slave girl, went to peep through the Jharokha to see the guests who had arrived at the halls below. “Shehzaade Shah Buland has a meeting with some saints, and they are here.” She had informed with a bow. Nodding her head a little in approval, Jahan Ara smiled. Dara was so similar to her, in thought and action. She had been thinking of listening to some religious saints talk of life and God and enlightening her soul ever since she arrived at the valley. There was something mystic in the air and nature that made her yearn for knowledge of the unknown and unseen. Dara had acted upon her thought. She sent Koli to ask Dara if he minded the presence of the Padishah Begum at the discussion. Of course, he didn’t. He was delighted that she was probably the only one who understood his interests. Jahan Ara felt warmth in her heart as she heard the Hindu and Muslim saints speak of life, from behind the Purdah. It was time she could feel God as near to her as she felt her mother once. Before the law of nature took her away.

At twenty-five, Jahan Ara Begum was quite different from the princesses of her age and times. Not only did she enjoy being the most powerful woman in the land, much to the jealousy of others, including her sister Roshanara, but she was also not vain about it. She, unlike them, was not interested in spending her allowances on costly dresses and jewellery. She wore fine muslin from Bengal with the jewellery she inherited from her mother. She spent her allowance on books and charity instead. She didn’t feed off the power and politics of the Zenana and the court. Saints, Sages and God attracted her soul. She and Dara dared to dream the impossible. Uniting Hind. The Hindu and Islamic sects had been a war for ages, and each time, an invader, a conqueror or a king had benefited. If Hind was united, with the mingling of the two Oceans of knowledge and understanding, she would become the greatest culture the world has ever seen. Where every religion, man and woman would be equalled in the true sense of it. That day, the sages and saints had agreed on their vision. They had applauded Dara’s ideas. That Islam, Hinduism or any other religion in the world was not greater than Humanity. Humanity bound all, and these sects had similarities that people were unaware of. Dara was happy with the revelations. He had walked out of the hall with a content smile and rushed to inform Nadira of his Begum. Jahan Ara saw in his eyes the dream of ruling Hind in unity, and she wanted to sit beside his throne and exercise her rights towards the empowerment of women. Give them equality of education and inheritance. Perhaps abolish the rule that bound princesses and deprived them of happiness.

Jahan Ara had checked on the emperor, worried at midday. He was ill, and that was why they were in the valley in the first place. He seemed fine as his concubine reassured the Begum Sahib to rest in her chambers. Jahan Ara had walked away with slow, measured steps.

As the evening set in, slowly, over the hills, the white snow turned fiery red as the sky, and Jahan Ara once again found herself at the window, this time with her own collection of wine and the freshly made Date sweets by Koli. As the sun set behind the mountains, one by one, the lamps were lit to illuminate the palace. Scented lamps were placed in the small pool just outside her chamber, where lilies floated on the water. The scent of freshly bloomed roses filled the air.

Jahan Ara sank into the cushions of her seat, with the peg of wine in her painted hand, slowly stirring it. Darkness reminded her of things she wanted to forget, things that made her cry. It was the time of the day when everyone retired to their chambers; Dara with Nadira, her father with one or perhaps two of his concubines. It was a darkness that brought with it a sense of loneliness. She remembered a face in her vision. Dark intelligent eyes that often sparkled like the lamps that shone in the garden palace at Agra, twirling moustaches of Rajput pride, his stout figure, brisk walking and royalty. She sipped silently at her wine, hoping the vision would go away. Now, she could hear his voice. As clear as though it was yesterday. They had talked for hours in the Anguri Bagh, about everything under the sun. Under the watchful eyes of the eunuchs and guards, the veil of fate separated them. The afternoon would roll into dusk with their discussions, and she would often stare into his eyes, daring to be captive by his glance before withdrawing back into her cocoon. On her side was power, on his, perhaps freedom; freedom to choose, and be happy. Rich as she was, her wealth meant nothing to her at times. She often felt the poorest of them all. Especially when she saw Nadira. She, too, was a princess of the Timurid blood like hers. Yet her fate was different. Jahan Ara often felt the riches of her inheritance were a shackle, or perhaps the cost she was paid for her freedom and love. She was the wealthiest Mughal princess, perhaps the poorest in Love. Was it harsh to think that way? She gulped down the whole peg and ordered another. It was one of those nights she was scared of her own thoughts.

Jahan Ara waited for letters. Letters amidst all the royal formal ones, of wars, losses, profits, benefits, gifts and royal seals; One which arrived for her, without the seal, where the title of “Begum Sahib” was often dared to be replaced by her name. In the darkness of her room, she dared to blush at her name; she dared to brush her hand lightly over the ink, over his carefully written words, like she was touching him. The thought of it sends shivers down her spine, the thought of being near him, without the veil separating them. If she had ever dared to confess her own feelings even to herself, it was only after she was travelling between reality and dreams after the glasses of wine, in the darkness of her room. Otherwise, she would shudder at such a thought in her consciousness, lest the walls or the guards could read her mind. Her fate was written in a matter of two days. One, when she was born a princess of the Mughal Harem and two, when her father was crowned emperor. Her fate was sealed with the title of “Padishah Begum”. She couldn’t choose. Her life was only for the service of her kin. And perhaps, God. She would choose god over power, politics and bloodshed someday. But someday, after she could give up her worldly attachments and the attachments she dreaded.

Rao Raja Chattar Sal of Bundi was dressing his wounds at his camp tent. The weather at the rugged stretches of the Hindukush was unbearably cold to step outside in the dark. A fire was lit inside the tent to give him warmth. His heart felt heavy and restless. It was during these nights at the camp, after days of the long war, that he returned wounded and thanked the Almighty for keeping him safe. And then, almost as easily as his breath, he took the ink pot and paper and started writing a letter. He often wondered if his letters gave away his feelings. He hoped they didn’t. The Rajput Prince had no right to feel for the Mughal Princess. He smiled at his own thoughts melancholically. He had never in his wildest dreams imagined that a princess of the clan, whom he saw as sworn enemies to his kin, would actually be everything he ever wanted and sought. How strange were fate and destiny at play! He knew his feelings were meaningless. Saying them out loud would only create pain, heartache or perhaps even bloodshed. But the heart in the warrior hoped that his words were unsaid, not unheard.

He was happy with the outcome of the war he had fought. Kandahar was not defeated but suppressed by the imperial army, and he had happily contributed. He was called to meet the emperor, who was now on a short break with his two beloved children, Dara and Jahan Ara. To tell the truth, Rao Raja admired the kind of person Dara was. His thoughts and humbleness were indeed praiseworthy. However, he would never make a good king, perhaps rather a saint or a man of religious interest. The future of Hind was at stake. Chattarsal was often left wondering about it. He wondered about the future of Bundi and the Rajputs after Shah Jahan. The cause of his country had led him to accept the Mughal supremacy against his wishes. Who knew what else the Mughal alliance had in store for him? He had brushed away such thoughts at first. The sense of belonging, happiness and completeness she had attached to her name in the past few years rather unconsciously made his warrior heart her home. He hadn’t written to her about his arrival. He was looking forward to that spark of happiness in her eyes. The spark that was there only for him.

His heart made a funny leap of nervousness when the fortified walls of Kashmir were visible at a distance. He had stared at it, tired of his travel and wounds, like he was arriving back home, to Peace and Calmness. She personified them, ironically, even amidst the turmoil her heart faced every day. She didn’t speak of it, but her eyes did. Strangely, every time, he had understood her unsaid words and silences. Read between the lines of her letters. The sense of home, as she often said, was attached to a person and not a place. Maybe that is why he didn’t feel this way every time he arrived back at Bundi. This unknown, mysterious valley in the Himalayas, which he had never visited before, felt like home. They had arrived at the gates.

“Jaani, what do you suggest?” Her father held out two blueprints of wonderfully detailed architectural wonders. A mausoleum like never before. She smiled at him. He wanted a magnificent burial for her mother, one that would reflect the beauty and the greatness of her heart. She carefully inspected both blueprints. He smiled, waiting for her approval. A soldier was at the door, he bowed with “Alampanah, the cavalry of Bundi is here with Rao Raja Chattarsal.” The blueprint fell from Jahan Ara’s hand at the announcement as she got up in a hurry to leave.

“Send him in.” She heard her father say before she bowed gracefully before the emperor, asking for his leave. The dignified walk she took down the corridor to her chambers was perhaps the toughest of her life. She had smiled. Without fear of being seen and suspected, her heart gave in to her mind. She had shut herself up in her room and said a small prayer of thanks to the Almighty for keeping him safe. Her heart thumped in her chest at the thought of having him under the same roof as herself. She hoped he would seek an audience with her. It had been months since she had seen his face or heard his voice.

“Koli, dress me up for the evening.”

Her order had surprised the girl pleasantly. Rarely did her Begum Sahib order her to dress her like the other princesses did. After a bath in sandals and milk, with sprinkles of rose water, she was dressed in the best muslin saree she had. She wore the jewellery set of pearl chokers set with emeralds and diamonds. Her hair was braided with garlands of white flowers Koli happily made for her, and her nails and lips were painted red from beetroots. She put on the heavily decorated Pashmina veil her father had gifted her and sat down in her heaps of books in anticipation. She tossed a few pages here and there and barely managed to read two lines. In her mind, she was playing a scene. Of his bowing, of her smile, of eyes meeting and enlightened conversations. She heard the maids’ gossip that Shah Jahan had gifted the nobleman a sword and requested him to rest for two days there before making his journey to Bundi. He had agreed and retired to his guest quarters for lunch.

It was almost evening when Koli offered her some fruits she rejected them. The sense of hunger was gone as soon as she had heard of his arrival, and the thirst remained only to see him, hear him and be heard. A eunuch had come to bow at her door, “The Rao Raja wants an audience with the Begum Sahib. He is waiting in the hall after a meeting with Shahzaade Dara.” She tried not to sound nervous or excited as she said in a calm voice, “Send him to my courtyard.” She stared at Koli, who immediately left to arrange for the cushions and purdah in the courtyard. For once, Jahan Ara felt a sense of child-like excitement at the love she read of in poetry.

Rao Raja Chattar Sal was clad in a white angrakha and a golden belt, and a pagri. He had put on his favourite brooch and a pearl necklace. He remembered the necklace well. She had dared to throw it on his plate of gifts, at the Diwan e Khas, from her own neck, the last time he had arrived back from a battle. It was more precious than just a piece of jewellery. He often thought that it was his imagination that made him feel her scent still lingered on it, like she was near him, with him. He had walked into the courtyard, his heart racing, trying in vain to keep an emotionless face.

She had stood up to greet him, while he bowed. She nodded in silence. On her side were two maids, and on his, the eunuchs keeping a close vigil on their Begum Sahib. He placed his sword beside him on the cushion before sitting down on his side of the veil. It was a strange, yellow hue of the dusk today, and from behind her veil, her skin glowed in the light of the dusk.

“How are you?” He had broken the silence softly, “Begum Sahib”

How glad am I to see your face again?

She had smiled slightly at his formality. “I should be asking you, that warrior knight; you were at the battle and not me.” Have your wounds healed?

“Weren’t you?” A smile lingered on his lips as she stared right at him from behind the veil. Your prayers work every time, Jahanara…

“I mean, every time your brothers fight a war, you stay up in prayers too, don’t you?” She nodded. And you… mostly you…

 It was in a moment that her deep brown eyes met his black ones, and Jahan Ara felt everything she wanted to feel, all this while, warmth and a shiver down her spine. Her cheeks grew hot and red as she blushed and stared away.

“I had…” she said softly, “prayed…” He smiled happily. And I returned to you.

“I have decided…” she spoke a little seriously, “That I will take oaths of Sufism.” Maybe God can give me the happiness the world deprived me of.

“Sufism?” He had raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Doesn’t that mean renouncing the material world and pleasures and…” he had stopped. Us? You are giving up on us?

“No, not that, just attachments.” She finished. You, your love.

“I had been talking to saints and sages for such a long time. Maybe…” She paused. “… I am not ready yet, maybe someday I will be.” He had stared at her again with hopeful eyes. I am not ready to give up on my hopes yet.

“You are just in your youth, Begum Sahib, you have a life ahead of you, and plenty of time for religion and spirituality.” He had assured. I need you to be my strength in every battle.

“Right now, I know I am needed, to advise my father, guide my brothers…” I need you to calm my turbulent mind.

“You have more strength in you than you know, Shehzaadi. You have more hope than even warriors have on battlefields.” Don’t give up yet, we still have all our hopes on Dara.

“I hope that someday Dara will sit on the throne and then he can let me choose…” Then we will sit beside his throne, together and rule, uniting everyone under the imperial banner, you and I.

“What will you choose?” I fear our dreams will end in pain, Princess.

 “Happiness.” You.

They talked of her brothers. How Murad, Shuja and Aurangzeb were unhappy with the partiality of their father towards Dara. It could affect Hind and her future. The dusk set into the early evening as the sky turned a shade darker and tiny stars made a veil over the darkness. The maids lit lamps across the courtyard, and they flickered in the wind.

“I will leave the day after tomorrow.” He said at last.

“When will you…” Come back?

“I will join the imperial army in Deccan in a month.” He smiled.

“Umm… do keep us informed…” She had stopped consciously at the maids. Write to me.

“I will.” He had stood up and bowed.

“Thank You.” Her words made him frown. Why thank me?

She had stared at his eyes, hers glittering with perhaps a tear she hid carefully in the shadow of the lamp, in case someone saw it. The teardrop shone on her pearl-like eyes like a diamond droplet, but to him, it was more precious than all the diamonds in the world, for it was all she could show, for the words they would never convey. He understood what these few hours meant for her, after months of waiting.

A sudden guilt crept in. Back home, in Bundi, perhaps his wives and children waited for him the same way as she did. But he had never seen in their eyes what hers spoke of. Undying love. Strange were the ways of the heart and mind, the mind allied in marriages to benefit a kingdom, and lives were entwined by rituals, responsibilities and children, but the heart? It barely listened to the rational mind or gave in to its needs. It went in the paths less travelled and often forbidden. She was such a path for him. His will to come back. Chattar Sal knew that this was a moment of weakness. A goodbye like many more they have had before. Another time, they felt that this was probably their last meeting. He gathered all his bravery to pick up his sword and walk to the threshold.

At that moment, as she didn’t let the tear drop touch her cheeks, she wished he would break down the veil of fate that separated them, like the Prithviraj who once fought for Samyogita, he would draw his sword and embrace her and what they had. Jahanara watched him walk to the threshold with slow, difficult, measured steps. He stopped as her heart felt heavy. He turned to stare back at her as she stood near the veil while the maids were taking away the cushions. He sighed, shook his head silently, calmed the ache in his heart as much as he could and left. She watched him go as a silent tear dropped on her cheeks, and she quickly wiped it away before anyone saw her.

She had heard his horses leave. She had heard Dara was there to bid him adieu. She also knew that at the gates of the fort, his eyes had hovered around every single jharokha, hoping for a last glimpse. But she was not as strong as he thought. Neither was she as brave as the warrior himself. To see his horses gallop away, leaving behind dust. Every time, her heart sank like it was the last; every time he was at Bundi, she feared he would eventually realise that their love was doomed and he would stop feeling the same way. He would know that she was unlike his Rajputani wives, one who could never embrace the fire for him. Because man’s love was often limited to validation. Every time, she thought things would change from his side, and she would be left alone in hers. Her heart and soul belonged to him, and no man could own them again. She had vowed on the Rajput blood that ran through her veins also.

But each time, a letter arrived, with his handwriting often addressed to “Jahan Ara” and filled with words of a poet hidden in the warrior, it proved her otherwise. Their letters created memoirs of emotions, hidden from the world and its ways, the rules laid down by clans and creeds, in a Love so deep that perhaps even the Cupids were jealous.

Thus, Jahan Ara’s love remained hidden from the world, and when the letters finally stopped after the Battle of Samugarh, where Chattarsal laid down his life to protect Dara like he had promised her and her world was pushed into the darkness, she turned to the pages of her diary to hold the deepest secrets of her heart. The Taj, where they last met, is a symbol of Love for many, but few know the deeper story of love it witnessed one last time. Finally, after serving her ailing, imprisoned father, although Aurangzeb honoured her as the Padishah Begum, Jahan Ara was free from earthly attachments to completely merge with the ways of God in Sufism. She gave up royalty, riches, and jewellery, lived in a separate house outside the fort of Shahjahanabad and read and wrote on Sufism. Her whole allowance was spent on maintaining the Jama Masjid, Chandni Chowk and the Begum Sarai and Sahiba Begum Bagh that she built during her father’s reign and towards the marriage of her nieces. She spent her last days in the name of God. Finally, in Sufism, she had found the love she had searched for all her life.

Note:

“Only the dead have peace. Or not even they? Are not tombs dishonoured, on account of their treasures! Therefore, will I not lie under marble and precious stones, the grass alone shall be my covering, and when it is trampled down it grows anew. Because god cares for the poor.” As written by Jahanara Begum in her Memoirs called “The Life of a Mogul Princess”, when imprisoned in the Agra Fort in 1659.

I would request everyone to read her own words (also found in the Risala E Sahibiya), so beautiful and captivating that you will be left wondering what your purpose in life is. I was moved and touched by her memoirs and put in my words and imagination, a part of her life I gathered from history but had been missing in her pages, in an attempt to show her story. Her story, true to every word she wrote, had transformed me. I finally found that one book I was looking for all my life, and this fictionalised account is a humble try to show you her world through my mind’s eye. I hope that you will remember her name, even if history books missed out on it.