The Timurid Princess

“Love is purest when innocent.”

The Harem at Kabul was buzzing with activity. Flowers were spread all over the corridors. Lamps were lit and servants, maids and eunuchs rushed all over the place in urgency. The small procession was visible from the towers, and the foster mothers ensured the rooms were well-organised for the tired travellers. Amidst the commotion, in one of the chambers, a princess was getting bathed by her ladies in waiting. After applying honey and milk, they sprinkled rose water. She was then clad in a very gaudy red Sharara belonging to her mother.  She checked herself in the mirror at last. Her Paasha was placed right over her parted hair, her eyes drawn with Surma, her lips red with Laali, and the ladies sprinkled scents on her. Her long, braided hair, adorned with Jasmine flowers, covered with a fine, transparent veil, she hurried with her jewellery, her heart thumping in her nervous giggle. Of eleven, she looked more like her mother, they said. Her peach skin was glowing, and her dark eyes sparkled in happiness. For most of the Harem, she was not considered beautiful, for she was of short build, for her age, and her face lacked the sharpness of most women of her dynasty. Her aunts would often say that being born in Hindustan made her a lot like them. “You are looking like an angel, Shehzaadi Rukaiya Begum.” The maids in waiting made the young princess giggle as they rushed with the final touches in urgency.

A proud mother was welcoming a prince, as he accompanied his father, from Persia, back to the place called home. They had successfully impressed the Persian government in their favour, in case of need. The twelve-year-old prince sat rather vainly on his horse, in his green and gold attire, and Surma-clad eyes searching the crowd of women who had gathered at the zenana entrance to welcome them. His eyes stopped at his mother, and he smiled happily.

Hamida Banu Begum was waiting with moist eyes for the son she hadn’t seen for almost a year since they left her in Kabul to go to Persia. he seemed to have grown more handsome in a year, and she wiped away her tears. Hugging her, he felt at home. Finally. He greeted his stepmother, Bega Begum, his aunts from his paternal and maternal sides, his cousins, and his foster mothers, Maham Anga and Jiji Anga. They had all been waiting for him. Bega Begum kissed his forehead, blessing him. It was then that his eyes searched for another face, the one he hadn’t even realised was missing till now. His searching eyes met his mother’s gaze awkwardly.

“Go to your chambers, Jalal.” Hamida Banu shared a smile with Bega Begum. “You must be tired.”

 “Shehzaade Azeem Jalaluddin Mohammad is here.” The guard’s announcement alarmed her.

She hurried to his room, through the corridor, her anklets making music and reached the room from the other side, faster than him.  She then sat on the couch near his bed, eagerly waiting, heart thumping in excitement, her eyes fixed on the door.

Jalal stopped at the threshold at her sight. Did he expect her here? Of course, he did. She stared at him once, with cold eyes, and then went back to playing with her jewellery. He smiled. He knew he was going to face this; after all, he had not kept his promise.

“I will send you messages from there, each week.” He had repeated after her before leaving, “Promise.” The messages stopped coming in three months as they had to wait anxiously for months to pass to hear from the troops that had left; he was busy, moving from one place to another, watching his father, admiring his aim to win back the Din Panah. He wanted to be an able heir to the throne. In the passion for power, he had forgotten even his hunger, and she was… who was she?

First cousin, first friend, and the first chance at love. Or what he could understand of it. She had been it all. The childhood playmates were married in a hurry almost two years back by his father, after her father and his brother, Hindal Mirza, died in battle. Although the Harem rumours said that her father was secretly planning to go against his stepbrother, none of Humayun’s ladies made her or her mother feel so. At first, things were awkward, but when he started learning warfare, his deft increased at shooting, and she had her own lessons at home, with poetry and the Quran. They were in a relationship that neither was able to understand. However, their friendship had grown stronger, with care, waiting, and dreams. And here she was acting angry when he knew that the girl was the happiest that he had been here.

“Shehzaadi Rukaiya Begum.” He tried to bring out his voice of reason, “I can explain.”

“Who are you?” she frowned.

“What?” he looked surprised. “Mohtarma, is this a joke?”

“No! I am.” She said plainly, “I am always forgotten.”

“Shehzaadi I…” He tried to reason as she got up.

“Welcome back, Shehzada Jalaluddin. Have a good stay.” She rose to leave as he shook his head.  “When are you leaving again?” Her voice had a taunt. It was time to play the last card.

“Rukaiya!” he stopped her. “I will not give you what I got for you if you don’t sit here and talk to me about my adventures.”

It worked; he smiled in silent victory as she smiled, turning and running back to him, her anklets making music.

“What did you get for me?” She placed her hand before him, her eyes eager and bright.

“First, tell me that you forgive me.” He smirked.

“Jalal! What did you bring?” She frowned.

“Tell me…” he was adamant. She always gave in.

“Yes, yes, I forgive you, tell me now!” He smiled, taking out the Persian ring he had bought at a market, hiding from his father and his men. She smiled at it and then at him.

“Wear it.” She snatched it from his hand, making him chuckle, and put it in her fingers.

“How does it look?” She smiled, admiring it.

“Priceless, just like you," he smiled back, making her stare at him with wide, impressed eyes.

“I hope you are staying here, now?” She asked a little uncertainly.

“Yes, until the battle.” His smile faded “We don’t know after that...”

“What battle?” She frowned.

“The Padshah Ghazi will attack the Suris in a year if we win…” his thoughts trailed in the twinkle of his eyes.

“You will be the next emperor, just like our Grandfather.” She smiled.

“And you will be the Empress of Hindustan.” He replied.

In the small chamber of Kabul, two souls dreamed a dream so big that it would change the history of the land they were born in. Their blood was foreign, but they had never seen their ancestral lands. Since the time they had gained knowledge of a motherland, they had seen, loved and explored Hind, connected to its soil like a child is to a mother, and seen the struggle of their elders to fulfil the dreams once dreamt by Babur. They sat hand in hand, after almost a year, at peace, as he told her his adventures of the year in Persia, the magical land. She listened eagerly, dreaming of how it all was, weaving the land in her imagination with his words. Jalal stopped at her stare. He hadn’t known when she felt as much at home as his mother. He smiled, making her frown.

“What is so funny?” She saw him stare and narrowed her eyes.

“You are!” He laughed as she stood up.

“I am leaving then!”

“No, Shehzaadi, I was joking.” He held her back, “I apologise.” He bowed, making her gasp.

“Aren’t you going to rule Hindustan?” She frowned, “Rulers don’t bow.”

“But men do, to their women.” She smiled, impressed, and giggled as he watched her.

Rukaiya Begum watched him speak of Politics with Khan Baba at his chambers. She did not understand much but was proud of how he had grown. Jalal had perhaps turned into a warrior in these months.  Dinner was a very grand affair because of the celebrations of the day. She waited patiently for the night, for she had planned to read out to him some poems of love she had recently read. Jalal had a sharp memory and a thing for poetry, even when he sulked to get educated. Books were never his interest as much as politics was, but Jalal loved to listen to poems. Rukaiya had secretly spent the last year memorising some of his favourite poets and hoped to impress him as well. But the night grew darker, and there was no sign of him. The Padshah Begum Hamida Banu had ordered him to be set up for the night at her chambers instead of his own, and Rukaiya frowned at the empty corridor after waiting for nearly an hour. Her books lay forgotten.

She then sent one of her maids to check on him. The maid returned, bowing to her and informing her that Jalal had already slept in his room. Rukaiya nodded understandingly. He must have been tired from the long journey and political stress. She sat down on the floor of her room and ran her fingers through the pages of the books. She could not understand why she felt sad. Suddenly, in her empty chamber, Rukaiya felt alone in the crowd full of known faces in the Harem. Her eyes teared up with memories of her father, who had loved her the way he would have loved a son. If he were alive, things would perhaps have been different. But did Rukaiya want something different? Could she possibly have been any luckier? Jalal cared. She knew what he did for everyone around him. For a princess of the second family to the throne, as her aunts often put it, Rukaiya was lucky to be married to an heir. Most of them were to be married to men who would provide the clan with the best-armed men and elephants. That was how the rules were laid. Rukaiya should thank her stars, they often said. Rukaiya Begum held his ring closer to her chest and sighed. Perhaps her poetry could wait till the battles were over.

Rukaiya Sultana Begum was the daughter of Hindal Mirza, Babur’s second surviving son after Humayun. Born in 1542, she remained Akbar’s Padishah Begum, i.e. chief consort throughout her life, spending most of her life at Lahore, in his main Harem. She stayed by his deathbed and survived him well into the reign of Jehangir, being fondly remembered by both Jahangir and Shah Jahan as the most respected lady of the Harem. She had an active role to play in making a peace treaty between the father and son and also getting Jehangir married to one of her ladies-in-waiting, Mehr-un-nisa, later Empress Noor Jahan. She was buried in the garden of Babur in Kabul beside her father.