“Love is often tested; those with Faith can fight with
Fate.”
The sound of the Azaan often merged with the bells from the temples at dusk. They made music, the music of Hind. The
birds were flying back home, making shapes of arrows in the sky. Horses
galloped at a distance while the soldiers changed shifts. A peacock was calling
out to its mate somewhere in the wild.
The sun was setting at Lahore and at Chavand. Birds chattered
in the trees, filling the air with music, chaotic yet beautiful.
Padishah Begum Rukaiya Sultana was sitting
on the balcony of her palace, looking at the sunset on the horizon. Her heart
was perplexed as to whether her existence was at stake. She had no one to talk to, with Hamida Banu Begum and Salima Begum accompanying her mother to a Hajj pilgrimage. Harka Bai had chosen the right time to talk to the emperor about the future. Salim’s marriage was fixed to a
daughter of Bhagwan Das, by the emperor and Mariam Ur Zamani, and the Harem was celebrated throughout the day. She had felt the zenana would become a little more
Rajput over the next few years, something she felt was never the dream Emperor
Babur had dreamt. She saw a dove, perhaps hurt, struggling to make its way to its
flock. It kept falling, every time it wanted to fly. Rukaiya Begum walked up to
it and held it carefully, cupping her hands. She stroked the injured bird and
stared at its flock in the distance. They won’t take it back, because it was
bruised and imperfect. She then let it rest on the brim of the birdbath.
Sunsets were beautiful from the rooftop of
the Haveli at Chavand. The fresh air played with her unbraided locks, and she
struggled to keep the dupatta on her head. Maharani Ajbante Kanwar saw the sun
going down, first yellow, then orange, and finally a fiery red, between the
hills of Aravalli. The air had a sense of freedom in it today. The day was
indeed auspicious. The Rajguru had predicted the birth of Mewar’s heir, much to
the delight of the expecting Aarti Bai Chauhan. She had seen the Kunwarani
blush at her son, who smiled a happy smile. Mewar had rejoiced, gifts poured in, and everyone congratulated her. She saw a mother bird feeding her babies in a
nest, on the royal poinciana that was red with flowers. It took her back to
memories. Memories of bird watching with her mother, and with a young Bhanwar
Amar Singh.
The Padishah Begum did not approve of
Padshah Akbar Ghazi’s enthusiasm for other religions and his newly formed Din-i Ilahi. He dreamt an impossible dream of uniting everyone under one religion.
It was far-fetched and unrealistic. She did not dare to tell him, though, his
intolerance had reached a different level with wine, opium and age. Shehzade Salim was growing up and also growing away from her. She could feel it. He came
home to visit his mother and occasionally came to bow formally to the Padishah
Begum. Rukaiya Begum sighed. She did not expect him to choose her over his
mother. But every time she waited for the prince, with eager eyes, and he had
gone to see his mother, her heart ached.
Ajbante Kanwar had come a long way from
being the innocent child at Bijoliya to the diplomatic Kunwarani of
Chittorgarh to perhaps the responsible Maharani of Mewar. Today, on the brink
of another phase of life, she reflected upon it, with nostalgia stirring in her
heart. She remembered everyone vividly, all the people she had lost- her
parents, brothers, kin, and Champawati. Her smile faded at a realisation. If
Champawati were alive, she would have been married by now, just like Asha Bai,
Rama Bai and Sukh Baisa. No one talked of her anymore, like she never existed.
But a mother’s heart still ached, and her ears still echoed with her laughter. She
met her often in the realms of dreams. She had feared losing some people, but they eventually proved her
wrong; Kunwarani Heer Kanwar had sent
her a letter, with two of her sons, asking her to take them under her care and
make them able enough to succeed their father as the Rawat of Bassi. She had
also found people to call her own: Amar, Bhagwan Das, Aarti Bai, the queens and
their children, her family, her people. Then there was this man. They had
indeed come a long way. She smiled slightly, pulling out the dagger from
her waist. She opened it, and as the blade shone in the light of dusk, inside,
there was a very old piece of paper, his first letter. She smiled. Every time
he had been at war and not come home for months, she had reread this one letter.
She could not tell why. Perhaps because it reflected the tests her love was put
through and the belief that remained. This one man had perhaps changed her
life in ways she never expected. At eleven, the scared and unsure Ajbante
Punwar was adamant to prove him wrong; at forty, the Maharani could fight the
world for what he believed in. She sighed. People often said love faded with
time. People changed and grew apart. She often heard how the life of a king was
only political. How a palace could never be home. She was happy to have proved
them wrong. She was happy that he had proved them wrong. They had stood by each
other in the toughest battles and biggest sorrows.
The day’s events reminded Rukaiya Begum
that her name, her existence, her power, her position and her respect, everything
would eventually fade away with her. No one would remain, perhaps to remember her
fondly after she would be gone. She was amidst strangers from Hind, kin who
rarely understood her. It was not that Jalal never tried. He perhaps tried as
much as he could, all his life, to make her feel loved. He was bound to marry
again for an heir. Rukaiya Begum believed that. It was not his fault that ever since
Fatima, all she felt in his love was a certain pity for everything that she
could never have. Some days, this pity in everyone’s eyes suffocated her. She
had failed to trust him and his promises; he had never tried to prove her
wrong. That was perhaps what bothered her more. Jalal never tried to rekindle
the love they had lost through time. She wished this place were more like home,
and less like a political chessboard. Everyone had their own agenda and mind
games. She would lie if she said she never had her own. Yes, she had managed to
succeed in her own agenda, to be important in his Haram. She had been
diplomatic, crude, and at times very cold-hearted, for the sake of it all. She was
now the Empress of Hind, respected by everyone. Her child, her innocence, her
values and her soul, she had lost them all in the quest to have his love. The
title of Begum was indeed very costly. She paid the price for his love. To be
alive in his heart, she had killed the Rukaiya, who once loved and trusted
everyone, who was kind and forgiving, and perhaps spoke her mind fearlessly.
Ajbante Kanwar felt her husband walk up to
her and hold her by the waist from behind. She smiled a contented smile and
turned to face him. He smiled, running his fingers through the black and grey
strands of hair, falling on her face.
She smiled at him, holding his hand and making him stop. It was moments
like this that made her feel truly blessed.
Rukaiya Begum shuddered at the sudden pat
on her shoulder and turned to see Jalal standing with a smile at her. He had in his hand a firman, the official
invitation to the wedding of Salim and Maanwati Bai, waiting for her royal seal of
approval. He was evidently happy and adjusted her pasha to the right parting
of her hair, smiling contentedly at her face. Rukaiya Begum’s heart ached; she
forced a smile at him, enough to disguise her pain. It’s been ages since he
could actually read her thoughts.
Maharani Ajbante Kanwar had smiled and
hugged Rana Partap, hiding her face in his strong well-built chest, knowing she
had built a home that would not break over a throne, even if they were not
there; knowing she had successfully tied the warrior to her Home, and their
love would remain through their children, inspiring them, whenever needed.
Padishah Begum Rukaiya had walked away from Padshah Ghazi Akbar with an empty
feeling in her heart. She had made a home in him, yet somewhere she had been
lost in his idea of a home.
The two women, miles apart, had never known
how time had decided to make their names immortal, for the lives they lived. Their
struggles of mind and heart, emotional turmoils and difficulties were more or less
the same; their actions defined who they were. Their names entwined with those of their husbands, beyond a lifetime, in the
fond memories of their kin, which led to stories to be told and heard by
generations to come. Love is perhaps about the faith one carries in their
heart, and how much they are willing to fight for it, even if it means standing
against the world for what one truly believes. It is also about the fate that
entwines people and situations, often making people drift apart. That is perhaps
how love is tested, over decades and eras. That is perhaps how people remain
immortal; their stories touch our hearts and inspire us to find the love they once
lived, within us.
Ajbante Baisa died of a prolonged illness, which she probably picked up from their stay in the Jungle, at Chavand. After her death, Maharana Pratap married her sister, Ratan Baisa, and two more queens whose kin died at the Battle of Dewair. Her year of death is unknown, but Maharana Pratap approximately outlived her by 8-9 years, whereas Rukaiya Begum played an influential part in the lives of both Salim and Khurram even after the death of Akbar. Her sole intention in marrying Noor Jahan to Jehangir was to establish Turkish dominance in the harem once again. Salima Begum had a seven-year-long Hajj journey and returned before Salim's first marriage. The importance of Mariam Ur Zamani grew once he became emperor, but Rukaiya Begum remained the longest surviving consort or Padishah Begum of the Mughal Emperor.
THE END
