Autumn 1607, Akbarabad Fort
The harem was buzzing with activities since
early dawn; the concubine quarters woke with a crowd gathering at the common
bath, the ladies in charge of the kitchens spread varieties of pickles and
spices to be dried in the scorching sun, utensils clanked as men rushed to
put big bowls and pan out on the
kitchen courtyards to start the day’s cooking,
the Royal ladies of the Rajput Zenana made their way to the temples with
ladies alongside carrying plates laid with daily offerings, some Turkish women
sat at the fountains, enjoying the smell of tube roses and jasmine in the
garden, savouring on dates, gossiping while some braided their hairs and
massaged perfumed oil on their locks before making their way to the Hamam. Some
of the dancing girls were practising in one of the many rooms as the sound of
their anklets resonated in rhythm through the air. Cuckoos sang on the royal
poinciana trees, and the air smelled of spring.
Amidst the familiar hustle, she stepped
into the Timurid Harem well after a gap of almost a decade, and a lot had
changed dramatically in her life. She stood clueless, unsure of her future. It
seemed to her that experience had aged her twice her actual age. Mehrunnisa
had changed from the outspoken, opinionated, free-spirited yet naive teenager
to the quiet, diplomatic woman of today. Today, she was not the daughter of
the Emperor’s respected minister, the beautiful young teenager many in the
harem envied; she wasn’t her niece’s careless playmate, nor the heir
apparent’s muse, nor his secret lover. Today, she was reduced to the widow of a
general who dared to rebel against the not-so-merciful emperor, the mother of
an infant, and a common lady in waiting, hoping to serve the Dowager Queen to
sustain herself with self-respect.
She had an idea about the kind of rumours
that ran through the harem about her, even after a decade. The hovering eyes,
judgmental glares, and whispers around the courtyard the moment she stepped
inside the familiar surroundings suggested so. The palace grapevines were
buzzing with words of her coming back. While some said she had come to serve the
Dowager Queen out of guilt for her husband’s rebellion, others said her cunning eyes
were on the Emperor. She had, after all, wanted him all her life, for his power
and title; she had lured him to her side and hoped to make him hers. Some
dragged her parents into this dirty
plan, and hence, Asmat Begum sold perfumes to the Dowager Queen, and they gathered.
These gossips didn’t bother her anymore. She was here for her daughter, to provide her with a life nearly as good as her father would have if he were alive. Mehr un Nisa’s blood boiled at the thought of that day she had witnessed his blood-stained body lying at her doorstep, while she had to silence her coming wail and escape with her daughter. All her dreams were shattered, twice over. What nobody knew till the day was that she had heard her husband speak to General Koka, and she knew why he was killed. Who really killed him?
Not much had changed in the harem
courtyard. The big tree with its shed, nurturing the doves, still stood in a
corner, and the water fountains still danced. Under one of these glorious marble
fountains, she had first caught a glimpse of the man who changed her life.
Shehzaade Salim was a charmer. She had no doubt about it, the very first day he
set eyes on her. For the first time, Mehrunissa felt grown up, she felt
beautiful, and she felt wanted. She had no idea why she would suppress such beautiful
feelings that came as poetry to her heart. Today, standing at the fountain, she
sighed. How naive were the teenager and their idea of romance!
Rumours had manifested into tales about the
Prince’s interest in her very quickly, and stories of how she had seduced her way to the heart of Heir
Apparent Salim made their way into the royal household, thus tainting her
character in the eyes of many. She knew then that his interest in her did not
go down well with the favourite wife of the prince, Jagat Gossain, but she had
the faintest hope alive on the torrid love affair and secret midnight meetings
for a while, to turn into something fruitful. Her teenage heart fluttered for
the way Shehzaade Salim promised her the world, its beauty and poetry. Her
mother warned her that the Emperor would intervene. She was in a trance of
intoxication of first love, to even care. What she had, however, not known was
that she wasn’t his first.
She had expected Salim to try to persuade
his father rather than bed his father’s favourite concubine as a mark
of rebellion for not getting his choice of a girl. Something felt heavy in her
chest when she heard stories of his misadventure with the girl, her ill fate in
the turmoil of father-son quarrels and finally the rumours of him poisoning the
emperor. Nothing surprised her anymore, for she knew he wasn’t half the man she
thought he was. It hurt her self-respect how easily he had replaced her poetry
and her love with lust for a mere court dancer.
Mehr Un Nisa often wondered how shallow the
character of men sometimes was, how their ego made them do things that barely
made sense, yet made enough sense to cause hurt. She feared her new husband
would also judge her, for he was, after all, a part of the same court. But even
through her miscarriages and their tough times, her husband had been loyal and
respectful of her choices and opinions; he was indeed the kind of person she
deserved. Slowly but steadily, she had fallen in love with the man and made his
house her home. She had understood the difference between her wants and needs.
Today, as she stood at the threshold of the
Dowager Queen, with a little hope, a small prayer, not knowing what to expect,
she knew the Dowager Queen had lost favour with the Emperor since his
coronation. That was her hope that things would work in her favour. Sometimes
the palace grapevines did provide useful information.
Her tall, confident appearance, chiselled
chin, sharp nose, small lips, intelligent yet small eyes, and fair, glowing skin
clearly reflected her rich Persian heritage and the fact that she didn’t belong
among commoners. She was indeed somebody who stood out. Rukaiya Begum noticed
an aura around the woman the moment she entered her chambers and bowed.
“So, Asmat Begum told me about you.”
Rukaiya Begum spoke, breaking a beetle nut with a cutter and placing it neatly
in her Silver Paan Box.
“I am here looking for work, Sultana Begum
Sahib.” She stared at the floor, little drops of precipitation appearing on her
glowing forehead. “I have a child to sustain, and my husband’s pension has been
withheld by…” She bit her lips as Rukaiya Begum frowned.
“Withheld?” She asked, surprised, “Wasn’t
he…”
“He lost his life in battle.” Mehrunnisa’s
voice shook as Rukaiya Begum stared at her face. “He did not attack first, believe
me, Begum.” Her eyes shone as she looked up at Rukaiya briefly, and Rukaiya knew
she was not faking tears for sympathy. “He had no plans to rebel against
the Emperor, no matter what General Koka thought.”
“I am sorry for your loss, but…” Rukaiya Begum
leaned in, staring at her intently “But how are you so sure of his plans?”
“Because he was my husband, Begum Sahib, and
if anyone knew him in this world, it was me. Not foes in the mask of friends.”
Her words struck a familiar chord in Rukaiya’s heart. She looked up at the
lady as if she saw a mirror of her own emotions.
“He had helped Shehzaade Salim during his
rebellion and fell in the eyes of the late emperor. He understood his mistake and
readily surrendered and accepted the hard life away from here, in the remote
station of Bengal. He would never have rebelled again. We were just starting a
family. He was so happy.”
“Had you appealed for his pension?” Rukaiya
asked.
“Many a time. The accountants do not pay
any heed. It has become very hard to sustain myself. And my child is merely
two…”
“I
will see what I can do.” Rukaiya appeared to be thinking. “Meanwhile, you need a
source of income. What can you do?”
“I can design your clothes and jewellery, Sultana Sahib, I can guarantee you nobody in this harem will make them better
or unique, I can sew you quilts and veils, knit winter wear, read to you...”
Never had Rukaiya Begum heard a lady expecting a job under her speak of such
qualities. They usually spoke of the regular cooking, cleaning, and chores. Her
unique qualities made Rukaiya smile inwardly. No wonder she was not meant for
the job of a mere lady to wait on the Dowager Queen, like her mother expected;
she clearly indicated so. She was meant for bigger things. Beauty with brains, Rukaiya appreciated.
No wonder Salim fell for her. No wonder
Jalal felt threatened by such intelligence in a woman.
“What languages can you read?” Rukaiya
Begum asked, leaning over a velvet cushion, intently looking at her face while
she spoke, wiping away the tear droplets in the corners of her eyes.
“The language of Hind, Persia, our native
language back in Samarkand...” The familiar name brought back a sudden flow of
memories for Rukaiya. Her mother often told her tales of their childhood in
Samarkand, how the magnificent monuments stood out, and how the seasons were
pleasant.
“I also read poems of Sufi Saints, I know
the holy books by heart, and I can read books to you if you want, or write
calligraphy...” Her words seemed to fade in her head as Rukaiya wondered. She
looked at the woman in front of her. And
wondered.
“Very well. “ She spoke, making Mehr Un Nisa
look up with hope in her eyes. “Design me a dress for the Navroz festivities, and it will be treated as your trial period. You will get your allotted room in
the harem quarters and permission to educate your daughter here if I like
your work. Meanwhile, one of the ladies outside will show you where you
can get the material and threads you need before you go home. Bring me what you
offer by the beginning of Navroz, and we shall see what more you can do...”
“Thank you, Sultana Sahib, you are very
kind.” Mehr Un Nisa bowed in relief. A place to stay, Ladli’s education with
the children of the harem, food and security, work that would be befitting of
her qualities and a lady like Rukaiya Begum to serve as a pleasant package for
her. She knew how influential the lady was to the harem, yet she never had the
good fortune of a meeting or conversation while she was the Padshah Begum. She
had been present at numerous festivities and court sessions with her parents or
brothers and had always admired the graceful lady from afar. Today, she had a newfound respect for the Dowager Queen. Something told her that, amidst the
politics at play in the harem every day, this lady would side with her against
the odds. She needed Rukaiya Begum’s hand above her head to survive here.
Amidst the morning hustle and bustle of the
Harem, Asmat Begum arrived at Salima Begum’s threshold, bowing to the lady busy
with the princesses, drowned in their books. Salima Begum looked up from a copy
of Humayun Nama she had once been gifted by her own aunt, Gulbadan Begum, and smiled
at the lady.
“The perfumes you ordered, Begum.” Asmat
placed tiny samples of Ittar in front
of the lady, from her sandalwood carved boxes, each perfume separated into
coloured bottles. Salima’s eyes, however, were fixed on the door, where Arjumand stood, reluctant to walk in after her grandmother.
“She is here for her lessons, I assume?” Salima smiled as she nodded slightly. “Come in, my child, join the ladies.” Salima Begum indicated at a corner of the carpet for Arjumand, who looked up as if to seek her grandmother’s permission before sitting down. “The Calligrapher will be here any minute now. One of my Eunuchs will take her home.” She nodded at Asmat, who bowed in gratitude. She hurried out, as Salima Begum watched her go.
