Summer 1607, Akbarabad Fort
The season of summer came in full splendour
at the Fort of Agra, where the Royal Poinciana were in blood red bloom, the
falling petals making a red carpet across the garden of the Jahangiri Mahal;
the waters of the fountain were running cool, the cuckoos sang in the afternoon
silence, and the tulips filled the gardens. Bulbuls sang across the palace and
flew to the large shady trees that stood on the other side, towards the old
Harem of the deceased emperor. It had been three years since, and a lot had
changed. Agra was renamed Akbarabad by Emperor Jahangir in honour of his
father, who had restored the city of Rai Pithora to its lost glory.
Mariam Ur Zamani had accompanied Jodha
Begum to Lahore alongside the Emperor for a short trip, leaving the reins of
the Harem in the hands of Salima Begum. Jahangir, to the pleasure of Rukaiya
Begum, had chosen a Persian wife this time, Sahila Banu Begum. She had all the
features of her rich Persian pedigree and the wit and knowledge of all the languages of the office. The moment she bowed to Sultana Begum, admiring her with
respect, Rukaiya knew she posed no threat. In fact, Jahangir’s growing interest
in his new bride made Jagat Gossain insecure. Three years have passed since his
coronation, and he hasn’t yet officially declared her as his Padshah Begum. Was
he in two minds, especially about her pedigree? Jahangir seemed to clearly lack the favour of the Rajputs since Maan Singh helped Khusrau. All major posts and
offices were being transferred to Persians and Timurids. It could lead to her doom.
In her old chamber sat Salima Begum,
writing a piece of poetry, a skill she inherited from her grandfather Babur,
while Bahar Banu and Sultana Banu sat patiently with their books at her
feet. Salima Begum was the official guardian
to both the princesses and made sure they learned as well as were skilled. She
took care of their calligraphy lessons as well.
Prince Khurram was at Agra too, being
trained in warfare. Rukaiya Begum decided it would not be wise of her to leave
his side unless she was assured that her Khurram could protect himself. He
also learned his Quran and lessons by heart and was interested in Sufi poetry, much like his grandfather. He often scribbled down his own lines, which he
eventually kept to himself. It had been well over a year since he had realised this
was no place for a prince who wrote poetry rather than one who was ready for
bloodshed. Poetry here was a sign of the weak and emotion. He wished it were different, but the Timurid throne had no place for a poet. He hoped things would
change in the future. When I am king, it will be different.
Khurram sat near the water fountain after a
tiring day, his hands bruised from training, droplets of sweat still visible
on his forehead, and a silver plate of freshly cut fruits by his side. His
attention was on the new book he had received from his Ammi in return for the
promise to train harder, the leaves of which smelled like heaven. He read
aloud, his voice echoing through the empty gardens on the spring afternoon, the
Bulbuls making music in the background.
“Ah, Love! Could you and I with Him conspire,
To grasp this sorry Scheme of Things
entire,
Would we not shatter it to bits and then
Remould it nearer to the Heart’s Desire?”
The sound of anklets made him frown, but he
didn’t turn, anticipating that it was one of his Ammi’s ladies-in-waiting sent to
check on his whereabouts. Instead, a sweet voice rang in his ears,
“The Rubiyat of Omar Khayyam.”
He turned. He had to know who here could
identify a poet by his four lines. A girl stood in front of him, in a pink and
golden Sharara, the dupatta falling
on one side of her arm carelessly, her braided hair falling over her other
shoulder, reaching her waist. Her milky white skin complemented her red lips and
Surma-clad eyes. She was about his age, if not less, and on one hand, she held a
bunch of grapes while on the other was a child, about two, clearly scared by
the sword beside him, like she knew what that was meant for. He put away the
sword quickly, tucking it under his belt, smiling at the child who still seemed
shaken.
“Who are you?” Although he asked the
question kneeling down before the child, who hid behind the girl watching him,
the question was directed elsewhere.
“She is Ladli, daughter to the late General
Ali Quli Khan.” The girl spoke, “And she is scared because she witnessed her
father being... umm... murdered...”
“What?” Khurram looked up at the Surma-clad
eyes in reflex. “Who...”
“ General Koka...” She said softly as
though she feared being heard.
“He is Abbu’s foster brother,” Khurram
spoke in a murmur, and the girl immediately stared at him like she had seen a
ghost, stepping back a good two steps with a short bow.
“Shehzaade... I ... didn’t know...”
“Khurram.” He stood up with a compassionate
smile. “I didn’t expect a child’s nurse to know...”
“What?” She looked up, frowning at his
words, “I am not her nurse, I am her cousin!”
“My apologies, umm... Lady?” Khurram bowed, making her gasp a little, conscious of where she stood.
“I need to go!” In a reflex, she picked up
the scared child and ran across the orchard, leaving her bunch of grapes
behind.
“Hey, wait, your...” Khurram picked it up, watching the retreating figure with a frown on his face that turned into a
smile as he shook his head and sat down again, turning a leaf of his book.
It was evening, and the moon shone brightly
over the waters of the Yamuna as lamps shone in the Harem of the ladies. Faint
music from the dancing hall reached her ears as Rukaiya sat on one of the
windows, enjoying the spring breeze. A hug from behind made her smile as
Khurram promptly lay his head on her lap and lay down on the cold stone floor.
“What are you doing, Shehzaade?” She smiled, running her fingers through his hair. “You will catch a cold.”
“Shah Ammi...” He spoke unmindfully, staring
at the star-studded sky.
“Hmm?” Rukaiya looked up as well, as he
spoke almost in a whisper, “Did Uncle Koka really kill Ali Quli?” Rukaiya
frowned at his words.
“Who told you that?”
“There was this... umm... I heard...”
“They killed each other; nobody knows what
happened,” Rukaiya spoke, sounding a little aloof. “Besides, it is the Emperor’s
concern, not our business.”
“But...” Khurram sat up, holding her hand.
“His daughter is only two, and she saw everything!”
“Did she?” Rukaiya frowned.
“Yes, and she seemed scared at the sight of
swords.” He looked sad “Can we not help them?”
“Help them?” Rukaiya frowned. “Well, her
mother can find some work...”
“Can’t you keep them? Maybe we can help the
child with education and...”
“ Shehzaade Khurram?” Rukaiya looked at him
suspiciously “Why are you so ...” She watched him turn a little red in the
flickering light of the lamp. “Tell me.”
“umm...Ammi.” He cleared his throat, “I am
afraid I may sound wrong...”
“To me?” Rukaiya smiled.
“There was this girl...” His words made
Rukaiya raise her eyebrows. Khurram stopped consciously. “I am listening.”
Rukaiya smiled.
“She said she was a cousin of Ladli...”
“What’s her name?” Rukaiya asked.
“I... don’t know.” He shrugged, “But she
knew the Rubiyat and...”
“And?” Rukaiya asked, amused.
“I think I need to know her name.” Khurram
looked away as Rukaiya smiled. “I have this strange urge to know her name, and
know her favourite poet and if she writes and...”
“We will see what we can do about that,”
Rukaiya spoke in a rather stern tone that made him look up.
“Are you upset?” He asked, unsurely.
“Why, I am!” Her words made him look uneasy
as she smiled, cupping his face “I never realised my child has grown up!”Her
words made him get up awkwardly and leave the chambers, while Rukaiya smiled
with a sigh.
“Oh, Jalal. How he has grown to acknowledge
his feelings like a brave heart!” She smiled at the night sky.
Asmat Begum was determined to make the
Dowager Queen happy with her fresh set of perfumes, as she arrived at the
Harem twice a week with her granddaughter in tow, helping her with the
boxes. She had two extra mouths to feed at home and hoped that the grief-stricken Mehr would eventually take up her perfume business. She had mentioned
Mehr, bringing her infant to meet the Dowager Queen the previous day, and she
had been sympathetic to the sudden turn of fate the young widow had faced. If
rumours were to be believed, then Jahangir had instructed Koka to kill Ali
Quli, jealous that his former flame was happy with her husband, and things went
a little out of hand, with Quli managing to serve Koka some deadly blows and
the Emperor declaring an investigation of the matter. Asmat Begum knew there
was no smoke without fire, and she was aware that the Dowager Queen believed
the same. If Jahangir was responsible for her daughter’s sad state, the least
she expected from the Harem was a boost in her business.
“Here are the new scents I told you about, Sultana Sahib..." She placed down a few bottles from the box.
“Who is she?” Rukaiya stared at the girl in
tow “You didn’t introduce her the last day ...”
“Pardon me...This is Arjumand Banu. She is
the daughter of my eldest son, Asaf.” Asmat had pushed the girl towards Rukaiya
Begum, who stopped picking up a scented bottle and stared at the girl. She was
indeed beautiful, with a sharply pointed nose and high jaws, indeed signs of a
good Persian gene. The girl bowed awkwardly, looking a little uneasy, perhaps
because she was not used to being dressed up like this.
Rukaiya smiled at the ladies. “How are your
daughter and granddaughter doing, Asmat Begum?”
“They are a little in shock still, Sultana
Sahib, but she is recovering, for the sake of her child.”
“You can write in calligraphy?” The next
question was directed towards Arjumand Banu, who looked nervous.
“ I ... no... not yet... but I....”
“Very well.” Rukaiya smiled. “Asmat, please
bring your daughter to me tomorrow. I think I may find some work for her here,
and also provide accommodation to her along with the child.”
“Oh, Sultana Sahib!” Asmat looked
overwhelmed. “You are too generous.”
“And Arjumand...” Rukaiya smiled at her, “You can join the princesses at their calligraphy lessons.” The girl looked
surprised at the lady in front of her. She had heard stories about the Dowager
Queen, but her grace and aura were beyond her imagination. She bowed,
overwhelmed at this sudden generosity and walked out of the chambers.
“Wait for me outside, I will take some
perfume orders from Salima Begum.” Asmat left her granddaughter in the garden.
Arjumand breathed freely, smelling the flowers, watching some butterflies fly
by, with a smile, when a voice behind her startled her.
“Why, it’s you again!” She turned to see
Prince Khurram, still in his soiled white practice clothes, the turban missing
from his head, his hair flowing in curls over his shoulder.
“I...” she bowed promptly.
“You didn’t tell me your name that day!”
“It’s Arjumand Banu, your highness.”
“It’s Shehzaade Khurram, Khurram to my
friends.” He smiled.
“Friends?” She looked up, murmuring.
“Maybe not yet, but I would like to be
friends with someone who knows the poetry of Omar Khayyam by heart.” His smile
met hers as she nodded.
“It will be an honour, Shehzaade. But I
prefer Rumi more if you ask me.”
“And me, Hafiz. Try it sometimes.” He smiled and walked away, leaving her to watch him go with a smile.
