Secret Meeting

1608, Akbarabad

Jahangir was strolling through the garden path late at night, unable to sleep. The torches burned bright, and the jasmine smelled like heaven in the moonlit night. He sat down beside a fountain, restless and wary. Today, the court session had worn him off. The expedition to Mewar had been unsuccessful for Mahabat Khan, and he was disappointed in his most competent general. The Rajputs at court deemed him incompetent for the terrain of the Aravallis. So Abdullah Khan was appointed on his behalf, while Mahabat Khan was to leave for Dakkhan to be with Pervez. The emperor was worried about his second son. After a first successful expedition, Pervez seemed to lack the zeal needed to win wars. He had sent the best mangoes from Barhanpur to please the emperor, but that did very little to the number of unsuccessful missions he carried out, and the opium addiction was on the rise, as reported by Jahangir’s spies. Perhaps Mahabat Khan, who knew the Dakkhan well, could help him and motivate him toward a life desirable to his status. Lost in his thoughts, unable to sleep, he sighed and stared at the clear sky. Innumerable stars shone in the night sky like a veil over it.

A faint sound of anklets caught his attention in the otherwise silent night. The anklet seemed to follow him around the corridors of the garden and stopped when he grew alert. The sound was moving away slowly now.

In a reflex, Jahangir took out his dagger and tiptoed into the empty corridor leading to the Zenanas near the Jahangirmahal. He saw a shadow move in the distance.

“Stop!” He said as the shadow increased in pace. “Stop or I will throw the weapon in your hand. I don’t miss targets.” The shadow did stop. From the looks of things, the person was wrapped in a pashmina shawl.

“Show your face.” Jahangir frowned, nearing the shadow carefully. The shadow didn’t move an inch.

“I said, show me your face!” As his voice grew louder and firmer, alert and scared that it would grab the attention of the guards, Mehr Un Nisa turned and placed her finger over her lips to tell him to hush his voice.

Jahangir’s eyebrows arched as her face was visible in the light of the corridor torches.

“Mehr...” He heaved a sigh of relief “Why are you...”

“I wanted to talk to you.” She spoke almost in a whisper, “About my grievances.” She was quick to add.

“Grievances?” Jahangir seemed amused. “Then be present at court tomorrow.” He said about to turn back towards the garden.

“No! Stop.” Mehr Un Nisa whispered a little firmly, “Why do you keep sending me gifts?” She frowned.

Jahangir smiled faintly. He knew what would bring her to him, and it worked.

“Because I want to get back what I lost.” He spoke, carefully putting his dagger away in the pouch.

“How can you be so...” colour flushed from Mehr’s face as her heart skipped a beat.

“I meant the respect... The respect you had for me once.” Jahangir cut her words short, interrupting with a faint smile, “What did you think I wanted back, Mehr?”

“Do not send me those gifts. I beg you. You are going to make my life difficult in the harem once again. “She sighed, looking away. “I have just started working. The Sultana Begum has been very kind to me. I don’t want to lose my job.”

“Did anyone say anything?” Jahangir frowned with sudden concern, taking a step towards her and stopping at her cold glance.

“Nobody dares to say things to my face, of course. But they speak behind my back.” She spoke under her breath.

“When did you start getting affected by what people say?”Jahangir frowned.

“I am a mother to a child. I don’t want her to grow up thinking her father was murdered by the people she grew up around, and her mother was a mistress to the emperor.” Mehr Un Nisa clenched her jaw.

“You still think I...” Jahangir looked disappointed.

“I said she will think...” Mehr Un Nisa corrected.

“So you realise that I didn’t...” Jahangir asked with hope.

“This isn’t about me. I am not here for me. Ladli shouldn’t look at me as a mistress...”

Jahangir felt irked. “How can you belittle what we had like this, Mehr? You think I treated you like a mistress? Didn’t you know I tried to....? I tried so hard! Arsh Arshiyani was not ready to accept us... I did try...”

“I am not concerned about the past anymore, Shahenshah E Hind! That Mehr Un Nisa is long dead and gone forever. Your constant shower of kindness now is what concerns me. I don’t want to be called someone’s mistress. I am the widow of a very honourable man. And your precious gifts do very little to increase your respect and a lot to decrease mine. I am not a child to be lured by gifts.”

“Those are for Ladli. To give her the life she deserves. The life she would have had at her father’s.” Jahangir corrected.

“Ladli will grow up with self-esteem and understand the value of things. Things only her mother is capable of providing for her.” Mehr Un Nisa said firmly. For a moment, Jahangir realised that ever since he became emperor, no one ever spoke to him in the tone she dared to use. Perhaps because, subconsciously in her mind, she was still speaking to Salim. Her Salim.

“Fine. I will stop. But what do I get for it?” Jahangir asked, crossing his arms against his chest.

Mehr Un Nisa let out a sigh and stared at him.

“I want something! Everything can’t happen on your terms here. I am the emperor.” He shrugged.

“I can say that I am grateful for what you did for my child, and perhaps I don’t hate you or blame you, will that do?”

“What about you, Mehr? Can I do nothing for you?” Jahangir looked into her eyes, and his heart raced once again.

“Make sure Mehr Un Nisa is not remembered for being your mistress. Make sure years later, she is respected for being who she is. Not cunning. Not manipulative. Not ‘cursed’ with opinion.” Mehr Un Nisa stared at his grim face “Can you do that?” She shook her head. “I guess not!”

Mehr Un Nisa walked away into the shadows from where she came. Jahangir stood in the corridor watching. Then he sighed.

Jahangir sat down thinking, Mehr’s words playing in his head, making him feel helpless. It was true, this world was perhaps not kinder to women like her; ones who wore their heart on their sleeves, or said what they felt without a veil over it, or had a clear idea and opinion about things. The world would perhaps never call him out for being a coward when she needed him to stand up for her, or when Nadira was executed for loving him. Every word stabbed his heart as, finally, realisation dawned with the first light of dawn.

“I know exactly what I should do, Mehr. I am not sure you are ready for it yet.” He walked away towards his chambers.

The story of Nadira, more popularly known as Anarkali, is original folklore and was written much later as a poem of love and sacrifice. Nobody called Anarkali ever existed. However, there is a tomb very popular as Anarkali’s tomb, most probably belonging to Shah Begum. Some contemporary writers did mention a rift between Akbar and Salim over a dancer girl who fell for him, but no such scandal is mentioned by Jahangir, Badaoni or Abul Fazl clearly in their accounts. For the sake of this fiction, she was a sweet distraction Salim took to, for losing Mehr and eventually her love for him cost her life.

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