Nurjahan's Daughter

by Tanushree Podder

  ‘Here comes the good news,’ said one of the men, who had spotted Firdaus standing near the doorway.

  ‘Yes, Firdaus, tell us the good news. Don’t just stand there.’

  Her silence distressed Sher Afghan. ‘I hope everything is well,’ he exclaimed.

  Years of futile waiting had made him cautious. He got up and approached the nurse.

  ‘I hope all is well with the Begum.’

  His eager eyes scanned her face, trying to read the message on it. He does care, she thought. For many years she had disliked this man, whom she thought was far inferior to her cultured, artistic mistress. Over time, however, she had developed a grudging fondness for him because, beneath his rough behaviour, she saw the depth of his love for his wife. But no matter how much he cared for Meherunnisa, Firdaus knew that news of a baby girl would not please him.

  ‘Huzoor, you have a beautiful daughter. The mother and the child, both are fine.’ Firdaus waited for the outburst she knew would come.

  ‘Ya Allah! So that is what held your feet woman. This is the news that made you tarry. So many years of waiting only to hear this!’ he ranted. In a fit of rage, he kicked at the wine glasses.

  ‘What are we celebrating? The birth of a girl?’ he shouted. There was a wild look on his face.

  There was a deafening silence as the men in the room looked abashed. Firdaus cowered in a corner, suffering the flood of curses that poured from the master’s mouth. There were no words to console the heartbroken man. Ali Quli Khan Istajlu, the man who had been given the title Sher Afghan by Emperor Akbar, had been able to produce only a daughter after so many years of marriage. He ranted at fate’s injustice. He had never considered bringing another wife to his zenana, the thought of divorcing Meherunnisa had never crossed his mind. He had been a faithful husband–maybe a little promiscuous at times, but a good husband nonetheless. There were others, he knew, who had taken another wife just because the first could not deliver a son.

  One by one the men filed out of the room, leaving the man to his grief. They understood his feelings. A man who had no son was only half a man. They all had strapping sons. Daughters were incidental. They brought beauty and music to the house, but it was the sons who brought glory. They were the ones who looked after their parents, earned money for the household and carried the family name forward.

  Sher Afghan suddenly became aware of Firdaus’ presence.

  ‘It is not your fault woman. Go away. I can’t find it in my heart to reward you for the news you’ve brought. Leave me alone to deal with this tragedy.’ He waved her away, walking slowly towards the pile of cushions on the divan. Firdaus saw him reaching for a flagon of wine as she quietly withdrew.

  No one knew how long he drank or how drunk he got. All the servants in the household feared the short-tempered master and left him alone when he was in a foul mood. Even Meherunnisa kept a distance from her husband during his dark moods.

  Night descended swiftly on the house, its dark shadows reaching every nook and cranny that had been earlier lit up by the sun. The cicadas began their endless chirping, unaware of the mood in the silent house. The mother and child slept peacefully, undisturbed. The mother lulled by her exhaustion, and the child sated with the first taste of her mother’s milk.

  The sound of the horse’s hooves alerted Firdaus. Sher Afghan was riding off on his favourite horse, Mustafa, to drown his grief in some forest. The inmates were familiar with his long disappearances whenever he was disturbed or angry. He would disappear for many weeks on a shikar, only to return with trophies of tiger skins, antelope horns or elephant tusks, his mood mellower and temper restored. Or he would take off for a tour of his mansab to check on the revenues. Once again he would return with a booty of colourful silk, boxes full of condiments, heaps of jewellery or some fancy gadget. His moods were as mercurial as the weather at Burdwan.

  Yet, he could be extremely kind-hearted and generous. Firdaus remembered the time when a young stable boy had injured himself critically while trying to harness a wild mare brought by Sher Afghan. Sayeed had nearly lost his life when the mare trampled him in her rage. Sher Afghan paid for the treatment of the boy and kept his job waiting till the boy recovered. He would often saunter into the huts adjoining the stables, to enquire about the boy’s health.

  There were many who professed that the soldier was a ruthless man, but an equal number of people swore by his generosity. Firdaus–who had been closely connected with the fortunes and the misfortunes of Meherunnisa’s family–knew that her master was a simple soul who lived by his muscles rather than his wits. He was the exact opposite of his wife in every manner. She belonged to a cultured family, whereas Sher Afghan came from an impoverished background. He neither liked poetry nor understood it. He could hold his own on the breed of a horse or the advantage of using a dagger instead of a sword, but found himself out of depth when confronted with a discussion about the finer things of life.

  When Sher Afghan disappeared from the house for a fortnight, Meherunnisa was relieved. She was not ready for disparaging remarks from her husband. They both needed time and space to adjust to the new event in their lives. The child had evoked in her the dormant emotions of motherhood that had been repressed for so long. She emerged from her suites, a stronger and much happier woman, cradling her infant lovingly in her arms. Motherhood was such a beautiful experience that she wanted to savour it in peace.

  This was a child of many prayers. The numerous failed attempts had made both Sher Afghan and Meherunnisa despondent. While her husband had drowned his misery in wine and women, she had prayed, fasted, tied amulets on her arms, fed the poor at dargahs, just so she could hold her child in her arms.

  For the first few years the couple had held on to the slender thread of hope. They clung to each other, bonded by the skeins of a common sorrow. With each miscarriage came a fresh strain on the fragile bond, threatening their relationship. The sympathy Sher Afghan had for his wife slowly turned into disdain and he kept away for long periods, seeking solace in the arms of nautch girls.

  Bound by his duties at the court, Sher Afghan travelled all over the country, quelling rebellion and subjugating mutinous states. While her husband earned laurels with his valour at battlefields, Meherunnisa served as a lady-in-waiting for the Persian Sultana, Bilquees Begum, at the royal harem. It amused her to think that she had spent more time attending to the queen than with her husband in the eleven years of her marriage. She spent the long, wintry nights thinking about what could have been. She tried to cope with her barrenness. But what could she do with the anxiety that filled her heart. Would her husband take another wife because she couldn’t give him the sons he wanted?

  Like every woman in the harem, Meherunnisa would be delighted when the imperial army returned home after a successful campaign. The news brought joy and hope in every heart as the women rushed to decorate their homes, buy new clothes and jewellery, cook special dishes and wait impatiently for romance to return to their frigid lives. The long winter in their lives was brushed off with hopes of a romantic spring, no matter what the season. Arrival of the men brought rejuvenation and love in its wake.

  Meherunnisa’s eyes misted whenever she recollected the years she had spent, pining for her husband’s comforting arms around her. Thousands of times she wished for a child; a child that would bring joy to her lonely life. And finally, Allah had answered her prayers. It did not matter that he had blessed her with a daughter.

  She bathed the child with her own hands and dressed her in beautiful clothes. Intricately embroidered dresses in pastel colours, lace-fringed caps and pretty shoes, she made them all. Meherunnisa sang lullabies to her baby, spent sleepless nights when the child had colic, went frantic if her precious daughter as much as sneezed. The smallest indication of sickness in the baby drove her to summon the hakim.

  Minutes, hours, days and weeks passed, yet Sher Afghan didn’t return to his wife and daughter.

  He came back after two months, only to leave
immediately for another tour without meeting his wife or asking about the baby. This time Meherunnisa was distressed.

  ‘Is it my fault that we don’t have a son? Allah has granted us a daughter after so many years, should we not accept his gift gracefully?’ she asked Firdaus. ‘Why is he upset with me?’

  ‘He will come around. They always do. It is just a matter of time. One glance at the innocent face and his heart is bound to melt. I wager he will love her as much as we do.’

  ‘I hope so,’ sighed Meherunnisa looking at her child who was happily kicking in the air, staring fixedly at the colourful silk ball her mother had hung above her crib. Laadli was a happy baby, smiling and gurgling through the day.

  ‘The next time the master comes home, I will take Laadli to his chamber on some pretext. I am sure he will lose his heart to her.’

  ‘You will do nothing of the sort,’ admonished Meherunnisa. ‘He will have to come here to meet his child. I want to see how long he can keep running away from her. We have a daughter and he has to learn to love her.’

  Many weeks later, tired of travelling, Sher Afghan returned home. But he made no attempt to meet his wife or see his daughter. Finally, running out of patience, Meherunnisa walked into his room one evening.

  She had taken hours over her bath, scenting and adorning herself with great care. Her pastel green silk bodice was intricately patterned with tiny pearls and sequins that reflected the light with each movement. The tight, green satin trousers were topped with an elegantly embroidered white kameez in diaphanous muslin. Meherunnisa had thrown a gossamer gold veil carelessly over her shoulders, enhancing the golden glow of her complexion. A heavy emerald choker adorned her slender throat, and large tear-drop pearls dropped on her bosom from a gold string wrapped around her neck. They had been a wedding gift from her father. Lodged in the parting of her lustrous hair was a string of pearls ending in a diamond-studded ornament. A string of red roses festooned in her hair let out a fragrance which mingled with the aroma of tobacco in his room.

  She walked with languorous rhythm, her feet gliding over the smooth marble floor. Motherhood had caused her slender figure to fill out at the right places; her angular features had acquired a softer look. The cheeks that had carried a sunken look just a couple of months ago were glowing with pleasant plumpness; the blush on them was born out of good health and happiness. Meherunnisa had grown more beautiful with each passing day after she had become a mother.

  Sher Afghan gaped at his wife. He had never seen her so lovely or happy in the eleven years of their marriage. This was a different woman, not the Meherunnisa he knew.

  Meherunnisa threw him a coy smile and advanced seductively towards him. Sher Afghan felt his heart revving up with a long forgotten beat as blood surged in his loins and he experienced a rush of desire for his wife.

  ‘Are you angry with me, my master?’ she said flirtatiously, stirring up his lust.

  In a voice hoarse with passion, he stammered, ’Angry...why...why should I be angry?’

  ‘I know you have every reason to be annoyed. I do feel guilty at having produced a daughter after all these years. But, think about it–isn’t it better to be a father to a daughter than to be no father at all? Haven’t we waited so long to hold our child in our arms? Now that Allah has blessed us with a daughter, should we spurn his blessings and hold back our love from her?’

  He could barely hear the words she spoke as he lurched towards her.

  Meherunnisa knew when to use her guile; she was adept at it. There lived no man who could resist her when she exerted her charm. Neither could her husband. He grabbed her in his arms and kissed her lips, savouring the freshness of her breath. His hands strayed to her bosom and she arched her back ardently. It had been a long time since Sher Afghan had made love to his wife. His hands moved over her body impatiently, tearing away the layers of clothing while she sighed with pleasure. Her body yielded readily to his demanding hardness. The rush of passion took them by storm till at last, spent with their fervour, they lay side by side on the huge, round bed near the fountain. Smiling secretively, Meherunnisa got up and stretched sensuously. He mumbled sleepily and stretched out his arms for her but she evaded his grasping hands and walked away.

  Minutes later she came back with her daughter and laid the child next to Sher Afghan.

  ‘Don’t go away, Meher,’ he pleaded, turning on his back. His passions sated for the moment, he wanted to hold her in his arms and atone for his conduct. Suddenly a kick landed on his side.

  ‘What the...’ he swore. Turning on his side he found himself gazing at the cherubic face of his daughter. Fascinated, he took in the perfectly formed limbs and the bewitching smile of his child.

  ‘Allah be praised, is the imp trying to kick some sense into me?’ he laughed. Gone were his dreams of nurturing a son, teaching him the intricacies of soldiering, sword-fighting, dagger-wielding and horse riding. They were suddenly replaced by his desire to watch his daughter grow, listen to her melodious voice and to hear the tinkle of her anklets as she ran around the house.

  ‘A daughter is better than having no child, isn’t it?’ he asked Meherunnisa.

  ‘Of course, it is.’

  ‘Yah Allah, this child is a spitting image of you,’ he said, reaching out to caress the child.

  Laadli gurgled happily, kicking her legs energetically.

  Tenderness suffused Sher Afghan’s face as he lifted his daughter.

  ‘I have named her Laadli Banu hoping that she would be your beloved child just as she is mine.’ His wife moved within the circle of his arm.

  ‘Laadli Banu!’ he mumbled, rolling the name on his tongue, trying to enjoy the feel of it. ‘That’s a beautiful name. Yes, she will be my beloved just as she is yours,’ he promised, his words delighting his wife.

  ‘I had never imagined that the child was so beautiful. She is perfect.’ Sher Afghan opened the child’s fist and spread out her fingers. Then he examined the little pink toes and the perfect pair of ears. His fingers strayed all over the child, delighting in the softness of her body. She smelt of a strange mix of milk, perfume and babyhood. He felt proud. This was his daughter, his flesh and blood, all perfect and beautiful. The powerful rush of his emotions made his eyes mist. He had waited so long for this moment.

  ‘Tell me, does she resemble me at all?’

  ‘Well, babies change as they grow. But I think she will be tall like you, because she seemed to fill my womb. And look at her eyes, they are grey like yours.’

  ‘I hope she is as beautiful as her mother,’ Sher Afghan’s eyes were ardent as they slid over his wife’s lissom body. ‘I have behaved like a boor, but I shall make it up to you,’ he promised, hugging Meherunnisa. ‘I will try to be a good father, I promise.’

  Tears of joy clouded her eyes as she clung to his strong body; he had not chided her for bearing him a daughter. Everything is going to be all right, sang her heart.

  ‘We must celebrate Allah’s gift to this house. It has been four months since the birth of our first child but it is not too late to rejoice. Begum, we will invite every emir in this area and throw a grand feast–a feast no one will forget. We will distribute silver and grains to the poor and the holy men.’

  The next morning he donated a generous amount of money to the mosque. The elated mullah offered a special prayer for the health and well-being of the child.

  The house was decorated with garlands of flowers and festoons of ribbons; the vases overflowed with fragrant flowers of all kinds. Special cooks were employed to prepare a grand banquet; Meherunnisa personally supervised the cooking, and prepared Sher Afghan’s favourite kheer herself. Dozens of dishes were laid out on the dastarkhan spread in the male section, with different types of kebabs and biriyanis, roasted meats and halwas heaped on them. Inside the zenana, the women rejoiced, congratulating Meherunnisa. They sang songs and blessed Laadli.

  Wine flowed liberally and there was merriment in the large mansion. A large troupe of musicians and
dancers had been called from the city to perform for the guests. The large hall resonated with the sound of anklets as the nautch girls performed, their dances punctuated by the loud appreciative claps of the inebriated men while the women watched from behind screens.

  Silver spoons, gilded toys, wooden rattles, yards of brocade, silk and satin, pieces of gold jewellery, pearl strings and all kinds of gifts poured in for the newborn baby, along with blessings of happiness. Matrons exclaimed over the fair complexion of the baby, and spent much time speculating on the child’s resemblance to her parents.

  ‘The next one will definitely be a male child,’ they told Meherunnisa.

  If ever there is one, thought Meherunnisa, smiling sweetly at the women.

  ‘You must hurry up with the next one so that you can have many children before you are too old,’ advised an old crone. ‘I waited too long and then I could produce only daughters for my husband.’

  There was much laughter at her statement.

  ‘And what do you think he did?’ she continued. ‘He went ahead and brought home three more wives. Your husband is a good man. I guess he loves you, for he has not brought home another wife.’

  The assembled women nodded their heads in agreement. Most of them had to contend with rivals.

  ‘You are a fortunate woman,’ they told Meherunnisa. She did not need them to tell her that.

  Sher Afghan was true to his word. He took up the role of a father with enthusiasm. The strapping soldier spent hours in the company of his daughter. His frequent hunting trips were forgotten, and so were his visits to the nautch girls. It amused the women in the household to see the tall man crouching on all fours to play horse with his daughter. For the first time in many years, there was laughter and happiness in the house. Meherunnisa was filled with contentment. She neither had to compete with Sher Afghan’s paramours nor bait him to return to her bed.

  For the moment she didn’t mind being at Burdwan, she cared not that it rained for months or that the musty smell was tedious. She didn’t mind the isolation and the humiliation heaped on her husband by the emperor. For the first time in eleven years she was happy to be away from the royal court. She didn’t miss the splendour and glitter any more.