Before Laadli’s birth, Meherunnisa had waited eagerly for the letters that came from Agra, with news and gossip about the royal family. She scanned the letters carefully for mention of Prince Salim, the heir to the Mughal throne. She went repeatedly through the fine calligraphy of the missives looking for the hidden messages. Her father, aware of her love for the prince, fed her little titbits about him. Through the years of her difficult marriage, her heart remained with the handsome prince who, in his ardour, had once promised her the crown and the throne. Laadli’s arrival took away some of her restlessness. She no longer pined for the exciting life of the harem–instead, she was riveted by every small step in her baby’s development.
Laadli turned on her side when she was just two-and-a-half months old.
‘That is pretty early. Children generally turn on their side when they are three months old,’ the nurse declared with pleasure.
The proud parents delighted in narrating the exploits of their child to anyone willing to suffer their enthusiasm. Meherunnisa wrote volumes about Laadli’s activities to her parents.
By the time she was a year old, the child was running around on her chubby legs, lurching all over the place, pulling out things, breaking china and creating a minor havoc. The little brat delighted in having everyone running behind her, especially her mother. The entire retinue of servants were always on the run: even a little scratch on Laadli’s knees could send her father into a rage. No matter how hard they tried, the child would manage to fall or hurt herself, and there would be dire retribution for the servant who couldn’t prevent her fall.
Although Meherunnisa enjoyed playing hide-and-seek with the child, she often ran out of patience. It was Sher Afghan who never tired of playing with his daughter. She loved it when he pretended that he couldn’t run fast enough to catch her. The game Laadli enjoyed most was playing horse with her father.
Laadli also loved listening to Firdaus’ stories. She refused to go to sleep until the old nurse had told her a story. Like a skilful weaver, the woman wove tales that mesmerised the child. Even when Laadli was just a year old, Firdaus would tell her stories of her grandfather’s escape from Persia, his journey through the desert and Meherunnisa’s birth. By the time Laadli was two years old, she knew all the stories by heart; there was nothing that absorbed her more than the real life stories of her grandparents.
Each night there was a tussle of wills as Firdaus insisted on telling her stories from the Persian translation of the Panchatantra, the Anwar-I-Suhayli, but the child was more fascinated by her grandfather’s escapades and insisted on listening to them.
‘Tell me about grandfather’s escape from Persia.’
‘Let me tell you a story from the Arabian Nights, the story of Scheherazade. It is about the most beautiful woman in Arabia.’
‘No, I want to hear about grandpa.’ Firdaus could foresee the beginning of a tantrum. The child was a consummate actress and could bring tears to her eyes in an instant if her demands were not fulfilled.
‘All right, all right I will tell you the story of your grandfather’s escape from Persia,’ Firdaus had to concede. ‘Allah knows why you want to hear the same story again and again, you must have heard it a thousand times by now.’
‘Because I like it.’ The child’s logic was simple.
‘Your great-grandfather, Khwaja Mohammad Sharif, was the Vizier of Yazd, in the far away lands of Persia.’
‘Is Persia more beautiful than Burdwan?’
‘Persia is the jannat on earth. It is like a fairyland.’
‘Can we go there?’
‘Well, you will have to ask your father. Now, the Vizier was a very influential man; even the Shah held him in great esteem and never refused anything to him. He had two sons–your grandfather, Mirza Ghias Baig, and his brother, Aka Tahir.’
The child’s eyes were round with wonder as she began sucking her thumb sleepily.
‘Those were the days of the glorious reign of Shah Tahmasp. He was a kind ruler–just and generous. Your great-grandfather lived in an imposing house with many rooms, scores of servants, fountains and arches, all tiled in blue and white. There were beautiful gardens filled with flowers and fruits, and birds of many kinds. Mirza Ghias Baig grew up to be a handsome young man with many accomplishments. He was not only brave and fearless, he was also knowledgeable. The Vizier arranged his son’s marriage with a beautiful woman called Asmat Bano. The marriage was held with great pomp and show. All the important people in the city of Isfahan were invited to the celebrations and for many days there was feasting in the house. The poor were fed and gifted with clothes, servants were rewarded and there was great rejoicing in the house.
‘The couple lived happily and soon three children were born to them,’ interjected Laadli who had heard the story many times.
‘Yes. Everything was going well, but the Shah was old and one day he died,’ Firdaus continued, fanning the child. ‘A crafty Vizier grabbed hold of the throne and a reign of terror began in the country. The Vizier was scared that Shah Ismail supporters would rise in revolt, so the wicked fellow ordered the execution of all relatives and supporters of the previous Shah.’
‘What happened to my grandfather?’
‘As more and more supporters of Shah Ismail were rounded up and executed, your grandfather–initially reluctant to leave his homeland–decided to flee towards Qandahar from where he intended to make his way to Hindustan.’
‘Where was my mother?’
‘She was not born at that time,’ Firdaus said stifling a yawn. ‘They packed some clothes and jewels, and along with a trusted servant, the six of them left the house at night and made their way towards the city gates. They took two of their best camels and a horse for the journey through the deserts. The city of Isfahan had massive gates which were being closely watched by soldiers so that no one could escape. Your grandfather had to bribe the soldiers to open the city gates.’
‘And when the gates opened, they rode away to the desert. They had to travel through many deserts for many months to reach Hindustan,’ parroted Laadli.
‘If you know the entire story, why do you want to hear it again and again?’ Firdaus said irritably, sleepy after the day’s work. ‘I will tell you the rest of the story tomorrow,’ she declared.
‘No, no, I want to hear it today. Just tell me a little bit more. Please Firdaus, up to the time my mother was born in the desert,’ insisted the two-year-old. That was the part she loved most.
‘All right, just up to the time of your mother’s birth,’ Firdaus warned. Thrusting a paan into her mouth, the woman continued.
‘On the way to Qandahar, some robbers attacked the family and took away all the money and jewels they had hidden in their clothes. Your grandfather sent the servant back to Isfahan because there was no food, and water was also scarce. Looted of their meagre belongings, the family trudged along with their children. Your grandmother, Asmat, heavy with her pregnancy, could barely walk. The heat and the dust of the desert made it difficult for her to move. During the day, when the sun was right above their heads, they rested under any shade they could find.’
‘What did the camels do?’
‘The camels also rested during the day. Camels are difficult creatures to ride. They lurch and sway so violently that one needs to hold on to them for dear life!’
‘But why didn’t they take the horses? Horses are so nice. I can ride Sultan when Abbajaan holds him for me.’
‘Sultan is a trained horse. Anyway, your grandfather had taken the camels because they are the best animals to ride in a desert. Horses are no good, they need to drink a lot of water and where do you think you will find water in the desert?’
‘I would have taken Sultan even if I had to travel through the desert,’ declared Laadli stubbornly.
‘That’s enough for tonight. I am very sleepy and so are you,’ yawned Firdaus. ‘We will continue the story tomorrow.’ She tucked the reluctant child into bed and made her way to her room.
Laadli’s questions had brought back many memories to the old nurse. As she lay on her bed, Firdaus’ thoughts travelled back many years to the stormy evening when she had helped Asmat Begum deliver a baby girl in a desert tent. Images ran in a procession through Firdaus’ mind. How could she forget that fateful night–the beginning of her enduring relationship with the Baig family. That night, the wind had howled frightfully, driving everyone inside whatever shelter they could find, to escape the sting of a blinding dust storm. The sun, which had been blazing just moments ago, disappeared, and a frightful darkness descended on the desert. In the makeshift tent standing under an arar tree, Asmat was groaning in pain. Lack of nourishment and the strain of a rough journey had made her feeble. Alone and untended, the woman moaned, drenched in perspiration while her distraught husband and children stood outside the tent helplessly.
From a tent pitched nearby, a trader, Malik Masood, heard the agonised cries of the woman. His caravan was travelling towards Hindustan with supplies for the great Mughal emperor, Akbar. Curious, he sent for Mirza Ghias Baig and struck up conversation with the young man. With growing dismay, he heard the story of Mirza’s misfortune.
‘You must allow me to help you,’ offered the trader. ‘Without help your wife and child will perish. There will be time and opportunities for you to repay me later.’
Masood sent his servant to fetch a local woman to help with the delivery of the baby. The first woman who crossed the servant’s path was Firdaus. Despite her protestations of total ignorance about a midwife’s work, she was dragged to the camp. That was how Firdaus found herself in a rickety tent with the exhausted woman.
‘I know nothing about delivering a baby,’ she confessed to Asmat.
‘Don’t worry, I’ll guide you through the process,’ muttered Asmat, a fresh bout of pain racking her body. ‘I think the baby is already on its way. There is no time to argue.’
Together they worked in silence to deliver the baby, under the faint light of a candle which threw ominous shadows all around them. Firdaus severed the umbilical cord with trembling hands as she recited holy verses from the Quran under her breath, beseeching Allah to guide her hands. A feeling of pride suffused her as she finally held the baby in her arms. Outside, the storm abated, leaving pleasant weather. The dust had settled; the agony of the long night had passed. Mirza Ghias Baig got up from his prayer mat and faced the woman.
When she placed the child in Ghias Baig’s arms, he marvelled at the perfection of the baby’s limbs and thanked Firdaus in a tearful voice.
‘I have nothing to give you now but, Allah willing, I may be able to repay your kindness one day.’
Like a good omen, a brilliant sun had suddenly appeared on the horizon as he held his daughter. Suffused in the glow of sunlight, the baby appeared almost divine and the father was moved to tears.
‘Meherunnisa! I will call you Meherunnisa–the light of womanhood,’ he murmured, kissing the little fisted hand of his daughter. Her head cradled gently in the crook of her father’s elbow, the baby continued to sleep.
Disappointed at not receiving any reward, Firdaus grumbled sullenly. A servant led her to Masood’s tent as she was walking away from the caravan. The trader requested her to accompany them to Hindustan.
‘You must stay with the baby since the mother is too weak to look after her newborn and the family is too poor to pay you. I will pay you handsomely for your services after we reach Hindustan,’ Masood told her.
Firdaus belonged to a nomadic tribe that lived in the desert. Her newborn baby had succumbed to a deadly disease and her husband, a habitual gambler and a drunkard, had run away to Kabul after running up a huge debt. With hardly any relatives to support her, her very survival was at stake. Most women in her situation opted to sell their bodies to fend off hunger. She stood hesitantly trying to make a decision between a life of hunger and possible sexual exploitation, and a journey to an unknown land with strangers. Masood’s offer was tempting: the rugged desert hills had nothing to offer her and the lands afar held at least some promise. She had heard endless tales of Hindustan’s riches and bounties, its reckless emperors and vast royal harems.
‘You can tell me your decision after the feast,’ the trader said. He had organised a feast to celebrate the birth of Ghias Baig’s daughter.
The evening saw Malik Masood’s tent laid out with a rich blue Persian carpet, around which sat the men of the caravan. Heaped on platters in the centre, were delicacies like abgusht–a thick meat and bean soup; dolmeh–vegetables stuffed with meat and rice; succulent and spicy kebabs; and mounds of rice flavoured with saffron and enriched with cashew, raisins and almonds. Goblets brimmed with wine. The appetising aroma rising from the rich repast filled the tent, whipping up hunger pangs. No one went hungry that night. There was enough food to satisfy the belly as well as the palate.
In the women’s tent, samovars of steaming tea and exotic sherbets sat temptingly between the food platters. Chattering and joking, the women enjoyed the rare banquet that had come their way after weeks of frugal meals in the desert. Contented smiles flashed as tiny teeth bit into the delicacies impatiently. Outside, the camel drivers, drunk and sated, began singing. The more adventurous ones began dancing around the fire, unmindful of the wood smoke smarting in their eyes.
Hunger appeased, her mind was made up. Firdaus stayed with the caravan of camels that wound its way slowly and leisurely towards promises of a brighter future and colourful dreams in another land, another empire.
2
Meherunnisa became dearer than a daughter to the tribal woman. Perhaps it was the memory of her dead infant that drew her closer to the child.
Malik Masood, the well-heeled merchant, discovered the myriad talents of his protégé as they traversed through the arid deserts and narrow mountain passes regaling each other with stories of their past. The Mirza was cultured, aristocratic and intelligent. Well versed in Persian literature, he could create couplets that evoked praises from everyone, and the trader spent many nights enjoying poems that revived memories of his romantic youth.
Ghias Baig was not only a poet and artist, but also a skilled architect and an able administrator. Such talent would be valued in the Mughal court, of that the astute trader was certain. Malik Masood knew that Emperor Akbar would be happy to appoint Baig in his court. The trader could also benefit from introducing the talented young man to the emperor. Having enjoyed the pleasures of royal living, the family was unsuited for the vagaries and hardships of a nomadic life, and the young Baig was willing to work hard to recreate the happy times for his family. Malik Masood discovered that Ghias Baig was completely in love with his wife. The shrewd trader spent generously on the young man and his family, sure of good returns on his investment.
After eight months of journeying through deserts, craggy mountains and perilous valleys, the tired and dishevelled travellers finally sighted the majestic buildings of Agra. Hopes of a brilliant future resonated in each heart as the caravan rolled into the capital of the powerful Mughal emperor. The weather-beaten and sunburnt faces lit up with expectation and loud prayers heralded their advent into the city. Masood’s happy thoughts were concerned with the exchange of his bounties for imperial favours, the Mirza was hopeful of a place in the court, and Firdaus dreamt of a comfortable existence as the maid of an ambitious man.
Malik Masood housed the Mirza and his family in a modest dwelling, promising to take him to the emperor at the earliest opportune moment.
It took two weeks and substantial bribes before the trader was finally given the opportunity to attend the royal court of the emperor. Mirza was immensely indebted to Masood as the trader had paid for the very clothes that covered his body.
On reaching the Diwan-é-Aam, the trader performed a stiff kornish to the emperor and pushed forward the smartly turned out Mirza Ghias Baig towards Shahenshah Akbar. The suave Mirza, familiar with the courtesy of the Persian court, saluted the emperor in a manner that pleased the sovereign gre
atly.
‘Welcome to Hindustan. Malik Masood has told us of your hardship and apprised us of your talents. There is always place for intelligent and able young men in the Mughal Empire.’
‘The Shahenshah is most generous with his words. It is my humble request that I may be given a chance to serve the great Mughal ruler.’
The emperor, with his uncanny instinct for talent, found a position for the young man and promptly granted a generous mansab to take care of his expenses.
It did not take Ghias Baig too long to establish his credentials and prove his worth to the emperor. With diligence and loyalty the émigré soon managed to wriggle into the innermost caucus. The young Mirza was sincere, diplomatic and diligent–and it was these virtues that won him the Shahenshah’s favour. Meanwhile, Asmat Begum was assigned the task of waiting on the emperor’s Persian queen, Ruqayya Begum, who was always eager to surround herself with women from her land of birth.
Asmat Begum quickly became the queen’s favourite. The harem was full of women who indulged in petty jealousies for the lack of anything better to do, and they took no time in joining forces against her. Since Asmat could hardly afford to antagonise the other concubines and waiting ladies, she worked hard to maintain a pleasant relationship with every member of the vast harem. Life was difficult. The ascendancy of the Mirza’s family evoked jealousy in the hearts of the nobles who were struggling to win the emperor’s favour. The Persians were considered outsiders and usurpers. Perhaps it was the tough circumstances that made them determined to succeed.
Unlike the other nobles, Ghias Baig spent more time with his family than in gossiping and plotting. He seemed to have no vices: neither women nor gambling interested the man. That the Baig couple doted on each other was evident from the seven children that were born to them in quick succession.
Nurjahan's Daughter Page 3
