Meherunnisa, fascinated by the harem and its women, regularly accompanied her mother to the queen’s chambers. Over the years, she had grown into a beautiful and intelligent child, well versed in music and arts. She could recite verses with flourish and speak many languages. It wasn’t long before the child attracted the attention of the Persian Sultana, who was enchanted by her quick wit.
‘Since you are always pregnant, I would like your young daughter to wait on me. You can take leave to care for your family,’ the queen teased the heavily pregnant Asmat one day. From that day began Meherunnisa’s meteoric rise in the royal harem. Barely twelve years old, the girl had already mastered the art of poetry, embroidery and painting. She was a skilful conversationalist and kept the Sultana amused for hours with her repertoire of anecdotes, fables and jokes.
Firdaus remembered the storm Meher had created when she learnt that she was to be married to Ali Quli. ‘He is just an uncouth soldier,’ she had thundered. Firdaus had seconded her, forcefully–‘Begum, our Meher is born to be a queen. Have you forgotten that the astrologers predicted a glorious future for her? You must call off this wedding.’
Shaking her head, Asmat Begum said, ‘The emperor wishes her to be married to Ali Quli, and we cannot defy his wishes. He may be a crass soldier but he is a favourite of the emperor.’
‘It is not his fault that he is unrefined,’ said Ghias Baig.
This was true: the young man had never had an opportunity to be anything else other than a soldier.
After losing both his parents at an early age, Ali Quli Baig Istajlu began earning his livelihood by working as a stable attendant at the Shah’s palace in Persia. Although the work was menial, the young man gained the attention of those who mattered in the court. When things changed after the Shah’s death, Ali Quli managed to escape from Persia. He made his way to Kabul, from where he journeyed to Lahore.
With no other qualification than his brawn to see him through life, the only profession he could adopt was that of a soldier. Determined to distinguish himself as a warrior, Ali Quli practised sword-fighting, hand-to-hand combat, horse riding, and many other war skills before he made his way to the camp of Abdur Rahim Khan-é-Khana, the brilliant general of the Mughal emperor, to get himself enlisted as a foot soldier. The Khan-é-Khana was on a campaign at Thatta and required as many soldiers as he could gather.
During the battle, things suddenly swung in favour of the rebels and the Mughal army began retreating. Unwilling to give up, the Khan-é-Khana charged ahead, followed by a few loyal soldiers, Ali Quli among them. Suddenly, the general found himself surrounded by the enemy. Spotting him within the enemy circle, Ali Quli snatched a horse and rode up to him. Fighting heroically, he rescued the general and reversed the tide of the battle with his intelligent strategy. The battle was won and the grateful Khan-é-Khana promoted the young foot soldier as his personal bodyguard.
As days passed, the ageing Khan-é-Khana became increasingly dependent on Ali Quli for battle plans. Ali Quli was brave, honest and loyal–three things that were uncommon during the turbulent days of war. Soldiers switched camps faster than they changed clothes, depending upon the money offered to them. Under these conditions, when the Khan-e-Khana discovered the gem he had found in his army, he nurtured and promoted the young man to become his chief aide. Loneliness, war fatigue and uncertainties are strong binding factors, and the two warriors developed a warm relationship that was based on mutual respect and trust.
When the victorious imperial army returned to the capital, it was the Khan-é-Khana who presented the young Persian soldier at Akbar’s court. The tall and battle-hardened soldier performed a clumsy kornish and stood in obedience before the emperor.
‘Young man, I hear that you rescued our general with absolutely no regard for your own personal safety. We are pleased to have a brave soldier like you in our army. As a gesture of our pleasure we grant you a mansab of two hundred.’
Ali Quli stood speechless with emotion. Although he had heard many tales of Shehanshah Akbar’s generosity, no one had been able to describe the great ruler’s charisma. As he gaped in wonder, his mentor gave him a gentle nudge to remind him about court decorum. The Persian quickly bowed to the ruler to express his gratitude and struggled to put forth a refined speech.
‘I am a humble servant of Your Majesty and I only performed my duty by coming to the aid of the general. I am not worthy of your magnanimous gesture.’
The experienced eyes of the emperor immediately spotted the awkwardness of the soldier, but they were pleased with the humility of the man. In a court filled with flatterers, the emperor was happy to see a man who did not resort to sycophancy. The emperor appointed him an officer in the royal guards. News of the plots hatched by his rebel nobles reached his ears from time to time–there could never be too many loyal bodyguards around him.
With his sincerity, the young soldier soon captured the confidence of the emperor. Before long, Ali Quli was accompanying the emperor on campaigns to quell rebellions. They rode together through the empire, capturing territories and subjugating errant rulers. With each victory, the emperor rewarded the brave Persian till his mansab had risen to five hundred.
Ali Quli did not fight because he wanted mansab; he did so because he had a deep reverence for the emperor. When Akbar desired that Ali Quli should be a part of the battle at Baluchistan, the devoted Persian rode to the frontier without hesitation and proved himself to be a soldier par excellence. The tall, broad-shouldered soldier mowed through the enemy lines, his sword flashing as it reflected the sun, striking terror in the hearts of the enemy. After Baluchistan’s annexation, the annexation of Makaran was a foregone conclusion. The invincible forces of the emperor conquered the cities without opposition; stories about the valorous Mughal army had already travelled from lands far and beyond.
Ali Quli returned from the battlefield triumphant and proud, a conqueror without parallel. The emperor lauded Ali Quli’s invincibility and expressed a desire to reward the soldier with something more than a mansab.
‘Ali Quli, we are pleased with your valour and loyalty. You have the courage of a tiger and the cunning of a fox. We can grant you a jagir, but this time we would like to gift you something that you desire. Name it and it shall be yours.’
‘Jahanpanah, you have given me much more than I deserve. All I want to do is to serve you till my death,’ replied the soldier earnestly.
‘We are indeed pleased with your loyalty, but we insist that you name your reward.’
‘In chat case, I will name my reward at an appropriate time, Jahanpanah.’
‘Fair enough. The day you decide on your reward, remind us of our promise and we shall grant you whatever you wish.’
It was not till many months later, when they had returned to Agra, that Ali Quli asked the emperor to fulfil his promise.
3
It had been raining incessantly for the last one week. Dark, threatening clouds covered the sky and the chirping of birds was replaced by the continuous patter of rain. Meherunnisa hated it. There was a dank and oppressive odour everywhere. Even the clothes carried a musty smell, making her feel nauseous. There was the ugly green growth of mould in every corner of the house. Insects and vermin cropped up in the store, ruining the grains. She missed the arid atmosphere of Agra and pined for the bright sunlight that was taken for granted in those parts of the country. Even the city’s rains were delightful, as the first showers brought the heady smell of earth, a welcome reprieve from the heat and the dust of the long summer.
‘Oh, what I would give for a patch of sunlight,’ she sighed, spraying herself liberally with rose attar. She had tried everything conceivable to get rid of the mildew, without any success. Incense burned almost continuously, its cloying odour hanging over the rooms. The whining of the mosquitoes was a constant nuisance. She found the muslin nets over the beds irritating, for they blocked out whatever fresh air entered the house. Neem leaves burned continuously in the brazier, emitting a s
harp odour. The suffocating atmosphere made her want to rush out and breathe the moist air.
‘Yah Allah, when will it stop raining?’ she exclaimed, as she snipped off an extra thread in her embroidery.
In a corner of the room Firdaus was trying to fob off the demands of the bored child.
‘No, I can’t play hopscotch with you. I am too old for that. Nor can I play hide-and-seek. Besides, it is raining and we can’t go out.’
‘Take me to the stables, then. I want to see Sultan.’
‘No, you can’t go to the stables either.’
‘All right, if you can’t take me to the stable to ride Sultan, you pretend to be my horse and I’ll ride on you.’
‘Allah! What else would you have an old woman do? Go and play with your doll.’
‘I don’t like playing with dolls.’
‘Let us play chaupar, then,’ suggested Firdaus.
‘That is such a dull game.’
‘It is the game intelligent people play. Even the emperor loves the game.’
‘Does the emperor play chaupar?’ The child was surprised.
‘He does. He has built the squares of the chaupar board on the floor of his palace and he plays with live pieces–beautiful maidens dressed as chess pieces stand in the squares and move at the command of the players. It is a fascinating sight.’
‘Anyway, I am not interested in playing that game.’ Turning to her mother, the child complained–‘Firdaus does not listen to me. Send her away to Bade Abba.’ Bade Abba was Laadli’s name for her grandfather.
‘I would rather go and stay with your Bade Abba. At least no one will bother me there,’ grumbled Firdaus.
Meherunnisa smiled as she listened to their banter. ‘Why don’t you humour her a little? She is bored.’
Grumbling, Firdaus led the child to the balcony from where they could see the pond with the lotus flowers.
‘I want to hear a story,’ Laadli demanded. ‘I want to hear Ammijaan’s story. Tell me about the time she was taken to the royal zenana.’
‘When your grandfather was appointed as a courtier in Emperor Akbar’s court, your mother was just a year old. She was a pretty child and a very intelligent one too: I still remember how quickly she could learn things. She was taught Persian verses, calligraphy and music by her mother. At your age, she was already reciting the Quran and painting lovely pictures.’
‘I can do that too. I can do many more things,’ Laadli boasted.
‘All right, you are a very intelligent child and so was your mother. Your grandmother is a talented musician. She can play the Tar-é-Shiraaz, which the Persians consider the Sultan of instruments.’
‘What is Tar?’
‘It is a stringed instrument, much like a long-necked lute. It is carved from mulberry wood and its upper surface is shaped like two hearts of different sizes, joined at the points. The sound box is covered with lambskin. It produces a lovely melody in the hands of a talented player, and your grandmother taught this art to your mother. She can play it better than anyone I have ever heard.’
‘Will she teach me to play Tar?’
‘Of course, she will teach you to play it. Do you want to hear the rest of the story?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘As I was saying, your mother began learning all kinds of arts at a very early age. As a girl of six, she accompanied her mother to the royal zenana. During one of her visits to the zenana, your mother played the Tar for Bilquees Begum. The empress was so captivated by the child’s skilful handling of the instrument that she offered to keep your mother in the royal harem. That day onwards, your mother spent more time at the harem than at home.’
‘I wish I could go to the royal harem and see what it looks like. I have heard that it is as luxurious and beautiful as jannat,’’ sighed Laadli. There was a dreamy look in her eyes as the child tried to visualise the grandeur of the royal palace.
‘Maybe you will see it one day.’
There is more heartbreak and sorrow in those glittering palaces than I have seen anywhere, thought the nurse. She had spent enough time in the harem to know what went on behind those beautiful fretwork marble screens. Girls as young as thirteen, picked by the royal men to satisfy their lust for a night, pined away for life, separated from their beloved families, living on the emperor’s charity. The concubines spent the long years of their life locked within the four walls of the harem. They amused themselves with frivolous activities to keep busy, but within their minds was an untold turmoil that sought release through vicarious pleasures and endless plotting. Many of them indulged in incessant power tussles within the harem. Lesbianism was rampant. Vices like opium and intoxicants were indulged in. Intrigue prospered behind every veil and wall of the royal harem as different factions fought for control.
‘What does it looks like? Have you been inside the harem, Firdaus?’
‘Countless times! I accompanied your mother to the palaces and met the queens, concubines and princesses. It is a magical world: the marble pavilions with ornate fountains set in wondrous gardens running along the Yamuna river; magnificent cupolas and exotic gardens lined by fretwork galleries; crimson and gold halls splashed with a profusion of gems, rich Persian carpets, crystal chandeliers, exotic incense in jewelled censers and the enamelled bowls with all kinds of fruits and nuts–everything takes your breath away!’
Meherunnisa smiled wistfully from the corner of the room. Her ears had caught the nanny’s spiel.
Firdaus continued, ‘Within the halls are elegant divans created from sandalwood, covered with intricately embroidered satin with heaps of cushions piled on them. Under the pavilions in the garden, beautiful women recline on thrones crafted out of the whitest marble, enjoying music played by the servant girls. The jewellery on their person can easily buy a few kingdoms. There is blinding resplendence all around. It would require a poet to describe the palace; I don’t have the words to do so.’
It will not harm the child to conjure images of a fantastic place, thought the nurse, her mind far away. She held Laadli’s hand and walked to the rain-soaked terrace. The clouds had finally floated away.
‘And Ammijaan lived in the harem with the queen?’ Laadli tugged at her hand.
‘Yes, she literally grew up in the palace,’ Firdaus said, remembering how the little girl had transformed into a beautiful maiden with long, wavy hair that fell to her hips, cascading in curls all around her lovely face. Her nubile figure had made the other girls turn green with jealousy. ‘Her nimble fingers could embroider intricate patterns and she loved creating new fashions,’ Firdaus continued. ‘While the other women of the harem spent time in frivolous activities, your mother and Bilquees Begum discussed poetry, architecture and politics for hours, sometimes in the presence of the emperor. Emperor Akbar did not fail to notice the young girl who was always by the side of his begum.’
‘Did he compliment her for her intelligence and talent?’
‘Oh yes, he did. But it was his son, Salim, who was fascinated by your mother.’
‘What did the prince look like?’
‘Well, he was a handsome man. He was always dressed impeccably; he wore satin churidars, muslin sherwanis and velvet caftans embroidered and set with precious stones. He wore a lot of jewellery, especially set with rubies which were brought to him by traders from far away lands.’
‘He must be an impressive person.’
‘Oh yes, he is very impressive, both in looks and style.’
‘How did they meet? Tell me about their first meeting,’ the child demanded.
‘It is a long story.’ Firdaus stood up. ‘It is late now and I am tired. Let me put you to bed. I will tell you all about the prince and your mother tomorrow.’
‘You always do this to me. Just as the story gets interesting, you want to go to bed. This is not fair,’ whined Laadli.
But Firdaus had made up her mind, and once Firdaus made up her mind no one could dissuade her. The little girl made her way reluctantly to her b
ed but sleep was far from her eyes as she tossed about, dreaming of harems and the prince.
Sleep eluded Firdaus too. Memories of Meherunnisa’s romance with Salim filled her mind. How much of the story could she narrate to Laadli? The child was far too young to understand the intricacies of the royal courts. How could she explain their romance or the royal displeasure it evoked? Laadli would have to grow up before she heard the romantic escapades of the prince, Firdaus thought, remembering the first time Salim had met Meherunnisa.
The harem was abuzz with the news of the emperor’s latest victory. After many months of heavy battle, the imperial forces had finally subdued the rebel king of Khandesh. Bilquees Begum decided to celebrate the event by hosting a mushaira at the harem. When Prince Salim heard of the contest, he decided to get himself invited for the occasion. He loved poetry, wine and women, and there was no way he could be kept away from a glamorous event such as this one.
Meherunnisa, now sixteen and an exceptionally attractive and witty girl, had decided to take part in the contest. She rehearsed a few verses of her favourite composer, Faiz, for the evening. Clad in a white ensemble embroidered with pearls, she looked ethereal. The diaphanous veil with its delicate silver fringe could barely conceal the excitement in her animated eyes. While the women in the zenana wore bright colours and flashy clothes, Meherunnisa favoured white. It was a calculated effort at standing out in the crowd.
As her eyes took in the conglomeration of bejewelled harem women, she felt a tremor of nervousness. This was the moment she had been waiting for. For long she had been watching the handsome prince from behind screens, but to see him face-to-face had remained a dream.
The ornate candleholder, with its solitary candle, was passed from one contestant to the other. The first in line was the princess of Mertha, the beautiful woman who was brought to the harem when her father lost his kingdom to the Mughal emperor. The proud Rajput princess, resplendent in a crimson silk lehenga and shell pink veil, wore thick gold ornaments in her hair and ears. She had beautiful doe eyes that were rumoured to have captivated the emperor’s heart. Her melodious voice carried the ache of a vanquished soul as it reverberated in the extravagantly decorated harem. A loud note of appreciation echoed around the room as she ended her composition with a flourish.
Nurjahan's Daughter Page 4
