‘That’s not true,’ he said.
‘I saw my father butchered by the emperor’s foster brother and his men,’ Laadli said, agitated. ‘The coward came with so many soldiers to fight a lone man. He tricked my father because he did not have the courage to face him in the battlefield. My father was a hero who fought so many battles for the Mughals. He saved your father’s life, yet the emperor got him murdered.’
‘Why would he do that?’
‘I don’t know,’ Laadli said, uncertainty creeping into her voice. ‘I have only heard some women saying that he likes my mother.’
‘Laadli, I wish you wouldn’t listen to those silly women. You have been laughing about their stupid chatter, how can you believe anything they say?’
Khurram wanted to help the girl. She was a sensitive person, an artist who should be focusing her energies on creative things, instead of nursing this rage against a powerful emperor. Her anger would only be destructive. Even if there was any substance in the allegation that the emperor had engineered Sher Afghan’s murder, there was little she could do. In fact, there was little anyone could do.
One day, he told her that he was leaving for a campaign; he had to go to Mewar and would be away many months. Once again Laadli was thrown into the deep abyss of loneliness. Only this time, she didn’t retreat into the dark, gloomy cave of depression. Instead, she began painting with renewed fervour. That she had found someone who shared her interests was solace enough for Laadli. Her involvement with art gave her a sense of peace and purpose. She would have a new album of paintings to show the prince when he returned, she told herself.
While Khurram was away, Laadli discovered a new passion. The whole city was agog with news of the arrival of Ustad Hussein Ali Khan–reputed to be the best sitar player in the country. His first recital was arranged in the Diwan-e-Khas, and all the harem ladies had been invited to hear the maestro. As the Ustad’s fingers weaved its magic with the instrument’s strings, Laadli sat enthralled. She had never heard the instrument played before. It was a music that stirred hearts and brought peace to the soul. I have to learn to play this instrument, she decided. It calms my restless soul. Long after the recital was over and everyone had left the hall, she sat there alone, the music reverberating in her mind.
Laadli was a strange girl. Neither interested in clothes nor jewellery, she had never asked her mother for anything. So Meherunnisa was taken aback when her daughter approached her the next day and said, ‘Ammijaan, can I ask you for something?’
‘Of course, Laadli, tell me what you want. Is it a necklace or a new dress?’ Meherunnisa was delighted.
‘I want a sitar.’
‘You won’t just need the instrument, Laadli, you would also need a teacher. Where will I find you a teacher?’
‘Buy me the instrument and I’ll find a teacher,’ the girl declared resolutely.
The instrument arrived from the city of Benares after a few weeks. It was a beautifully crafted piece, with a shining exterior and a melodious tone. But a teacher was impossible to find. Although there were many women who could sing and dance, none could play the sitar. After spending a few hours with the instrument, Laadli gave up in frustration. ‘It is so difficult to play without a teacher,’ she complained.
‘Didn’t I warn you about that?’
‘I will find a teacher to teach me the instrument.’
Meherunnisa detected a streak of obstinacy in her daughter and it surprised her. She had always assumed Laadli to be a pliant person. The child is growing up, she thought, looking at her daughter critically. Her daughter was now six years old; two years had passed since the day they had entered the portals of the zenana. I should spend more time with her, she decided. My work has made me neglect her for too long.
With her mother’s decision to spend more time with her, Laadli’s education began on a serious note. She plodded painstakingly through tomes of painting, music, history, poetry and the Quran. Not satisfied with these, Meherunnisa also taught her daughter the art of embroidery, designing, architecture, and gardening.
‘I want her to rise above the others,’ declared the mother. ‘She is special.’
Slowly, with her days and nights now spent trying to absorb some new information, Laadli felt the fearful shadows of the past receding. For Meherunnisa too, this time had a beneficial effect: the restlessness she had been suffering receded as she formed a special connection with her daughter.
The festival of Eid-ul-Fitr was around the corner, and Meherunnisa finally obtained the emperor’s permission to visit her parents, through Ruqayya Begum’s recommendation. Laadli was ecstatic. She had heard so much about her grandparents’ house from her mother.
Her heart beat a fierce tattoo as their palanquin crossed the threshold of the huge harem. It was so good to step out of the harem. Her eyes feasted hungrily on the sights. The bustling streets, colourfully attired townsfolk, business houses, gaily-decorated shops, and the street performers–everything attracted the artist in her. She tried to memorise each detail, to be painted on her canvas later. Her spirit soared. Even Meherunnisa was elated, her face glowing with the prospect of spending a full week with her family.
The palanquin wound its way through the narrow bazaar streets towards the elegant mansion of Mirza Ghias Baig. How well she remembered the courtyard with its huge mango tree in the centre, the rows of plants, tended by her mother, fringing the large open space. Bright sunlight filtered into the rooms through the branches of the neem tree in the backyard. Her mother was an avid gardener. No one knew more about herbs and their potent qualities than Asmat, but roses were her weakness. She excelled in inventing different uses of her favourite flower: as an edible sweet paste to be smeared on paan; an attar extracted from fragrant rose petals; or a sherbet made from bright red petals of the flower.
As Laadli entered the house, the brilliant Bukhara rugs brought a warm and joyous feeling to her heart. The lovely brocade curtains, silver-legged divans covered with skilfully embroidered coverlets, the comfortable pile of cushions and the hordes of pigeons feeding on the scattered grains in the courtyard, all looked so homely and comfortable. Her nostrils flared as she breathed in the familiar smells of a home. Laadli always associated smells with important events in her life, and the scent of roses always brought back happy times to her mind. Laadli felt a sense of peace after a long time.
Her grandmother hugged her in a tight embrace as her cousins rushed out to greet them with enthusiasm. They led Laadli to the inner chambers with Arjumand, soon to become her favourite cousin, teasing her mercilessly: ‘You are so tall, you look like my aunt!’ Although Arjumand was a full eight years older to her, they two cousins quickly developed a strong bond of friendship. The other cousins were too immature for the serious and sedate Laadli.
The atmosphere in the house was ebullient. After the ritualistic fasting through the month of Ramzan, it was time to rejoice and spend time with loved ones. Asmat had bought new clothes and jewellery for everyone in the house. A bangle-seller was invited into the courtyard and the women enjoyed themselves choosing from an array of colourful glass bangles.
Laadli and Arjumand decided to wear green. Clad in pastel green qaba and mustard-golden veils, they looked delightfully fresh and youthful. Arjumand wore her mother’s emeralds on her neck and ears, with pearls strung in her hair, but Laadli decided to wear bright ochre marigolds as adornment. It was a novel experiment that caught the fancy of the other girls. Soon, everyone was clamouring for flowers to match their outfits. Meherunnisa smiled happily: Laadli was showing a distinctive flair for dressing. She had inherited her mother’s panache and creativity.
The arrangements for the Eid feast began with the preparation of sweets and savouries, which kept the women busy for hours. Laadli, who had observed the rigorous month-long fast without drinking a drop of water from sunrise till sunset, looked forward to the feast eagerly. The cousins gorged themselves on the delicious food laid out by their grandmother on the traditional
dastarkhan, and laughed till their sides ached. The warmth in the house made Laadli glow with happiness. She wished she could live with her cousins and grandparents forever. The very thought of going back to the harem was unbearable to her. The riches, jewels and gold were a poor compensation for love, laughter and happiness. Laadli wondered if her mother felt the same.
It was a quiet and depressing journey back to the palace. Meherunnisa was in an unusually contemplative mood. It was two-and-a-half years since they had arrived at Agra, but she had not once met the emperor nor had she heard from him. Why did he want her in the harem if he was not going to communicate with her?
The emperor was, in fact, impatient to meet her, but was shrewdly biding his time. Much as he wanted to meet Meherunnisa, he knew that the memory of Sher Afghan’s death still haunted her. As long as the memories were fresh, the proud woman would ruthlessly toss out his proposal, of that he was sure. Ruqayya Begum, who was privy to Meherunnisa’s feelings, had warned her stepson to tread carefully unless he was prepared for a rejection from the lady.
Soon after Meherunnisa and Laadli returned to the harem, they were taken up with preparations for the Nauroz festival. Laadli hoped that she would see Khurram at the festivities: she had not seen the prince for a long time and missed his company. She knew the prince would definitely attend the Meena Bazaar that was held during the Nauroz period.
At last the day arrived. Hectic preparations had been going on in the harem for weeks as the women amassed their precious ware to be sold to royalty and noble men at the Meena Bazaar. Some were preparing sweets and savouries, while others were busy creating various types of artefacts and embroidered items for their stalls. This was a much-awaited occasion, and every woman wanted to use it either to make money or attract the attention of the nobles. Laadli was too young to run a stall on her own, so she was assigned the job of helping Arjumand in her kiosk.
Gaily striped canopies were put up all around the harem gardens. Between the tall cypress trees stood colourful stalls with their wealth of wares. The women vied with one another to occupy vantage positions and laid out their wares on beautiful Bukhara rugs and Persian carpets. There were caged birds, bolts of velvets, muslins and silks, embroidered cushions, garments and brocade dresses. Fragrances, unguents, henna, lotions and potions rubbed shoulders with illustrated copies of the Quran and poetry. Goblets, cups, bowls and chinaware stood along with crystals, porcelains, vases, enamelled metals and decorations. There were sweetmeats, savouries, and dry fruits, herbs, spices and medicinal concoctions. Each stall had something unique to sell.
Eunuchs, servant girls, concubines, queens, princesses and attendants bustled about trying to attract customers to their stalls. The concubines were flirting outrageously with the nobles. There was loud laughter and banter as they tried to peddle their wares and bargained furiously with the men. The Meena Bazaar was a pleasant excuse for varied activities, trading of goods being just a facade for them. Catching the eye of an eligible nobleman or a prince remained the paramount reason for those young women who did not belong to the emperor’s harem. They lisped and fluttered their eyelashes, pouted and tried every trick to entice the men.
Meherunnisa had been planning for the event for many days. In her stall she exhibited beautifully embroidered veils and turbans for the nobles; gorgeous albums of paintings and verses; especially designed aigrettes, daggers, anklets, necklaces, and earrings. Also displayed were ivory chess pieces sculpted in attractive shapes, jewellery boxes with gold latches, and ornate night stands and cabinets carved from the most expensive teakwood with ivory inlays.
But the most treasured items on sale were her stunning collection of jade articles, which she had amassed over several months just for the Meena Bazaar. Jade was in fashion; everyone wanted to own some article fashioned out of the precious stone. The delicacy of the stone and its cost made it a status symbol. Jade in its many hues–white, pink and shades of green–carved into dagger handles, wine cups, bowls, tiny plates, mirror frames and bookstands, were in great demand by the nobility. The beauty of the jade wine glass, reflected in its thin, almost translucent, quality, had been eulogised by poets in the court.
Meherunnisa’s jade bowls were fashioned to fit perfectly in the palm of the hand, as that was how the emperor held it when drinking. It was believed that jade changed colour if the liquid in it was poisoned, so the emperor favoured jade bowls to the enamelled gold ones. Meherunnisa had designed the wine cups to match the organic form of leaves and flowers. She sought to capture the fullness of a flower, the twist of a stem, the web of veins and the gentle curve of the edge of the leaf.
Compared to Meherunnisa’s precious ware, Arjumand’s stall was insignificant. A heap of silver trinkets, some gold jewellery, a few embroidered cushion covers and coverlets were lined along with the albums of paintings done by Laadli. The two girls were not hopeful of catching the eyes of royalty, they were more excited by the idea of running a stall. Too inhibited to call out to the men, the girls huddled together, hoping that someone would wander to their stall and make purchases.
The emperor made a grand entry with his princes and emirs. He was resplendent in a scarlet brocade robe. On his head rested an embroidered dark green turban with a long plume dangling playfully. Stuck on one side of his broad green cummerbund was the famous sword, Alamgir, inherited by each Mughal emperor from the time of Humayun. On the other side was a dagger with its jade handle shaped like a tiger. Strands of large sized luminescent pearls adorned his neck; his wrists and arms glittered with heavy gold bracelets inlaid with diamonds and rubies. His fingers were covered with several rings of varying designs, sparkling with neatly inset precious stones. Everyone knew that Jahangir loved expensive jewellery–the ornament on his turban, with its walnut-sized ruby, diamond and emerald, was rumoured to have cost several lakhs of rupees.
The men swaggered to the stall closest to the entrance. It belonged to Jamila Begum, the wife of a high-ranking noble. In a generous mood, the emperor picked up a few pieces of expensive jewellery and then the bargaining began. The lady asked for an astronomical price, and the emperor teased her mercilessly. At last they settled on a price, and the emperor walked on while his attendant paid and collected the item.
From her corner Meherunnisa watched the emperor. As if sensing her eyes on him the emperor turned and their eyes met across the teeming stalls and held for what seemed to be an eternity. She felt herself redden as she held his gaze in a steady manner, not blinking for a moment till another woman claimed his attention. Meherunnisa waited for Jahangir to walk up to her, but he studiously avoided looking in her direction again. Talking in low tones with his queen, Jagat Gosain, who was walking by his side, the emperor turned towards another stall at the end of the garden.
Prince Khurram was loitering around aimlessly, surrounded by his friends, when his eyes alighted on the green-eyed Arjumand, dressed in a golden yellow qaba and ochre churidar. Arjumand exuded an inner beauty that dazzled everyone, and the young prince was no exception. He got rid of his companions and made his way towards her.
Laadli had gone to fetch some refreshments for Arjumand. When she returned, she was surprised to see Prince Khurram dawdling at their stall. He seemed to be hesitating between a gold trinket and a painting made by Laadli. Arjumand stood tongue-tied before him, unable to quote the cost of the articles.
‘Salaam Alekum Shehzada Khurram. Does that painting interest you?’ Laadli asked, diverting his attention from Arjumand’s face.
‘Alekum Salaam Laadli. How much are you asking for it?’
‘It will cost you fifty gold mohurs.’
‘You are a heartless shopkeeper. Such a high price for so little a thing!’ laughed Khurram. ‘I daresay no one will pay you more than ten mohurs for that.’
‘This price is only for Prince Khurram. Others will not be able to afford my paintings,’ quipped Laadli.
‘I’ll take it,’ he said, placing a purse full of gold coins on the counter. Then be turn
ed to address Arjumand. ‘What have you to offer, beautiful damsel?’ Stammering with embarrassment, she appealed to Laadli for help. But Laadli refused to come to her aid. She was enjoying her cousin’s discomfiture.
Blushing furiously, Arjumand pointed to an enamelled wine goblet. ‘That will suit your highness. And it costs just twenty gold mohurs.’
‘Is that all? I will pay fifty mohurs for it. If Laadli can command fifty for her painting, you deserve nothing less.’
Watching the two, and sensing the strong attraction flowing between them, a sudden stab of jealousy struck Laadli’s heart. She quickly packed the purchases to hurry him away from the stall, but the prince hung around, looking for more objects to buy. His eyes constantly sought Arjumand’s, but she refused to meet his gaze. With growing alarm, Laadli realised that the prince was truly enamoured by her cousin. Her only true friend had succumbed to another’s charms.
After that day, the prince sought Laadli only as a messenger to convey his love notes to her cousin. He also borrowed her pigeon, Minna, to carry his missives of love to Arjumand. Laadli complied with his wishes because he was dear to her. She painstakingly gathered the crumbs of his affection, aware that she would never get more than that. His heart would belong to just one woman, and that was Arjumand.
9
Meherunnisa waited patiently for the communiqué from Jahangir. Although he had avoided meeting her at the Meena Bazaar, she was sure that he would send word to her through someone. She was right. A couple of weeks later, Ruqayya Begum broached the subject.
‘How long can a widow mourn her departed husband? Meherunnisa, I feel pained at your lonely existence. Can you imagine living your entire life in this manner? You have a daughter to support, too.’
‘With all due deference to your views, Begum Sahiba, I think I can support myself. As for Laadli, I will do my best to provide a decent life and a worthwhile dowry for her when she grows up.’
Nurjahan's Daughter Page 11
