Nurjahan's Daughter

by Tanushree Podder

  ‘I noticed her absence at our wedding. The child has lost her father and it is difficult for her to accept me. Don’t worry, she will come around.’ He soothed her brows and kissed her lovingly.

  ‘She is a sensitive child, not given to expressing her feelings. Sometimes I feel I have failed her as a mother.’

  ‘Begum, you are a wonderful mother. Laadli is only a child, I’m sure she will soon be happy about our marriage.’

  Nur Jahan clung to him ardently and whispered: ‘You are so wonderful. How will I ever repay you for all that you have done for me?’

  His voice thick with passion, the emperor murmured in her ears, ‘Just love me with your body and soul.’

  While the royal couple wallowed in love, the nobles and courtiers immersed themselves in merriment. Wine, music, romance and beauty, these were the only things on everyone’s mind. News about unrest in the south came as a shock to the emperor and his ministers. He quickly despatched Khurram to quell the rebellion and ordered the grand vizier to make arrangements to return to the capital. The honeymoon was over.

  Reluctantly, the royal entourage made its way back to Agra, travelling through the dusty plains, its enormous size slowing it down.

  10

  Her sharp scream rang through the silent corridors of the harem, shaking up the slumbering occupants of the adjoining palaces. Her perspiring body felt cold and numb in the clammy July morning. Images of the nightmare she had had lingered in her mind. She wanted her mother to hold her tight, and comfort her. She didn’t like sleeping alone in the large room, isolated from the rest of the harem by the walls that seemed to haunt her nights with ghostly visions.

  Nightmares had haunted Laadli’s regularly in the first year after her father’s murder. Meherunnisa’s constant closeness had helped her. She slept with her daughter, hugging her in the warmth of her breast. Slowly, Laadli had stopped having bad dreams. But now her mother was no longer by her side, the nightmares had returned to disturb her once again.

  Firdaus slept on the floor near her but it was small consolation. The old woman, after a few pellets of opium, snored loudly through the night. Wistfully, Laadli recalled Burdwan, when both her parents were always with her. The past four years had been full of changes–a new environment, new friends and new lifestyle. Many adjustments had had to be made, but the constant company of her mother had made it easier for Laadli. Things had altered drastically in the past six months however; ever since her mother had got married to the emperor, she had become a stranger.

  Everyday, Nur Jahan’s influence increased as the besotted emperor became increasingly dependent on his wife, leaving important state decisions to her. For the first time in Mughal history, a queen was endowed with so much power. No grants of land was conferred upon any one except under her seal. The emperor granted Nur Jahan the rights of sovereignty and the imperial seal was handed over to her. On all firmans receiving the imperial signature, the name ‘Nur Jahan, the Queen Begum’, was jointly inscribed. She even sat by the emperor during his daily public appearances at the jharoka.

  The emperor was happy to remain in the background and let the empress take over the running of the empire. When his advisors asked for decisions, he said, ‘Let Nur Jahan rule, I require nothing beyond a seer of wine and half a seer of meat.’

  Nur Jahan was aware that her daughter was not happy that she had married Jahangir, although Laadli had never dared to actually voice that opinion to her mother. But with an empire to take care of, she had no time to spend with her daughter, to try and make her understand, or even to adjust to the new situation.

  Dazed after the alarming dream, the child ran out of her room, looking for her nurse. Firdaus was standing near the courtyard, wiping her face. Why is Firdaus crying? Laadli felt a stab of fear strike her heart. Something was wrong. She had never seen Firdaus cry, apart from when Sher Afghan had been killed.

  ‘What happened? Why are you crying?’

  ‘Nothing my child. I am not crying. A speck of dust fell into my eyes. Don’t worry. Come, let me give you a wash, and then you can breakfast on the delicious keema parathas the bawarchi has made especially for you. You love them, don’t you?’

  ‘You are trying to hide something from me, Firdaus,’ probed the girl. ‘Tell me what happened, I insist.’

  It has always been difficult to fool the girl, thought Firdaus. She was too intelligent and sensitive.

  ‘Your mother has been imprisoned by royal order. The emperor will hold a public trial today,’ she finally disclosed.

  ‘But why? What has Ammi done?’

  ‘It is all due to that stupid Chain of Justice the emperor installed. That terrible thing has not stopped ringing ever since it was set up,’ Firdaus cursed bitterly. ‘I knew something terrible was likely to happen, my left eye has been fluttering since yesterday morning.’

  ‘But what has Ammi got to do with the Chain of Justice?’ exclaimed the bewildered girl.

  ‘Last night your Ammi and some concubines were walking on the terrace. As you know, the river Yamuna flows along the fort and during the night many wild animals come to drink water from the river. Everyone knows that your mother is a superb archer and most of the concubines are jealous of her skills. They wagered that she would not be able to shoot a target without seeing it. Nur Jahan declared that she was skilful at shabda bhedi–shooting an animal by the sound it makes while drinking water. Only the most capable archer can boast of this skill. Your mother should not have accepted the challenge.’

  ‘She had to, they questioned her skills,’ the girl said seriously.

  ‘Your mother waited with her bow and arrow, listening for the lapping sound made by an animal. After a while there was a lapping sound and your mother shot an arrow.’

  ‘Did it hit the animal?’

  ‘Meherunnisa’s arrow never misses its mark, but it was no animal; your mother had shot a poor washerman who had come to fill water in his pitcher. As he dipped the ewer in the water, it made a lapping sound and your mother shot in that direction. The poor man died on the spot. When the imperial servants were sent to bring back the target, they found the washerman with the arrow in his heart. His wife was called and she began wailing loudly, cursing the person who had killed her husband. When she learnt that it was none other than the empress, she tugged at the Chain of Justice to seek the emperor’s judgement.’

  ‘Ammi would never kill an innocent man consciously.’

  ‘But the emperor is bound by his duties. He has promised impartial justice to anyone who calls for it, and now he has to prove that he can do so even when the accused is his favourite wife.’

  ‘Where is my mother? I want to meet her.’

  ‘You cannot meet her now. She is nazarband, under house arrest, in her palace. No one is allowed to meet her till the trial is over,’ Firdaus sniffled pitifully.

  ‘I will appeal to the emperor for mercy. He has to grant clemency to my mother! She is an empress.’

  ‘Even empresses cannot kill people without reason. To pardon her will destroy the emperor’s image. Only the Almighty can save the empress,’ cried the woman.

  Tears clouded Laadli’s eyes. First her father and now the mother, was she destined to be an orphan?

  ‘Can we attend the trial?’ she asked.

  ‘I think so. The trial will be held in the Diwan-é-Aam. Most of the royal ladies will be there to witness the trial.’

  With heavy hearts the two made their way to the Hall of Commons, where the trial was scheduled to take place. The hall was bursting with people, all eager to watch the trial. Wagers were being laid on the final verdict: some said the emperor would not order the execution of his beloved wife, while others vouched for his determination to be fair. The hall had never witnessed such interest in a trial nor such crowds to hear a verdict.

  Firdaus and Laadli tried to find a place in the balconies that lined the hall. The entire harem seemed to be there. The concubines, who numbered no less than 300, and the emperor’s eigh
teen wives, were there to watch the trial. The Shah Begum, Jagat Gosain, occupied a vantage position. With her sat two other wives. The rest sat in different balconies with their attendants who fanned the ladies with peacock-feathered fans. Eunuchs guarded the entrances. Cool khus sherbet and lemonade were served in enamelled tumblers along with almonds, walnuts, fruits and sweets.

  To the distraught child, it seemed as if the harem women saw the trial as entertainment. It seemed so cruel to be enjoying oneself while someone’s life was at stake. Laadli looked at the women with hatred. Then she remembered what her mother had told her–‘Laadli, my child, there are many women in the harem who hate me. They want to hurt me in any way possible because I have succeeded in rising to a position they can only dream about. In trying to hurt me they might hurt you in some way. You have to understand why they are so insecure and why they hate us so much.’

  She recalled those words now. She didn’t want any part of this. She despised the deviousness of the harem ladies. Laadli ached for a normal life in a normal home. Her gaze travelled across to the balcony where her mother sat, guarded by eunuchs. Nur Jahan knew she had more enemies than friends, and they would use every opportunity to seek her downfall. The only loyalty she could count on was from Firdaus and her own daughter. Laadli felt her heart lurch uncontrollably as she watched her mother’s impassive face.

  Down below in the hall, the attendant announced: ‘Bashaksh, ba mulaija, hoshiar, shahenshahe alam badshah Jahangir padhar rahe hain.’ The emperor walked in, followed by his nobles, ministers and advisors.

  Laadli craned forward to have a better look. The emperor had dark circles under his eyes, evidence that he had spent a sleepless night grappling with his decision. He was in an unenviable position. But Laadli felt no sympathy. Oh, how I hate him, Laadli thought, clenching her fingers in a tight fist.

  The trial began and a hushed silence fell over the crowded hall and the balconies. The washerman’s wife was ordered to narrate her charges. The poor woman seemed too nervous to speak and cried inconsolably. The emperor waited patiently till she could talk.

  ‘You have charged the Malika-e-Alam, Nur Jahan, with the murder of your husband. Is that true?’ he asked gently.

  The old hag continued to whimper pathetically. She had pulled the chain instinctively, without thinking of the consequences. Once she had entered the opulent hall and witnessed the crowd, the widow had lost all her courage.

  ‘Speak woman. You have charged the empress with the murder of your husband and now you refuse to speak,’ said one of the ministers. ‘If you do not repeat your charge, you will be punished severely for falsely accusing the empress.’

  There were many in the Mughal court who hated Nur Jahan. This was their chance to get rid of the powerful woman who ruled the empire by proxy.

  Scared that she would be punished, the woman rattled out her statement. ‘Jahanpanah, I am a poor woman. My husband washed clothes for a livelihood. We stay in a hovel near the river. The empress shot my husband–and now I have no one. I want justice.’ She prostrated herself before the emperor.

  ‘You shall have justice,’ declared the emperor. ‘What do you want? The law favours death penalty for murder. Blood for blood and death for death,’ he announced gravely.

  There was commotion in the hall as women began to wail and the men sighed. Laadli screamed and rushed forward but Firdaus grasped her and pulled her back.

  ‘Reham, Shahenshah, reham,’ cried the crowd begging the emperor for clemency on behalf of the empress.

  The concubines, who had been stunned into silence, now looked fearfully at each other. The devious ones among them gloated at the prospect of getting rid of Nur Jahan, while the more compassionate ones had tears in their eyes. Many of them had her to thank for several acts of kindness. Queen Jagat Gosain’s eyes misted with grief. She did not wish such a dire punishment for her rival, who had always been respectful to her.

  The crowd appealed to the washerman’s widow to retract her statement.

  ‘Stupid woman, do you want the empress to be executed?’ scolded the Khan-é-Khanan. ‘What will you gain with her death? Ask for money in return so that your life can be comfortable and secure.’

  The poor woman was so perplexed that she stood tongue-tied before the emperor, sobbing loudly. The crowd began chanting–‘reham, reham, reham.’

  Overwhelmed, she cried–‘Jahanpanah, what will I do with the empress’s life? It is of no use to me. My husband is dead and cannot be brought back to life with the life of the empress. I do not wish any harm to come to her.’

  ‘Do not allow yourself to be swayed by the crowd. You have every right to ask for justice and I will do my best to grant it you. The empress has brought you grief by killing your mate; you have the right to bring her grief by taking my life. It is not the empress’s life, but mine that I offer,’ the emperor said at last.

  There was a stunned silence in the hall. Behind the fret-worked windows, a lament went up amidst the harem women.

  ‘Jahanpanah, this is not possible. You must not offer your life in lieu of a washerman’s life,’ the Khan-é-Khana said. He turned towards the old woman and whispered–‘Ask for money and be done with it, woman. This is the moment of judgement. If you ask for the Badshah’s life, your life will not be spared by the loyal subjects of this country. But if you accept money, your name will be written in history as a merciful woman who pardoned a powerful empress.’

  The woman looked nonplussed. She had not expected that the emperor would offer his life. This was the emperor’s shrewd move to dissuade the woman from asking for Nur Jahan’s life.

  ‘Shahenshah-é-Alam, all merciful emperor, it is a colossal sin for me to ask for your life in lieu of my husband’s. I want nothing but two square meals a day and some clothes to cover my body. I do not require any riches. I will take anything you offer me, but please release the empress. I take back my charges against her.’

  A loud cheer went up in the hall as the crowd expressed its satisfaction.

  ‘Are you sure?’ the emperor asked once more. Life had crept back on his face and his eyes were dancing merrily now that he knew that Nur Jahan was absolved and he was free from any reproach that posterity may lay at his door.

  ‘Release Malika-e-Alam and give this poor woman gold coins equivalent to the empress’ weight,’ ordered the emperor, giving his final verdict.

  A loud cry of joy went up in the hall and Laadli began dancing with happiness. All around her women were chattering excitedly and congratulating each other. Queen Jagat Gosain discreetly wiped a tear from her eyes. There were loud murmurs of the emperor’s greatness as the crowd in the hall melted away, their curiosity satisfied. Jahangir had emerged as an impartial emperor.

  ‘I want to meet Ammijaan,’ declared Laadli rushing towards the balcony where her mother stood receiving the congratulations of the harem women. Firdaus and Laadli pushed their way through the thronging crowds and reached Nur Jahan. Without waiting for any formalities Laadli threw herself into her mother’s arms, her tears staining the pristine white dress of her mother. ‘Don’t ever allow anyone to see your tears, Laadli,’ she patted the tearful child. ‘They will presume you are a weak person and take advantage. You have to remain strong. There will be many incidents of this kind in the palace. Don’t let them break you,’ Nur Jahan told her daughter.

  It was advice Laadli was not likely to forget in a hurry.

  For days after the incident, the girl followed her mother like a shadow. Laadli was determined not to let the empress out of her sight. Early in the morning, when the empress stepped into her hamamgah, the girl would sit patiently in a corner watching her mother being massaged by her attendants. She would take in the details of the unguents and lotions that were used to keep her mother’s skin glowing. Her keen eyes noted the different kinds of cosmetics used. There were specially prepared herbal oils, in which basil and hibiscus flowers had been boiled to bring sheen and prevent greying of hair. A special concoction of soap
nuts, shikakai and gooseberries was used to shampoo the tresses.

  The elaborate bath rituals seemed an inordinate bother to the girl who spent no time on her own toilette and resented the fuss created by her nurse. Wide-eyed, she watched her mother step into the marble tank filled with rose petals and overflowing with sparkling water heated to just the right temperature, while a slave rubbed and washed her body with scented soap.

  When she stepped out of her bath, the servants flocked to cover her body from the gaze of the girl as they wiped it dry with fragrant towels. The empress lay down on a marble bench while a brazier filled with sandalwood incense, covered with a cane basket, was laid under her head to dry her hair.

  After her bath Nur Jahan made her way to the prayer room. An onyx bookstand with her Quran stood in the centre of the room, with incense censers around it. Lighting up the agar and sandalwood joss sticks, Nur Jahan settled down to pray. This was one ritual that the empress never took lightly, for she was a devout woman whose faith had given her the throne of a magnificent empire.

  From the prayer room they walked to die empress’ chamber, where the attendants waited with petitions from destitute women and orphans. The empress had a soft corner for widowed women and their children–perhaps because of her earlier plight–and she spared no effort to help them. Nur Jahan had arranged the marriage of many orphan girls. Laadli was amazed at the efficient manner in which her mother handled all kinds of problems. Whoever asked for her protection was given refuge.

  To the nine-year-old Laadli, her mother’s virtues knew no bounds. She worshipped the ground her mother walked on: she followed her around like a tame dog, waiting for the crumbs of affection thrown at her by the empress. When Nur Jahan was busy with state affairs–which was most of the time–the girl wandered around the harem corridors, uncertain and unsure of herself. Laadli had neither the self-assurance nor the bravado to handle her new status as a princess. Although the emperor had stated that Laadli would be known as Shahzadi, and conferred upon her a tiny jagir after his marriage to Nur Jahan, she knew that the other princesses of the harem sniggered and called her the usurper’s daughter. They called her mother the Persian usurper and a Persian whore.