‘You are not listening to me, Firdaus. I want you to describe the wedding. Did the emperor attend the ceremony?’ Laadli was tugging at her sleeve.
‘The wedding was a grand one and almost all the important people in town attended it. The emperor could not attend because he was away on a campaign, but his Persian wife, Queen Bilquees Begum, attended the wedding and gifted an expensive set of jewellery to your mother. She looked ravishing in her bridal dress of crimson brocade. The weavers at Benares had especially woven the veil and the best craftsmen of the town had spent weeks toiling over the bridal attire. It had tiny rubies and pearls embroidered into it. She was so beautiful that people could barely take their eyes off her face. No one in Agra had seen such a beautiful bride, I can vouch.’
‘And Abbajaan? Did he look dashing and handsome?’
‘Of course he did. There was not a man in Agra to match your Abba. He wore a white robe with fine zardosi embroidery on it, over a pair of tight satin trousers in the brightest of reds. His turban matched his robe and an ornate pin set with emeralds adorned its folds. When he rode into the house, the women exclaimed excitedly.’
‘And then they lived happily ever after...’ sang Laadli.
Hardly that, thought the nurse. She knew how difficult it had been for Meherunnisa to adjust to the rough ways of the soldier. Used to the elegance and refinement of the palace, she found it hard to handle the demands of a husband who was more physical than intellectual. At every stage of her married life, the prince intruded into her thoughts. For many years she continued to pine for Salim and the grandeur of the royal harem.
Her frustration showed up in constant illnesses and numerous miscarriages. With her husband away on military campaigns for long periods of time, the woman was sentenced to a life of solitude. She spent many nights tossing on her empty bed, lonely and miserable, haunted by memories of her past romance. Those were tough times. Unhappy in her marriage, Meherunnisa lost much of her youthful exuberance, beauty and wit. She was a pale shadow of her former self, with dark circles under her eyes. As the days went by, she became careless about her appearance and clothes. Firdaus felt sorry for her, but there was little she could do to alleviate the situation.
There were so many stories and memories. Firdaus’ face creased with a gentle smile as she tucked Laadli into bed. Many of her fond memories were about Meherunnisa’s dalliance with the prince. There were few who knew as much as she did about their romance, but those stories were not for telling. Laadli would never learn of her mother’s love affair or the prince’s infatuation–at least not from her. Like most people connected with the Mughal court, Sher Afghan had also heard the rumours about Prince Salim’s infatuation for Meherunnisa, but he never discussed the subject with his wife. Perhaps he did not want confirmation of Meherunnisa’s feelings for another man.
The spectre of suspicion, however, clouded their relationship. Sher Afghan knew that the prince wore his heart on his sleeve. Salim’s love affairs were too numerous for anyone to keep count. Some of his infatuations lasted just a day, and some for a couple of weeks. Not many of his dalliances lasted long enough to cause any concern.
Of the many romantic affairs of the prince, the most tragic was the one between him and Anarkali. Everyone at Lahore knew about their romance and its disastrous end. Nadira was a servant in the royal harem. The girl was a graceful dancer and a skilled singer. One day, the empress commanded her to sing for Shehanshah Akbar. He was so captivated with her beauty and voice that he gave her the title Anarkali, meaning ‘bud of a pomegranate’.
Akbar fell prey to her beauty and made her his concubine. With her beauty and wit, the girl soon became his favourite concubine. There were many in the harem who were jealous of the emperor’s preference for her.
Anarkali was immensely talented and Akbar, who was a connoisseur of art, was delighted with her. She was a skilled miniaturist and often painted in the Lahore atelier.
It was the month of April, spring was in the air and Lahore was celebrating the festive occasion of Akhri Charshumba, the second month of the Islamic calendar. It was the day when the Prophet Mohammad recovered from his illness for the last time. The rituals began early in the morning with everyone bathing in perfumed water and dressing in new clothes. Sadquas, the offerings of all kinds of grains and pulses, were arranged in huge gold plates along with silver jowls full of mustard oil. The male members of the royal family touched the Sadqua and gazed at their reflection in the oil before placing gold coins in it. These were later distributed amongst the poor. After the harem women performed the rituals, everyone gathered for a sumptuous breakfast.
Surrounded by a bevy of giggling women in his grandmother’s palace, Salim gazed at his reflection in the oil. The faces of some women were also reflected in the bowl as they teased the prince. All of a sudden his eyes were attracted to a beautiful image. His eyes met those of Anarkali in the golden oil, and he was mesmerised. And that was the beginning of a passionate romance.
Salim and Anarkali met clandestinely in the gardens of Lahore, professing their love for each other. It is said that fire and love cannot be hidden for long. Tales of their love affair soon began circulating around the palace and town. A jealous concubine carried the gossip to the emperor. Akbar could not believe the story, but the seeds of suspicion had taken root in his mind and he ordered a eunuch to keep a watch over Anarkali. The lovers, unaware of the emperor’s spy, continued to meet each other.
When the eunuch confirmed the stories of their romance, Shahenshah Akbar was furious. The humiliation of being betrayed by his concubine was compounded by the treachery of his son. The incensed emperor resolved to award an exemplary punishment to the unfaithful woman–a penalty that would serve as a warning to all the women in his harem. He summoned Anarkali and confronted her. She admitted her guilt, convinced that the emperor would forgive her. It was not to be. Salim was sent away on another campaign and in the early hours of a quiet Lahore dawn, Anarkali was entombed alive on the orders of Emperor Akbar. Brick by brick her breath was snuffed away as the masons cemented away her life.
As expected, the jealous concubines of the harem greeted the news of her tragic death with scarcely disguised glee. Prince Salim was inconsolable when he learnt of his lover’s fate. He locked himself in his apartment and spent many days mourning for his Anarkali.
Salim’s history of affairs had made Mirza Ghias Baig and Asmat wary of his romance with their Meherunnisa. ‘It is better to be wedded to a commoner than to be a prince’s concubine,’ Asmat told her husband. ‘No one can predict how long the royal interest will linger. Once interest wanes, a concubine’s life is no better than that of a caged animal.’
They were relieved when Sher Afghan’s marriage proposal was brought before them. The marriage would serve a dual purpose. Besides winning the emperor’s favour, it would give them a chance to extricate their daughter from the clutches of the prince. In any case, the idea of defying the emperor’s desire never occurred to them.
The wedding did not bring happiness to Meherunnisa who had dreamt of becoming a queen. She spent her nights in Sher Afghan’s arms, but her heart remained with the prince. She pined for news of her lover but, sitting far away from the court, it was not often that she learnt of the goings on in the palace. Although her father tried to give her news of Prince Salim in his letters, he was afraid of them falling in the wrong hands, so he wrote about the family and made passing references to the happenings at the court. Over a period of time, they had developed their personal codes and Mirza Ghias Baig used these to convey news of the ongoing royal conflict to his daughter.
From her father’s carefully worded letters, Meherunnisa learned that her beloved Salim continuously revolted against his father. Always an unruly and obstinate man, the prince was now exhibiting streaks of ruthlessness and cruelty. Impatient to wear the crown, the prince had already made up his mind to rise in rebellion against his ageing father.
The stage for the revolt was set when the
wilful prince set up his own empire at Allahabad and began holding court. He appropriated 30 lakhs of rupees from the treasury of Bihar, bestowed jagirs and titles on his supporters, gathered a force of 30,000 men and began running a parallel kingdom in defiance of the Mughal emperor.
Sher Afghan, who had taken a violent dislike for the prince, also fed Meherunnisa with news about the errant prince. It gave him sadistic pleasure to belittle Salim, because he suspected that she still had feelings for the prince.
‘The history of Mughal rule has never seen a more perfidious prince. He is ready to stab the emperor in his eagerness to occupy the throne. One can well imagine the state of the empire if Salim were to wear the crown.’
Meherunnisa refused to bite the bait although she wanted to rise in defence of the prince.
‘Can you imagine the extent of the prince’s wickedness?’ Sher Afghan commented one night, during dinner. Meherunnisa, careful not to show too much curiosity, lifted her brows quizzically. ‘He has taken to skinning people alive at the barest excuse.’
Meherunnisa’s heart sank with despair with each news of Salim’s brutality. When had he changed into this brutal beast? Would Salim remember her when he sat on the throne? If he didn’t care about his father, would he bother about her? Would their paths ever cross again?
From her father’s letters, Meherunnisa learnt that the old emperor was distraught at the thought of Salim’s misdeeds. His elder son, Prince Daniyal, was addicted to opium and remained sunk in a stupor most of the time. Rumours about his failing health abounded at Agra. Prince Murad, a slave of overindulgence, had also died in his prime, and now Prince Daniyal was following him to the grave. Only Salim–though not very restrained himself, when it came to liquor and drugs–remained in line for the throne. The aggrieved emperor cursed his fate and wondered if the glory of the Mughals was fated for obliteration after his death; he could not bear the thought of handing over the reins of the glorious Mughal empire to his whimsical son. Exasperated, Akbar began grooming Salim’s son, Khusrau, for the throne. Khusrau was intelligent, balanced and patient.
If there was one person who had not lost faith in Salim, despite his waywardness, it was his stepmother and Akbar’s favourite wife, Salima Sultan Begum. Shocked at the thought that Salim’s defiance could rob him of his rightful inheritance of the throne, she intervened. The begum was determined to bring about a reconciliation between the ageing monarch and the recalcitrant prince. Undeterred by the distance, she travelled through rough terrain and brought Salim back to the royal court, after much persuasion. ‘Do you want to lose the throne to your son?’ she had asked, her words striking him like a blow. He decided to accompany her to Agra. The emperor had to be appeased at any cost.
The emperor forgave the repentant prince and conferred the royal diadem on him. It was an important gift, a mark of sovereignty, meant as a token of compromise between the father and son.
But Akbar was too astute to believe that his son had transformed overnight. To test the prince’s change of heart, he commanded him to proceed towards Mewar to quell rebellion in the region. When Salim prevaricated, his mother rebuked him. ‘Have you gone insane? After all the effort that went into bringing about the reconciliation, you are reverting to your old habits. Go to Mewar at once,’ she commanded.
Reluctantly, Salim left for Allahabad on the pretext of gathering forces. Once there, however, he did nothing. The Shahenshah was convinced that nothing had changed. Salim’s promises could not be trusted. The disillusioned emperor finally prepared to go to war with his rebellious son, ignoring the pleas of his queens. Sher Afghan was called to lead the troops against the prince and the loyal soldier was only too happy to ride against his foe.
Meherunnisa watched her husband riding away to the battlefield and her heart broke at the thought of him fighting against Salim. Husband or lover, she didn’t know whose life to pray for. Perhaps the Almighty decided to spare her the torture, because the fateful battle never took place.
Just as the emperor and his imperial army were riding towards the battleground, Akbar’s mother, Miriam Makani, died at Agra. Akbar abandoned the operation and returned to the capital. One of the major faults in Salim’s character was his indecisiveness. Like a pendulum, he swung from one extreme to the other. Once again, he decided to reconcile with his father, and this time Salim decided to use his grandmother’s death as an excuse to beg for royal forgiveness. His fears of losing the crown to Khusrau had gained ground. Khusrau’s popularity was on the upswing amongst the royal ladies, powerful nobles and the people.
At Agra, Salim received a cold reception. After the last rites of his mother, Akbar summoned him to his private chamber. A heated altercation ensued between the father and the son till, exasperated, the emperor slapped the prince and confined him in a room under the charge of a physician and two servants. ‘Wine and vice has deranged his mind. The prince needs to be kept under observation till he comes to his senses,’ declared Akbar.
5
'A letter from Agra,’ Firdaus said, rushing in with a sealed purse containing a missive from Meherunnisa’s father. She knew how eagerly Meherunnisa waited for these letters. Meherunnisa’s hands trembled as she ripped open the seal of her father’s letter. She was disappointed to note that the communication was addressed to Sher Afghan.
‘Dear Sher,’ Mirza Ghias Baig had written, ‘You must leave for Agra immediately as the empire is going through a critical period. Your absence may be misconstrued as a sign of disloyalty towards the emperor.’
Cursing the delay in receiving the despatch, Sher Afghan left for Agra immediately. He knew that Shahenshah Akbar held him in great affection, but Salim hated his guts. The soldier knew that he had to make peace with the prince unless he wanted retribution on his head. Everyone knew how ruthless and cruel the prince could be. Hundreds of servants, soldiers, spies and eunuchs who had displeased the prince had suffered horrendous punishments. From being skinned to being trampled by elephants, Salim personally watched the sentences being carried out. Flogging was a common occurrence. It seemed to give him a fiendish pleasure to see the agony on his victim’s faces. His sadistic traits were a contrast to Akbar’s benign nature and most nobles shuddered at the thought of Salim ascending the throne.
Even as Sher Afghan travelled to Agra, covering the distance on his fastest steed, the light of the Mughal empire was fading. Dejected with his son’s behaviour, the emperor had taken seriously ill. The palace was seized with intrigues as the emperor lay on his deathbed. Prince Khusrau’s uncle, Raja Maan Singh, who had been appointed governor of Bengal by Akbar, and other powerful ministers had been plotting to place Khusrau on the throne in the last few years. Much of the dissidents’ activities took place in Bengal where Maan Singh was stationed. Now that the emperor was ill, the machinations were stepped up.
The clammy climate of the east gave way to the cold of the north. Icy winds tore through the forests sending shivers through the soldier who pressed forward relentlessly, urging his horse to cover the last few kilometres. He had to reach Agra before destiny played her hand. There was a sense of foreboding in Sher Afghan’s heart as he tore through the countryside towards the Mughal capital. He was too late.
On 17 October 1605, Akbar succumbed to his illness. Within minutes of Akbar’s death, Raja Maan Singh called a meeting of his adherents.
‘It is time for the nobles to come together and make a decision. We all know that Shahenshah Akbar was disappointed with Prince Salim. He wanted Prince Khusrau to be crowned as the next emperor.’
‘Yes, the last wishes of the emperor must be followed!’ they cried in unison. ‘Prince Khusrau must wear the crown!’
Prince Khusrau was broad-minded, learned and generous. He had endeared himself to the masses by his virtuous nature. He was the popular choice for the emperor’s throne, a total contrast to his debauched father who drank excessively and lived a colourful life. Salim’s violent temper, capriciousness, and cruelty made him unpopular amongst the m
inisters in Akbar’s court. In fact, there were rumours that the emperor had not died a natural death. Muted whispers that Salim had engineered his death through poison administered by the royal hakim, travelled through the court.
But the nobles were divided. While some sided with Raja Maan Singh and Khusrau’s father-in-law Aziz Koka, most of them believed that Prince Salim was the rightful heir to the throne. Swords were drawn, sides taken and war declared. Realising the futility of an open confrontation with the loyalists, Khusrau’s supporters withdrew, leaving a clear path for Salim to ascend the throne.
A week after his father’s death, Salim ascended the throne as emperor of Hindustan, and assumed the lofty title ‘Nuruddin Muhammed Jahangir Padshah’.
Once he had been enthroned, Jahangir, much to the surprise of the nobles, decided to pardon all those who had rebelled against him. Raja Maan Singh and Aziz Koka, who had been fearful of Jahangir’s reprisal, were taken aback when he declared clemency for them. The emperor ensured, however, that they were stripped of the important posts that they had held during Shahenshah Akbar’s time. Although he would have liked to execute Maan Singh, the emperor could not do so as the Raja had a large following amongst the Rajputs. Jahangir was intelligent enough to realise the benefits of pardoning Maan Singh.
Mirza Ghias Baig, who had proved his loyalty, was promoted to an important post.
The responsibilities of an empire have a strange way of moulding a king’s character. Jahangir, awed by the immense expectations of the people, transformed almost overnight from an indolent and whimsical prince to a magnanimous and gentle emperor. The excesses of a king, however, are not easily forgotten and Jahangir realised he would have to work hard to build a new image. He had to win the confidence of his subjects.
The first thing the emperor did was to install a ‘Chain of Justice’. This was a huge chain weighing four mans, made of pure gold and with sixty golden bells on it. The chain–thirty yards long–was suspended from a battlement of the Agra Fort and the other end attached to a stone column on the bank of the Yamuna river.
Nurjahan's Daughter Page 6