Nurjahan's Daughter

by Tanushree Podder

  ‘At this beautiful spot an antelope was caught by the pious king, Nur-ud-din Jahangir, which, in the course of a month, abandoning its savage and wild habits, became the head of the royal antelopes.’

  The lofty, carved octagonal memorial tower stood boldly in the forest challenging the tall trees in the vicinity. Nur Jahan let out a sigh of contentment. It was nice to be away from the royal court. She had the emperor to herself and the world was hers for the moment.

  ‘Why don’t you build a hunting lodge at this place? It would be delightful to stay here for a couple of days while you hunt in the nearby forest. In fact, I think it would be a good idea to have tunnels that connect the Hiran Minar and the Lahore fort. We could escape undetected from the fort to this lovely place whenever we wish to be on our own.’

  ‘It is uncanny how you think of the same things that go through my mind, Nur. I have been toying with the idea of constructing a tunnel for quite some time. Your idea is a brilliant one. In fact, why don’t you make a plan for the project and it shall be executed without any delay. I am not as talented at designing buildings. ‘

  Nur Jahan gave him a sly look–‘What about the mausoleum you constructed for your lady love? You aren’t too bad a designer, either.’

  ‘Which mausoleum are you referring to? And which is this lady love?’

  ‘I have heard many stories about the pomegranate bud that stole your heart and caused you to rebel against the Shahenshah. Entire Lahore talks about the edifice you built in her memory.’

  A cloud of sadness misted the emperor’s eyes as he remembered Anarkali. ‘It was such a long time back. The luckless woman became the target of the Shahenshah’s wrath. She paid for the folly with her life.’

  ‘Do you think love is a folly?’

  ‘When a commoner falls in love with a prince, it is a folly.’

  ‘I was a commoner, Badshah, and I had the temerity to fall in love with you. So, will I have to pay for the folly with my life?’ jested the queen.

  ‘You are my queen, my world. I have given my empire to you. But Anarkali was different. She was very innocent and her love for me was selfless. She desired nothing more than my love.’

  Was the emperor being sarcastic? Was he referring to her political machinations? Nur Jahan felt a stab of jealousy.

  ‘You still love her, my darling.’

  It was not a query and the emperor’s eyebrows shot up protestingly.

  ‘Begum, why do you fret over a story long forgotten? How can I love a dead woman when the light of my life is with me?’

  ‘I will visit the mausoleum you built for Anarkali. I want to pay respect to the woman who sacrificed her life for your love,’ the empress stated haughtily, her stiff bearing and unsmiling face speaking volumes about her feelings.

  ‘As you wish.’

  Nur Jahan fought back the angry retort that came to her lips. Why grieve about a woman who is no more? Why hadn’t he forgotten Anarkali, after all these years? The magic of the morning was lost in the gloom that suddenly seemed to have descended at the mention of Anarkali’s name. Saddened, the emperor got up from her side and began pacing agitatedly. Nur Jahan regretted having brought up the topic; the morning had been ruined.

  ‘Shall we return to the palace?’ asked the emperor after a while. ‘It is getting very warm and soon there will be hot winds blowing across the city.’

  They travelled back in silence. This time the empress did not notice the beauty of the wild blossoms, nor did she delight in the vivid plumes of the peacocks. She did not heed the musical call of the mynahs nor quote a couplet at the sight of the fluttering wings of a parakeet. The shadow of a tragic memory blotted out the beauty around them.

  The empress was determined to visit Anarkali’s tomb and she went there at the first available opportunity, without the emperor’s company this time. Instead, she took Laadli and a few ladies with her. Flowers of all colours danced against the background of gushing fountains. There was a strange melancholic air around the tomb, which was set in an octagonal building covered with a dome. At each corner of the building stood a turret, on top of which was a cupola.

  A hushed silence fell over the giggling women as they stepped on the marble floor. The tomb reminded everyone of the courtesan’s tragic love affair with the emperor. What a heavy price to pay for love, thought Laadli, as she studied the sarcophagus on which was inscribed the ninety-nine names of Allah and a Persian couplet:

  Ta qayamat shukr goyam kard gar khwish ra

  Ah! Gar man baz beenam rui yar khwish ra

  I would give thanks unto my God till the day of Resurrection.

  Ah, if I could behold the face of my beloved again

  – The Bereaved Salim, son of Akbar

  The couplet expressed Jahangir’s feelings more than anything he could have said. The sadness reflected in the words brought a lump to her throat. This was true love! Laadli sighed.

  For Nur Jahan, the trip helped her make peace with the past. The jealousy she had felt a few days ago left her in an instant and she felt sympathy for the dead woman as she sat down beside the tomb to pray for a while. She hated the woman no more; Anarkali was just another unfortunate woman to have fallen prey to the whimsical ways of the royal Mughals. After a while, she placed a wreath of fragrant flowers she had brought with her and quietly walked away from the mausoleum.

  17

  Everyone was talking about the talents of a new young painter at Agra. Within months of his arrival in the city, he had eclipsed most of the artists in the royal atelier. Imraan Khan was extraordinarily talented and soon there was a clamour for portraits made by him as word about his expertise spread around the town. He could paint the finest miniatures with a single-hair brush fashioned out of squirrel’s hair. When word reached Jahangir, who prided himself as a connoisseur of art, the artist was summoned to the court.

  Just a few days back, Sir Thomas Roe had presented a miniature painting of Madonna and her Child to Jahangir. It was beautiful and intricate. After inspecting it closely, a scheme had unfolded in the emperor’s mind. ‘We have heard that your talents surpass those of our royal painters. The entire town is talking about your matchless skills as an artist. We want to see if these claims are true,’ Jahangir told Imraan.

  The young man bowed to the emperor and replied–‘Jahanpanah, I am just a humble artist who earns his living by painting portraits of rich nobles and their families.’

  ‘You are a modest man and we like your humility. The English ambassador has given us a miniature made by a firanghee artist and he claims that it is one of the best in the world. We want you to replicate the miniature in such a way that the ambassador has to eat his words. Will you be able to do that?’

  ‘I will certainly try my best to carry out your command.’

  The emperor ordered the miniature to be given to Imraan and gave him two days to produce a copy of the painting. After two days, when the artist brought his reproduction to the court, Jahangir was ecstatic. ‘This is fantastic! We can’t decide which one is better. They are exactly identical in form and quality.’

  He passed the copy to his ministers and asked them to identify the original. None of them could differentiate between the two miniatures.

  ‘We had not expected you to do such a good job. From today we appoint you as assistant to the Nadir-ul-Zaman, Abul Hasan. Since you are so good in copying Angrezi paintings, we wish you to start a special section in which you will create miniatures of their work.’

  Then Jahangir summoned Sir Thomas Roe and handed him the miniatures. ‘Well English Khan, can you tell the difference between the miniatures?’ he asked, smiling mysteriously.

  The ambassador turned them over and over in his hands, trying to find a flaw in the reproduction, but after studying them for a while, he failed to find any difference that would tell the original from the reproduction.

  The courtiers smiled at the discomposure of the ambassador.

  ‘You will not be able to find it even if y
ou spent the entire night studying them. The Mughal artists are as good as any in the world. In fact, we would say that they are superior in their artistry and mastery than the others in the field!’ The emperor then ordered Imraan Khan to point out the original miniature to the English ambassador. Imraan bowed respectfully to the emperor and approached the envoy.

  ‘Sir, if you inspect the details carefully, you will notice that the difference is very minor and not easily noticeable. The original portrait has been done with a brush that is slightly cruder than the one used in the copy. If you look very closely, you may notice the difference. While the Angrezi artist has used a sable-haired brush, I used a squirrel hair brush to get a finer finish.’

  ‘By God, that’s true. I could never have told the difference. Please accept my compliments for your fine artistry,’ stated the envoy.

  Jahangir was so pleased with the work of his new artist that he immediately conferred a mansab of two hundred on him.

  ‘Young man, I would like you to do my portrait. Although Mansur has been appointed as the official portrait artist, I would like you to do my portrait in the rose garden,’ ordered the emperor.

  One morning, Jahangir summoned Imraan to the royal garden at Lahore. ‘Come young man, we would like you to begin the portrait that you promised to make for us. This is the most pleasant season of the year and Lahore is at its beauteous best.’

  Since no one but high-ranking nobles were ever allowed inside the empress’ private rose garden, Imraan knew that Jahangir was endowing special privilege on him. As he entered the royal garden, the artist understood why the Persians referred to gardens as paradise. To them, paradise was interpreted as the ideal garden, and water was considered its soul. The royal garden was divided into four quarters and enclosed by a high wall with massive wooden doors studded with heavy iron nails and pikes. From a distance he could make out three terraces that formed a pattern. Water drawn from the adjoining river descended from one terrace to another after flowing through a network of canals, tanks and water chutes. As water streamed from one level to the other, it gathered momentum and descended with force, spraying a hundred droplets that appeared like tiny marbles let loose by a mischievous child. Marble steps ran along the sides of the water chutes, ending in a marble pond in which bloomed dozens of lotuses. Ornate niches, made of agate, marble and onyx, occupied the walls behind the waterfalls. At night, oil lamps–sheltered behind ornate glass shades of different geometrical shapes–were placed in the niches, making the waterfall appear like a curtain of flowing light.

  Pathways along the central canal were lined with tall cypress trees, alternated with orange and lemon trees abloom with fragrant flowers. Imraan knew that the Persians believed that trees like orange, pomegranate, plum and white kachnar symbolised youth, life and hope, while the cypress was the symbol of death and eternity. The Mughals also believed in the efficacy of gardens to cure them of all ailments, mental and emotional. Water, trees, flowers and fruits: they surrounded themselves with these elements to bring a sense of peace and tranquillity to their war and strife-torn existence.

  Hosts of carnations, hollyhock, peonies, lotus, marigold, violets, tuberose and zinnia shrubs dotted the landscape. The garden contained more than a hundred species of plants, including evergreens and screw pines. There was a profusion of roses standing against the lush background. Parrots and pigeons moved around freely among the flowers. Several peacocks strutted around fearlessly. Ornate pavilions with adorned cupolas and marble benches lined the garden. A wooden bridge covered with creepers ran over the water canal at one end.

  For a few moments, Imraan stood mesmerised by the view before him, and then a few lines from the verses of Faizi came unbidden to his mind–

  ‘If there is paradise on earth, it is here, it is here, it is here.’

  His creative energy was at its peak as Imraan rushed about selecting the right space and light for the emperor to pose in. Cool breeze from the river Ravi blew into the garden.

  ‘There is music in the air,’ said Jahangir. ‘It makes me wonder if this is what heaven looks like. The bliss in this garden makes one forget all worries.’

  With a smile Imraan replied–‘Jahanpanah, it takes a poet to recognise the beauty of nature and express it in words and an artist to reproduce the beauty on canvas. You, Sire, are the poet, and I am the humble artist.’

  The emperor chuckled at Imraan’s compliments–‘Young man, I believe that your skills extend beyond the limitations of a brush. You also have a way with words. Maybe you should try composing poems.’

  Imraan adjusted the emperor’s robe so that it fell in graceful folds around his lap, and he began sketching the royal profile. The emperor was clad in perfect white muslin with a heron feathered turban adorned with emeralds and rubies; his feet, shod in green embroidered slippers, rested on a velvet upholstered footstool. It was a perfect setting. Imraan plucked a bright red rose from the garden and handed it to Jahangir. The flower softened the emperor’s appearance.

  Jahangir watched as the artist’s charcoal flew in swift motions across the paper, his brows knitted in concentraton. There was no doubt about his proficiency. All of a sudden, his hands seemed to freeze. Muttering an oath, Imraan threw away the charcoal and wiped his hands with a disgusted look.

  ‘What holds you up, Imraan?’ The emperor was irritated at the artist’s tardiness. Jahangir was not known to be a patient person, and the delay annoyed him.

  ‘I am sorry Jahanpanah. Someone is attempting to play Raag Bahar, but the notes are absolutely wrong.’

  ‘How can you tell? You are an artist not a musician,’ said the emperor.

  ‘With all due respect, Jahanpanah, I am first a musician and then an artist. My uncle, Mian Tansen, was employed in Emperor Akbar’s court and I learnt some music from him during my childhood. I will not call myself an accomplished musician, but I can distinguish the right notes from the wrong ones,’ replied Imraan modestly.

  ‘Yah Allah! We have none less than Mian Tansen’s nephew in our court and no one has informed us. This is unpardonable. Why didn’t you let us know before?’

  ‘Pardon me Sir, I did not want to boast about my lineage. My talents are in no way comparable to those of my uncle.’

  ‘Besides being a talented person, you are an unassuming person. In any case, you have solved our problem. We have been looking for an Ustaad to teach our stepdaughter the sitar. Laadli has been trying to pick up the raag for a few days, quite unsuccessfully, as you must have realised. Our royal musician has stayed behind at Agra so she is unable to get his help. Will you teach her the correct notes?’

  ‘Your wish is my command, Jahanpanah. I shall strive to do my best to impart to the princess whatever knowledge I possess.’

  ‘Our daughter will be delighted to know that we have found her an Ustaad. We will also ask her to stop assaulting our senses with the wrong notes. Then there will be peace and you can paint my portrait without any disturbance,’ smiled the emperor. There was a twinkle of humour in his eyes.

  Imraan knew that Laadli was the daughter of empress Nur Jahan. She was rumoured to be a recluse–a gentle and shy girl. He spent the rest of the morning trying to sketch the emperor, but his mind was restless. The thought that he would be imparting music lessons to a princess was a disturbing one. In all his twenty-three years, the young artist had not dealt with a woman. To be seated in the presence of a shehzadi seemed an incredible idea to him. His hands trembled; they had always been very steady. Was it nervousness or apprehension? he wondered, trying to steady his fingers.

  Suddenly the emperor rose and began walking away–‘Your art will have to wait, young man,’ Jahangir told Imraan. ‘It is time for us to present ourself at the jharoka. We shall continue with the portrait tomorrow. You will be told when you have to begin music lessons with the princess.’

  The young artist was relieved to be dismissed by the emperor. His mind in a whirl, Imraan tried to remember the words of caution uttered by Peer Shah Bu
land, the Sufi saint whom he visited regularly. Just after he was commissioned by the emperor for a portrait, Imraan had visited the holy man for his blessings. The Sufi fakir had been very precise in his advice: ‘Follow three edicts and you will never be sorry. Firstly, no matter how pleased the emperor is with you, keep your distance from him. The moods of an emperor are like the rain clouds that can be harmless one moment and spark lightning the very next moment. Secondly, no matter how many opportunities fate provides, do not get intimate with any woman from the royal zenana. They will bring you nothing but sorrow. Lastly, to be a good artist, do not let the lure of gold overpower your creativity.’

  Imraan recalled the Sufi’s words as a eunuch approached him with the instructions that he was to present himself at the royal garden in the evening for the music lesson.

  Later that evening, Imraan, dressed in a spotless white muslin dress, headgear in place, walked towards the royal garden. Dangling from his cummerbund was a brocade pouch with paan in it. He wasn’t rich enough to wear rubies or diamonds in his turban, but a string of small pearls adorned his neck. He had taken care to dab himself with the attar he kept aside for special occasions, and this was as special an occasion as any. Not everyone gets an opportunity to enter the royal garden or tutor a princess, he thought.

  The evening was a pleasant one as Imraan arrived at the royal palace. The empress’ chief eunuch, Hoshiyar, met him as soon as he entered the rose garden. The eunuch led him through an aisle to a pavilion overlooking the gently flowing river. An elaborate arrangement had been made for the music lesson. Hundreds of red roses alternated with white jasmine buds were strung together and suspended from a golden bar to form a floral curtain. They fell from the roof to the floor, effectively dividing the pavilion. The air was heavy with the fragrance of flowers. The setting sun in the horizon completed the idyllic picture. Imraan experienced a sense of peace as he entered the pavilion. It was the perfect setting for a music session.