Piles of silk cushions lay on a spotless white sheet, which was spread over a thick Persian carpet. Jade and china bowls heaped with fresh and dry fruits were placed on one side while an ornate silver spittoon stood at the other end of the carpet. A sitar completed the picture.
A few eunuchs stood around the pavilion, whispering in low tones. Minutes later, one of the eunuchs announced the arrival of the princess. Imraan stood up and bowed his head so that the princess could arrive unseen. The melodious tinkle of anklets heralded the entrance of his pupil. The whiff of her perfume reached him. It was almost impossible for the young man to keep himself from stealing a look at the princess, but the words of the Sufi saint echoed in his head and he willed himself to keep his eyes down.
Imraan bowed in her direction and said–‘Salaam Alekum, Shahzadi, I am here on the Badshah’s command.’
‘Alekum Salaam,’ from within the veil emerged a soft voice; it had depth and melody. She settled down on her side of the pavilion with her ladies. With a resolute shake of his head, Imraan brought himself to the task at hand. He picked up the instrument and began tuning its strings.
From her vantage position, the princess stole a glance at her Ustaad. She took in the tall and graceful figure of the young man. He was more handsome than anyone she had ever seen. Something about him reminded her of her Abba. Maybe it was his stature. Her heart began to beat faster as she picked up the sitar in her hands.
The moment Imraan’s hands touched the sitar he became oblivious to the intoxicating ambience and the shehzadi. He performed a thanks giving prayer to his own Ustaad and, closing his eyes, he began strumming the strings with precision, remembering each note of the raag he was about to play. Laadli listened with growing fascination. This was the kind of music she wanted to play. It was magical. Even the eunuchs who were hovering around protectively stood enraptured. The ladies accompanying the princess cried out ‘Wah, wah, Subhan Allah,’ without any restrain. They were spellbound by his skilful rendition of the raag.
‘Subhan Allah,’ the princess exclaimed as he ended his rendition. ‘That was a superb piece. Will I be able to play the instrument as expertly, ever?’
Imraan blushed happily at the praises heaped by the small audience.
‘Why not? With devotion and dedication, you can learn to play even better than me. But before I begin teaching you, I would like to tell you something about raags themselves. You must be aware that Hindustani music is replete with raags which have been created very scientifically. Each raag is played at a specific time of the day. For instance, Raag Malkauns is a late night raag that is played between nine in the evening and midnight, in the third quarter of the night, while Raag Bhairavi is an early morning raag to be played between six and nine in the morning. You should not attempt to play a raag at the wrong time. The magic is lost when you do that. I heard you playing Raag Bahar at eleven in the morning, which was not correct. It is supposed to be played only between midnight and three a.m. This is the first rule you must obey. Since it is almost six in the evening, we will play Raag Bhoopali.’
Laadli sat captivated as Imraan taught her the basic rules. She picked at the strings in all earnestness, willing herself to learn the intricate notes of Raag Bhoopali. The magic of the setting sun and the melody of the notes mingled with the cool breeze laden with the scent of the roses. It was another world, another time. For the inexperienced girl, the atmosphere was intoxicating; it seemed nothing short of bliss.
Immersed in the music, neither the Ustaad nor his pupil realised the time gliding away silently. Slave girls placed crystal candelabras with dozens of candles flickering in them. A couple of silver incense burners were placed on either side of the pavilion to ward off mosquitoes. A bright new moon had made its silvery appearance before Imraan realised it was late.
‘I think that is enough for a day. I would like you to practice the notes I have taught you today. Tomorrow we shall take up another aspect of the same raag. Khuda Hafiz,’ he said tersely, and performed a respectful kornish to the princess. Then he stood with his head bowed to allow the princess to pass unseen. Once again he was fiercely tempted to steal a look at her, but the Sufi’s words echoed in his mind, warningly.
The princess reciprocated his salutation and made her way towards the royal harem, surrounded by her slave girls and eunuchs. Only after she had left the garden did the artist make his way back to his quarters outside the royal palace. As he walked through the narrow streets to his humble quarters, Imraan was overcome with the feeling that, in some way, his life had changed and would never be the same again.
In the royal harem, Laadli thought of her music lesson and smiled to herself.
‘I know what occupies the royal mind,’ teased Benazir, who had been present at the rose garden during the music lesson. ‘I don’t blame you. He is very handsome. It would be impossible for a woman not to fall in love with such a good-looking man!’
‘Don’t you dare tease me! I was not thinking about him. I was just wondering if I will ever learn to play sitar the way he does. He was quite marvellous, wasn’t he?’ she asked.
‘Yes, and he is said to wield the brush as expertly as he handles the sitar. The entire city is talking about his painting skills and the emperor has already commissioned him for a portrait.’
‘I wish he could teach me to paint,’ the princess sighed, as she playfully pulled at the zari tassels of the brocade cushion on her bed. There was a wistful look in her eyes.
‘Now, don’t be greedy,’ rebuked her friend. ‘Isn’t it enough that he has is teaching you music? Or, is it the desire of spending more time with him that makes our princess so restless?’
‘Don’t be silly, Benazir,’ the princess said, turning away. She could feel herself blushing. What has happened to me? Why do I feel so strange? she wondered. The truth was, her friend was right. For whatever reason, she could not wait till the next evening came.
As they sat in the pavilion the next evening, separated from each other by a freshly erected floral curtain, she wondered if he could hear the thumping of her heart. It beat loudly as he explained the birth of Indian music in his rich voice. ‘Your uncle, Mian Tansen, was a great singer. It must have been an wonderful experience for you to learn music from him,’ Laadli said, wanting to prolong the conversation. She liked his voice.
‘He was one of the world’s greatest singers–unparalleled in talent. He was also a great composer. In fact, Raag Darbari Kanada was created by him.’
‘It is said that when he sang Raag Deepak, the lamps would light up on their own. And when he sang Raag Megh Malhar, rain clouds appeared in the sky. Is it true?’
‘I never had a chance to hear him sing these two raags, but people have told me it is true. There is a tamarind tree next to his tomb and it is believed that those who eat a leaf from the tree will be bestowed with musical talents.’
‘If you happen to go there, will you get me a few leaves from the tree?’ Laadli asked.
‘I am afraid that the tree will soon lose all its leaves since every person wanting to learn music has been tearing them down in great profusion!’ Imraan said.
Laadli’s laughter rang through the garden. It wasn’t just what he had that had made her laugh. She experienced an inexplicable cheerful feeling in his company. She had not laughed in such a blithe manner for a very long time.
The eunuchs threw them a disapproving look, but neither of them noticed. ‘Do you known any of Emir Khusro’s compositions? I am very fond of his khayals.’
‘You like Khusro? I am a devotee of his music. His verses are simple and yet so eloquent:
You’ve taken away my looks, my identity, by just a glance.
By making me drink the wine of love-potion,
You’ve intoxicated me by just a glance.
The entire assembly sat spellbound as they listened to Imraan reciting Emir Khusro’s compositions. Even the eunuchs crept closer to hear the words. The moon waned, its silver beams reflected in the pool of
water. The princess sat enthralled in the company of the musician, as his rich voice recited the lovely verses. She wished the night would never end. There was magic all around her.
The music lessons continued. Resolved not to get into trouble, Imraan forced himself to remain detached. The Sufi’s warning rang constantly in his mind, and he made no attempt to see the face of his important pupil. Four months passed. Laadli had finally admitted to herself that she was in love with her tutor. She was not sure when it had happened–perhaps it was the instant she had first heard him play–but she knew that her feelings for Imraan were real. She realised there was not much she could do about this; in her usual self-effacing way, she did not think that he would ever return her love. It did rankle, however, that he did not seem in the least curious about her. Finally, she spoke to her her friend. ‘Benazir, why is he not even interested in looking at me? Would a man not be curious about his pupil? How can he remain so indifferent?’
‘Please Laadli. You must not think about him. It can lead to nothing but sorrow and will endanger Imraan’s life. It is my advice that you let the affair die before it begins. And you must be careful what you say. There will be trouble if the empress hears you.’
‘All my life I have done my mother’s bidding! When she thrust me on Prince Khusrau, I didn’t object despite the fact that I considered him like a brother. Then her next target was Khurram and she pushed me on him. Tell me, am I a puppet in her hands, to fulfil her ambitions? Do I have no say in the matter of my matrimony?’ Laadli cried.
‘Hush! The walls have ears. You must be careful about what you say. Your mother wishes you to be the Malika of Hindustan one day.’
‘She wishes nothing but to continue her rule over the empire!’
Benazir’s heart broke to see the unhappiness in Laadli’s eyes. Silently she snuffed out the lamps and left the chamber. Sleep eluded Laadli. She tossed on her bed restlessly. She knew it was impossible, but she wanted Imraan to fall in love with her, to woo her with lovely verses and music. Her body craved for his touch.
Over the months, the eunuchs became lax and the number of ladies accompanying Laadli also dwindled as the novelty of the experience died. They found other sources of amusement, leaving the princess to her lessons, undisturbed. Only Benazir continued to accompany her friend every day.
It was a winter evening. The nip in the air was pleasantly chill. Laadli was intent upon winning her tutor’s appreciation as she struck a chord on the sitar. For many days she had been practicing intently, just so she could impress Imraan. The rendition was near perfect.
For the first time, Imraan complimented his pupil. ‘That was wonderful, Shehzadi. You have picked up the nuances of playing the sitar quite well in the short time that I have been tutoring you.’
Laadli blushed at the compliment. Gathering her courage she replied–‘Thank you. It is four months since you began teaching me and it is due to your guidance that I have been able to handle the instrument. Soon the royal entourage will be moving to Kashmir. I wonder whether I will be able to continue with the music lessons.’
‘I will request the emperor to allow your music lessons to continue,’ assured the Ustaad. He was confident about the talent of his protege and wanted her to move beyond the boundaries of amateur playing.
‘I do not know whether the emperor will agree,’ Laadli shook her head sadly. ‘We will have to appeal to my mother. She is the one who decides everything.’
‘You will have to do that, Shehzadi, since I don’t have access to the empress.’
‘Something has been bothering me for a few days,’ her voice quivered nervously. ‘Will you give an honest reply to my query?’
Imraan heard the edgy note in her voice. ‘What is it that you want to know, Shehzadi? I am a truthful person by nature and I will try to give you an honest reply.’
‘Don’t you...don’t you feel curious about me?’
Laadli’s question took him by surprise.
‘I beg your pardon. I don’t understand your question,’ Imraan said, his instincts alert.
‘Don’t you want to know more about me?’ persisted the princess.
Benazir shot a warning look at her friend, but Laadli was determined to carry the matter to a head.
‘She means, you’ve never displayed any interest in seeing the princess in all these months,’ Benazir finally explained.
‘Shehzadi, I am here to teach you music, not to gaze at your face. I have heard that the empress is beautiful enough to distract the emperor. So I assume her daughter must be beautiful, too. Beyond that I have never hazarded a thought. It is my duty to impart music lessons to the princess and I intend carrying out my duty without any hindrance,’ Imraan spoke resolutely.
‘But I am not beautiful. My mother is, that is true, but I take after my father,’ Laadli’s voice seemed to float around him. ‘My eyes are too close together and my brow stands straight over them. The nose is all crooked and the lips too bulbous. The teeth, well–the less said the better. They protrude over the lower lips in a most ungainly manner. Tell me, great artist, can you imagine my plight. No man ever wants to look at me.’ There was bubbling mirth in the dulcet voice that came across the floral divide.
Imraan was horrified. He had heard tales about her rejection by the princes Khusrau and Khurram; the rumours abounded in the city. Now he knew the reason. He felt sorry for his pupil and consoled her. ‘Well, princess, beauty is not everything. There is something more important than physical beauty, and that is, the beauty of the mind and spirit. You have the talent to rise above physical attributes.’
‘Your words are meant to console me. The fact remains that no man will marry an ugly girl, no matter how talented. For that matter, will you paint the portrait of an ugly princess?’ Benazir and Laadli suppressed their giggles.
‘Why not?’ Imraan did his best to comfort the unhappy princess.
‘How can you do so without seeing me?’
‘If you described your features well, I could paint your portrait without seeing you.’
‘Let’s wager on that. The Nauroz celebrations are a week away, let us present each other with portraits. You will paint mine and I will paint yours, without seeing each other.’ The challenge seemed to excite the princess. The artist humbly agreed to her wager.
That evening, Imraan was in a thoughtful mood as he walked down the Lahori Bazaar lane towards his house. He barely noticed Abrar, the aphrodisiac seller, who was trying to entice his customers with glib talk. Abrar stood by his tattered rug, which was laid out on the street with a heap of dried herbs and potions in minuscule containers. His little son was beating a small drum on one side. Soon a little crowd of curious people had gathered around the vendor.
‘Janab, you must be wondering what are those little straw-like dried things. Well, they are the most potent herbs that were ever found on this side of the Himalayas. They can turn an impotent man into a potent bull; a man who is unable to satisfy a single woman, into a stud capable of siring a hundred sons. If you have only daughters, I have a potion that will give you only sons. It is a guaranteed, sure-fire, fail-safe, herbal concoction. For double efficacy, there is the Shabnam herb for your spouse and the Mardangee potion for the men.’
The crowd grew larger by the minute as the vendor continued in his singsong voice, lauding the powers of his herbal treasure.
‘You don’t believe me? You don’t believe Abrar, who has sired a dozen sons? Well, it is my misfortune that no one has realised my worth as yet, but ask those who have bought the potions. They will tell you about the power trapped in these little bottles. The cost of the potion, you asked dear sir, it is nothing. Just a few dams. For the cost of one kebab you can be a potent man. Buy a surkh of Mardangee for a dam and I shall give you a surkh of Shabnam for free. How is that for a bargain?’
A few people had picked up the dried herbs and were debating over the merits of the vendor’s offer. Soon the demands began pouring in.
‘I’ll take a su
rkh of both.’
‘Give me a packet of the best.’
Abrar got busy packing his stuff into small pieces of white muslin.
‘How do I consume this dried twig?’ asked a customer.
‘Yes sir, you’ve asked the most important question. You have to soak the herb in a bowl of milk and place the bowl in moonlight for a single night. The best time for the treatment is during the full moon nights. Combine the concoction with a little sugar in the morning and drink it up and by night you will be charging like a bull.’
There was a titter of laughter as the men tried to overcome their embarrassment. Imraan smiled despite himself. He had once asked Abrar if the ware he peddled was of any use. The vendor had been candid. ‘Janab, I will not lie to you because you are a neighbour. My forefathers peddled the same ware and they swore by the efficacy of their products. I have just inherited the trade. Whether it works or not is a different matter.’
The artist recalled those words as he watched the crowd. Men will do anything to prove their manhood! he thought. Ahead, a lame beggar blocked his way and Imraan parted with a dam before he made his way to the next street. His mind was abuzz with several plans. The princess had challenged him to a tough wager and he had to find a way to accomplish it.
For long, Laadli had wanted to see the portraits and other paintings done by Imraan and he had been postponing it. The next evening, he carried a few of them with him as he made his way to the garden. Once there, he bribed one of the eunuchs to put the paintings up on Laadli’s side of the pavilion before she arrived.
Laadli was ecstatic when she found the paintings hung on the wall. She inspected them closely and raved about their superiority over anything she had ever seen before.
‘I think your talent is far greater than people credit you for. Not for a moment did I imagine that you could paint so well despite hearing stories about your skills with the brush. If only I could paint half as well as you!’ she sighed.
Imraan was modest. ‘I don’t think I am such a great artist. A lucky one perhaps.’
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