Nurjahan's Daughter

by Tanushree Podder

  Laadli was reluctant to leave Arzani at the palace. She had kept her daughter away from the glitter of palaces for so many years.

  ‘Please, Ammi, let me stay with Apa for some time,’ begged Arzani, sensing her mother’s reluctance. ‘I promise, I will be good.’ Her eyes were dazzled by the magnificence of the quarters. ‘I want to attend Prince Dara’s wedding. He is a cousin, after all.’

  Before Laadli could say anything, Meherunnisa interjected. ‘Of course you can stay with your Apa for a few weeks. I am sure your mother will not refuse.’

  Laadli suspected that her mother was hopeful that Arzani’s beauty would attract the attention of the princes. Her heart heavy with foreboding, Laadli departed after the feast and entertainment that Jahanara had arranged for them. Arzani’s days in the harem remained her main topic of conversation for weeks after she had returned. ‘I wish we could stay at the palace forever,’ she sighed.

  It was the memory of her sense of wonderment when she had seen the palace for the first time that restrained Laadli from overreacting. Instead, she smiled at her daughter and said, ‘Well, since we are not princesses, it is not for us to stay in palaces.’

  Four years passed and the three women continued creating magic with material, their nimble fingers flying over the yards of beautiful silk, soft satins and crisply starched muslin. They could have got by without doing any work, because the pension granted by the emperor was generous, but they needed to keep themselves occupied. Life was dreary, devoid of novelty, its rhythm unbroken. Arzani was almost eighteen, brimming with youthful optimism. She was the only ray of sunshine in the lives of the older women.

  ‘It is time we found a good husband for her,’ Laadli sighed, her fingers creating floral patterns on a scarlet brocade. She was embroidering a bridal dress. Worries about Arzani’s marriage haunted her whenever she worked on bridal orders.

  The emperor had completed ten years of his rule. There was peace in the country and the imperial coffers were overflowing; the voices of dissent had been silenced. Shah Jahan indulged in fancies that were beyond the imagination of people. Lahore was abuzz with the news that the emperor had acquired seven thrones for each day of the week, one covered with rubies, the other with emeralds, yet another with sapphires and one with pearls, diamonds studded another and the sixth one was made of jasper and jade. It was the seventh throne that was most talked about. Shah Jahan’s Peacock Throne was a fabulous creation, a magnificent piece of art for which the emperor had commissioned a famous French jeweller, who took seven full years and several lakhs of rupees to complete the marvel.

  Shah Jahan had also begun the construction of a grand mausoleum in memory of his beloved Mumtaz Mahal. Hundreds of artisans and craftsmen had been commissioned to give shape to his dream. Masons, craftsmen, sculptors, and calligraphers were summoned from Persia and Europe to work on the masterpiece. The marvel in white marble, was taking shape on the banks of Yamuna river at a colossal cost. Precious jewels from the treasury were used to fill the exquisite engravings that were etched on the marble.

  ‘He is squandering the wealth accumulated painstakingly by his forefathers. One day he will suffer for this indiscriminate expenditure and I shall be the first to celebrate his penury,’ Meherunnisa said.

  Her dream is never going to come true, thought Laadli. Shah Jahan will gain immortality through the beautiful structures he leaves behind. These will be his gifts to the world.

  Gleefully Meherunnisa absorbed all gossip that emerged from the harem. She gloated on the misfortunes of the emperor and grieved on his achievements. One beautiful September morning, the royal family returned to Lahore. This time, happy with a successful campaign, Shah Jahan announced festivities at the palace. As expected, Jahanara invited Meherunnisa and Laadli to the harem for the feast. Since the festivities were to continue for an entire week, with poetry competitions, sports, contests and nautch performances, Jahanara suggested that they stay with her in the harem till the end of the month. Meherunnisa and Arzani greeted this proposal with great enthusiasm but Laadli was sceptical. ‘We can travel from our mansion to the fort without much discomfort. You need not fuss about us,’ she demurred.

  ‘Jahanara is right in suggesting that we stay at the imperial harem. With my aching joints, I cannot keep shuttling to and from the palace,’ Meherunnisa insisted.

  The emperor’s indulgences were many. He loved good food, lavish clothes and surrounded himself with beautiful women. Stories of the emperor’s lustful adventures and licentious behaviour travelled through the country. Some even spoke of an incestuous relationship between him and Jahanara. ‘As long as the empress was alive, she could keep Shah Jahan in control,’ they whispered. ‘After her death he has gone berserk.’

  ‘When will you marry, Apa?’ Arzani asked Jahanara, unaware of the unwritten Mughal decree laid down by Akbar–no Mughal princess was permitted to marry. In order to prevent the possibility of the Mughal throne passing to an outsider, the Badshah had enforced a lifetime of spinsterhood for all princesses.

  ‘I am not likely to marry, but why don’t we arrange your matrimony with a nice man from the court?’ suggested Jahanara.

  ‘Yes, Jahanara, why don’t you find a good husband for Arzani? I am besieged with worries about her marriage,’ Laadli said. She knew that Jahanara loved match-making.

  ‘In fact, I have someone in mind for Arzani. If you wish, I could begin negotiations with his family. But first, we must seek the emperor’s permission for the match.’

  ‘Yes, yes, why not? Who is the fortunate person?’

  ‘I have in mind the son of the Punjab governor’s brother, Afzal Khan. He is a handsome and brave man. In fact, the emperor has granted him a rich jagir. Arzani will be happy with him, I am sure of that. Besides, Afzal is the kind of man who will rise to great status.’

  Laadli understood the advantage of marrying Arzani to a man who had found favour with the emperor. ‘I will be indebted to you if you could finalise this alliance,’ she begged earnestly.

  Jahanara hugged her aunt and promised to arrange the match. ‘Don’t worry, Arzani will be married to Afzal as soon as possible.’

  Meherunnisa was not amused at the thought of her darling Arzani going away. She sighed and complained constantly till her words began grating on Laadli’s nerves.

  ‘Ammijaan, we can’t keep Arzani with us forever. She has to marry. Most girls of her age are cradling their babies. Don’t worry, she will be happy. Jahannara will not let us down. She is truly fond of Arzani and will do her best to find her the right person.’

  The emperor granted his permission and blessed the union between the two young people. In a magnanimous gesture, he granted a promotion to Afzal Khan saying–‘This is a marriage arranged by my favourite daughter so it should be the most opulent of all weddings held at Lahore.’

  Despite all her misgivings, Meherunnisa finally accepted the match and began working on her granddaughter’s bridal dress. Her stiff fingers worked painstakingly on the silk yarn, her weak eyes peering over the patterns, watering with the effort. Laadli’s efforts at dissuading her had no effect as the woman stubbornly defied all discomforts to create the most beautiful dress ever worn by a bride.

  There was little time for the hectic preparations that had to be made before the wedding, since Afzal Khan had insisted on an early marriage. Jahanara volunteered to take on the task of the nuptial arrangements. Together, they selected the jewellery and other gifts, decided on the food, and made arrangements with the decorators.

  Laadli’s heart was heavy as Arzani walked towards the wedding dais. The bride’s hair was parted in the centre and tied at the back in a graceful knot bound by a lace of gold. On her forehead rested a beautifully fashioned star-shaped diamond pendent. She looked heartbreakingly beautiful.

  Laadli could barely hold her tears as the bride sat in the palanquin to journey to her new residence. She hugged her daughter, blessing her repeatedly. Meherunnisa stood by, wiping away the tears that poured
down her wrinkled cheeks. A beautiful chapter of her life had ended.

  27

  The house turned as quiet as a tomb after Arzani’s departure. Laadli, with her ability to adapt to situations, took to working harder to keep herself occupied, but Meherunnisa seemed to have retreated into a shell into which she allowed no one. Tremendously lonely, she valiantly groped with her inner turmoil. She had taken to wearing only white and had shed all jewellery ever since Jahangir had died, but now she embarked on a spiritual journey with a frightening intensity. Laadli watched with concern, her mother’s obsession with the mystical world. The daily visits to the mazaar of Hazrat Main Mir were interspersed with prayers and fervid readings from the Quran. Meherunnisa, up and about by five in the morning, began her day by placing garlands of white rose buds and jasmine, which she threaded with her own hands, on Jahangir’s tomb.

  One morning, Laadli found her mother’s bedroom in a state of utter confusion. Boxes lay open around the room, their contents strewn all over. Bent over them, the frail body of her mother groped through piles of garments.

  ‘What are you looking for?’ Laadli asked.

  ‘Where are my jewellery caskets?’ Meherunnisa said, looking up from the heap of clothes before her.

  ‘They must be here somewhere. Let me help you look for them.’ Laadli said, joining her mother in the search.

  Laadli wondered why her mother had suddenly thought of her jewellery. The last time they had been aired was when Arzani was married. In a generous gesture, Meherunnisa had gifted away a sizeable amount of her precious jewellery to her beloved granddaughter. The enormous rosewood treasure chest overflowing with brilliant diamond-studded necklaces, sapphire rings, emerald ear studs and ruby chokers was finally discovered inside another box.

  ‘Ah, here it is,’ Meherunnisa clutched a necklace of priceless pearls possessively. She carried the jewellery box to another corner of the room and laid out its contents.

  ‘This was a gift from the emperor on my lunar birthday,’ she sighed, lovingly patting a beautiful necklace studded with gems. ‘And this was given to me on our first wedding anniversary.’

  Meherunnisa laid out each piece of jewellery on the carpet, describing when she had got it. Why the sudden interest in ornaments, wondered her daughter.

  As if sensing her curiosity, Meherunnisa turned and smiled–‘I am planning to sell some of these to pay for the marriage of destitute girls. The rest will go towards the expenses for the marble facade which I am planning to construct at Hazrat Mian Mir’s mazaar.’ These were the two causes closest to Meherunnisa’s heart. While she was empress, she had set aside an impressive amount from her personal funds to provide for the marriage of orphaned girls. When they settled down at Lahore, she had continued to arrange the marriages of such girls and provided for their dowry. She was also devoted to the holy man, Hazrat Mian Mir. The saint was a direct descendent of the Prophet and much revered by most of the Mughal emperors.

  Jahangir, who had heard of the mystic’s powers, once invited the saint to his court. They had a lengthy discussion on various subjects after which, greatly influenced, the emperor expressed a desire to renounce the world and become his disciple. The saint, in his gentle manner, advised him to continue his worldly duties. ‘Emperors have been created for the protection of God’s people. In doing so, you are discharging an important duty entrusted to you by the Creator. Do not entertain the thought of renunciation.’

  Pleased to hear this from the Hazrat, Jahangir stated–‘Tell me, oh Shaikh, if you want anything.’

  ‘Will you promise to give it to me?’ asked the Pir.

  ‘Most certainly, I will give whatever you ask,’ responded the emperor.

  The holy man had then replied, ‘I only request that Your Majesty will not invite me to his palace again’.

  After that day, Jahangir never called for the Pir again, but made it a point to visit the saint whenever he was in Lahore. Nur Jahan, who had been present during the interaction, became a zealous follower as well. When Hazrat Mian Mir was alive, she often consulted him on the difficulties she faced and took his advice seriously. After his death, she began praying at his mazaar, regularly. It was one of her desires to construct an impressive facade and a prayer hall at the saint’s tomb.

  During one of his visits to Lahore, young Prince Dara Shikoh, the eldest son of Shah Jahan, who was also an ardent devotee of the saint, met Meherunnisa at the mazaar. The prince was a charming man of great learning. The two of them found a common ground and struck an instant rapport. Dara expressed great sorrow at the way Shah Jahan had treated her, delighting Meherunnisa’s heart greatly. She invited him to her mansion for dinner, which the prince accepted with alacrity. There was a flurry of excitement in the mansion as it was the first time that a member of the Mughal family had visited them.

  After dinner, they sat down in the open baradari to chat about old times. Dara Shikoh updated them on all the happenings at the court and regaled them with stories of his family. Under a canopy of bright stars they conversed about diverse topics, finally launching into a long and animated discussion on theology and spirituality. The women were greatly impressed by the prince’s knowledge. He spent many hours telling them about his interactions with religious teachers of various sects. Dara told them that he was planning to construct a massive pavilion, where a thousand people could sit and pray, at the Hazrat’s mazaar. ‘It was one of the most interesting evenings I have spent in a long time, Meherunnisa told Laadli afterwards. ‘He is brilliant, not at all like his father.’

  During the day, Meherunnisa involved herself in various activities, but come evening and she would sink into a state of depression. Nights were a torture; unable to sleep, she walked about restlessly through the long corridors of the mansion, till at last she would fall into an exhausted slumber towards the early hours of the morn. She dreaded the sleepless nights when the ghosts from her past assailed her pitilessly. A long string of misdeeds surfaced to chastise her on the lonesome nights.

  Guilt and remorse haunted her mind. There were too many ghouls to inter. There was a haunted look in her eyes and dark circles had formed around them.

  Alarmed at her mother’s condition, Laadli consulted Hakim Al-Badr who had been their physician for a long time. In times of crisis, Laadli had approached him for advice without hesitation. He was like a father figure to her.

  ‘Dear child,’ he said, ‘your mother has suffered intensely. It is not her body that suffers but her soul that knows no rest. In her heart, she carries humiliation and pain that refuses to heal.’ The physician assured Laadli: ‘It happens to many of us when we are old. We begin to feel insecure and lonely. There is nothing to be alarmed about. Just try to keep her amused.’

  Laadli came back clutching the tranquillisers he had prescribed.

  Seated in the garden, Laadli brought up amusing incidents from a shared past. ’Do you remember the time when the emperor had gifted you a beautiful tortoise and you named it Anwari because your maid with the same name was as slow as the tortoise?’

  The memory brought a happy smile on the lined face. ’Oh, yes, I remember. Anwari was furious when the women teased her about it.’

  ‘I loved Anwari,’ said Laadli, a faraway look in her eyes. ‘She sang beautifully. On humid nights when I couldn’t fall asleep, I would ask her to sing for me. Her lullabies soothed me to sleep. Firdaus was so jealous of Anwari that she tried singing me to sleep one night.’

  ‘That would have been disastrous!’ Meherunnisa said, smiling.

  ‘Oh yes, remember how bad Firdaus’ voice was? I had to go sleepless for two consecutive nights after that!’

  Both of them laughed at the recollection.

  The end came sooner than expected. One morning, Meherunnisa didn’t get out of bed. Laadli smelt death as she entered her mother’s room. The room was as silent as a sepulchre. Her mind clouded with fear, Laadli bent over her mother.

  Meherunnisa’s laboured breathing was erratic; her frail bo
dy trembled with each breath. The December chill of Lahore froze her bones into icicles of rigidity. The looming shadow of death reached out its ominous fingers to snatch the wasted body of the woman into its fold.

  ‘I am so cold, Laadli, cover me up,’ she wailed, unmindful of the three camel hair blankets resting on her. Laadli walked over to the boldly burning brazier and poked at the embers to spark off more heat. ‘Don’t go away, come near me,’ her mother’s feeble voice followed her.

  ‘I am here Ammi, don’t fret. Just rest. Talking will exhaust you.’

  Laadli chafed the cold feet to warm them up. They were stone cold. A teardrop fell on the callused feet as she remembered their past beauty. Slave girls had massaged these royal feet with special emollients made of beeswax, fresh cream, saffron and honey. The henna adorned feet had never known a callus.

  ‘No! Don’t stop me from talking. I have to unburden my soul before I leave this earth, else I will not find peace.’

  ‘Hush!’ Laadli stroked the dry skin lovingly. It was burning up with fever. ‘Later, may be.’

  ‘No, no, I don’t have much time. Tell me, do you hate me, Laadli?’ the voice pleaded.

  ‘Of course not. Why should I? You are my mother.’

  ‘Because I wronged you. Because I ruined your life. I thrust you upon the princes, unmindful of the way you felt. I know how you winced each time I commanded you to entice Khusrau. I can recall the frightened look on your face. I kept pushing you because I wanted you to be an empress.’ The voice faltered.

  Laadli moaned softly. The glorious Nur Jahan, feted, dreaded and revered, lay helpless on a cold bed. The fearless empress was cowering in the face of death. This woman had once walked with pride; a single expression of irritation on her face had sent nobles into panic. It now lay shivering under a mound of coarse blankets. Laadli cried at the injustice of it all.

  ‘Hush! Don’t talk.’

  ‘Let me finish.’ The frail body shook with hollow cough. Laadli held a glass of water to her lips. Meherunnisa pushed it away.