Escape from Harem

by Tanushree Podder

  Surprised that he had discovered her identity, Arjumand threw back her veil and looked at him. For a moment their eyes were locked and then she hastily covered her face with the veil before walking away in a huff, cursing her indiscretion. She had been too surprised to realize her action.

  Both Zeenat and Satiunnisa, who were accompanying her, were taken aback at the turn of events.

  ‘I don’t need any more sittings,’ declared the artist triumphantly. ‘I can now reproduce the face of the princess without any models.’

  True to his words, Shankar Rao presented an exquisite portrait within the next two days. The one-minute glimpse of the princess had enabled him to finish the portrait. It was a masterpiece.

  Delighted with his work, Arjumand paid him generously.

  When she presented the portrait to Shahjahan on his birthday, he was overjoyed.

  ‘But how could he create such a likeness of your face without seeing you?’ he asked.

  Arjumand told him about the models that had presented only parts of their faces to the artist. Wisely, she skipped the part in which she had herself revealed her face to him for a fraction of a minute.

  ‘He is a truly gifted artist,’ declared the prince. ‘Imagine creating such a beautiful portrait just by working on bits and pieces of features modelled by several women. We will commission him for our portrait.’

  For the next few months, the artist was kept busy as demands for portraits from the prince and other nobles poured in.

  Eighteen

  Shahjahan’s restlessness continued to grow as news filtered in from Agra that Nurjahan was the virtual ruler of the empire while his father was content spending his time with drinks and opium. He had virtually relinquished the great Mughal Empire to his wife.

  Jahangir was suffering from severe asthma. The suffering made him ill tempered. Nurjahan tried to prop up his flagging morale, quite unsuccessfully. Finally, she suggested that they leave for the healthy climes of Kashmir.

  ‘The heat and stress of Agra aggravates your condition. You are likely to recover once we move out of the capital,’ she suggested.

  The royal physicians endorsed her suggestion enthusiastically.

  Leaving the troubles behind, the imperial court prepared to journey to Kashmir. On the way, Jahangir’s condition grew alarming. The journey through the dusty plains aggravated his breathing problem.

  News of the emperor’s illness travelled fast. Fearing that their father may not survive the journey, his elder son, Parvez immediately left for the capital.

  The race for the throne had begun.

  When he heard of Parvez’s plans, Shahjahan was furious. Sitting hundreds of miles away from Agra, he could do little.

  ‘If anything happens to the emperor, Nurjahan will take over the empire,’ he confessed to Arjumand. ‘She may anoint Parvez as the heir.’

  It was a hot and humid morning. Salamat Khan, who had recently been promoted as a commander of a platoon, had just reported for duty when Sa’dullah Khan summoned him.

  ‘Salamat, I want you to go and inform Khusrau about the emperor’s illness. After all, he is the eldest son of the emperor.’

  For the past two weeks Salamat’s soldiers had been put in charge of the royal prisoner.

  Everyone knew that the Pathan nursed fondness for the eldest prince. Khusrau was kind, learned and impartial. There were many in the empire who sympathized with the blind prince. They felt that the unfortunate prince had been punished too severely for his rebellions against Jahangir. Their argument was that even Jahangir had rebelled against his father but Emperor Akbar had never thought of blinding his son. Many remembered the sadistic, wilful, and ill tempered Jahangir, as he was during his youth. He had caused far greater grief to his father than Khusrau, yet the thought of keeping him in chains had never crossed Akbar’s mind.

  Ever since Shahjahan had managed to get the custody of his brother, Khusrau had been subjected to more torture and humiliation than he had suffered as the emperor’s prisoner. Even the lowly guards took pleasure in ridiculing him, safe in the knowledge that Shahjahan would not rebuke them. Salamat Khan, of course, dealt severely with such incidents and punished the soldiers who humiliated Khusrau. After all he was a prince. In return, Khusrau always had a kind word or a spiritual message for the Pathan.

  ‘Don’t be so kind to me that you fall out with your master,’ Khusrau had once advised him. But Salamat Khan always tried to relieve the prince’s burden by undoing his chains or bringing him some special food from the royal kitchen.

  This morning, Salamat Khan cajoled the imperial cook to spare some kebabs. He knew Khusrau was fond of them.

  The guard at the door was an unknown face. Salamat wondered where he had seen that face.

  The man quickly made way for the commander, his eyes shifting uncomfortably under the scrutiny of Salamat’s gaze.

  ‘What is your name?’ asked the Pathan. ‘I have seen you somewhere.’

  ‘My name is Manzoor Khan, sir. I was in Rahmat Khan’s army.’

  Salamat remembered. Rahmat Khan was one of the cruellest commanders he had ever met. He took pleasure in torturing his victims and had earned a bad reputation because of the way he had plundered, murdered, and raped the poor villagers at Mewar. Alarm bells began ringing in his mind as he knocked on Khusrau’s door.

  Something was wrong. How did Rahmat Khan’s soldier replace his own, he wondered. Resolving to carry an investigation later, he unlocked the door from outside and knocked again.

  There was no response from the prince. Maybe he is praying, thought Salamat as he entered hesitantly. His hand trembled with fear as he spotted Khusrau lying in a pool of blood. Quickly, he checked the pulse. The blind prince was dead. Flustered, he called out to the guard.

  A secretive smile played on Manzoor Khan’s lips.

  His instincts alert, Salamat pushed the fellow towards another room. There, taking out a dagger, he slashed at the smiling face of the man.

  ‘What happened this morning while you were on duty?’ Salamat Khan thundered while the man screamed in agony.

  ‘How did the prince die? Who killed him?’ the questions rained fast.

  ‘I do not know anything. I just came on duty an hour back.’

  The Pathan’s dagger flashed in the air and a deep gash appeared on the man’s arm. A horrendous scream escaped Manzoor’s throat as he gasped for air.

  ‘Tell me the truth. Who murdered Khusrau?’ he raised the dagger once more, threatening to stab again.

  ‘Wait, wait, don’t hurt me,’ cried the guard. ‘It was done on the orders of Shahjahan.’

  Stunned, Salamat Khan stared at the man. ‘You are lying,’ he whispered.

  But the Pathan knew that the man was not lying. His heart sank with despair. For long he had expected some such event, but not so soon. The dagger fell from his hands. He walked out, his feet heavy with misery.

  ‘Go and call the physician,’ he ordered the terrified man.

  Entering Khusrau’s room, Salamat fell on his knees near the body, sobbing quietly. He remained there until the physician arrived. A commotion began in the fort as news of Khusrau’s death travelled through it.

  Suddenly, Shahjahan strode into the room, his eyes wild with excitement.

  ‘My poor brother, he died of diarrhoea yesterday night,’ he declared loudly, daring anyone to defy his statement. ‘Let it be announced through the kingdom that Prince Khusrau fell prey to his ailment.’

  Salamat Khan stood rooted to the ground unable to face the lie.

  A hasty burial was ordered and Shahjahan despatched a messenger to inform the ailing emperor about the untimely death of his brother.

  Zeenat was terrified when she saw the ashen face of her husband.

  ‘Are you unwell?’ she asked, rushing to his side.

  The hefty soldier lost control and began sobbing loudly, his huge body shaking with emotions.

  ‘They killed him,’ he cried. ‘Shahjahan killed his own brother.�
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  Aghast, Zeenat heard the story as it spilled out of her distraught husband’s lips.

  ‘Please don’t torture yourself. You couldn’t have prevented it. The Mughal dynasty is known for such deeds. After all, even Jahangir tried to put his own father out of the way when his rebellion failed. It is rumoured that even Shahenshah Akbar didn’t die a natural death.’ Zeenat tried to ease the conscience of her husband.

  She had never forgiven Jahangir for having ruined her life.

  ‘No, no, it is not true. Shahenshah Akbar died a natural death, I know that for sure,’ wailed Salamat Khan. ‘No other prince or emperor has killed his own kin. Shahjahan will be the first person to go down in the history of the Mughal Empire as the murderer of his own brother.’

  ‘He has two more brothers, Parvez and Shahryar,’ whispered Zeenat. ‘I dread to think what will happen when the emperor dies.’ She shuddered at the thought.

  A quick look passed between the couple. Tempest was waiting to strike the empire. Only Allah knew how many heads would roll before a new emperor stepped on the throne.

  ‘But why did Shahjahan want me to discover the corpse?’

  ‘He is very clever. He knows that you loved Khusrau and no one can suspect you of murdering the prince. It was a ploy that worked.’

  ‘I wish it had been someone else. I will never be able to forget the shock of finding his lifeless body lying in a pool of blood. The poor, helpless prince!’

  The love and admiration Zeenat had once felt for Shahjahan was dead and buried under a heap of misdeeds. Her hero had turned into a villain.

  ‘He didn’t have to kill his brother. The emperor would have nominated Shahjahan as his successor, anyway.’

  ‘He would have done it if his beloved empress had not stopped him,’ replied the brooding Pathan.

  Like his master, he hated the guts of Nurjahan. Most of the soldiers in the employ of the prince held her responsible for all the problems that plagued the empire.

  ‘Why does she not want him to be nominated as the successor? He is the most able of all the princes, isn’t he?’

  ‘There is no doubt about that. I think she fears our master. She knows he is too independent and strong-willed to be controlled. The emperor is not in good health. His drinking has weakened his system and the royal hakim has been warning the emperor for a long time now. Nurjahan is aware that it won’t be long before the emperor dies.’

  ‘That will be terrible.’

  ‘Yes, it will be terrible for her if Shahjahan sits on the throne. She would like to place a puppet on the throne; someone who will dance to her tunes like the emperor does now.’

  ‘She is a powerful woman,’ admitted Zeenat who had once seen Nurjahan at close quarters.

  While staying at the harem, she had chanced to meet her at a gathering in Ruquaiah Begum’s palace. She was quite impressed by the personality of the woman who was at that time known as Meherunnisa. Her larger-than-life persona overshadowed everyone.

  ‘She is an evil woman,’ was Salamat Khan’s opinion.

  ‘But she is too powerful a woman to ignore.’

  ‘If only the emperor had heeded to the advice given by General Mahabat Khan and Shahjahan, things would not have come to such a stage. The empress has surrounded herself with a caucus of her family members, who have become important figures in the empire. No one can approach the emperor directly; the caucus doesn’t allow anyone to reach him.’

  ‘Isn’t the emperor aware of it?’

  ‘He is not aware of anything, anymore. Most of the time he is either under the influence of opium or wine and in his saner moments he is busy writing his memoirs.’

  Nineteen

  Zeenat was ecstatic. The symptoms were obvious. She was pregnant. For many months she had been praying for a child. She had seen the wistful look in her husband’s eyes whenever he looked at a child. Although he would not admit it, Salamat Khan loved children. Arjumand was delighted when Zeenat conveyed the news to her.

  ‘High time, woman,’ she smiled. ‘I was beginning to wonder if everything was all right between your soldier and you.’

  Arjumand’s delight was nothing compared to that of Salamat Khan. He picked up his wife and danced around the house. ‘This calls for celebration, Begum. Let us invite some friends and have fun,’ he announced.

  ‘But we will not tell them the reason for the celebration,’ decided Zeenat. ‘It is too early to make an announcement.’

  ‘All right,’ he agreed. ‘We will tell them it is a belated celebration of our wedding.’

  A sumptuous feast and dazzling entertainment awaited the small group of friends invited for the evening. The house was scrubbed clean till it was shining. Dozens of lamps flickered in the alcoves. There were fresh flowers everywhere; their fragrance suffused the rooms. Zeenat had surpassed her culinary skills in laying out a grand feast. Kebabs and biryani, roasted meat and halwa was were heaped on platters and laid on the dastarkhwan in the large hall for the men. The women dined behind a screen in the adjoining room. Wine flowed liberally and there was merriment in the house.

  A troupe of musicians and dancers had been called from the city to perform for the guests. The large hall resonated with the sound of anklets as nautch girls performed. Their dances were punctuated by the loud, appreciating claps of the inebriated men, while the women watched from behind the screens. Salamat and Zeenat were a popular couple – warm, large-hearted, and carefree.

  When Shahjahan learnt of the good news from his wife, he sent over a generous gift for his commander. Arjumand had already gifted an expensive pearl necklace to Zeenat.

  ‘I think Abdul has brought us good luck,’ said Salamat Khan. ‘Ever since he stepped into this house, we have seen fate smile at us. First I received my promotion and now we are to be blessed with a baby.’

  A year back, Salamat Khan had adopted the six-year-old son of Afzal Khan, a soldier from his platoon. A loyal and brave soldier, Afzal Khan had accompanied Salamat to many battles. While fighting the Deccanis at Ahmadnagar, Salamat had found himself surrounded by enemies. Despite all his skills he found himself unable to break out of their cordon; death seemed imminent. Just then, Afzal broke into the circle and rode up to Salamat.

  ‘You must escape,’ he shouted, brandishing his sword at the enemy. The clash of steel sounded all around them.

  ‘I can’t leave you here and run away,’ Salamat had shouted back, warding off the enemy thrust.

  ‘If you don’t escape we will lose the battle. The soldiers have presumed you dead and are already giving up. Once they see you alive, they will be motivated to fight again. You must break out while I hold these idiots.’

  Reluctantly, Salamat had broken out of the circle while Afzal fought. They had won the battle at the cost of Afzal’s life.

  After returning from the battle, Salamat learnt that Afzal had a six-year-old son, who was now an orphan. His mother had died while giving birth to her second child, a few months back.

  Salamat immediately rode to Afzal’s house to see the boy. The boy was living with an uncle who was not very kind to him. Abdul’s plight moved Salamat.

  ‘We must keep the boy with us,’ he told Zeenat. ‘His father died saving my life. I owe it to him.’

  ‘May Allah bless his soul,’ replied his wife. ‘Of course, the boy must come and stay with us.’

  From that day, Abdul had become a part of their family.

  Abdul was, by nature, a jovial boy given to mischief. He never ceased playing pranks on unsuspecting people. Salamat Khan loved the child who called him, ‘Baba’. Zeenat was fond of the boy too, though she didn’t approve of his boisterous ways.

  Salamat always rose to the boy’s defence whenever Zeenat complained about him.

  ‘Let him be, Begum. He is just a child. Let him enjoy.’

  Twenty

  The women were housed in a fortified mansion on the outskirts of the city while the men went to battle. Arjumand’s health necessitated a minimum comfort l
evel. It was a hot summer morning when, surrounded by her small band of faithful women, Arjumand gave birth to a stillborn daughter. With Shahjahan mounting a campaign on rebels, it was left to Satiunnisa, and a pregnant Zeenat to console the princess on the loss.

  The unpleasant rigours of the journey had taken its toll on the body and mind of the princess. She was in the throes of depression. Arjumand lay broken and silent in a darkened room of the mansion.

  ‘It is Allah’s wish. No one can predict his will. You have to allow your body to grow strong once again. It will not be wise to subject it to another pregnancy for some time,’ warned Hakim Wazir Ali, just as he had warned her many times earlier.

  She felt tired, her body weak and old. Too many pregnancies had robbed it of its youth. Arjumand did not want any more children. She had borne one child almost every year. Her body needed respite.

  From Balaghat to Ahmadnagar, Shahjahan chased the Deccan soldiers who were resorting to guerrilla attacks, causing heavy causalities. Ensconced at Daulatabad, Malik Ambar enjoyed the reversals of the Mughal army.

  ‘He is not invincible,’ Shahjahan told his ministers. ‘But he is a brilliant strategist. We have to counter his tactics with our own.’

  ‘Malik Ambar is a sly fox,’ Sa’dullah Khan spat angrily. ‘No one can predict his moves.’

  ‘All along we have concentrated on defeating him through a massive assault. We have to think of splitting forces for an effective blow.’

  The suggestion came from Salamat Khan. It seemed a valuable one to the prince.

  Acting on his strategy, Shahjahan split his army into several divisions, assigning each an able commander. They launched a four-pronged attack on the Deccan soldiers, driving them back towards the river. The sudden change of strategy took the enemy by surprise. In his citadel, Malik Ambar grew jittery and came forward with a peace offer. He withdrew his soldiers from the battle and a new treaty was signed. Once again Shahjahan emerged victorious, although only he knew how close he had come to retreating.