Escape from Harem

by Tanushree Podder

  It was not just the tough life that had been instrumental in moulding Roshanara’s psyche. The realization that she was neither beautiful nor gifted had played its role in casting the jealous nature of the young princess. While Jahanara’s generous and warm nature made her popular in the palace, Roshanara’s violent temper and unkindness repelled all who came in contact with her.

  ‘If we are princesses, why don’t we have a palace like Karan Singh’s?’ she asked her elder sister. There was irritation in her voice.

  ‘Our grandfather, Jahangir, has palaces grander than his, Roshan,’ replied Jahanara.

  ‘If that is true, why don’t we stay in those palaces? Why do we have to travel from place to place all the time? I am so sick of it all.’

  ‘That’s because our grandfather is unhappy with our father at present. One day, all this will end and we will go back to the palace at Agra. Don’t you remember the grand feasts and celebrations at Agra? And the beautiful palaces we lived in? I guess you were too young to remember. But I remember everything – the gaiety of Nauroz, the beautiful vacations in Kashmir and the luxurious apartments – I just have to close my eyes and I can see it all.’

  As if in confirmation of her belief, the nine-year-old girl closed her eyes and a rapturous look swept over her face. A look of envy clouded the face of the younger sister – ‘You have always been fortunate in everything. Whether it is our father’s love or luxuries, you’ve always had more than me.’

  ‘That’s because you are younger.’ Jahanara smiled. ‘You will also have everything when you are a little older. It is just a matter of time before the happy times return.’

  ‘Just a matter of time, everyone tells me that. When will the good times come, I wonder. Will they ever come?’

  ‘Patience was never your virtue, was it?’

  ‘I can’t wait forever. All this running away makes me feel miserable. I wish our father was an emperor and we could live comfortably.’ A wistful look crossed Roshanara’s face. ‘I wish there were bejewelled new dresses to wear, lots of sweets to eat and comfortable apartments to live in. When I grow up, I will marry an emperor so that I can live in a huge palace, with hundreds of slaves around me.’

  ‘My dear sister, we are Mughal princesses. We are not allowed to marry, so forget about marrying an emperor,’ teased Jahanara.

  Roshanara turned a petulant face towards her and asked angrily, ‘And who made that ridiculous rule?’

  ‘None other than our great-grandfather, Shahenshah Akbar.’

  ‘I don’t care for such silly rules and I am going to break it by marrying an emperor.’

  ‘You are right, they are really silly rules,’ said Dara who had been listening to his sisters. ‘I fully agree with you. When I become the emperor, I shall change all the silly rules,’ he declared importantly.

  Jahanara drew a deep breath and sighed patiently. ‘These are not silly rules. They are followed by the Mughals to protect their territory from passing into alien hands through the marriage of their daughters. The men are allowed to marry as many times as they wish as they can enlarge their kingdom through political alliances.’

  ‘I still feel it is a silly rule. Women should also be allowed to rule. I could rule as efficiently as any man. I have heard that it is our grandmother, Nurjahan, who rules, although Jahangir is the emperor.’

  ‘Don’t listen to Jaani,’ Dara intervened. ‘You can definitely rule the empire if you want to. If I become the emperor, I shall hand over the empire to you, dear sister.’

  Jahanara stifled a giggle and turned back to her sister.

  ‘Roshan, it is not every woman who gets to rule the mighty Mughal empire. Nurjahan is one of the rare women to do so.’

  ‘I am sure there are many ways to rule indirectly. All one has to do is to get into the good books of the ruler and influence him.’

  ‘Ssshhh, don’t speak such words. Words have a way to getting back to the powerful people. As a princess, you must always be careful with your words.’ The elder sister warned.

  ‘I don’t care,’ retorted Roshanara, throwing back her head. ‘I am not scared of anyone.’

  The solitary lamp in the corner of the room flickered dangerously as a gust of wind blew in more rain. Zeenat’s heart sank with despair at the sight of the wan faces around her. The discoloured clothes, scant jewellery, meagre food, harsh life, everything seemed to have taken a toll on the royal family. How long would it be before Shahjahan relented? How much more could they endure? Life was a continuous struggle for survival. Could the fugitive prince ever become an emperor? She shook away the thought as soon as it occurred. Right now, in the wilderness, it seemed highly improbable that he would even survive the emperor’s wrath.

  Shahjahan’s army had shrunk steadily. With each disaster, more soldiers deserted him, and the little band of soldiers who had stuck around looked more like ruffians than disciplined warriors. Could they fight the imperial army? It seemed preposterous. Ill equipped and ill fed, the men with unkempt beards and unwashed clothes would find it difficult to survive the rough terrain, she mused. The sagging morale, dampened by the circumstances as well as the weather, augured tougher days ahead.

  On the rare nights that she lay in her husband’s arms, Zeenat wondered if this would be their last night together. Her naturally effervescent personality was growing despondent with each passing day.

  ‘It must be the eerie effect of this place,’ she told herself. ‘Else there is no reason to feel so miserable. Life is going to look up. This can’t last forever.’

  From the tiny house in the bazaar at Agra to the imperial harem, and now to this dismal lodging, Zeenat’s life had come a long way. She wondered where it would take her finally.

  They passed a restless night, sleeping under the bat-infested roof of the dilapidated mansion. By morning the clouds had cleared. A burst of sunshine greeted their eyes, cheering up the jaded souls. Broad smiles lit up the faces that had been clouded with gloom at night. It was going to be all right, she told herself, things are bound to change for the better. It was optimism that kept them going; in fact, that was the only thing they possessed now.

  Twenty-four

  ‘I will have to approach Malik Ambar for refuge,’ declared Shahjahan.

  His ministers, Sa’dullah and Irfan Khan were surprised at the prince’s decision. The black Abyssinian was a scoundrel, whose word could not be trusted. He had made and broken many treaties. A sworn enemy of the Mughals, the rascal survived with his treacherous methods.

  ‘He cannot to be trusted, Your Highness,’ protested Sa’dullah. ‘He could betray you at the slightest opportunity.’

  ‘I have defeated him several times but allowed him to live. He will surely remember that act of kindness.’

  Not just the ministers, but Arjumand was also sceptical about the dependability of the Deccan ruler.

  ‘Do you think it would be wise for us to put our lives in his hands?’ she asked.

  ‘What alternative do I have, Begum? Where do I go?’ cried Shahjahan. ‘No one is willing to risk the emperor’s wrath; not even my erstwhile friends and allies. All roads are blocked.’

  Her silence infuriated him. ‘Do you have any suggestions?’

  No one had.

  ‘We will have to take our chances with him,’ concluded the prince. ‘Deccan is the only area where the imperial army has a disadvantage. I know the area and the rulers.’

  Decision made, they marched towards Ahmadnagar. They camped outside the town while Sa’dullah Khan was sent to extract a promise of asylum from Malik Ambar.

  ‘But how can I risk the anger of the great Mughal emperor by providing asylum to a rebellious prince?’ was the wily ruler’s reply to Shahjahan’s request. ‘The only promise I can make is that I will not arrest the prince for twenty-four hours. After that, I will not be responsible for any harm caused to them.’

  It was a veiled threat. He couldn’t be trusted. Shahjahan fled towards Asirgarh intending to capture the for
tress.

  They mounted an offensive in the dead of the night. With just a small band of soldiers, the prince gained entry through a breach they had managed to make in the wall. Even before the soldiers inside the fort could realize, Shahjahan had managed to capture the strategic parts of the fort. Elated, they rushed to open the gates for the rest of the soldiers.

  The jubilations were cut short as Shahjahan realized that his commander, Salamat Khan, had been wounded during the battle. The brave Pathan, who had unflinchingly led the soldiers in every conflict, was hit by a hail of bullets while leading an attack on the impregnable fort. Ignoring his wounds, he continued fighting till they had fluttered their flag on the fort and then he collapsed.

  When Shahjahan heard the news, he rushed to the commander’s side and held him in his arms. The valiant soldier had fought many wars by his side and risked his life on many occasions. A man of few words, he had been a wall of comfort for the prince deserted by most of his commanders.

  ‘Fetch Hakim Wazir Khan,’ commanded Shahjahan. ‘Remove his armour,’ he ordered a soldier.

  They tried to staunch the bleeding.

  ‘Salamat, can you hear me?’ shouted the prince.

  The soldiers ringed around their leader, their hearts heavy with despair. Salamat Khan was a much-loved commander.

  The Pathan opened his eyes for a moment. Then with a long shudder his huge body slipped into coma.

  ‘Hold on for a while Salamat, the Hakim is coming,’ Sa’dullah Khan implored, his heart heavy with grief. Like most people, he liked the simple-minded Pathan. ‘You are a strong man, Salamat; you will pull through this one.’

  There was no response from the inert body.

  ‘Salamat, you can’t let us down when we need you most. You have to fight death just as you fought the enemy,’ said Ibadat Khan, a dear colleague of the Pathan.

  The hakim arrived on a run and checked the pulse. It was too late for him to do anything; life had slipped out of Salamat’s body. The joys of victory turned into a tragic mourning for the entire camp.

  For Shahjahan it was a huge setback. Salamat Khan had been his greatest strength. When the sagging morale of the soldiers was on the verge of a collapse it was the indefatigable Pathan who motivated them to move ahead. His boundless energy and endless belief in the prince saw them through the worst patches of the wars.

  ‘With him by my side, I could have won any war,’ Shahjahan mourned.

  In her apartment, Arjumand mourned silently. For years she had watched the lumbering figure of Salamat Khan riding by her husband’s side. She knew he would defend his master till the last breath and that knowledge had given her a sense of security.

  For Zeenat, it was the end of her dreams. She could not believe the person she loved the most in this world had left her. For five long years, he had been by her side, guiding her through the thick and thin of life. And now, just as the going was getting tougher, he had deserted her. Her saviour was gone. She stared at the horizon. Neither Arjumand, nor Satiunnisa, had any words to console the grief-stricken woman.

  No lamps were lit in her room that evening. In the faint light of a wan moon, shadowed by wisps of cloud, the three women sat quietly, silently sharing each other’s grief. In some ways, the silence was more eloquent than words.

  That night Arjumand went into premature labour. The rigours of the journey, and the tragic event, had hastened the birth of her child. The hakim and Satiunnisa worked silently to deliver a healthy son in the wee hours of the morning. This time, there was no rejoicing or celebrations. Even Arjumand was too exhausted to rejoice at the sight of her newborn. They named him Murad Baksh, meaning wish fulfilment, in the hope that the child would bring them good luck. For three days they rested. But respite was a luxury they could ill afford.

  It was time to march again as the imperial army was closing in. Shahjahan once again tried, fruitlessly, to convince Arjumand that she should rest at Asirgarh. It was safe for her and the children.

  ‘I will go with you wherever you go,’ she declared obstinately.

  By now even the children were tired of moving around like vagabonds. Arjumand, ailing and weak, needed comfort.

  ‘You are staying here,’ the prince’s voice was harsh. Nothing short of force would keep her back, he knew. ‘I am not going to allow myself to be slowed down because of added baggage.’

  With a cry, Arjumand looked at the severe face of her husband. Then she understood. He had to do this. She should allow him to go, for his own sake. He could not fight with his hands bound. He needed the freedom to operate singly. Time was too precious during such battles. The anxieties of his family would slow down progress.

  ‘All right, I will stay back, if that is what you want.’ She smiled through her tears.

  He quickly crossed the floor and reached her in a few steps and held her tight. It was a gesture of thanksgiving. They understood each other perfectly.

  ‘I will send for you as soon as I reach the Deccan.’ He promised.

  His trusted commanders were deserting him. Shahjahan’s luck was running out. First Darab Khan and then Abdullah Khan, one by one they turned their back to him. Shahjahan travelled like lightening, striking at the minor forts on his way, encouraged by victories, he reached Deccan for the second time to ask for the assistance of Malik Ambar.

  The fortress at Burhanpur was conquered without much trouble. The prince then sent for Arjumand and the children. Burhanpur, the Mughal headquarter in the Deccan, was like home to them. They had stayed there for many years.

  The celebrations proved to be premature as the imperial army soon closed in, forcing the rebels to retreat. His spirits now completely broken, Shahjahan fell seriously ill. Worried, Arjumand appealed to him for peace.

  ‘Why don’t you appeal to the emperor for clemency?’ asked Arjumand. The last baby had sapped her of energy. It had been months since she had rested in a palace or enjoyed any luxuries. ‘It pains me to see the children suffering in this manner. Is there no way out of this mess?’

  For more than three years they had been living a life of misery and insecurity. The fugitive realized the futility of fighting the mighty imperial army. Beaten by hunger, sickness and poverty, his forces had turned against him. Very few of his faithful nobles continued to support him while many had gone back to Agra to surrender to the emperor’s forces.

  Shahjahan, weak after his prolonged sickness, could resist her plea no longer. His vanity had vanished. There were neither men nor money to fight any battles. News arrived, in the meantime, that Jahangir was seriously ill at Kashmir. This was not the time to harbour ill will, he realized.

  Swallowing his pride Shahjahan finally wrote a letter to his father, expressing his repentance, and begging pardon for all his faults. It was pointless to continue his rebellion after such humiliating defeat.

  The emperor replied that if Shahjahan would send his sons Dara Shikoh and Aurangzeb to court, and surrender captured forts of Rohtas and Asirgarh, he would be forgiven.

  ‘We can’t send our sons to the emperor,’ cried Arjumand.

  Shahjahan’s fury was unrestrained. ‘It is the work of that woman. She wants to control my actions by taking my sons as hostages.’

  ‘I will not part with Dara and Aurangzeb,’ protested his wife.

  ‘Don’t worry, Arju, no harm will come to the children,’ Shahjahan consoled. ‘Your father, Asaf Khan, will ensure that. Besides, the emperor is fond of them. He is their grandfather.’

  His heart broke at the thought of sending his sons as hostage to Agra, but he knew that it was the only way out. As a gesture of remorse, he also sent his offerings of whatever money and jewels were left with him. The forts were handed over to Mughal commanders and Shahjahan’s rebellion ended after three years of bloodshed.

  ‘Let us go back to the emperor,’ Arjumand suggested, eager to get back into the good books of the emperor. She could also be close to her sons.

  ‘No, it is too dangerous for me to appear before th
e emperor right now. His health is failing and Nurjahan is the virtual ruler. She will find some way to get me out of the way.’

  ‘But my sons…’ cried Arjumand.

  ‘They will not be harmed,’ Shahjahan reassured.

  Through a trusted emissary, the prince sent a letter to his father-in-law, begging him to take care of the boys.

  Arjumand’s father, Asaf Khan, was a staunch supporter. Although he professed loyalty to the emperor, Asaf’s allegiance to Shahjahan had continued. He was their eyes and ears at Agra. It was through his father-in-law that the prince received all the intelligence.

  Twenty-five

  Jahangir’s death, 1627

  Shahjahan decided to stay away from the emperor for now, biding his time. News of the death of his elder brother, Prince Parvez, sparked renewed hope in the prince’s bosom. The competition had narrowed down. The only rival to the throne now was Shahryar, who was being backed by Nurjahan. He rejoiced as news arrived that Shahryar had been seized by a strange illness. The once handsome prince had lost his luxuriant crop of hair. Even the neatly trimmed beard and eyelashes had fallen out in bunches. The skin had turned a weird white, with prominent red patches in some places. Totally bald and ugly, he had taken to spending most of his time locked up in the dark, drinking wine and swallowing opium pellets, away from the curious gaze of people. But the ambition of sitting on the throne of the Mughal Empire had not ceased to fire him.

  The emperor was very ill. Broken hearted with Shahjahan’s revolt, death of Parvez and the illness of Shahryar, Jahangir had lost the will to live. He could barely breathe; his asthma had reached an incurable stage. Painful bouts of cough kept him awake through the night. No amount of medicine or opium could take away his suffering.

  The condition of the empire was at a new low, with speculations about the emperor’s health, and the matter of succession, hanging in balance.

  On the advice of the physicians, the royal entourage left for Kashmir. Jahangir was unable to ride on horseback and was carried about in a palanquin. Sleepless and breathless, with chest complaints and lung congestion, the emperor was miserable.