Escape from Harem

by Tanushree Podder

  ‘My beloved wife, Arjumand Banu Begum, will henceforth be known as Mumtaz Mahal,’ he announced before the simpering women.

  Arjumand’s eyes were swimming in tears as she looked proudly at her husband. He looks so regal and handsome, she thought tenderly.

  The emperor then announced generous gifts for his family members. An annual allowance of rupees one million was granted to the empress besides the jewels and the gold. Six lakh rupees were granted as annual allowance for Jahanara beside the one lakh asharfis and four lakh of rupees gifted to her.

  ‘I now hand over the most important gift of the empire to my begum,’ he declared dramatically before handing over an embellished ivory box to her. Curious, the women crowded around the couple insisting that the empress open it immediately.

  ‘It is not for public display,’ said Shahjahan smiling mysteriously.

  For his favourite daughter, Jahanara, Shahjahan had chosen the title Begum Sahib.

  Sixty lakhs of rupees were distributed to the high-ranking ladies of the harem and younger princesses. He forgot no one, not even Satiunnisa and Zeenat, who had been the constant companions of his wife in times of ordeal. He presented them with gold and jewels and generous allowances.

  It was a glorious evening as the emperor and his family sat on the marble pavilion across the Yamuna, enjoying the fireworks that lit up the sky. The banks of the river had been illuminated and the entire surface of the river looked like a garden of light. Boats with lamps lit in tiers floated down the river, their decks occupied by bands playing melodious music. Hordes of people lined the banks of the river to witness the spectacle. They would talk about nothing else for weeks after the celebrations.

  It seemed as though the good times would never end. Lost in the revelry, Zeenat found it hard to recall the years they had spent in misery travelling through unfriendly terrain, hounded by the imperial army. The past seemed like a nightmare, already forgotten.

  ‘Are you not curious to know what lies inside the box?’ asked Shahjahan, much later in the evening as they prepared to retire to bed.

  ‘Oh, I had forgotten about it.’

  ‘Begum, you can’t afford to forget important things. I had told you that it was the most important gift in the empire,’ rebuked the emperor gently.

  Propped against a pile of cushions he watched his wife walk across to the niche in the wall where she had placed the box.

  The sight of her lissom figure through the wispy dress inflamed his desire. Despite so many children, Arjumand’s figure had retained its youthful curves.

  She opened the clasp of the ivory box and looked inside. The next moment she gasped sharply and stared at the object with wonder. Nestled in between the layers of purple velvet was the Muhr Uzek, the royal seal.

  For long it had lain in the possession of Nurjahan, and now she had been honoured with the most powerful weapon of the empire.

  ‘This is for me?’ she asked incredulously.

  ‘Yes, it is for you, my love. You are now more powerful than me because no royal farman can be issued without the seal.’

  She pushed away the box as though it revolted her.

  ‘I don’t want it.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘It is too much of a responsibility. I don’t need it.’

  ‘It is yours to keep,’ he replied.

  ‘Why do you want me to have the seal?’

  ‘You are my restraining angel. Whenever I go wrong you will warn me. That is why I am giving it to you. Emperors can be rash at times.’

  She shivered inadvertently. The seal brought back many memories, some of them very unpleasant. She remembered the time Nurjahan had put the seal on the death sentence of her favourite eunuch. Arjumand had begged for mercy to be shown to the hapless eunuch but she had smiled sarcastically and asked, ‘Why the appeal, Arjumand? Why are you concerned with the fate of an ordinary eunuch?’

  The only crime the eunuch had committed was that he had broken Jahangir’s favourite wine cup. I will never sign anyone’s death warrant, she whispered to herself.

  ‘Come here my Mumtaz. Are you so enamoured by the seal that you have forgotten me?’ The emperor was getting impatient.

  Slowly, Arjumand walked into his open arms and sighed softly as he buried his face in her bosom.

  With Shahjahan’s coronation, peace and security returned to the capital, once again. The city of Agra was flooded with ambassadors, merchants, and travellers who were eager to enjoy the munificence of the new emperor. Once again art, music and dance was promoted, artisans and artistes honoured. Architecture, the emperor’s first love, began to flourish as plans for elaborate palaces were drawn up and executed. The red sandstone structures at Agra and Lahore, built by Akbar, were pulled down and new ones built of marble – pristine and delicate – took their place. Gardens with concealed water channels and fountains were laid all over the city.

  Nothing about Shahjahan was modest. Grandeur surrounded him wherever he went. Whether it was the beautiful palaces, or the lovely gardens, he spared no effort or resources to create splendour. He embarked on an ambitious plan to construct an extravagant throne. For this he commissioned a French jeweller, Augustin de Bordeaux. Shah Jahan’s Peacock Throne was a fabulous creation, a magnificent piece of art, which took seven full years and several lakhs of rupees to complete.

  Usually, his day began early. He got up two hours before the sunrise and read the holy Koran and counted holy beads, in his private mosque. At sunrise, he presented himself at the jharoka for his subjects to see that all was well with him. Here he spent some time watching an elephant tournament; on some days as many as five pairs of elephants were made to combat. On certain days, the mansabdars paraded their contingents for review.

  An hour later the emperor walked into the Diwan-i-Aam, the Hall of Public Audience where he heard the matters pertaining to the empire and the people. The Diwan-i-Aam was an imposing building constructed of red sandstone, supported on forty pillars. The three sides of the hall opened into a massive courtyard. A raised alcove occupied the centre of the fourth side, which was screened with a wall. The alcove, made of pristine marble with ornate pietra dura work, was where the emperor sat.

  The ministers, officers and courtiers ringed the alcove in a strict order of hierarchy. It was the distance from the emperor that decided a person’s importance. He was the omnipotent sun surrounded by the lesser stars.

  Most of the official business was carried out in this hall. Petitions were heard, gifts given, promotions granted and embassies received. The empress would occasionally attend the court. From behind the marble fretwork screen, she listened to the petitions and problems. At times Jahanara and Satiunnisa or Zeenat accompanied her to the Diwan-i-Aam.

  It was past noon by the time the emperor finished with his business and retired to the harem.

  Shahjahan never missed his mid-day meal with Arjumand and the children at the harem. After lunch, it was siesta time for the royal family and only after the siesta would Mumtaz Mahal bring out the petitions and cases for charity brought in by her aides. By the time Shahjahan left the harem it was almost evening.

  By eight in the evening the emperor went back to the harem again for dinner and enjoyed the entertainment programmes presented by the women. By ten he retired to bed. Handpicked readers with dulcet voices would read out tales of adventure of the emperor’s grandfather and great-grandfather, or some verses from the holy book before the emperor called it a day.

  Intent upon giving a good life to his family, the emperor spared no effort.

  ‘I want to wipe out all memories of hardship from their minds. They must have the best of everything,’ he declared to the empress.

  The treasury overflowed with jewels and riches from the vast empire. Shahjahan was intent upon making his reign memorable with the most beautiful edifices and elaborate lifestyle. Nothing but the best would do for him and his family.

  Mumtaz Mahal smiled, ‘It is good to know some hardship in life. It m
akes the gifts of life more precious.’

  ‘No, Begum, they must remember only the good times. Let them have the best of clothes, jewellery, food, and lifestyle. It will wipe out the insecurity from their minds forever.’

  So, they had the best of everything. Agra witnessed the opulence it had never seen before.

  Twenty-seven

  In the midst of all the revelry came the dismal news of problems in the Deccan. The irrepressible rulers of that region had reared up their heads again. Shahjahan began preparing for the journey to Burhanpur to meet the challenge. This time, the exhausted empress was reluctant to follow her husband on the long and tedious journey. Her body resisted the excesses it had been subjected to. The royal hakim warned her against entertaining any thoughts of travel.

  ‘Your Majesty, any long journey undertaken by you could spell disaster. I must warn you against it,’ said the midwife, who had accompanied her on many journeys.

  For many long years, the woman had looked after her and knew her body inside out. The wizened woman shook her head sadly. ‘I also know you will not heed to my advice, but I am going to give it anyway.’

  ‘I have to do what I must do,’ she whispered tired. ‘I have taken a vow and I must continue to accompany him everywhere.’

  Her resolve was strengthened when the emperor took her in his arms that night and murmured against the black silk of her hair. ‘I need you. You are my inspiration, my comfort and my mascot. I cannot function without you.’

  ‘I will be with you, always,’ she promised, carried away by the emotions that suffused her heart.

  The imperial army wound its way through the rugged terrain, slowly and ponderously, its size slowing it down. Unlike the previous instances, this time it was the Mughal emperor and his empress who were journeying.

  A severe famine had devastated the entire states of Deccan and Gujarat. Official historians recorded that people were dying by thousands. Desperate for food, they began to eat whatever they could lay their hands on. All paths were strewn with corpses. Stench of rotting corpse assailed their nostrils much before the horrendous sight appeared before their eyes. No longer did the attendants stop to shroud the corpses, or sprinkle perfumed water to suppress the stench. There was devastation all around. Village after village had succumbed to the famine and plague, leaving them strewn with the dead; there was no one left to arrange for the funerals.

  Heartbroken and shocked, they avoided looking at the gaunt forms of beggars who lined the sides of their paths. Mumtaz Mahal ordered for grains from their supplies to be distributed to them, but it was too little for the sea of starving people. ‘Must there be wars in times like this,’ she mourned.

  ‘As long as there are emperors and kings, there will be wars,’ replied her husband sorrowfully.

  The well-meaning rich traders opened up a few soup kitchens, but they were barely sufficient to fight the hunger. The emperor gave a lakh and a half in charity in just twenty weeks, but even that did little to alleviate the problems of people.

  Natural calamities generally have a sobering effect on the people. It somehow makes one realize one’s inability to fight nature.

  There was a deathly quiet everywhere. Aggrieved with the desolation all around them, the imperial party mourned too. Each time a meal was served, guilt surfaced. Even the hungriest member of the entourage felt a stab of remorse as he put a morsel of food in the mouth. The horrific scenes of skeletal bodies and emaciated children haunted their nights as they lay sleeplessly tossing on their camp beds.

  The empress could not find it in her heart to eat her meals.

  ‘You cannot afford to starve,’ admonished Satiunnisa. ‘The child in your womb needs nourishment.’

  ‘How can I eat when all those children out there are starving to death?’ she replied pushing her platter of food away. ‘Give it away to someone who needs it more than me.’

  When the prince heard of it, he walked angrily into her tent.

  ‘What madness is this, Begum? Your refusal of food will not take care of the famine nor can it provide food to all those hungry mouths out there.’

  ‘Each time I see the food on my platter, the sight of those hungry children disturbs my mind,’ she whispered.

  Shahjahan was distressed by the pinched look on her face. She had lost weight and there were signs of exhaustion on her face.

  ‘I am doing the best I can. You must eat.’

  The blistering heat made it impossible for them to travel during the noon, when they were forced to camp near the drying water bodies or under the shade of trees. Whether it was the nightmarish experience or the exhaustion no one knew, but Mumtaz Mahal began to suffer agonizing pain that forced the imperial procession to slow down their progress.

  The hakim shook his head glumly as he dispensed potions for her condition. The baby could arrive any moment. As she tried to comfort the empress, Zeenat hoped they would reach Burhanpur before that.

  ‘It is a matter of few more hours,’ she consoled. ‘And then we will be in a comfortable palace.’

  Mumtaz Mahal bit her lower lip to prevent herself from crying out. Each jolt of the palanquin made her body ache excruciatingly. All she wanted to do was to expel the foetus from her body.

  The midwife hovered around anxiously, reading her pulse intermittently. The pallor on the empress’s face alarmed her.

  ‘We must not stop anywhere,’ she told Satiunnisa. ‘The empress must reach Burhanpur at the earliest.’

  The instructions were relayed to the emperor and they began moving at a faster pace.

  It was late noon when the entourage reached Burhanpur. The sight of the lofty minarets of the mosque raised their spirits. Wiping the perspiration from Mumtaz Mahal’s brows, Zeenat relayed the news to her.

  ‘We are almost there. In another few minutes we shall be entering the city gates, Your Majesty.’

  The empress rewarded her with a wan smile. ‘Thank you Zeenat,’ she said weakly. ‘You have been a good companion. If anything were to happen to me, you must continue to look after the children.’

  ‘Your Majesty… nothing will happen to you,’ responded Zeenat loyally.

  The empress was ordered to be carried into the harem without any delay.

  The sky turned a sedate orange as the dying embers of the sun stretched their glowing fingers, languorously across the azure sky, before melting away docilely. The earth and its mortals sighed with relief. The ferocious beating they had endured through the day seemed to ebb gradually as a warm wave of breeze fanned the perspiring brows.

  In her apartment, the empress groaned in agony. Her wasted form struggled against the emerging baby, the exhausted womb protesting the ordeal. It was the fourteenth time it had been stretched to hold the love of an emperor. Besides, she was thirty-eight years old; her childbearing age, long past. This time the baby was taking its own time to emerge from the warm cocoon of the mother’s womb. The worried frown on the faces of the midwife and the royal physician sent a warning note around the room that spilled out into the atmosphere, reaching the emperor in a short while.

  Arjumand struggled feebly against the throbbing pain that wracked her body in regular waves. Her laboured breath and groans melted into a whimper as the baby finally emerged from her womb. But the pain didn’t cease, the blood continued to seep her bed in spurts of despair. The midwife struggled to staunch the haemorrhage futilely.

  ‘It is a girl,’ announced Satiunnisa, ‘as beautiful as you.’

  Zeenat cleaned the baby and put her near the mother. Arjumand’s consciousness waned rapidly. Frantically, she clutched at the woman’s arm and her breath came in short gasp.

  A desperate look clouded her beautiful eyes as she scanned the room. ‘Send word for him,’ she whispered. Life seemed to be ebbing out of her tired body, accelerated by her anxiety.

  Silently wiping a tear from his eyes, Isa rode off to beckon the emperor. Urging his horse to a faster gallop, he prayed. ‘Please God! Let her live. Take my life instea
d.’ Even as he spoke he knew it was too late.

  Restless, Shahjahan paced the hall, his anger snowballing gradually. The ministers stood patiently waiting for his decision on the battle plan but the emperor was distracted. His beloved Arjumand was in pain. He blamed himself for the agony she suffered. I must control myself. I should not subject her to this torture any more, he decided. The royal physician had warned him against another pregnancy. ‘Her body will not endure the ordeal. It is already weak from the innumerable child bearings.’ The physician had shaken his head gravely.

  Must she suffer any longer? agonized Shahjahan. Must she endure the consequence of my excesses?

  Like a caged lion he paced the floor, his agitation spreading to the nobles present in the chamber.

  Isa rushed inside asking for an immediate audience. ‘Shahenshah-é-alam, your presence is required in the harem. The great Mughal Empire has been blessed by the birth of another princess.’

  ‘And Arjumand, the empress, is she in good health?’ the emperor shook his shoulders.

  ‘May Allah keep her in good health. The royal physician is in charge of her well being,’ the eunuch replied.

  The emperor rushed towards the harem. Why does my heart beat so unsteadily? Why does the mind conjure terrible images? he whispered to himself.

  The harem was quiet. An eerie silence echoed the footfalls menacingly. Something is amiss.

  There were no signs of rejoicing, no loud laughter, no teasing words. No one rushed to congratulate him. The servants didn’t rush to him for rewards.

  The darkened interiors embraced him in its cloying cocoon. His eyes took time to adjust to the dark shadows that seemed to float around like ghouls in a macabre procession. A quiet whimper beckoned him to the side of his beloved. Striding rapidly he reached her side and took her in his arms, ‘Arjumand.’ The single word expressed the anguish he suffered. A wan smile lit up her face momentarily, ‘My Lord.’

  Her face drained of all colour looked waxy. The eyes that always danced with merriment were glazed with pain. The haunted look in them sent icy cold chills down his spine. Suddenly he was frightened. This time it was death he was fighting against, and he knew that even the great Mughal emperor was helpless against this potent enemy.