Ominous shadows loomed around her, threatening to grasp her in their tentacles. There was so much she wanted to say; so many things she had to convey. His hands reached out to touch her face and a tremor shook her body at the touch. It seemed to energize her for a moment. ‘I want to live,’ the cry tore at his heart.
‘You will live.’ He clutched her to his heart, ‘For my sake you must live.’
Her brows felt cold under his lips and she sighed. ‘Our children…’ she whispered. ‘Look after them… Let my memory light your lives… construct for me a mausoleum that brings peace to everyone who sees it… if you must marry, find a woman who is pious… if her children go to war with mine, it will be disastrous.’
The words were barely audible and he pressed his ears to her mouth, tears of frustration welling in his eyes. ‘Hush! Don’t say such things. You will live many more years.’
A contented smile hovered around her pale lips and her eyes flickered fleetingly. She was dying in his arms. What more could a woman want?
‘Arju, everything will be all right. Don’t worry, my dear. The physician will pull you through this crisis. He has done it so many times… he’ll do it yet again.’
‘Hold me tight, Your Majesty. I am so cold.’ Her voice was weak. He had to strain his ears to hear the words.
He held her close to his chest, soundless sobs racking his body. He didn’t realize when the last breath left her body silently. It was some time before the attendants removed the lifeless body from his embrace. The soul of his beloved wife had slipped out of his hold; only the body remained, cold and inert.
Silently, the children filed past their mother’s body – the anguished Jahanara, the stunned Dara, agonized Murad, tearful Roshanara and stoic Aurangzeb. They cried for the beautiful woman who had been their mother; they also cried for themselves because they did not know what the future held for them. It was the persistent cry of the newborn baby that brought a sense of reality to the room. They had all forgotten her. Jahanara walked to the baby and whispered: ‘Your birthday will always be tainted with grief, my little sister.’
Throughout his life, Shahjahan did not forgive the daughter, Gauharara, who had brought with her the death of his beloved Mumtaz.
At seventeen, Jahanara became the mother to all her siblings. Everyone, even her father, the great Mughal emperor, looked at her for guidance. Struck by sorrow, he seemed to be unable to take decisions, and left everything to her.
Zeenat, sobbing her heart out for the mistress she loved, carried out the funeral rites, assisted by Satiunnisa. They bathed the body and anointed it with various herbs before wrapping it up with yards of pristine white cloth.
The body was interred in the gardens of Zainabad, across river Tapti. The mullahs recited verses of the holy book as the remains of the beautiful woman were lowered into the earth. The emperor broke into loud sobs as he placed bunches of the empress’s favourite red roses on the fresh grave.
The business of living had to go on. Heavy hearted, they journeyed back to the capital.
On a cold December morning, six months later, the coffin containing the body of Mumtaz Mahal was taken to Agra, to be buried on the banks of Yamuna.
Back at Agra, Shahjahan locked himself in his chamber. Not all the pleas of his children or nobles could draw him out of the locked room. He refused food and water for two full days, sending everyone into frenzy.
On the seventh day, Jahanara knocked on the door desperately.
‘Abbajaani, come out please. We are worried. Nobody will eat if you do not come out,’ she cried, banging her head on the door.
At last, the door opened and the emperor emerged. She gasped, shocked. Her father had greyed. His beard and hair, which had been raven black just a couple of days ago, were completely grey. Shahjahan had aged many years in the one week that he spent locked up in grief. His shoulders bent with the weight he carried in his heart, the emperor walked out, blinking his eyes as daylight hit them.
Jahanara led him outside, to the marble bench on the balcony of the fort. Together, they sat staring across Yamuna, silently; the grief they shared bonding their hearts.
For weeks afterwards Shahjahan refused to attend to the matters of the court, leaving it all to the wisdom of his ministers. He refused to appear in the jharoka for public audience. Life had ceased to interest him.
The entire court went into mourning with the nobles donning white attires. There were no celebrations, no gaiety and no music. For two entire years the emperor wore only white. The city of Agra was shrouded in mourning, its silence hanging like a heavy veil.
‘Life will never be same without her,’ Satiunnisa sighed.
‘I will request the emperor to relieve me of my duties. First Salamat and then the empress, the two people I loved, have gone, leaving me to grieve. Now that Abdul has joined the emperor’s army, I can retire in peace. I want to live a quiet life, now,’ Zeenat confided.
‘I wish I could do the same, but where will I go. I have no son,’ said Satiunnisa. ‘Zeenat, if you leave, my life will become very lonely.’
‘Come and live with us, Sati. We can spend the rest of our lives the way we want to.’
‘You know that is not possible,’ Satiunnisa sighed.
Mumtaz Mahal had entrusted her with the task of imparting education to the princesses.
‘It is selfish of me to ask you but don’t leave, Zeenat. You are the only friend I have. We have shared many moments of happiness and grief. With you here, I can spend the rest of my days in peace.’
Zeenat knew that Satiunnisa was a lonely woman. The vast power bestowed on her by the emperor evoked jealousy in the harem. Not just the women, but many of the nobles resented her proximity to the royal family, and the influence she could exert on them. While the empress was alive, she had assigned many important tasks to Satiunnisa, which continued to remain in her charge even after the death of Mumtaz Mahal. She had been the one who presented the petitions of destitute and deserving women, and orphans, to the empress, and recommended the cases that merited charity.
With nothing but her sincerity and devotion to recommend her, Zeenat helped take care of the younger children. Gauharara was a meek child, who shunned all company, as though aware that she had been a harbinger of death in the family. Terrified of her father, she clung to her eldest sister whenever he visited the harem.
As for Jahanara, she was entrusted with the duties of running the harem and supervising all the work. It was a job generally assigned to dowagers, or the chief queen. From dawn to dusk, the girl dealt with different kinds of problems. Shahjahan depended on her sagacity and consulted her on many state matters. At an age when she should have led a carefree life, she was burdened with enormous responsibilities.
Twenty-eight
Zeenat’s son, Abdul Khan had made his mark in the imperial army. The boy was as diligent and loyal to Shahjahan as his father, Salamat Khan, had been. Steadily, he had risen in rank. A dutiful son, he had been trying to convince his mother to leave her job at the harem.
‘You have no need to work now that I am working. I will take care of you,’ he told her. ‘We will make a nice house with a garden in front, just like the one you and Abba had.’
The thought was tempting. Zeenat recollected the beautiful house where she had gone as a bride.
Handsome like his father, this strapping lad of twenty was warm and jovial. There was so much of Salamat in him that Zeenat often wondered if a son born of her womb could have been any closer to the Pathan in nature and appearance.
For some time, Zeenat had been toying with the idea of quitting her post in the harem. On Abdul’s insistence, Zeenat approached Jahanara.
‘Begum Sahib, I have a request,’ she began awkwardly. ‘Now that the children have grown, my services are no longer required in the harem. If you are kind enough to relieve me of my duties, I could live with my son.’
Jahanara raised her eyebrows enquiringly.
‘Has Roshanara been nasty to
you?’ she asked.
Memories of her childhood rushed back as she looked at the woman’s lined face with affection. She was a precious part of her life.
‘No, no, she has not said anything,’ Zeenat was quick to protest. ‘It is just that I feel exhausted these days; I am an old woman now. Besides, Abdul also wants me to take life easy.’
‘What nonsense, you are still so young and pretty. Thirty-eight is not old at all. Come to me when you are eighty and I will consider relieving you of your duties,’ Jahanara smiled. ‘Besides, who will tell me stories about my parents if I allow you to go?’
Her eyes moist, Zeenat looked gratefully at the girl. So young yet so perceptive, she mused, she knows how to make a person feel good.
That evening, Jahanara repeated the woman’s request to the emperor.
‘I can’t imagine her not being at the harem. She has been around for so long,’ she said.
‘Of course, she can’t be allowed to go. Zeenat will continue to stay at the harem,’ he declared forcefully.
Dutifully, the Begum Sahib repeated his words to Zeenat the next day. ‘There is no question of your request being granted. Neither the emperor nor I will allow it,’ Jahanara told her.
Bound to them by love, Zeenat continued with her duties at the harem. Jahanara was always sensitive to the feelings of her staff. It was the younger princess who proved to be difficult. Barely a few hours after her meeting with Jahanara, Zeenat found herself cowering in the presence of Roshanara.
‘You are an old hag,’ screamed Roshanara, throwing the glass at Zeenat. It just missed hitting her by a breath. ‘I had asked for cold water if you remember.’
‘Yes, Your Majesty,’ murmured Zeenat, picking up the glass. ‘I will get another glass of cold water for you immediately.’
Her eyes riveted on the ground, she clutched at the silver glass on which beads of evaporation declared the coolness of the contents it held. She knew the water was as cool as it could be.
‘You will do nothing of the kind. From today, you will not enter my apartment. I need someone young who will be able to run around to do my bidding, much quicker than you.’
With a low bow Zeenat withdrew. In a way, she was relieved that she wouldn’t have to run errands for the arrogant princess, who insisted on being addressed as Your Majesty. She smiled as she made her way out of her presence.
‘What is it that ails Roshan?’ asked Zeenat as she cleared up the dastarkhwan after the princesses had finished their meal. ‘The girl is becoming ruder by the day.’
Satiunnisa was gazing out at the garden in a contemplative mood. She turned to look at Zeenat. ‘Why, what happened?’
When Zeenat related the incident, she didn’t seem surprised. ‘There’s nothing new about her nasty behaviour.’
Roshanara was an odd girl. At fourteen, she was turning out to be a ruthless and choleric person. At the slightest pretext, she would have her servants punished most cruelly. As for tongue lashing, there was scarcely a day when at least a couple of them didn’t receive a verbal abuse. She spared no one. Even Satiunnisa and Zeenat had not been spared from her vitriolic outbursts.
‘I am worried about her. She should learn to control her temper,’ replied Satiunnisa. ‘Even the boys don’t exhibit such a nasty temper.’
It was true. The eldest prince, Dara Shikoh, with his even temper, was easily the most loved person in the family. Full of concern and love for everyone, he was popular with the soldiers, eunuchs, as well as the harem women. Just sixteen, the prince had already beaten his father in height and charm. He had his mother, Arjumand’s emerald eyes, that flickered in delight very easily. Dara and Jahanara shared a very close relationship. ‘It is a pity that Dara is conceited, though,’ sighed Satiunnisa. ‘I have watched him ridiculing the other princes. It doesn’t make him popular amongst them. I fear his arrogance could lead to trouble.’
‘I wouldn’t worry about that,’ said Zeenat breezily. ‘He is a handsome lad who can win any heart with a smile.’
Like most harem women, she was partial to Jahanara and Dara.
‘His smile will never enchant the indignant nobles who are bristling with anger at his impudent remarks, nor will it please the Ulemas who hate him for mouthing verses from Hindu scriptures,’ Satiunnisa said sadly. ‘Even the emperor will not be able to protect him from the ire of the bigoted religious leaders if they decide to revolt against him.’
‘Do you think that is possible?’ Zeenat sounded worried.
‘Not just possible, it is highly likely that they will not support Dara Shikoh as the next emperor, unless he changes his ways. They will be far happier with Aurangzeb’s austerity and religious zeal.’
Shah Shuja and Murad were easygoing boys, with pleasant disposition, but Aurangzeb, well, he was very different. At thirteen, he looked more serious and mature for his age, and also shared some of Roshanara’s traits, although not the temper. The two got along like a house on fire.
‘Could it have something to do with her looks?’ Zeenat persisted.
While Jahanara was a beauty, the younger princess was quite unattractive. Born with a muscular defect in the face, she was conscious of her unattractiveness. Roshanara was blatantly jealous of her elder sister, who was the emperor’s favourite child.
‘I think so, too,’ agreed Satiunnisa, who had brought up the children like a mother. ‘Somewhere in her heart, she knows that she can never equal the others in beauty and intellect, so she makes it up with her ruthlessness. Getting attention in any manner is her intention.’
‘I pity Jahanara, who has to deal with Roshanara’s tantrums.’
‘I don’t think Jahanara minds it. She is devoted to her siblings. Haven’t you noticed the immense patience that girl has?’
‘She is as virtuous as her mother,’ Satiunnisa admitted. ‘It is funny how the children are paired – Jahanara and Dara, Roshanara and Aurangzeb, Shuja and Murad. Poor Gauhar, she’s a lonely child.’
‘I don’t like Aurangzeb,’ said Zeenat. Like most of the harem women, she felt uncomfortable in the prince’s presence. ‘There is something quite sinister about him. His eyes are cold, like that of a reptile.’
‘Ssshhhhh,’ warned Satiunnisa, ‘be careful of what you say. I would not comment on him if I were you. But you are right. He is the one to watch out for.’
‘Is it true, the story about the fakir’s prediction?’ whispered Zeenat, unable to contain her curiosity.
Satiunnisa nodded discreetly.
It was an oft-repeated story in the harem whenever Aurangzeb was discussed. This happened when Arjumand was pregnant with her third son.
One morning, when the couple was sharing a breakfast, she suddenly declared, ‘I feel like eating an apple.’
The prince laughed at her craving. ‘And pray where will you find apples in this season? Besides, Burhanpur is not known to stock the fruit even during the season. We are not in Kashmir, Begum.’
‘I know that, but a pregnant woman does not find reasons for her cravings,’ she smiled. ‘I have heard that a pregnant woman’s longing must be satisfied, otherwise the child she is carrying grows up to be a discontented person.’
‘If that is so, we must find the fruit. I don’t want the child in your womb to be an unhappy person.’
‘Don’t bother. You are not likely to find an apple in this place. It is a stupid craving which will go away after a while,’ she said.
‘Your wish is my command, Begum,’ he bowed in a mock salute. ‘Let me try at least. I don’t want you to turn around and tell me one day that I didn’t try hard enough.’
It was neither the season nor the place to find the fruit but the prince, eager to please his wife, took off to search for apples.
As he rode into the forest, he met a fakir sitting under a tree. Shahjahan dismounted and bowed reverentially before the fakir.
‘You are searching for the unattainable,’ remarked the sage.
The prince was stunned. How did the man know what he
was looking for?
‘But I can give you the fruit,’ said the fakir producing two apples out of thin air.
Shahjahan prostrated himself before the sage.
‘Do not worry, your problems will be over,’ presaged the mendicant, ‘you will be king one day.’
The prince was delighted at the prediction. He removed all his jewels and placed them at the feet of the fakir. ‘I have no use for these.’ The fakir refused to touch them.
‘Go and enjoy the blessings of Allah,’ the fakir said returning the jewels. ‘The smell of these apples will remain on your palms for a long time. Beware of the day when your palms stop smelling of apples.’
‘Why, Baba?’
‘It is not for me to tell you now,’ the fakir, gestured, dismissing the prince. As Shahjahan mounted his horse, the sage looked at him and said, ‘Sometimes it is better for a child to die in the womb than to be born.’
Shocked, the prince wondered what had made the fakir utter such terrible words. It was so unlike a wise man to mouth such cruel words. Confused, he rode back to his wife with the apples but the words of the fakir echoed in his mind for a long time. Although he never mentioned it to Arjumand, he never forgot the prophecy.
Nothing could remain a secret for long, in the harem, nor did this event. It wasn’t long before the whispers about the fakir’s prediction reached Arjumand. Her heart heavy with misgivings, she placed a hand over the small bulge in her womb.
It cannot be true, she whispered to herself. The fakir has to be wrong.
Twenty-nine
The weak rays of the sun were trying to break through the heavy veil of mist rising over the Yamuna. The emperor woke up with a start. He shook his head trying to recollect the dream. The silhouette of a stunning structure still haunted his mind. He had dreamt of the most perfect mausoleum ever crafted on earth. The pristine white, ethereal tomb was etched in his memory.
Escape from Harem Page 20