Soon, very soon, it will be ready. His eyes were feverish.
Jahanara watched him as he explained the fine nuances to her. ‘The traceried marble screen surrounding my Arjumand will be as delicate as a moonbeam, protecting her noble spirit with its shadow. There will be magnificent gardens and fountains all around the sepulchre. When people set their eyes on the mausoleum, it will bring a lump in their heart.’
There was madness in his sleepless eyes. ‘It will make us immortal, my Arjumand and me. Everything else perishes but a structure lives on. I can leave my imprint on the sands of time. History must remember me as the most creative builder of all. Your mother’s mausoleum has to surpass all imagination.’ He continued to pace, his agitation reflected in his step.
‘I am sure it will be the most beautiful structure ever constructed. But you must rest. You are exhausted, Abba.’ She clutched his hands and led him towards the bed. Outside, a cool breeze rose from the river, bringing with it the scent of myriad flowers from the garden.
Music floated in from the outer hall where the musicians had struck a soothing night raga. Sighing, she slipped on the floor as she helped him take off the constricting waist band. The emperor’s grey locks escaped from the confines of the turban as she removed it from his head. Gently, she stroked his face. He closed his eyes, it was an ecstatic feeling. His Mumtaz always stroked his face and kissed his closed eyes. It brought him peace, no matter how troubled his mind was. For a moment he forgot it was Jahanara and not Mumtaz Mahal who sat near him. His eyes closed, he surrendered to the flames of passion that had begun to travel across his body. He had not experienced such ardour for a long time. An intense passion coursed through his body, setting it aflame.
He caught Jahanara’s hand and pulled her close. Frightened at the implication in his eyes, she pushed him gently and moved away.
‘Don’t be frightened. Come close to me, Jaani,’ he begged.
‘You must rest, Your Majesty, it is late,’ she said bowing stiffly in his direction.
‘Don’t leave me alone. Sit with me for some more time.’ He reached out towards her.
She stepped back avoiding his hands. ‘I must leave now.’
Resolutely she moved towards the door and called out to her companions. Frustrated, the emperor sank back on his bed and clapped his hands. In a moment, silent as a genie, the eunuch Isa appeared.
‘Bring me some women.’
Outside his apartment, Jahanara hesitated for a moment. She looked at the clear sky lit up with thousands of stars. Was her mother amongst them? Watching her? As a child, Satiunnisa had often told them stories about people who died and became stars. She wanted to believe her mother was watching over her, guiding her.
Why did her father behave the way he did? She had no answers. There were rumours in the harem, she knew. Everyone thought that the emperor and she were having an incestuous relationship. No one, least of her sister Roshanara, believed that she had not succumbed to her father’s advances. That was why she received his favours, they reasoned. Why else would he repose so much trust in her?
With a deep sigh, she hugged her arms across her chest tightly and made her way towards her apartment in the harem. Life was difficult. There were moments when she wished her burden would lift. She would love to hand over the responsibilities to Roshanara, who was just too eager to don the mantle, but her father would never agree.
She felt vulnerable and alone. Apart from Dara, there was no one she could trust. Aurangzeb was distrustful and distant, Roshanara plainly jealous, Shah Shuja was too involved in his own pleasures, and Murad had never been close to her.
Why does the emperor forget himself at certain times? It had happened several times. They would spend hours discussing state matters and it would get late. Then he would insist that she stay back with him for the night. It was getting increasingly difficult to avoid his lecherous intent. She was thirty. She should know how to handle the matter but she didn’t. She loved her father.
Her companions threw her a knowing glance and silently wrapped themselves around her protectively. The four of them walked wordlessly with her. They were her eyes, ears, heartbeat and soul. They sensed everything that happened to her. They loved her.
The corridor was lit up with hundreds of blazing candles and lamps. Not a soul stirred, but there were dozens of soldiers guarding the emperor; invisible and efficient. They sensed the eyes that had turned the other way to offer privacy to the women.
Their garments swished about delicately and the anklets tinkled musically as they crossed over to the harem. Suddenly, Jahanara’s trailing dupatta caught a flicker from the flame of a lamp. Within a moment it had transferred the flame to her long skirt. Screaming, the women tried to douse the fire that had begun licking upwards engulfing the bodice and back, with ferocity. They threw Jahanara on the ground and rolled her on the marble floor but the stubborn flames blazed brighter, enveloping the five of them in a macabre dance. The thin muslin fabric of their attire whipped up the flames and the breeze helped them spread. Eunuchs rushed in from the nearby chambers, falling over them in a bid to extinguish the fire but the damage was done. Husna and Shabnam had been badly burnt and lay writhing in agony. Jahanara, debilitated with acute pain that pierced her upper body, lost consciousness.
The emperor engaged in an orgy was informed of the tragedy.
‘It is I who needs to be punished. I am the sinner. Why must my daughter pay for my sins?’ he cried, rushing towards her apartment.
An old woman-physician was trying to bandage the severe burns.
Jahanara hovered on the brink of consciousness, her body thrashing with unbearable pain.
She called out for Satiunnisa and Zeenat, two people who had mothered her through her life. ‘Bring me some poison. I want to die. This pain in unbearable,’ she screamed.
‘You will be all right,’ the emperor was kneeling beside her. ‘Nothing will happen to you.’
He couldn’t bear to see the condition of his most beloved child. Jahanara was precious. Nothing must happen to her, he prayed.
‘Give her some potion to reduce the pain,’ he ordered the harassed physician.
‘I have already given her a few pellets of opium. Any more of it could be dangerous,’ said the hakim.
Sleep was far from the eyes that guarded her that night. Dara, Shahjahan, Satiunnisa, even the unpredictable Roshanara sat in vigil, praying through the night. No one knew whether Jahanara would survive. The emperor’s lips moved in silent prayer as he fingered his prayer beads, his eyes closed in deep meditation. Satiunnisa read verses from the holy book, her voice choking with sobs from time to time. The entire room reverberated with chants, punctuated by Jahanara’s agonized cries.
Thirty-four
Zeenat had just returned from Ajmer after two months. She was ecstatic about the trip. It was late evening by the time she reached home. ‘Tell us about your visit,’ the grandchildren clamoured, crowding her.
‘Not tonight,’ she said, hugging her youngest grand-daughter. ‘I am very tired. Do you know how far Ajmer is from Agra?’
No one did.
‘It is very very far,’ she told them. ‘It takes many days to reach there and I am an old woman. Let me rest now. Tomorrow I will tell you all about Ajmer.’
‘Leave her alone,’ admonished their mother, pushing them out of the room.
‘How have things been at Agra?’ asked Zeenat.
‘Agra survived without you. Don’t worry about Agra. Now go to sleep,’ said Nafisa, snuffing out the light.
The next morning, she was up and about before the others had stirred out of their beds. It is nice to be back home, she thought, inspecting her garden where new rose blooms were nodding in the breeze. She went about from one end to the other, shuffling around on her painful joints, which bothered her more in the mornings. Breathing deeply, she inhaled the morning dew and the cool breeze, expanding her lungs happily. There is no place like home, she muttered.
The sun wa
s riding across the skyline as the rest of the family got up. The welcome aroma of tea brewing in the kitchen tickled her nose and she walked towards it. Nafisa served her a steaming glass full of the sweetened, milky brew. It was just the way she liked it. ‘Hurry up, hurry up,’ shouted Abdul tying his waistband. ‘I am getting late for work.’
Zeenat glanced up proudly at her strapping son. He is so handsome, and so good. She sighed contentedly. Everything was just perfect. If I had to leave the world, I won’t hesitate for a moment, she thought. Abdul’s rapid rise in the imperial army had brought many luxuries with it. The large mansion, and a couple of servants, were just a few of them. God knows he has worked hard for all these years, Zeenat told everyone. He deserved much more, actually.
She was warming her chilled bones in the warmth of the sun, seated on a string cot in the courtyard when Abdul rushed into the courtyard.
‘Ammi,’ he shouted. ‘You must go to the harem immediately.’
The look on his face scared her. ‘What’s wrong? Tell me quickly.’
‘The Begum Sahib has met with an accident,’ he blurted. ‘She suffered severe burns last night.’
Without waiting to change her clothes, Zeenat rushed towards the harem, her fingers flying over her prayer beads. ‘Please Allah, mercy,’ she prayed.
Amongst all of Mumtaz’s children, Jahanara and Dara were her favourites.
‘Hurry,’ she commanded the palanquin bearers. At her behest the four sturdy bearers hastened their steps but the harem seemed far away. She peeped through the tiny window taking stock of the distance they had covered. ‘Hurry up,’ she repeated loudly.
Without a thought to her aching joints, Zeenat leapt out of the palanquin as soon as they reached the harem gates and made her way towards Jahanara’s palace, her legs trembling with the effort.
Everyone seemed to have disappeared from the corridors as she rushed through them. Where is everyone, she wondered.
The distance stretched endlessly before her.
She heard her before she could see the princess. The chamber resonated with the painful whimper of Jahanara. With a loud cry Zeenat reached her side. She wanted to embrace her and take away some of the pain but the body swathed in layers of bandage was thrashing violently on the bed.
There was a nauseating smell of charred flesh all around her. It mingled with the aroma of incense sticks, which had been lit by dozens to ward off the odour.
‘Begum Sahib,’ she whispered.
For a moment the girl’s eyes flew open. The pain in them was unbearable. There was recognition in them. Jahanara’s eyes pleaded her for help. Anguished, Zeenat consoled, ‘It will be all right. I am here, now.’
A hand peeped out from under the cover and touched her uncertainly. It was a horrendous sight. The palm was burnt badly. Jahanara’s body shuddered and then a blissful stupor overcame her senses. The opium pellets were taking effect.
What can I do to take away her pain, wondered Zeenat staring helplessly at the girl.
No one could do anything except pray and wait for a miracle.
The emperor announced a bounty of riches for anyone who could bring relief to his daughter. A purse full of gold and silver was placed under Jahanara’s pillow each night to be distributed to the poor the next morning. Shahjahan prayed for hours in his private mosque, promising to offer Allah everything he owned if his daughter recovered. He stopped attending the court and spent all his time near her, feeding her with his own hands, applying the medicines and unguents that were prepared by the physicians. He did everything he could think of. Vast amounts were given away in charity, and prisoners set free. Every evening Shahjahan knelt down till midnight, weeping and imploring Allah for her recovery.
He vowed to reform if she recovered.
A stream of physicians and holy men passed through the palaces, bringing their cures. Everything was tried, nothing rejected. All through the country people prayed at mosques, temples and churches for the recovery of the favourite princess.
For four months Jahanara hovered in the twilight zone between life and death. The two maids, Husna and Shabnam, had succumbed to their burns many weeks ago.
Dara travelled to various dargahs offering prayers for the health of his beloved sister. Aurangzeb rushed from Deccan, ignoring his father’s wrath, when he heard of Jahanara’s accident. He had been suffering from imperial disgrace.
It must have been her luck that brought Gabriel Boughton, the surgeon of East India Company, to the shores of Hindustan. When Dara heard of his arrival, he insisted that the surgeon should be allowed to treat Jahanara. No stranger had ever been allowed entry into the harem. It was unthinkable, said the ministers. The orthodox mullahs were up in arms when they heard of Dara’s orders.
‘He is an infidel,’ they shouted. ‘The princess cannot be touched by a firanghee.’
In the end, Shahjahan’s love for his daughter won the day. He allowed the Englishman to examine and treat his daughter.
As Zeenat led the doctor through the harem, curious eyes peeped from behind the latticed walls. A foreign physician entering the harem was against all laws, they whispered. The Englishman examined the scorched hand held out to him from behind the screen. The wounds were infected, he realized. The wounds on the chest and back were more severe he was informed. Crossing himself and muttering a short prayer, the surgeon went to work. He prepared ointments and lotions to be applied on the wounds, administered painkillers and infection-controlling doses of medicine. It was a challenge for the physician too; there was always the risk of being executed if the emperor was displeased.
Miraculously, eight months after the accident, Jahanara recovered. After months of gloom, the palaces came to life once again. It was an occasion that needed to be celebrated without any constraints. Shahjahan gifted away lakhs of rupees to all the nobles and beggars in the kingdom. On his daughter he showered expensive jewels and gold. The princes were also given a raise in their allowance.
‘Today, I will not refuse any appeal,’ he declared magnanimously.
‘Your Majesty, be kind to Aurangzeb,’ begged Jahanara. ‘Forgive him.’
After a moment’s hesitation, the emperor conceded. Shahjahan could not refuse anything to his daughter
Ever since Aurangzeb had fallen from the imperial grace, his post and rank had been snatched away. On Jahanara’s request, the emperor agreed to give everything back to the errant son.
Around the country, prayers reverberated. People raised their hands in thanksgiving to the gods. Their princess, the Begum Sahiba, had survived.
Thirty-five
‘The mausoleum is complete,’ shouted Abdul. ‘Have you heard, Ammi? Finally, the emperor’s dream has taken shape.’
‘High time it did,’ Zeenat muttered. ‘It has taken so many years and Allah knows how many crores of rupees. Madness! That is what I say. It is sheer madness. The emperor has gone mad. Imagine squandering all the wealth on monuments and thrones!’
She was sitting in the courtyard, under the mango tree, on a string cot, braiding her granddaughter’s hair. ‘Sit still,’ she pushed the girl. ‘Can’t you remain still for a couple of moments?’
‘You take too long,’ complained the child. ‘I can’t sit for so long. All the others have already gone to play.’
‘I am trying my best,’ scolded Zeenat. ‘If you don’t like me doing your hair, why don’t you go to your mother?’
‘Because Ammi is busy.’
‘Then don’t complain. I will do it the way I can.’
Abdul laughed. ‘Why don’t you admit it? You can’t see properly, Ammi. I have told you to get medicine from the hakim but you won’t listen.’
‘Arre, the hakim can’t do anything. It is the curse of old age, my aching joints; and my fading eyesight. It is time to bid goodbye to this world.’
‘Oh, no Ammi,’ her son protested. ‘You will live for another hundred years. You have to see your great-grandchildren before you leave us. Besides, you have not seen the
Taj Mahal yet. How can you die without seeing it?’
‘I don’t want to see Taj Mahal,’ she grumbled. ‘All I want to see is the holy Mecca.’
‘All in good time but first the Taj Mahal,’ he insisted. ‘We will all travel to the banks of Yamuna and see the grand mausoleum.’
‘Have you seen it?’
‘Oh yes, at least a hundred times in the last two decades. I have seen it grow from the deep ditches of the foundation to the last stage. Like a child it has grown under my eyes. It is really a fascinating structure.’
A dreamy look clouded his eyes.
‘I have heard that Mumtaz Mahal’s urs this year will be celebrated with extravagant pageantry at the new mausoleum,’ Abdul informed her. ‘Thousands of people will visit the structure and pray for her soul. Won’t you like to go and pray for the empress you loved so much?’
‘I might,’ stated Zeenat ambiguously.
The truth was that she could not travel much due to her gout. She had not visited the harem for months, although she kept abreast of the happenings through the gossip that came from her daughter-in-law and her friends.
Abdul was now an important army commander and he had a big mansion. She was far more comfortable spending time with her grandchildren in the house. But Abdul’s words brought back many memories of Mumtaz Mahal and her early days.
‘I have heard that the emperor is planning to move the court to a new city he is constructing at Delhi.’
‘I have also heard about it but these could just be rumours. A new fort is coming up at Shahjahanabad near Delhi, and people say that the fort on the banks of Yamuna is a massive one,’ her son replied, pushing a paan into his mouth. They had just finished a sumptuous dinner and he belched appreciatively. ‘No one cooks biryani like my wife,’ he boasted.
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