Nurjahan's Daughter (10 page)

That torturous summer was to see many more tragedies. The nobles of the court advised the emperor against showing any mercy to the rebels. No one should be spared, they cautioned, not even Prince Khusrau. Many of them advised Jahangir to execute his perfidious son to set an example for future generations. But Jahangir refused, citing the Timurid code of conduct, which forbade the killing of royal kin. ‘I cannot execute my own son,’ Jahangir told his ministers. ‘Centuries back my forefather, Timur-e-leng, had proclaimed: “Do naught unto your brothers, even though they may deserve”. Each and every Mughal king has observed the edicts laid down by the founder of the Timurid dynasty. I cannot go against it.’

A debate ensued over the Timurid decree, but the emperor refused to go against it.

‘Perhaps Your Highness should instead consider the punishment of blinding. There is no objection to that punishment in the Timurid laws,’ suggested his vizier.

The emperor considered the suggestion with a heavy heart. ‘Why do I have to suffer this agony?’ he wrote in his diary. ‘The anguish of seeing one’s own son blinded is the most painful punishment. I wish there were some way out of this muddle.’

It was an agonising night for the emperor as he tossed about sleeplessly, debating what his verdict should be. The next morning, the court was bursting with people. The deep shadow under Jahangir’s eyes spoke of his tormented soul. Khusrau was brought before the court, chained and smiling, his handsome face reflecting arrogance. He was confident that the emperor, torn by paternal love, would not sentence him harshly. There was a deathly silence as the minister read out Khusrau’s offence.

‘The punishment for mutiny is death, in all lands,’ the emperor sighed. A murmur of shock went through the court. From behind the latticed partition came a perceptible whimper from the gathered women. ‘But I am bound by the Timurid edict and I cannot sentence my son to death. With deep regret I order the blinding of my treacherous son.’

The handsome face of the prince turned ashen, all his bravado deserting him at the sight of the soldiers advancing towards him with their tools for blinding. ‘Reham, reham, Shahenshah. Let not a father’s name be sullied. Do not decide my fate in haste. Put me to death, for living in a world of darkness is worse than not living at all,’ he cried heartbreakingly, but the emperor turned his face away sadly.

When the wire was put in his eyes, the assembled people turned their eyes away from the torture. The women in the zenana wailed loudly from the other side of the screen, unable to bear the piteous cries that resonated through the hall.

Over time, however, when Shahenshah Jahangir saw his blind son groping through the halls of the palace, helpless and forlorn, he was filled with guilt. He recollected his own rebellions: the thought of such a harsh penalty had never crossed the mind of his father, Emperor Akbar. Eventually Jahangir ordered that the most experienced physicians be put to work on the eyes of the prince so that he might see again.

Proclamations were made through the land inviting eminent physicians. The emperor promised generous rewards for the cure of his son’s eyes. Many hakims and physicians arrived to try their luck. Among them was Hakim Sadra, a physician who had come all the way from Persia. The hakim undertook to cure the prince within six months and began his treatment to restore Khusrau’s eyes.

Six months had passed and the emperor called for the hakim and Khusrau, impatient to see the result. Khusrau, for the first time, walked unaided into the court, much to the delight of the emperor. Khusrau had recovered partial vision in one of his eyes.

Jahangir was overjoyed. For six months he had been ridden by remorse. Now he could sleep at night, his conscience at peace once more.

‘Allah is great. We were losing hope that our son would see again. We are delighted with your skills, Hakim Sadra. From today you shall be known as Masihu-uz-Zaman (physician par excellence).’

The emperor stepped down from his throne and embraced Khusrau. With great love, he helped his son to a seat next to the throne. A khilat, robe of honour, was endowed on the hakim and the emperor poured a cupful of jewels on his head. The ladies, watching the scene from behind the screen, sighed happily.

I
t was a balmy day in March. Meherunnisa woke up with a feeling of happy expectation. A tiny bird was singing near her windowsill and its chirping wrung her heart with memories of a wondrous spring she had enjoyed a long time back with her parents at Lahore. The air was laden with the sweet smell of blooming flowers and the sky was a clear, cobalt blue. Delicate wisps of straggly clouds drifted away gracefully, leaving the day bright and cheerful. The rains had ceased after a torrential week and the sun had emerged after days of hiding ’ behind ominous clouds. After years she found herself humming a romantic song. Something in the breeze around her charged ' her with hope.

It was a perfect day to be spent by the riverside, to laze and loll under the trees that lined the waterfront. For long Laadli had been clamouring for an outing. Meherunnisa summoned Firdaus and instructed her to prepare for a picnic. ‘We will cook in the open, under the shade of the trees by the riverside,’ said Meherunnisa dreamily. ‘Firdaus hurry, make arrangements for the most memorable picnic ever enjoyed by the family.’

‘Can’t we pack the food and take it with us?’

‘No, no. It is not the same. For a perfect picnic, the food has to be cooked at the location and not carried. I know it involves more work but that is the way it has to be,’ Meherunnisa said, putting an end to the argument.

Firdaus also loved picnics but hated the complex arrangements that they called for. Elaborate preparations had to be made so food could be cooked at the picnic spot; cooling drinks, snacks, games and carpets had to be carried along; tents had to be set up; and the entire area would have to be cordoned off from the prying eyes of men who were in the area, angling or bathing.

Firdaus went about instructing the servants on the arrangements to be made. Pots, pans and other paraphernalia had to be packed. Chaupar, ganjifa cards, skipping rope and durries had to be carried. Laadli would want a swing to be put up on a tree, so sturdy ropes had to be carried for the makeshift swing.

Sher Afghan was reluctant to accompany the women. ‘The governor, Sahib Qutub-ud-Din, has sent for me. He has received a firman from the emperor and wants to deliver it to me personally. If I do not go immediately, he will take offence. You know what a pompous and egocentric fellow he is.’

‘Can’t you postpone your journey by a day? I am sure he will not take offence if you go tomorrow. Send word to him through one of the servants that you will be present at his court tomorrow morning. Please, please, let us go and enjoy the beautiful day. Burdwan rarely sees such a perfect day for an outing. Besides, Laadli will be disappointed if you don’t accompany us,’ insisted Meherunnisa.

‘Begum, I am as keen as you to enjoy the day in your company, but I don’t like the governor’s attitude. The anti-Persian faction is at work in the emperor’s court at Agra. They have spread rumours that I am involved with the Afghan rebels in Bengal.’

‘Why should the emperor believe such rumours? You have been faithful and loyal to him at all times.’

‘He has reason to believe these rumours because he has never liked me,’ Sher Afghan said, casting a meaningful look at his wife.

‘Despite the fact that you saved his life by slaying a tigress?’ Meherunnisa said, ignoring her husband’s provocative statement.

‘That happened such a long time ago that the emperor would rather forget his obligations. I have always been faithful to the throne and its rulers. Jahangir knows that I am an excellent soldier and the royal army needs my services. Yet he has banished me from the court by sending me to this godforsaken place. I suspect he treats me this way because I have married you.’

At last the truth was out. The words had tumbled out before he could stop them.

‘How can you say such a thing? I have never been unfaithful to you in all these years of our marriage!’ Her face paled at the allegation.

‘Begum, I do not suspect your fidelity, but I do have my reservations about the emperor’s intentions. The fact remains that I am in his bad books and he has sent his foster brother, Qutub-Ud-Din, to act against me. I am sorry if I said the wrong thing. I am disturbed by the goings-on.’ Sher Afghan was distraught.

Meherunnisa felt sorry for her husband. She suspected he was right about the emperor’s intentions. Her father had told her of the rumours that Jahangir had tried to convince Sher Afghan, through intermediaries, to divorce Meherunnisa. If the rumours were to be believed–she had never discussed the matter with her husband–the emperor’s treatment of Sher Afghan was obviously a reaction to the soldier’s refusal to do so.

‘Let us shelve all problems for tomorrow,’ she said soothingly. After we return from the outing, we can think of a solution to the problem. There is no point in ruining such a beautiful day.’

At that moment Laadli ran in with her toys and tugged at her father’s hands. He towered above the girl and Meherunnisa was amazed at the tenderness that suffused his face whenever he looked at his daughter. He would readily give his life to fulfil the wishes of his daughter, she thought. As he smiled tenderly at the child, Meherunnisa knew he would not refuse to accompany them for the outing.

‘Abbajaan, please come with us. I will not go if you don’t come,’ Laadli said.

‘Well, then, I cannot refuse! I guess my meeting will have to wait till tomorrow,’ he said, the cloud of worry temporarily absent from his face.

His daughter skipped all around him excitedly. ‘Can we take Sultan? I would love to ride him.’

‘No, we will not take Sultan,’ Meherunnisa said sternly. ‘I don’t want you riding near the river.’

‘Oh, let her be, begum. I will take care of her.’ Turning to his daughter, he said, ‘Don’t worry, we will take Sultan with us.’

As Meherunnisa had predicted, Laadli had taken after her father with regard to her height. At four, she was taller than most six-year-old girls. She was a natural when it came to horse riding and wielding the dagger. From her mother, the little girl had inherited a flair for music, poetry, and painting.

Burdwan’s exotic vegetation and verdant landscape was a balm for the tired souls. The swaying palms, tall teaks, trees laden with jackfruit and papayas, banana trees with their long leaves fluttering like flags in the breeze and the wild flowers that dotted the countryside, were a poet’s dream. The picturesque setting erased all the troubling thoughts from Sher Afghan’s mind.

Tents were pitched and Firdaus got the makeshift kitchen fires going. Amidst the clatter of utensils, the servants began preparing lunch under the shade of a massive tree. Sher Afghan supervised the setting up of a rope swing while Laadli jumped around excitedly, adding her instructions. It was going to be a beautiful day. After a long time Meherunnisa felt a sense of total happiness, with no dark clouds smearing her horizon.

She set up her easel near the waterfront and laid out little pots of paints all around her. A boat appeared like a speck on the placid water of the river, its sails stark against the indigo sky. It had been a long time since she had painted. Busy with Laadli and household responsibilities, she had almost forgotten how to wield the brush or compose verses. ‘Now that Laadli is almost four, I should begin taking some time off to do the things I love. All I have done for the past few years is embroider and stitch dresses for her,’ she told her husband, as she tried to capture the magical colours around her on her canvas.

Sher Afghan, sprawled under a jackfruit tree, was amused at her complaint. His eyes swept over her svelte figure and rested on her painting. An indulgent smile played on his face as he patted her hand. ‘You are good at whatever you do.’ A look filled with intimacy and warmth passed between them and a delightful blush spread on his wife’s face.

Suddenly Meherunnisa packed up her painting and stood up. ‘It is too beautiful a day to sit at one spot. Let us walk around the waterfront.’

‘I feel like playing a game of chaupar with you.’

‘We will do that after we have taken a turn. I want to feel the cool breeze on my face. It reminds me of my days at Lahore when the evening breeze blew through the terraced gardens and we took endless walks discussing all sorts of things.’

As they walked around the mango grove, the smell of the tiny fruits lay thick in the air, attracting a host of insects around them. In the distance a koel cooed with ecstasy, heralding the advent of a joyous spring. Hand-in-hand they walked, with Meherunnisa humming under her breath. This is bliss, thought Sher Afghan, turning to look at Laadli trying to climb a branch of a tree. Like a monkey she clambered up the overhanging branch one minute, only to slip down the next, unmindful of her scraped knees.

They lunched under the thick foliage of the trees, seated on the ground with a sparkling white dastarkhan spread before them. Despite all the grumbling, Firdaus had managed to put together an excellent meal for the family. There were parathas stuffed with minced meat, a meat curry and a bowlful of greens with a variety of pickles and chutneys.

Even Laadli, who normally fussed over her food, stuffed herself willingly.

‘There is something magical about a picnic. The most ordinary food tastes so good that one ends up overeating. I have eaten so much that all I want to do is the lie down under a tree and sleep for sometime,’ Meherunnisa stated, suppressing a yawn.

On her bidding, Firdaus brought an embroidered coverlet and spread it on the ground. It wasn’t until the sun decided to call it a day that they began packing up.

‘We must do this more often,’ Meherunnisa suggested, picking up her scattered papers.

‘Yes, if the weather and the emperor permit us,’ Sher Afghan agreed as he helped her pack the paints.

The setting sun sprayed the sky orange as birds made their way to their nests. The women got into their palanquins and the men rode alongside, cantering lazily. Darkness had fallen by the time they neared the house. Servants walked ahead with lit lamps to light up the path. They were a short distance away from the house when Sayeed, the stable boy, ran up to them. Panting with exertion, he cried–‘Go back, go back Master! Don’t go to the house. The governor and his soldiers are there. I have heard them whispering ominous things. Please go to the village and get some help!’