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Authors: Tanushree Podder

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Tanushree Podder

1

I
t was a long and arduous labour and the woman’s perspiration-soaked body thrashed about agitatedly as a fresh wave of pain tore through it. Her primal groans tattooed the walls with agony, lingered for a moment near the gurgling fountain in the courtyard, drifted over the mango trees surrounding the house, and dissipated forlornly in the muggy atmosphere of Bengal. The woman’s parched lips were a wounded mass of flesh as her sharp teeth sunk into them in a bid to take the edge out of the torture. Outside, the humid air teased the young leaves on the mango trees. The melodious call of the cuckoo sounded incongruous to the ears of the old nurse trying to comfort the woman.

‘Just a few more moments and then it will be over. The baby is almost here.’

Another flood of pain shook the exhausted body.

‘Push harder,’ commanded the midwife. ‘You’ll have to help your baby emerge.’ There was no strength left in the woman to aid the birthing process. Exhausted and teetering on the edge of a breakdown, she let out a feral cry. Her anguished scream tore through the house, its rawness stunning the chattering birds on the banyan tree outside the large mansion. The nurse heaved a sigh of relief on hearing a weak cry as the midwife pulled the baby out and subjected its red bottom to a smart smack.

The baby was washed and swathed in new muslin clothes. ‘It is a girl child,’ Firdaus said hesitantly, holding the wailing bundle to the mother. Screwing up her red face, the infant filled up her lungs with the humid air of Burdwan and bawled lustily. Firdaus quietly placed the baby near the semi-conscious woman and waited for a reaction.

‘She is beautiful, just like you,’ Firdaus said, wiping her wet brows with a scented cloth. ‘Allah has been kind to us after so many years. He’s sent an angel to bring joy and laughter to this house.’

A young servant girl was cleaning up the mess around the low bed. She mopped the marble floor with a rag and lit up incense sticks in the silver censers. By the side of the bed sat an Amazonian woman with a peacock feather fan, driving the flies away. From time to time she suppressed a yawn; it had been a long day. The melancholic atmosphere in the room hung over them, like the shadow of a phantom.

The gloomy air had nothing to do with the interiors of the room: it was beautifully decorated, as was the entire house. The Persian carpets, gilded candelabras and crystal chandeliers, inlaid brassware, intricately painted miniatures and bright silk cushions spread on the embroidered bedspread, all spoke of the refined taste of the mistress of the house. Lush brocade drapes curtained the spacious room of the zenana. But the heavy pall of gloom nullified all attempts to beautify it.

‘You have a daughter. Thank Allah for his mercy, the girl is healthy,’ repeated Firdaus, glancing at the inert body on the bed. Finding no response to her words, she bent down and checked the pulse of the young woman.

The baby let out another loud wail to remind them of her presence. The lusty cry sounded pleasant to the ears of the women in the room. ‘The house has been silent for too long,’ remarked the nurse.

The young woman had still not responded. Ashen faced, her thin frame quivered with each breath that emanated from the pinched nose. Long, raven locks hung limply from the edge of a tasselled pillow, spreading out like black tentacles over the pristine marble floor.

The fountain continued to gurgle like low-throated laughter. A brood of ducks paddled lazily amidst the lotus growing in the pond, unmindful of the fateful change that had taken place in the enormous mansion. The smell of human blood mingled with the scent of the frangipani flowers, creating a strange mix of odours.

Concern etched her wrinkled brows as the nurse watched Meherunnisa’s motionless body.

‘She has endured so much pain,’ muttered Firdaus, gazing tenderly at the woman she had brought up with so much affection.

At last, the body twitched and moved closer to the baby in response to its demanding cry. Slowly a tender smile spread across the mother’s face as she looked at her daughter. The long years of a discontented marriage and innumerable miscarriages melted away in a moment. The frustration of her barren existence had taken a heavy toll–the bubbling mirth in the blue eyes had gradually been replaced by frigidity; the glow of her lovely complexion had vanished, layers of disappointment replacing its radiance.
Ten long years of a fruitless marriage,
the woman sighed. But Allah had not been so heartless, after all. After ten years of waiting, He had finally answered her prayers.

Meherunnisa held the little one close to her heart.

‘I will call her Laadli,’ she crooned, ‘the adored one.’

Disappointment had assailed her for a few moments when she was told that her baby was a girl. Her immediate thoughts had been about the barbs that would most likely fly from all quarters. After almost eleven years of marriage, she had been able to produce only a puny daughter for her swashbuckling husband. A stab of guilt tore her heart as she thought of Sher Afghan. Would he accept the little one with love or discard the baby with disappointment? He had waited for the birth of a son for over a decade.

‘Shall I call a wet nurse? The baby needs milk,’ Firdaus asked as she piled some cushions behind Meherunnisa.

‘No!’ The voice was sharp. ‘I don’t want any wet nurse to feed my daughter. I am going to nurse her myself.’

‘As you please! But women from elite families do not feed their babies. It will make your breasts sag and you will lose your beauty.’ Firdaus threw her a disapproving look. ‘Our cook’s daughter, Ruksana, has just delivered a baby. She is clean and healthy. She will be happy to nurse your child.’

‘No,’ Meherunnisa raised her voice angrily. ‘You don’t have to worry about the sagging of my breasts or the fading of my looks. I shall not have a wet nurse in this house.’

‘Most of the royal children have wet nurses and thrive, too. Even Shahenshah Akbar had a wet nurse. Have you forgotten that I nursed you? And look at you–so beautiful and talented. Obviously my milk did not curdle in your innards,’ said Firdaus emotionally.

‘I’m sorry Firdaus. I did not mean to hurt you. I would not have survived if you had not nursed me. Don’t misunderstand me. It is just that I want to experience every possible aspect of motherhood. It was denied to me too long.’ Meherunnisa held out her hand to the old woman in a bid to mollify her.

She knew how much Firdaus cared for her. Her old nurse had left the comforts of Agra and Ghias Baig’s house to be with them. Faithful Firdaus had willingly given up Agra’s healthy clime to stay with her in the clammy climate of Burdwan. Meherunnisa knew how much she missed the sounds and the smells of Agra and craved for the sight of the dusty roads that led to the royal court.

Firdaus smiled understandingly and put the baby to Meherunnisa’s breast. A smile lit up the wan face as the child suckled hungrily, drawing the first spurt of milk. The azure eyes gleamed with satisfaction and her womb contracted with happiness. Satiated, the newborn drifted off to sleep. Firdaus slipped away to inform Sher Afghan of his fatherhood.

Sher Afghan was entertaining his companions in the hall. She could hear their loud laughter and playful banter.

‘I am sure Allah will bless you with a son. A son as strong as a tiger, as tall as a mountain and as handsome as his father,’ one of the cronies was telling the strapping Persian.

Pleased with his words, Sher Afghan threw him an emerald ring. ‘May your words come true!’

Firdaus hesitated at the threshold of the hall. She was the bearer of bad tidings. She knew that Sher Afghan was not going to be happy to learn that a daughter had been born in his house after so many years of waiting.

‘Here comes the good news,’ said one of the men, who had spotted Firdaus standing near the doorway.

‘Yes, Firdaus, tell us the good news. Don’t just stand there.’

Her silence distressed Sher Afghan. ‘I hope everything is well,’ he exclaimed.

Years of futile waiting had made him cautious. He got up and approached the nurse.

‘I hope all is well with the Begum.’

His eager eyes scanned her face, trying to read the message on it.
He does care,
she thought. For many years she had disliked this man, whom she thought was far inferior to her cultured, artistic mistress. Over time, however, she had developed a grudging fondness for him because, beneath his rough behaviour, she saw the depth of his love for his wife. But no matter how much he cared for Meherunnisa, Firdaus knew that news of a baby girl would not please him.

‘Huzoor, you have a beautiful daughter. The mother and the child, both are fine.’ Firdaus waited for the outburst she knew would come.

‘Ya Allah! So that is what held your feet woman. This is the news that made you tarry. So many years of waiting only to hear this!’ he ranted. In a fit of rage, he kicked at the wine glasses.

‘What are we celebrating? The birth of a girl?’ he shouted. There was a wild look on his face.

There was a deafening silence as the men in the room looked abashed. Firdaus cowered in a corner, suffering the flood of curses that poured from the master’s mouth. There were no words to console the heartbroken man. Ali Quli Khan Istajlu, the man who had been given the title Sher Afghan by Emperor Akbar, had been able to produce only a daughter after so many years of marriage. He ranted at fate’s injustice. He had never considered bringing another wife to his zenana, the thought of divorcing Meherunnisa had never crossed his mind. He had been a faithful husband–maybe a little promiscuous at times, but a good husband nonetheless. There were others, he knew, who had taken another wife just because the first could not deliver a son.

One by one the men filed out of the room, leaving the man to his grief. They understood his feelings. A man who had no son was only half a man. They all had strapping sons. Daughters were incidental. They brought beauty and music to the house, but it was the sons who brought glory. They were the ones who looked after their parents, earned money for the household and carried the family name forward.

Sher Afghan suddenly became aware of Firdaus’ presence.

‘It is not your fault woman. Go away. I can’t find it in my heart to reward you for the news you’ve brought. Leave me alone to deal with this tragedy.’ He waved her away, walking slowly towards the pile of cushions on the divan. Firdaus saw him reaching for a flagon of wine as she quietly withdrew.

No one knew how long he drank or how drunk he got. All the servants in the household feared the short-tempered master and left him alone when he was in a foul mood. Even Meherunnisa kept a distance from her husband during his dark moods.

Night descended swiftly on the house, its dark shadows reaching every nook and cranny that had been earlier lit up by the sun. The cicadas began their endless chirping, unaware of the mood in the silent house. The mother and child slept peacefully, undisturbed. The mother lulled by her exhaustion, and the child sated with the first taste of her mother’s milk.

The sound of the horse’s hooves alerted Firdaus. Sher Afghan was riding off on his favourite horse, Mustafa, to drown his grief in some forest. The inmates were familiar with his long disappearances whenever he was disturbed or angry. He would disappear for many weeks on a shikar, only to return with trophies of tiger skins, antelope horns or elephant tusks, his mood mellower and temper restored. Or he would take off for a tour of his mansab to check on the revenues. Once again he would return with a booty of colourful silk, boxes full of condiments, heaps of jewellery or some fancy gadget. His moods were as mercurial as the weather at Burdwan.

Yet, he could be extremely kind-hearted and generous. Firdaus remembered the time when a young stable boy had injured himself critically while trying to harness a wild mare brought by Sher Afghan. Sayeed had nearly lost his life when the mare trampled him in her rage. Sher Afghan paid for the treatment of the boy and kept his job waiting till the boy recovered. He would often saunter into the huts adjoining the stables, to enquire about the boy’s health.

There were many who professed that the soldier was a ruthless man, but an equal number of people swore by his generosity. Firdaus–who had been closely connected with the fortunes and the misfortunes of Meherunnisa’s family–knew that her master was a simple soul who lived by his muscles rather than his wits. He was the exact opposite of his wife in every manner. She belonged to a cultured family, whereas Sher Afghan came from an impoverished background. He neither liked poetry nor understood it. He could hold his own on the breed of a horse or the advantage of using a dagger instead of a sword, but found himself out of depth when confronted with a discussion about the finer things of life.

When Sher Afghan disappeared from the house for a fortnight, Meherunnisa was relieved. She was not ready for disparaging remarks from her husband. They both needed time and space to adjust to the new event in their lives. The child had evoked in her the dormant emotions of motherhood that had been repressed for so long. She emerged from her suites, a stronger and much happier woman, cradling her infant lovingly in her arms. Motherhood was such a beautiful experience that she wanted to savour it in peace.

This was a child of many prayers. The numerous failed attempts had made both Sher Afghan and Meherunnisa despondent. While her husband had drowned his misery in wine and women, she had prayed, fasted, tied amulets on her arms, fed the poor at dargahs, just so she could hold her child in her arms.

For the first few years the couple had held on to the slender thread of hope. They clung to each other, bonded by the skeins of a common sorrow. With each miscarriage came a fresh strain on the fragile bond, threatening their relationship. The sympathy Sher Afghan had for his wife slowly turned into disdain and he kept away for long periods, seeking solace in the arms of nautch girls.

Bound by his duties at the court, Sher Afghan travelled all over the country, quelling rebellion and subjugating mutinous states. While her husband earned laurels with his valour at battlefields, Meherunnisa served as a lady-in-waiting for the Persian Sultana, Bilquees Begum, at the royal harem. It amused her to think that she had spent more time attending to the queen than with her husband in the eleven years of her marriage. She spent the long, wintry nights thinking about what could have been. She tried to cope with her barrenness. But what could she do with the anxiety that filled her heart. Would her husband take another wife because she couldn’t give him the sons he wanted?

BOOK: Nurjahan's Daughter
3.73Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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