Nurjahan's Daughter (25 page)

A
midst the tragedy, the emperor was struck by wanderlust once again. This time he was pining for his favourite city of Lahore. ‘Nur, what is it about the magical city of Lahore that lures me time and again. Is it the dense clumps of the tall eucalyptus and cypress trees lining the Grand Trunk Road, or is it the lofty minarets of the mosques? My heart rejoices in anticipation of a visit to Lahore.’

Nur Jahan knew it was futile to argue with the emperor once he had made up his mind. ‘It is the most beautiful city in the entire empire,’ she agreed. ‘The buildings, the roads, the trees and the gardens, in fact the very air of Lahore is wonderful. When the wind whistles through the tall trees, and twilight floods the beautiful face of the fort, the Ravi flows in gentle rhapsody, mist fills the ancient streets and the havelis come alive with strains of classical music; the sublime spirit of Lahore suffuses even the hardiest of souls with tender emotions.’

‘That was beautifully said, Nur. I have also composed a couplet on the city. A
glance tugs at the heart’s skirt, saying–this is the place!’
recited the emperor.

‘I only wish we didn’t have to travel so much in the heat. Besides, the scourge is creating unlimited fear in every heart. Most of the nobles are unwilling to stir out of their houses for fear of the disease.’

‘Don’t they realise that they may be safer at Lahore than they are here?’

‘Your Majesty, the plague has taken over the entire country without exception. The royal historians are claiming that only once have they heard of such a widespread scourge. Entire states of the northern and western parts of the country are suffering from the tremendous onslaught of the disease. We will not escape it in Lahore.’

‘Begum, I loathe Agra during the hot months. Even Yamuna seems to boil and the sands blow in from the deserts of Rajput lands. The weather brings unhealthy effects on my constitution and that is why I prefer to reside at Lahore.’

The emperor was suffering from breathlessness and his asthma attacks had resurfaced. So, once again the royal caravan took to the road, winding its way through the deserted and dusty streets, in a slow and tired march across the plains. They rested during the afternoon and covered small distances by the cooler hours of the morning and evening.

Even the usually imperturbable Uzbeg and Tartar women, who rode alongside the harem palanquins, wore an expression of irritation on their countenance. The Meer Samaan, who was in charge of making suitable arrangements for a comfortable stay enroute, looked harassed. Each evening, he would leave ahead of the rest of the entourage with an advance party of workers to find a restful site where the tents could be pitched for the emperor’s party. The preferred site would ideally be next to a body of water with good green coverage for shade. The tents had to be pitched in strict hierarchical order. Bathing tents and a kitchen had to be set up, arrangements for drinking water for the men as well as the beasts had to be made in advance. The next morning the caravan would arrive at the chosen spot to find everything waiting in readiness for them. Even the slightest discomfort could lead to the most severe punishment by the emperor.

It was weeks before the emperor reached the city of Lahore. It was a warm May month and Lahore was sweltering with the northwestern heat waves blowing into the city from the deserts. It was Nur Jahan’s second visit to the city. Like Jahangir, she had grown to love Lahore.

The sun was yet to rise when a eunuch announced the approach of the emperor to her chamber. She was surprised. It was unusual for her husband to wake up so early. ‘I want to take you to a lovely place and we must go there early in the morning before the sun gets intense,’ Jahangir told her.

As the empress dressed in a hurry, she wondered what the unexpected visit would entail. She couldn’t stop laughing when she saw that they were to travel by a bullock cart. Drawn by a pair of strong bulls, the sturdy cart was decorated with tassels. ‘Why, Your Majesty. It is a delightful idea to travel by this cart instead of the elephants or horses.’

‘I thought we should do something different this time. Besides, I did not want to be accompanied by our retinue. A ride in a bullock cart is much more comfortable than riding a camel or an elephant. I am sure you’ll find it quite enchanting.’

‘I am sure I will. It was a good idea.’

They rode forty kilometres away from the fort. The green spread all along the jungle path was delightful. The thought that they had eluded their escorts was thrilling enough to amuse the two of them.

‘Agra will always remain Shahenshah Akbar’s city. I prefer Lahore. We have purchased Lahore with our soul; we have given our life and bought another paradise,’ the empress recited with feeling while relaxing under the mango grove near Hiran Minar on their way to Jahangirabad, which was the emperor’s favourite hunting spot.

‘Do you know why I built this memorial? My pet antelope Hansraj was more intelligent than many human beings. He could understand everything I said and could follow all commands. Only dogs are known to do that. I came across Hansraj during my first hunt in the forest. The beauty of those limpid eyes struck a blow to my heart.’

It had broken the emperor’s heart when the antelope died. He ordered an imposing monument to be raised over its remains, on which a life-size stone statue of the deer was placed. Nur Jahan walked over to the memorial and read the Persian inscription engraved on a slab of stone affixed to the grave:

‘At this beautiful spot an antelope was caught by the pious king, Nur-ud-din Jahangir, which, in the course of a month, abandoning its savage and wild habits, became the head of the royal antelopes.’

The lofty, carved octagonal memorial tower stood boldly in the forest challenging the tall trees in the vicinity. Nur Jahan let out a sigh of contentment. It was nice to be away from the royal court. She had the emperor to herself and the world was hers for the moment.

‘Why don’t you build a hunting lodge at this place? It would be delightful to stay here for a couple of days while you hunt in the nearby forest. In fact, I think it would be a good idea to have tunnels that connect the Hiran Minar and the Lahore fort. We could escape undetected from the fort to this lovely place whenever we wish to be on our own.’

‘It is uncanny how you think of the same things that go through my mind, Nur. I have been toying with the idea of constructing a tunnel for quite some time. Your idea is a brilliant one. In fact, why don’t you make a plan for the project and it shall be executed without any delay. I am not as talented at designing buildings. ‘

Nur Jahan gave him a sly look–‘What about the mausoleum you constructed for your lady love? You aren’t too bad a designer, either.’

‘Which mausoleum are you referring to? And which is this lady love?’

‘I have heard many stories about the pomegranate bud that stole your heart and caused you to rebel against the Shahenshah. Entire Lahore talks about the edifice you built in her memory.’

A cloud of sadness misted the emperor’s eyes as he remembered Anarkali. ‘It was such a long time back. The luckless woman became the target of the Shahenshah’s wrath. She paid for the folly with her life.’

‘Do you think love is a folly?’

‘When a commoner falls in love with a prince, it is a folly.’

‘I was a commoner, Badshah, and I had the temerity to fall in love with you. So, will I have to pay for the folly with my life?’ jested the queen.

‘You are my queen, my world. I have given my empire to you. But Anarkali was different. She was very innocent and her love for me was selfless. She desired nothing more than my love.’

Was the emperor being sarcastic? Was he referring to her political machinations? Nur Jahan felt a stab of jealousy.

‘You still love her, my darling.’

It was not a query and the emperor’s eyebrows shot up protestingly.

‘Begum, why do you fret over a story long forgotten? How can I love a dead woman when the light of my life is with me?’

‘I will visit the mausoleum you built for Anarkali. I want to pay respect to the woman who sacrificed her life for your love,’ the empress stated haughtily, her stiff bearing and unsmiling face speaking volumes about her feelings.

‘As you wish.’

Nur Jahan fought back the angry retort that came to her lips.
Why grieve about a woman who is no more? Why hadn’t he forgotten Anarkali, after all these years
? The magic of the morning was lost in the gloom that suddenly seemed to have descended at the mention of Anarkali’s name. Saddened, the emperor got up from her side and began pacing agitatedly. Nur Jahan regretted having brought up the topic; the morning had been ruined.

‘Shall we return to the palace?’ asked the emperor after a while. ‘It is getting very warm and soon there will be hot winds blowing across the city.’

They travelled back in silence. This time the empress did not notice the beauty of the wild blossoms, nor did she delight in the vivid plumes of the peacocks. She did not heed the musical call of the mynahs nor quote a couplet at the sight of the fluttering wings of a parakeet. The shadow of a tragic memory blotted out the beauty around them.

The empress was determined to visit Anarkali’s tomb and she went there at the first available opportunity, without the emperor’s company this time. Instead, she took Laadli and a few ladies with her. Flowers of all colours danced against the background of gushing fountains. There was a strange melancholic air around the tomb, which was set in an octagonal building covered with a dome. At each corner of the building stood a turret, on top of which was a cupola.

A hushed silence fell over the giggling women as they stepped on the marble floor. The tomb reminded everyone of the courtesan’s tragic love affair with the emperor. What a heavy price to pay for love, thought Laadli, as she studied the sarcophagus on which was inscribed the ninety-nine names of Allah and a Persian couplet:

Ta qayamat shukr goyam kard gar khwish ra
Ah! Gar man baz beenam rui yar khwish ra
I would give thanks unto my God till the day of Resurrection.
Ah, if I could behold the face of my beloved again
– The Bereaved Salim, son of Akbar

The couplet expressed Jahangir’s feelings more than anything he could have said. The sadness reflected in the words brought a lump to her throat. This was true love! Laadli sighed.

For Nur Jahan, the trip helped her make peace with the past. The jealousy she had felt a few days ago left her in an instant and she felt sympathy for the dead woman as she sat down beside the tomb to pray for a while. She hated the woman no more; Anarkali was just another unfortunate woman to have fallen prey to the whimsical ways of the royal Mughals. After a while, she placed a wreath of fragrant flowers she had brought with her and quietly walked away from the mausoleum.

E
veryone was talking about the talents of a new young painter at Agra. Within months of his arrival in the city, he had eclipsed most of the artists in the royal atelier. Imraan Khan was extraordinarily talented and soon there was a clamour for portraits made by him as word about his expertise spread around the town. He could paint the finest miniatures with a single-hair brush fashioned out of squirrel’s hair. When word reached Jahangir, who prided himself as a connoisseur of art, the artist was summoned to the court.

Just a few days back, Sir Thomas Roe had presented a miniature painting of Madonna and her Child to Jahangir. It was beautiful and intricate. After inspecting it closely, a scheme had unfolded in the emperor’s mind. ‘We have heard that your talents surpass those of our royal painters. The entire town is talking about your matchless skills as an artist. We want to see if these claims are true,’ Jahangir told Imraan.

The young man bowed to the emperor and replied–‘Jahanpanah, I am just a humble artist who earns his living by painting portraits of rich nobles and their families.’

‘You are a modest man and we like your humility. The English ambassador has given us a miniature made by a firanghee artist and he claims that it is one of the best in the world. We want you to replicate the miniature in such a way that the ambassador has to eat his words. Will you be able to do that?’

‘I will certainly try my best to carry out your command.’

The emperor ordered the miniature to be given to Imraan and gave him two days to produce a copy of the painting. After two days, when the artist brought his reproduction to the court, Jahangir was ecstatic. ‘This is fantastic! We can’t decide which one is better. They are exactly identical in form and quality.’

He passed the copy to his ministers and asked them to identify the original. None of them could differentiate between the two miniatures.

‘We had not expected you to do such a good job. From today we appoint you as assistant to the Nadir-ul-Zaman, Abul Hasan. Since you are so good in copying Angrezi paintings, we wish you to start a special section in which you will create miniatures of their work.’

Then Jahangir summoned Sir Thomas Roe and handed him the miniatures. ‘Well English Khan, can you tell the difference between the miniatures?’ he asked, smiling mysteriously.

The ambassador turned them over and over in his hands, trying to find a flaw in the reproduction, but after studying them for a while, he failed to find any difference that would tell the original from the reproduction.

The courtiers smiled at the discomposure of the ambassador.

‘You will not be able to find it even if you spent the entire night studying them. The Mughal artists are as good as any in the world. In fact, we would say that they are superior in their artistry and mastery than the others in the field!’ The emperor then ordered Imraan Khan to point out the original miniature to the English ambassador. Imraan bowed respectfully to the emperor and approached the envoy.

‘Sir, if you inspect the details carefully, you will notice that the difference is very minor and not easily noticeable. The original portrait has been done with a brush that is slightly cruder than the one used in the copy. If you look very closely, you may notice the difference. While the Angrezi artist has used a sable-haired brush, I used a squirrel hair brush to get a finer finish.’