Begum Sahib

Women behind men in history fascinate me. I had been reading about the mothers and wives who changed men’s fortunes. But, what about daughters and sisters? A few months back, I was looking for books on Mughal Ladies, mainly Noor Jahan and her work. In the bibliography credits I had chanced upon “The Life of A Mogul Princess' ' By Jahanara Begum, the daughter of Shah Jahan. I had no idea about the book and thought it was another biography. Previously, I had read only about how she was imprisoned along with her father at Agra, and her involvement with Dara Shikoh, her younger brother, on connecting the two realms of Hinduism and Islamism and the establishment of Sufism. All of these and the chronological events of history you can find in various books. As I read each page of the claimed diary (which is now discarded as fiction), cross checking each point with Jagunath Sircar’s “History of Aurangzib '' and R.C. Majumder’s “Mughal Empire” as well as numerous other sources on the Mughal Harem, I discovered shades of her in a whole new light. I have read the Akbarnama, Tuzk e Jahangiri, and Shah Jahan Nama all written to record and glorify the life and times of a Mughal ruler. This autobiography was a diary of personal feelings she did not want to share with the world. The world was neither ready for her thoughts nor her story. Yet, in her own telling, she has touched a very important part of Mughal history with her emotions. The zenana politics, the clash of kin and turmoils of a daughter, and sister. The personal diary starts in the June of 1659 and ends on the 17th of February 1666. It talks of her life from 1631 till the time of her father’s death. It was found in a restoration process of the Agra fort in 1903 by the British. The clear distinction from autobiographies is found in her words. I was so moved, touched and transformed that I decided to share her words with you, but then I took some time to study her whole life.

The parts between her parents' death are mostly from her claimed diary. Some parts that were missing from her life have been recreated entirely in fiction, maintaining her travel history as recorded in chronicles, to Kashmir, the rest of the tale I compiled from History, and fictionalised to make it interesting for you. An enigma in life, Jahanara Begum, her parent’s favourite Janni, became the writer of the life changing book I was always looking for. Mughal Empire’s “Begum Sahib” is hence the topic of my new historical series. The narrative I am telling you is a fiction based on the book and the life she led, and what I understood of her character. The historical fiction matches with events and occurrences in history, the narration and dialogues are made to describe her greatness. 

 

Chronology of Events: (You may need to refer to this while reading)

•  Jahanara Begum, the first child of Shehzada Khurram and Arjumand Begum was born on 2nd April, 1614, at Ajmer’s Akbari Fort. Jehangir’s chronicles “Tuzk e Jahangiri '' mentions her birth and the delight of Khurram who was father for the second time after his first wife Kandahari Begum had given birth to Parvez Banu. She had six other surviving siblings, Dara, Roshanara, Shuja, Murad, Aurangzeb, Gauhanara and a few half siblings as well.
• Jahanara became the Padishah Begum upon Mumtaz’s death in the fourth year of her father’s succession in 1631, and enjoyed her position till their imprisonment in 1659. She rejoined Aurangzeb’s Harem as the Padishah Begum in February 1666, and moved to stay at the grand mansion of Ali Mardan Khan, in October same year, in Shahjahanabad.
• She met Raja Chattar Sal in June 1632, and sent him with Aurangzeb to war in September same year.
• Raja Chattar Sal on behalf of his father provided the imperial army with 40 elephants, of which Shah Jahan took 18, and accepted his services before the Battle of Daulatabad.
• In 1634, Raja Chattar Sal was sent to battle at Parinda with Khane Khana (The prime minister) by Shah Jahan after his display of valour in Daulatabad.
• On 4th April, 1636 Raja Chattar Sal was injured badly at war alongside Shuja and he returned to Bundi.
• On 26th March 1644, Jahanara suffered burning injuries.
• On 24th November same year, she was declared fit and made a pilgrimage to Ajmer.
• In 1647, the war of Balkh was fought by the Imperial Army of which Chattar Sal was a part.
• Rao Raja Chattar Sal was crowned king of Bundi in 1648 at the Taragarh Fort.
• On 9th May 1649, he accompanied Aurangzeb to war at Deccan, after Jahanara Begum recommended so to the Emperor.
• In the same year of Shah Jahan’s reign he was sent to Kandahar with Dara. Dara lost for his lack of skill and experience. He was however given a heroic welcome by his father.
• In 1654 Jahanara received letters from Aurangzeb that indirectly threatened action for his father’s partiality to Dara.
• Jahanara during her father’s reign was attributed to the building of Chandni Chowk and Jama Masjid in Delhi and for the generosity for which she was loved by all. She also built numerous gardens, the “Begum Bagh” being the most famous one.
• The Jahanara Pavilion in Agra Fort was her house, and in captivity she stayed at the Jasmine Tower of the Nur Mahal where her diary was found.
• On 29th May, 1658, the Battle of Samugarh was fought 10 KMs from Agra between Kota and Agra between the armies of Dara and Aurangzeb who allied with Murad. Chattar Sal died here along with his brother and his son Bharat. Dara fled and Aurangzeb went ahead to capture Agra.
• On 8th June 1658 Aurangzeb seized Agra. On 10th June 1658, Jahanara met him on behalf of their father and offered peace which was denied and Shah Jahan and his loyals imprisoned in the fort itself. She had also received the news of Rao’s death on that very day.
• Dara was killed in prison on 30th August 1658 and his severed head sent to Shah Jahan in Agra.
• Shah Jahan died on 22nd January 1666 and Aurangzeb came to make peace with Jahanara on 17th February and restored her title and honour. She was thus imprisoned for eight years that ended with Aurangzeb’s apology.
• On 27th March Aurangzeb celebrated his coronation at Agra and made her Padishah Begum officially again. She gifted the emperor a jewel and accepted her role.
• Jahanara adopted the daughters of her dead brother Dara, and Murad and made sure they had a secured future by marrying them to Aurangzeb’s sons. In 1669 she married Janazeb Begum to Aurangzeb’s third son. Jani Begum was Dara’s daughter who was her favourite. 
• Jahanara is also believed to have abolished the law of Mughal Princesses not being allowed to marry and got Aurangzeb’s daughters married in 1672 and 1673 respectively.
• She was the only Mughal Princess who had her own trading ship at the Surat Port that was once looted by Shivaji.
• She always favored the Rajputs and Hindus over the Muslim officials against Aurangzeb’s wishes. She played an active role in a failed peacemaking between Rana Raj Singh and her brother. 
• Jahanara in her last few years took to Sufism and saintly ways, and gave away all her riches. Princess Zebunnissa too was influenced by her. She spent her last years writing books on Sufism that still hold high literary values.
• Jahanara died on 6th September in 1681 at Delhi and was mourned by the Emperor for three days and given the posthumous title of “Sahibat Ur Zamani” or “Mistress of the Age”. She remains buried in the Nizamuddin Dargah at Delhi.

Bibliography:

1. The Story of A Mogul Princess by Jahanara Begum
2. Daughters of the Sun by Ira Mukhoty
3. Heroines by Ira Mukhoty
4. Mumtaz Duhita Jahanara by Sree Parabat
5. Mahal by Subhadra Sengupta
6. Padshahnama 
7. Short History of Aurangzeb by Jagunath Sircar
8. A. Bokhari's Thesis of Jahanara Begum

THE BEGINNING OF A SAGA 

“She who once dreamt of heaven, had to live in hell, and find peace in God.”

Such can be a description if we look at Jahanara Begum’s life. 

Born in 1614, at Ajmeri Fort, and living there till the birth of Dara Shikoh, when she was just one and half, she traveled with her parents through the Empire, living in tents while her father Shehzada Khurram fought wars. Jahanara, the Queen of the universe, named by Jahangir, was her mother's strength and father's pride. She took care of her siblings while her mother gave birth to fourteen children, some still born, some dying, in her nineteen years of marriage. While the sons stayed at Jehangir’s court, from a very tender age, she became her parents’ favorite child. She was back in Ajmer at the age of seven.That was the first time the Ajmer Sharif, Saint Salim Chisti and Emperor Akbar’s tales enchanted her. The fair young and innocent princess spent her days reading, her hair as dark as the night sky, and her eyes blackish brown, sparking intelligence. She was a reflection of the beauty her mother was known for. She was well versed in Urdu and Persian. Luck turned when Khurram won the war of succession and she had spent four happy years with her siblings at Agra, and Fatehpur Sikri. Away from the court in her own world, Jahanara enlightened herself with poetry and religion. But happiness was not to last.

17th June, 1631, Burhanpur

" We were our own clouds of Dust, We are memories, we are memorials too." Juan Awliya

Mumtaz Mahal was dead. The light was gone from their lives. For a moment as she cradled the crying baby in her bosom and saw her father hugging the lifeless body of her mother, it seemed to Jahanara that her life was slowly slipping away. She stole a glance at her siblings at the door. At seventeen years, she suddenly felt responsible. Watching her siblings stare, some in grief, sobbing others silently. She had given the baby girl to the wet nurse's arms and placed her hand gently on her father’s shoulder. Dara was always the first to react. He had arranged for a state mourning. Roshanara had given away alms. She stood watching them. Murad, Shuja and Aurangzeb had rushed to Burhanpur leaving their work. The Empress was no more. Agra mourned. So did the country.

 

A few days seemed like a haze of eternity as she had helped Dara with administration work. Their grief-stricken father was locked away in his room. For the first time she was meeting so many people at once. Dara sought her advice on everything. Never had she stepped out, to see how complicated running an empire was, a few days before. The day Shah Jahan decided to come back to the Durbar, her father looked older and tired. Worried she had given him her hand in the corridor. He had smiled at her. Jahanara reminded him a lot about his dead wife, not only in appearance but in generosity and kindness.

 

 He remembered the first time he had held the baby in his arms. The wet nurse had almost whispered “It’s a girl”, scared that she might be rebuked and he had seen his beloved Arjumand worried. He had held Jahanara with great affection and called her 'Janni'. Her eyes matched her mother’s. Even her cry seemed like a melody to his ears. He did not want to part with his favourite wife and children. They traveled with him. The Emperor Jehangir was not very pleased, as the second child of his favorite son Khurram was a girl too, but the father couldn’t be happier. She was his and Arjumand’s first child. The fruit of their love. He would always love her the most. He had promised himself that. The empty seat of the Padshah Begum at the durbar made his heart sink that day. She had left a void in his life. Then he made up his mind.

 

Jahanara was glad to be back in Agra. Clad in a muslin dress she had ordered from Bardwan specially, she had sat down upon the cushion and removed the heavy jewelry. How they felt suffocating. She could breathe again. The air of Agra had a certain happiness in it. At least for her. She had mourned enough. Cried in silence, for the irreplaceable part of her life that was now missing. Sitting in her garden house overlooking the Anguri Bagh on one side and the Yamuna on the other she was reading out a few lines from Dara’s copy. It was his notes on religion, something they would talk on for hours, just the two of them. This gave her peace. His translation of Hindu texts really did teach her a lot. Her slave girl came running into the open area adjoining her Palki Mahal and bowed.

 

“Congratulations Begum Sahib.” She smiled as Jahanara frowned clueless. Footsteps made her look up as Dara entered her garden house with a happy smile. She knew they were at the Diwan E Khas with their trusted ministers at a meeting. Her father had declared he would make a memorial for her mother. But why congratulate her?

“The Emperor declared that you will be the new Padishah Begum.” Dara dismissed the girl. “And will henceforth be titled Begum Sahib.” Jahanara kept away her notes and frowned.

“Me? What about his queens?” She had never heard any princess of being the harem head before, mothers and wives played their part in the country’s politics. What was her father thinking? Dara sat down on the marble floor, where the sunlight reached his glowing face.

“He perhaps trusts you more. It is indeed very good news, Sister. The official announcement is tomorrow”. Jahanara sat staring at him for a moment as he continued “The nobles will pay their respect to you standing at the Bagh, you can watch from behind the jharokhas and let the eunuchs accept the gifts for you. Congratulations, Begum Sahib” He left before she could utter a word.

 

“Begum Sahib” Jahanara whispered the name as she stared at the ripples of the Yamuna. Even the name seemed to be someone else'. Like she didn't belong to it. What was in store for her, with this changed identity? Could she really match up to the deeds of Noor Jahan and her mother at court? She missed her mother terribly at times like this. But a Mughal Princess must not be scared. She had promised her dying mother that she would be strong. No matter what. How beautiful was her mother’s face, even in death. She smiled in remembrance. How could a mausoleum possibly reflect that beauty and love in her eyes? She sighed. Her father loved architecture. Anything to keep him away from mourning would do.

 

She had expected the queens and concubines to hate her, or at least show their displeasure. But as Dara put it she was indeed an over-thinker of everything and “loved by all”. Akbarbadi Begum, his father’s third wife, had arrived at her chambers and congratulated her with gifts. She had placed her hand gently on the girl’s head and wished her luck. In a moment her fears were gone and she had smiled at the lady accepting her gifts and blessings.

 

The next day she was bathed in milk and sandalwood paste. She was present at the court dressed in her finest muslin saree and her mother’s jewelry when her father gave her the title of “Mistress of the Harem” and also, the rights to all the property that once belonged to her mother. After the day at court taking gifts and respect from all the nobles present, when she had retired to her chambers, Princess Roshanara had come to visit. Three years younger, she was painted pretty with colour on her cheeks and lips and always had the best perfumes made for her. Roshanara gifted her some gems in a velvet wrap and sat down in front of her.

 

Jahanara asked her “Have you been doing Charity regularly Roshanara?”

“What’s the use of giving away the little I have left?” She had retorted.

“Pardon?” Jahanara frowned, displeased at her sister.

“Leave it.” Roshanara forced a smile. “So now, since you are the Padishah Begum I suppose, you are going to run the country on behalf of our grief stricken father?” Her tone had disturbed Jahanara. “With Shehzade Dara?”

“Shehzaadi Roshanara.” She had spoken calmly “I have no intention to rule the country. The Emperor has his ministers who are and have been more competent. If I am entitled to give my advice to the emperor, you can give yours to me as well. And as for Dara, he is the future of the throne. If he runs the country along with our father is it wrong?”

“May Allah bless your soul Begum Sahib” Roshanara had left after a brief salutation. Jahanara watched her walk to her side of the pavilion, disturbed.

She tossed in her bed that night. She tried to sleep on the cold marble floor. Something told her things were changing. Her siblings were no longer those innocent souls who had played hide and seek at the Panch Mahal in Fateh Pur Sikri. She remembered those days of childhood. When Roshanara would pick flowers for her hair, to look pretty. Dara once put a feather he found in his turban and sat down like a king. The wind blew away the feather as he chased it. Laughing, Aurangzeb had picked up the feather and refused to give it back. Murad and Shuja would often play war with their wooden swords. Fatehpur Sikri would echo the sound of their laughter. She would sit for hours near Tansen's seat and imagine him singing to the emperor. She would sit in the silence of the Masjid for hours even as a child. Roshanara was not her mother’s innocent daughter anymore, who spends all her time and will for looking beautiful. Gauhara was growing up. Parhez Banu, her elder sister from her father's first wife Kandahari Begum, spent most of her days away from politics and people, in drinks, perfumes and pleasure. Murad, Shuja and Aurangzeb were winning wars and leading armies successfully. Only Dara was still indulged in his love for books and religion.

 

She now received fewer letters from Murad, Shuja and Aurangzeb. Most of them were formally addressed to Begum Sahib. Often she would notice, the baby Gauhara was playing around the Anguri Bagh in the lap of her nurse and with the children of the concubines, carefree. She, who never saw her mother, never grieved the loss. Things were simpler with her mother around, or maybe the court politics and plans were kept well away from her, as she had indulged in poetry and music. She had a world of her own. She would have time to watch her siblings play and hold meetings with saints alongside her brother Dara. Carefree days of laughter had ended the day her mother passed away. Would her life be different if Arjumand Begum was alive?

 

Mughal Princesses of the Emperor’s harem were not supposed to marry. Akbar had made this a rule so that their heirs wouldn’t dare to claim the throne.

“He had made us victims for the sake of his country.” She had heard Parhez Banu Begum often say. Such a rule of marriage was not stated to her until she turned fourteen. She was then a little anxious hearing that being a princess also came with a price.

 

Now, for Begum Sahib it didn’t matter anymore. Her life was dedicated to the service of her heart broken father, the path of Sufism and to her younger brother Dara Shikoh, the heir to the throne. She dreamt of a peaceful Hindustan Dara had promised, with equality in the true sense. Where all religions would enjoy peace and equality, much like emperor Akbar stated during his last days. But unlike Akbar she found her brother to be greater to the cause. He didn’t want to make a new religion or force people to follow it. Instead he worked towards the common grounds of all religions. His thoughts often enlightened her. 

 

The rumours around the zenana were growing. At this rate, they feared the crown prince would become a saint. Jahanara herself heard the people gossip. She had called upon Dara and made her first decision as the Begum Sahib nearly six months after her mother passed away. She had married off Dara to his childhood love Nadira like her mother wanted. She had woven garlands, and ordered dresses for everyone in the Harem for the occasion. The festivities went on for a week in the beginning of spring.

 

That night, for the first time, she had taken out a piece of cloth from the chest, in her room. A red robe, she kept carefully hidden. A bridal wear, similar to the one she had seen Nadira wear. There was no place for that in her life anymore. Or a husband or child she could call her own. She tore the veil away like her dreams. She watched the stars in silence and closed her eyes. In her dream she had seen it all, a bridal canopy and herself. Her parents happy, her siblings making merry and someone waiting for her on the other side. Her heart was heavy and she let her tears flow in the darkness of the night.

 

19th February 1632, Lahore Fort

 "After wandering through so many incarnations, I have come to your Sanctuary" 

 

Jahanara had slowly started blending into her position as the Harem head. To make her job easier, everyone around the Harem had been cooperative. Nadira Begum and she spend hours talking about Dara and his thoughts. She had grown fond of the rose garden her father had set up at the Anguri bagh, and in her free time she made garlands and wreaths out of them. She arranged for the grand weddings of Shuja and Murad. Her mother’s first death anniversary was around the corner. As she helped her father select a perfect mausoleum design for his dead wife, she had also arranged for charity, and prayer meetings. It was the celebration of Shah Jahan's fifth year of Coronation as well. With the weighting ceremony of the emperor many elephants and cattle were given away and so were clothes and gems. Kings and Chieftains from all over the country came to pay homage to the emperor at Agra. The Diwan E Khas was buzzing with music and people every day for a week.

 

The Rajputs remained their closest aides because her grandmother belonged to their clan. There was something about Rajputs, which always enchanted her. Perhaps, the numerous stories of bravery or the fact that she had Rajput blood in her veins. A blood she was proud of. Her wet nurse and slave girl had enchanted her with stories of Rajputana. Often looking away at the flickering lamp, Padmini’s sacrifice would give her goosebumps. Pratap’s might against Akbar made her wish she was that strong, like the Sisodia king, to stand against all odds, for what she believed in. Samyogita’s letter to Prithviraj made her blush. Dara also trusted them more than his other chiefs.

 

She had watched everyone pay their respect to the Emperor with keen eyes from behind the veils of the Diwan E Khas of Agra. The Rajputs sat opposite to her end, at the courtroom. The Rao of Bundi was dead, his grandson had come to pay his homage. Perhaps a few years older than her. Stout, fair, and with a spark of intelligence in his eyes, his moustache was twirled with Rajput pride, he stood out among the crowd. He had silently walked up to the emperor and bowed, declaring "My father sends you his good wishes and he regrets not being able to come here today. He has send me at your service with forty of Rajputana's best war elephants, some handwork and jewels for the emperor." She watched her father smile in approval and accept eighteen war elephants and return the rest to the prince. 

"We accept your service at court Raja, you are welcome to fight for the Imperial army as and when we need you to." Dara had declared. He bowed again and went back to his seat, his face showing no happiness.

Raja Chattar Sal had always been a warrior. Being a descendant of the great Chauhans, and a worshiper of the great Partap, the Hada Prince flaunted his pedigree with pride. His grandfather’s need for alliance had driven him to unwanted marriage alliances and a visit to the Mughal court. Today, he had taken the oath to side with the emperor of Hind with a heavy heart. For his countrymen and their safety. What more could the Mughal court give him?

 

Jahanara watched the descendants of the great blood of Rajputs with keen eyes. Did a Prithviraja or a Pratap look like this? She had wondered while still staring at him, as the acceptance of gifts continued. she heard a whisper among the ladies 

"I have heard he belongs to the clan of Prithviraj from his father's side and that of Maharana from his mother's"

"No wonder they said he is so brave."

"Seems intelligent too." Her stare made them stop.

 

For a brief moment his warrior senses tickled with the sense of being watched. He looked around in vain until his eyes fell on the purdah of the Padishah Begum. A reflection of her mother’s beauty and her father’s nature, she was too young to be the Padishah Begum, or so he had heard from everyone around the court, he needed to pay her his due respects too. Such was the rule of the Mughals.

 

Every significant courtier who met and interacted with the women of the Mughal Harem were often made the “Rakshabandhan Bhai” of the princesses of the Harem. This gesture had continued for centuries since once a Karnavati sent Humayun a thread. Akbar wanted to avoid any princess of his harem having affairs with his Hindu chiefs. She had sent the same to him, a turquoise band for his left wrist in reply to the gifts he had sent her. He had replied to the same with a letter. He had stated that Rakhi was not for brothers, but those you choose to protect your honour. “And I, as a Rajput, swear to protect you and your interests, as you chose me as your warrior.” Jahanara smiled. She had found a sense of pride and humbleness in his letter. His words were those of a writer.

 

June 1632, Delhi Garden House 

 

It was a year since Mumtaz Mahal passed away. She was mourned in a grand manner . All of her father's chiefs came to pay their homage to the lady of his heart. Raja Chattar sal had come to court with his uncle Rao Madho Singh. She invited him for a meeting over Rajputana and its tales. Sitting in the Bagh, the Padishah Begum had in her eagerness asked about Bundi. And Rajputs. The Raja was pleased at Mughal Begum’s eagerness and respect for his people. He had promised her many more stories of Rajput valour. She thanked him as he bowed. As soon as he left and Jahanara watched him go, she sighed to herself. That night, his words and questions haunted her.

“Hind is condemned; we have condemned her, her own warriors and priests… “She tossed on her bed at the thought he had put forward.

 

After he had spoken of his state and his people, she had found a certain trust in him. She had shared with him the dream she and Dara wove, of the coming together of Islam and Hinduism under the same roof. The Raja smiled like he didn’t believe it. He had reminded her that the seeds of hatred were sown deep in the soil of Hind, by its warriors and conquerors. He had said if at all the dream came true he would be there to support Dara’s vision of peace. He would bring his fellow Rajputs as well. His thoughts had a deep impact on Jahanara’s mind.

 

Day after day, she waited for these meetings whenever the Raja of Bundi arrived at Agra, sometimes in her garden house, sometimes the bagh, their sides separated by what she called the “Veil of fate”. They talked of everything under the sun, of Hind, its diversities, its nature, history, rivers and gods. Of the great kings and tales of chivalry.

“Tell me about the Maharana, hadn’t my great ancestor Babur won over his grandfather Sanga?” She had asked one afternoon as the breeze blew gently. Her face was hidden in the veil carefully as she stared at his white angrakha clad figure in the garden, listening to her talk about Padmini a while ago.

“Yes, but Sanga was an equal.” He had stopped pacing and stared at the water of the fountain. Her reflection on its ripples. “Alone, Pratap stood at the Ghati, calling out to his brave men, to shed their blood for the motherland, and Maan Singh on the other side, against his own soil. For the imperial army.”

“Against his soil? But he…” She had frowned. Maan Singh was nephew to Harka Bai, and Prince of Amber. The Raja called Mewar his soil. She frowned.

“Every time we fought our own people, Begum Sahib, there had always been outsiders who benefited. Hind had lost her own children and cried soaking in their blood.” He had a certain flash of anger in his eyes.

“Akbar was no outsider.” Jahanara had retorted “He was Hind’s own son. Born in a Rajput home…”

“I beg your pardon if I disappointed you Shehzadi.” He was calm, a smile curved his lips. “But the truth is no true Rajput can forget the sin of Chittorgarh”

 

Jahanara sighed. “The sin of Chittorgarh '' was the greatest stain on Akbar’s otherwise spotless career. Sometimes, Jahanara had wondered. All the bloodshed for the throne among brothers, fathers and sons, was perhaps a curse. Because of such sins. She often got out of her bed and paced her room in such thoughts. When her father was fighting his own kins. Every time she heard him repent his actions against his father and Prince Khusrau. And every time she saw her brothers in an unsaid clash of ego and words. Karma, as she read, was true. Emperor Akbar also had faced the pain of losing his sons and watching his beloved Salim rebel. He too had shed tears when Pratap died. Such great sons of Mewar, enchanted and inspired her. 

 

 “Great are the Mewar Royals and their blood, to which I proudly belong” he had smiled “Akbar, the great was indeed an emperor of the entire Hind but he was no match for the might of Pratap, you know why?” His smile was a proud one.

“Why?” Jahanara’s blood boiled to defend her pedigree, but she had none.

“Because there is a difference between love and power. Power creates lust. Greed is a sin. Love is never a sin. Love always wins. Pratap's love for his motherland was always his strength against the Mughals. Akbar’s will for power was no match. Even if your grandfather fought the Rana, he was told to retreat…” She nodded. 

She had heard those stories a million times over. The war with Mewar was never ending. She never admitted aloud how much she admired their self respect and love for Hind. Something in his eyes told, he understood. That's why he had the courage to talk the way he did, to her.

 

Before he took her leave as dusk set in he had asked her “Begum Sahib, pardon my audacity but can I ask you something?”

“ Raja of Bundi.” She smiled “You don’t need to seek permission. You may ask.”

“ Why are you so enchanted by the deeds of Partap?” He’d asked.

“Because he could do what a poor helpless Mughal woman cannot. Stand up for what you believe in.”

She had gasped inwardly for her own bashfulness. How could she say that out loud to a son of Hind, in front of the watchful eyes of her maids and eunuchs? Will the news hurt the emperor, who always provided her more freedom than the rest?

 

She had sat on the moonlit night with the water of Yamuna glittering below as his words resonated in her soul. “Love always wins.” Love? She didn’t have any idea of love that deep, that could be so powerful.

FORBIDDEN LOVE

" My heart is an endowment of my beloved, the devotee and lover of his sacred shrine, a soul that enchants mine." 

 

2nd June 1634, Burhanpur.

The Raja of Bundi had arrived at Burhanpur after a win in the war of Parenda. He had met the crown prince Dara and was honoured with a sword and elephant before he came to pay his respect to the Padishah Begum as per the norms of the court.

Jahanara was writing in her room. Her maid came with the news “Begum Sahib, The Raja of Bundi has arrived at court; he is at the Bagh to pay you his respect.”

“Tell him to sit at the courtyard of my bagh, I will be there.” She had risen from her place, covered her face in the veil of her dupatta and walked to the place where he waited.

“ Begum Sahib” acknowledged her presence with a salutation. She returned the bow with a nod. She was sitting inside the arch while he was on the other side of the Purdah, the sun shining over his head as he took his seat on the velvet carpet that had been laid.

She had asked him in a great hurry, “What do Rajputs define as love?”

“Pardon?” he looked confused.

“In our last meeting, you had said that Love wins over Power. I was thinking about that. What do you define as this love?” She reminded him and the eagerness in her voice amused him. He smiled, like she was an innocent pupil eager for the lessons of the day.

 

“Have you heard of Samyogita?” He’d thought for a while before asking.

“The consort of Raja Prithvi even led her child to the Jauhar Kund when he was captured by Mahmud” Her eyes had glittered like the light of the lamp. How she visualized everything!

“He had fought his kins in her love, fought for her honour and she was his reason to return home. That strength and will the Rajputani promises when they say to die is to be immortal is what we Rajputs call love, Begum Sahib. They give us the will to return home."

“Is it true that you people believe in afterlives?” She had frowned.

“I do not know Begum Sahib, but saints often say that the love that was incomplete today surely gets its ending in some other time and place” He had said like he believed each word “ neither do I know if it is true nor can I justify it to be not.”

 

Jahanara smiled. Cursed was she, who was not allowed to love. It would be beyond her royal ways to tell him how she longed for love, for a family to call her own, perhaps children. How every time even the Gardener and his son smiled at each other and worked together made her feel jealous. Yes, Begum Sahib was jealous of a gardener. Who was poor and who was richer?

Aurangzeb had once again displeased their father. She read his letter with a sigh and called upon Dara to plead for the younger brother to the Emperor. Something in his letter disturbed her terribly. He had mentioned their father’s partiality towards Dara who now had a golden throne beside the emperor. He was being sent on an expedition to the Daccan by the emperor. Jahanara had written to Rao on behalf of her father.

 

“Go with Aurangzeb, and prove your loyalty to the Emperor. Also, you should provide us with details of every movement of the imperial army.” The Rao frowned at the letter. He was being sent as the spy of the emperor. There was no doubt about it. Probably because both Dara and Jahanara Begum trusted the Rajputs. Or perhaps him.

 

December 1635 to March 1642

 

Months after months, letters filled the room of the Begum Sahib. About the wars. About Aurangzeb and his plans. His movements. About the people around him. And the beauty and flora fauna of the place. From sealed official letters of short formal messages, they became larger in length and no longer bore the official seal. There was a certain richness and poetry to the way the Raja wrote his letters. Jahanara replied with the urge to know more and be enlightened by his knowledge. She desired for the soul that could enrich hers.

For Jahanara, the letters had become a part of her life. From the Deccan the troops of Bundi were moved to Shuja’s army towards Gujarat and then towards Kandahar with Khane Khana. Months rolled into years. The letters didn’t stop. Even when the wars did. The description of places made her feel she had travelled with him, lived in tents and struggled. She celebrated his triumphs and mourned his defeats. She oversaw the constructions at the Taj, the white marble base was complete. She was planning a grand mosque once the constructions of the beautiful Shahjanabad would be complete. Then she would build a sarai or perhaps a market. She shared her plans with the Raja. He had praised her architectural ideas. She somehow found herself craving his validation.

MEMOIRS OF EMOTIONS

“They alone become immortal, who choose the pen over the sword,

They alone are treated as humans, of flesh, blood and soul,

Who leave behind Memoirs of Emotions, than Monuments of Dust.”

 

Kashmir, the valley that was called Paradise on Earth, was a sight to remember. Her dark brown eyes spotted two swans frolicking in the waters of the lake in the distance while the wind blew over it gently. For the first time away from the clatter and noise of the camps and castles, she heard the trees whisper to each other. They made music. In her mind’s eye she could visualize it all. Her grandfather accompanied the Empress in a boat, enjoying the serenity of the place. She had often heard her father complain bitterly to her mother about how the Emperor was being lured away from power by his queen and he was completely attracted by the ways of religion and saintly ways once, during his visit to the valleys. She stared at the distant mountains, blue hues merging into the sky above, patches of snow white and shades of green. Could she blame anyone who would wish to let go of their worldly attachments to merge with God here, at this Jannat? The sun shone on her fair skin, turning it a little red as tiny drops of sweat appeared at her temple and her slave girl immediately came to draw the heavy Persian curtains to make some shed. She stopped the girl, with a silent gesture of the hand. Today she didn’t mind the warmth of the sun. It felt like her mother’s hug. She sighed drawing the already drawn muslin veil a little more over her face carefully as she sat at the open dome atop her chambers. The white muslin dress she wore probably looked like a cloud on the blue carpet on which she sat.

 

Jahan Ara had an eye for observation. From how the water created ripples as the wind brushed against it, to how the sun rays danced on the tip of each ripple, everything mesmerized her in a childlike eagerness. It was perhaps this innocence that made her a favorite for the otherwise suspicious father of hers, the Emperor Shah Jahan. As much as she loved being here, for the first time in many years, she remembered that the last time, she was younger, naïve, and had the protective arms of her mother by her side. She arched her drawn brows into a frown slightly at the sound of voices coming from the hallway just below her chambers. It disturbed her peace. Koli, the slave girl, went to peep through the Jharokha to see the guests who had arrived at the halls below. “Shehzaade Shah Buland has a meeting with some saints and they are here.” She informed the princess with a bow. Nodding her head a little in approval, Jahan Ara smiled. Dara was so similar to her, in thought and action. She had been thinking of listening to some religious saints’ talk of life and God and enlightening her soul ever since she arrived at the valley. There was something mystic in the air and nature that made her yearn for knowledge of the unknown and unseen. Dara had acted upon her thought. She sent Koli to ask Dara if he minded the presence of Padishah Begum at the discussion. Of course he didn’t. He was delighted that she was probably the only one who understood his interests. Jahan Ara felt warmth in her heart as she heard the Hindu and Muslim saints speak of life, from behind the Purdah. It was time she could feel God as near to her as she felt her mother once. Before the law of nature, took her away.

 

At twenty five, Jahan Ara Begum was quite different from princesses of her age and times. Not only did she enjoy being the most powerful woman in the land, much to the jealousy of others including her sister Roshanara, she was not vain about it. She, unlike them, was not interested in spending her allowances on costly dresses and jewelry. She wore fine muslin from Bengal with the jewelry she inherited from her mother. She spent her allowance on books and charity instead. She didn’t feed off the power and politics of the Zenana and the court. Saints, Sages and God attracted her soul. She and Dara dared to dream the impossible. Uniting Hind. The Hindu and Islam sects had been in a war for ages, and each time, an invader, a conqueror or a king had benefitted. If Hind was united, with the mingling of the two Oceans of knowledge and understanding, She would become the greatest culture the world ever saw. Where every religion, man and woman would be equals in the true sense of it. That day, the sages and saints had agreed to their vision. They had applauded Dara’s ideas. That Islam, Hinduism or any other religion in the world was not greater than Humanity. Humanity bound all and these sects had similarities people were unaware of. Dara was happy with the revelations. He had walked out of the hall with a content smile and rushed to inform Nadira, his Begum. Jahan Ara saw in his eyes, the dream of ruling Hind in unity and she herself wanted to sit beside his throne and exercise her rights towards the empowerment of women. Give them equality of education and inheritance. Perhaps abolish the rule that bound princesses, and deprived her of happiness.

Jahan Ara had checked on the emperor's worries at midday. He was ill, and that was why they were in the valley in the first place. He seemed fine as his concubine reassured the Begum Sahib to rest in her chambers. Jahan Ara had walked away with slow measured steps.

 

As the evening set in, slowly, over the hills, the white snow turned fiery red as the sky, and Jahan Ara once again found herself at the window, this time with her own collection of wine and the freshly made Date sweets by Koli. As the sun set behind the mountains, one by one, the lamps were lit to illuminate the palace. Scented lamps were placed in the small pool just outside her chamber where lilies floated on the water. The scent of freshly bloomed roses filled the air.

Jahan Ara sunk into the cushions of her seat, with the peg of wine in her painted hand, slowly stirring it. Darkness reminded her of things she wanted to forget, things that made her cry. It was the time of the day when everyone retired to their chambers; Dara with Nadira, her father with one or perhaps two of his concubines. It was darkness that brought with it a sense of loneliness. She remembered a face in her vision. Dark intelligent eyes that often sparkled like the lamps that shone in the garden palace at Agra, twirled moustaches, of Rajput pride, his stout figure, brisk walking and royalty. She sipped silently at her wine hoping the vision would go away. Now, she could hear his voice. As clear as though it was yesterday. They had talked for hours in the Anguri Bagh, about everything under the sun. Under the watchful eyes of the eunuchs and guards, the veil of fate separated them. The afternoon would roll into dusk with their discussions, she would often stare into his eyes, daring to be captivated by his glance before withdrawing back into her cocoon. On her side was power, on his, perhaps freedom; freedom to choose, and be happy. Rich as she was, her wealth meant nothing to her at times. She often felt the poorest of them all. Especially when she saw Nadira. She too was a princess of the Timurid blood like hers. Yet her fate was different. Jahan Ara often felt the riches of her inheritance were a shackle or perhaps the cost she was paid for her freedom and love. She was the wealthiest Mughal princess, perhaps the poorest in Love. Was it harsh to think that way? She gulped down the whole peg and ordered another. It was one of those nights she was scared of her own thoughts.

 

Jahan Ara waited for letters. Letters amidst all the royal formal ones, of wars, losses, profits, benefits, gifts and royal seals; One which arrived for her, without the seal, where the title of “Begum Sahib” was often dared to be replaced by her name. In the darkness of her room, she dared to blush at her name; she dared to brush her hand lightly over the ink, over his carefully written words, like she was touching him. The thought of it send shivers down her spine, the thought of being near him, without the veil separating them. If she had ever dared to confess her own feelings even to herself, it was only after she was travelling between the reality and dreams after the glasses of wine, in the darkness of her room. Otherwise she would shudder at such a thought in her consciousness, lest the walls or the guards could read her mind. Her fate was written in a matter of two days. One, when she was born a princess of the Mughal Harem and two, when her father was crowned emperor. Her fate was sealed with the title of “Padshah Begum”. She couldn’t choose. Her life was only for the service of the kin’s. And perhaps, God. She would choose god, over the power, politics and bloodshed some day. But some day, after she could give up her worldly attachments and attachments she dreaded.

 

Rao Raja Chattar Sal of Bundi was dressing his wounds at his camp tent. The weather at the rugged stretches of the Hindukush was unbearably cold to step outside in the dark. A fire was lit inside the tent to give him warmth. His heart felt heavy and restless. It was during these nights at the camp, after days of long war, that he returned wounded and thanked the almighty for keeping him safe. And then, almost as easily as his breath, he took the ink pot and paper and started writing a letter. He often wondered if his letters gave away his feelings. He hoped they didn’t. The Rajput Prince had no right to feel for the Mughal Princess. He smiled at his own thoughts melancholically. He had never in his wildest dreams imagined that a princess of the clan, whom he saw as sworn enemies to his kin, would actually be everything he ever wanted and sought. How strange was fate and destiny at play! He knew his feelings were meaningless. Saying them out loud would only create pain, heartaches or perhaps even bloodshed. But the heart in the warrior hoped that his words were unsaid and not unheard.

He was happy with the outcome of the war he had fought. Kandahar was not defeated but suppressed by the imperial army and he had happily contributed. He was called to meet the emperor who was now on a short break with his two beloved children Dara and Jahan Ara. To tell the truth, Rao Raja admired the kind of person Dara was. His thoughts and humbleness were indeed praise worthy. However, he would never make a good king, perhaps rather a saint or a man of religious interest. The future of Hind was at stake. Chattarsal was often left wondering about it. He wondered about the future of Bundi and the Rajputs after Shah Jahan. The cause of his country had led him to accept Mughal supremacy against his wishes. Who knew what else the Mughal alliance had in store for him. He had brushed away such thoughts at first. The sense of belonging, happiness and completeness she had attached to her name in the past few years rather unconsciously made his warrior heart her home. He hadn’t written to her about his arrival. He was looking forward to that spark of happiness in her eyes. The spark that was there only for him.

 

His heart made a funny leap of nervousness when the fortified walls of Kashmir were visible at a distance. He had stared at it, tired of his travel and wounds, like he was arriving back home, to Peace and Calmness. She personified them, ironically, even amidst the turmoil her heart faced every day. She didn’t speak of it, but her eyes did. Strangely, every time, he had understood her unsaid words and silences. Read between the lines of her letters. The sense of home, as she often said, was attached to a person and not a place. Maybe that is why he didn’t feel this way every time he arrived back at Bundi. This unknown mysterious valley in the Himalayas, he had never visited before, felt like home. They had arrived at the gates.

 

“Jaani, what do you suggest?” Her father held out two blueprints of wonderfully detailed architectural wonders. A mausoleum like never before. She smiled at him. He wanted a magnificent burial for her mother, one that would reflect her beauty and the greatness of her heart. She carefully inspected both the blueprints. He smiled waiting for her approval. A soldier was at the door, he bowed with “Alampanah, the cavalry of Bundi is here with Rao Raja Chattarsal.” The blueprint fell from Jahan Ara’s hand at the announcement as she got up in a hurry to leave.

“Send him in.” She heard her father say before she bowed gracefully before the emperor asking for his leave. The dignified walk she took down the corridor to her chambers was perhaps the toughest of her life. She smiled. Without a fear of being seen and suspected, her heart gave in to her mind. She had shut herself up in her room, and said a small prayer of thanks to the almighty for keeping him safe. Her heart thumped in her chest, at the thought of having him under the same roof as herself. She hoped he would seek an audience with her. It had been months that she had seen his face or heard his voice.

 

“Koli, dress me up for the evening.”

Her order had surprised the girl pleasantly. Rarely did Begum Sahib order her to dress her like the other princesses did. After a bath in sandal and milk, with sprinkles of rose water, she was dressed in the best muslin saree she had. She wore a jewelry set of pearl chokers set with emerald and diamonds. Her hair was braided with garlands of white flowers Koli happily made for her, and her nails and lips painted with red from beet roots. She put on the heavily decorated Pasmina veil her father had gifted her, and sat down in her heaps of books in anticipation. She tossed a few pages here and there and barely managed to read two lines. In her mind, she was playing a scene. Of his bowing, of her smile, of eyes meeting and enlightened conversations. She heard the maids’ gossip that Shah Jahan had gifted the nobleman a sword and requested him to rest for two days there before making his journey to Bundi. He had agreed and retired to his guest quarters for lunch.

 

It was almost evening when Koli offered her some fruits she rejected. The sense of hunger was gone as soon as she had heard of his arrival, and the thirst remained only to see him, hear him and be heard. A eunuch had come to bow at her door, “The Rao Raja wanted an audience with the Begum Sahib. He is waiting at the hall after a meeting with Shahzaade Dara.” She tried not to sound nervous or excited as she said in a calm voice “Send him to my courtyard.” She stared at Koli who immediately left to arrange for the cushions and purdah at the courtyard. For once, Jahan Ara felt a sense of childlike excitement of the love she read of, in poetry.

 

Rao Raja Chattar Sal was clad in a white angrakha and a golden belt and pagri. He had put on his favourite brooch and a pearl necklace. He remembered the necklace well. She had dared to throw it on his plate of gifts, at the Diwan e Khas, from her own neck, the last time he had arrived back from a battle. It was more precious than just a piece of jewelry. He often thought that it was his imagination that made him feel her scent still lingered on it, like she was near him, with him. He had walked into the courtyard, his heart pacing, trying in vain to keep an emotionless face.

She stood up to greet him, while he bowed. She nodded in silence. On her side were two maids, on his, the eunuchs keeping close vigil on their Begum Sahib. He placed down his sword beside him on the cushion before sitting down on his side of the veil. It was a strange yellow hue of the dusk today and from behind her veil, her skin glowed in the light of the dusk.

 

“How are you?” He had broken the silence softly “Begum Sahib”

How glad am I to see your face again.

She had smiled slightly at his formality. “I should be asking you that warrior knight; you were at the battle and not me.” Have your wounds healed?

“Weren’t you?” A smile lingered on his lips as she stared right at him from behind the veil. Your prayers work every time Jahanara…

“I mean, every time your brothers fight a war, you stay up in prayers too, don’t you?” She nodded. And you… mostly you…

 It was in a moment that her deep brown eyes met his black ones and Jahan Ara felt everything she wanted to feel all this while, warmth and a shiver down her spine. Her cheeks grew hot and red as she blushed and stared away.

“I had…” she said softly “prayed…” He smiled happily. And I returned to you.

“I have decided…” She spoke a little seriously “That I will take oaths of Sufism.” Maybe God can give me the happiness the world deprived me of.

“Sufism?” He had raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Doesn’t that mean renouncing the material world and pleasures and…” he had stopped. Us? You are giving up on us?

“No not that, just attachments.” She finished. You, your love.

“I had been talking to saints and sages for such a long time. Maybe…” She paused. “… I am not ready yet, maybe someday I will be.” He had stared at her again with hopeful eyes. I am not ready to give up on my hopes yet.

“You are just in your youth, Begum Sahib, you have a life ahead of you, and plenty of time for religion and spirituality.” He was assured. I need you to be my strength in every battle.

“Right now, I know I need to advise my father, guide my brothers…” I need you to calm my turbulent mind.

“You have more strength in you than you know, Shehzaadi, You have more hope than even warriors have in battlefields.” Don’t give up as yet, we still have all our hopes on Dara.

“I hope that someday Dara will sit on the throne and then he can let me choose…” Then we will sit beside his throne, together and rule uniting everyone under the imperial banner, you and I.

“What will you choose?” I fear our dreams will end in pain, Princess.

 “Happiness.” You.

 

They talked of her brothers. How Murad, Shuja and Aurangzeb were unhappy with the partiality of their father towards Dara. It could affect Hind and her future. The dusk set into the early evening as the sky turned a shade darker and tiny stars made a veil over the darkness. The maids lit lamps across the courtyard and they flickered in the wind.

“I will leave the day after tomorrow.” He said at last.

“When will you…” come back?

“I will join the imperial army in Deccan in a month.” He smiled.

“Umm… do keep us informed…” she had stopped conscious at the maids. Write to me.

“I will.” He stood up and bowed.

“Thank You.” Her words made him frown. Why thank me?

She had stared at his eyes, hers glittering with perhaps a tear she hid carefully in the shadow of the lamp, in case someone saw it. The teardrop shone on her pearl-like eyes like a diamond droplet, but to him it was more precious than all the diamonds in the world, for it was all she could show, for the words they would never convey. He understood what these few hours meant for her, after months of waiting.

 

A sudden guilt crept in. Back home, in Bundi perhaps his wives and children waited for him the same way as she did. But he had never seen in their eyes what hers spoke of. Undying love. Strange was the ways of the heart and mind, the mind allied in marriages to benefit a kingdom, lives were entwined by rituals, responsibilities and children, but the heart? It barely listened to the rational mind or gave in to its needs. It went in the paths less travelled and often forbidden. She was such a path for him. His will to come back. Chattar Sal knew that this was a moment of weakness. A goodbye like many more they have had before. Another time they felt that this was probably their last meeting. He gathered all his courage to pick up his sword and walk to the threshold.

 

In the moment, as she didn’t let the tear drop touch her cheeks she wished he would break down the veil of fate that separated them, like the Prithviraj who once fought for Samyogita, he would draw his sword and embrace her and what they had. Jahanara watched him walk to the threshold with slow, difficult, measured steps. He stopped as her heart felt heavy. He turned to stare back at her, as she stood near the veil while the maids were taking away the cushions. He sighed, shook his head silently, calmed the ache in his heart as much as he could and left. She watched him go as a silent tear drop appeared on her cheeks and she quickly wiped it away before anyone saw her.

 

She had heard his horses leave. She had heard Dara was there to bid him adieu. She also knew that at the gates of the fort, his eyes had hovered around every single jharokha hoping for a last glimpse. But she was not as strong as he thought. Neither was she as brave as the warrior himself. To see his horses gallop away leaving behind dust. Every time, her heart sank like it was the last, every time he was at Bundi she feared he would eventually realize that their love was doomed and he would stop feeling the same way. He would know that she was unlike his Rajputani wives, one who could never embrace the fire for him. Because man’s love was often limited to validation. Every time, she thought things would change from his side and she would be left alone in hers. Her heart and soul belonged to him and no man could own them again. She had vowed on the Rajput blood that ran through her veins also.

 

But each time, a letter arriving, with his handwriting often addressed to “Jahan Ara” and filled with words of a poet hidden in the warrior, proved her otherwise. Their letters created memoirs of emotions, hidden from the world and its ways, the rules laid down, by clans and creeds, in a Love so deep that perhaps even the cupids were jealous.

HEART BROKEN

Year 1643.

The letters stopped. Jahanara was perplexed, was she in any way offending in her last letter? She assumed he wouldn’t feel bad about her views like he didn’t about hers. Maybe she was wrong. But should the Begum Sahib Bow down and apologize? The vain Begum Sahib. Roshanara had learnt politics well. She whispered to Aurangzeb who listened from afar. Did her letters fall in wrong hands and get misinterpreted? Everyone, even the Emperor knew she exchanged letters with one of his trusted chieftains. Was that the reason? Jahanara grew restless. She had at times in the carefully chosen words of her letters mentioned how highly she felt about him. Was that what had made him stop writing to her? Had he thought otherwise?

Raja Chattar Sal was badly injured at war and went back to Bundi. The news reached her when he didn’t arrive at the imperial court with the victorious army. They praised his contribution. The Begum Sahib had visited the mosque after court hours. She knelt down and closed her eyes. She tried to find peace.

 

“Heal his wounds, he is a good man.” She heard herself pray. A sudden guilt crept in. Her brothers were at the war fields too, every day. Did she ever pray for them? Or worry if they didn’t write to her? She opened her eyes and breathed in heavily. Her heart was transformed. She denied it for too long. Why did she wait for his letters? Why did she care? Her heart had no room for anyone. Had Begum Sahib forgotten the rules laid down by the great Akbar?

 

She found her eyes moist that night. Those tears felt like blood. If she dared to show those tears it could turn to blood. Bloodshed was the Mughal way to might. Dara and she were often called out of place rightly by Nadira. She, who was forbidden to love, was haunted with the stories around the zenana. Secret lovers, commoners, found to cross their lines with princesses were never spared by emperors and princes. Such was the rule of the Harem. And she was to lead by example. She wiped away the hot tears lest someone saw them. 

 

She had dreams. Dreams that one day as the city of Kanauj shook with Prithvi’s arrival as he swept away Samyogita in his war horse, against their kins, she too would someday feel a love that great. Jahanara did not deny her dreams, at least to herself. To love and be loved was probably the most common human dream that often remained unfulfilled around her. She remembered his words but didn’t believe them enough. Power and Might were always above Love. Then while walking to her bed through the dark allies she stopped by the Khas Mahal where the lamps still shone. She saw her father, tracing his hands, lovingly over the painting of the mausoleum that was in the making. As though that was the face of her mother. She suddenly felt a strong urge to extend her hand to someone, wishing he held it.

 

In a letter carefully penned, in the darkness of her cold chamber, she tried in vain to conceal her worries while asking about his health. The carefully chosen words did reflect her feelings, as her hands shook a little. What would he think of her? If he could read between her lines and understand her feelings, what would he say? Jahanara had smiled through her tears that night. The daughter of Shah Jahan was the most powerful princess of her time. But unlucky was she, who could not even love and choose willingly. The letter reached him when he was on the way to Kandahar for yet another war. 

October 1643, Shahjanabad

 Jahanara Begum was overlooking the constructions of the Sarai she had planned on the trade route to Agra. She was anxious everyday as no letters arrived in her name. She prayed religiously at the mosque hoping the Raja was in good health. Dara came by to give her news of Aurangzeb’s success in his latest expedition with great happiness. They would now request their father to forget all his childish harsh actions for which he was often in his father’s bad books. Jahanara had called Aurangzeb home, with honour. She also took care of the pregnant Nadira. After losing her first child, Nadira was anxious. Jahanara looked at her glowing face and smiled while telling her stories of Rajput brave hearts. For she had heard the midwife predict it was a boy. He was going to be the future of Hind like his father.

One day a letter arrived from Bundi. It was addressed to the Begum Sahib and had no royal seals. She was on her way to the mosque when the messenger handed her the letter. She had gulped. Tried to take it with no shaking of her hand or a smile on her lips. The beating of her heart scared her. The eunuchs were trained to listen even to their thoughts. She ordered her bearers to travel to the most secluded part of the fort. She sat on a palki that once belonged to Empress Noor Jehan. Sitting away from the eyes of the Zenana she opened the letter. The handwriting seemed a little shaky as he wrote that he was fine. He was at home in Bundi for the Holi before being summoned to Kandahar. His sons were growing up; in his war and travel he had missed their childhood. He also had a daughter. “Will the Begum Sahib care to bless her with a name?” Jahanara’s heart sank. It was like someone had stabbed her heart and left it to bleed. She knew he had marriages, alliances, and children of his own. Yet, when he talked of them, she felt empty. A name for his daughter? She sighed. On the ridge was a lone magpie, singing a song. Wasn’t a lone magpie a sign of bad luck? She shivered.

 

“As I fought with my battle wounds, war after war, I had no desire to return home. My wives and children would always be taken care of, I may sound cold here, but I hadn’t found them reason enough not to die for my causes. But this time…” Jahanara’s throat was dry as she read. “This time… I had been injured but I wished to live, I wished to fight and return to camp. To write another letter.” A lone tear drop blurred her vision “For had you been the Samyogita of Kanauj, I would have liked to fight for you like Prithvi.” Jahanara Begum held the letter tightly to her chest, and let out silent tears. 

 

All these years, she had wished for a love, a love like this, and when it came, she could not gather the courage to extend her hand. She saw bloodshed, she saw fear. And with a heavy heart, she had written him a formal reply carefully choosing her words, suggesting a name for his daughter and omitting any sign of feelings, or reciprocating his. No reply came except for gratitude in the royal seal.

 January 1644

 She wondered in her lonely nights, if he like all other men believed she was impure and found rumours of her incest with her brother and father as valid. He was one of those who believed in the rumors that dirtied her character and forgot her because his love, like all men, was limited to rejection. Dara had seen her restless and had assured her that once he is declared heir, he would talk to the emperor about her marriage. He even had a groom in mind. The brave Najabat Khan. Could she marry the man she didn’t love, if at all? But the desire of having a child of her own was immense whenever she saw Nadira cradle her child. Maybe, the power of Hind could provide her little happiness.

 

But it was not to be. For, that night, she had heard the Khan speak of her to Rahim. Speak of possessing her from the heretic prince and rising in power, to help Aurangzeb. She had sunk down at the fountain of the Anguri Bagh and hid her tears in the splashes of water on her face. They have linked her to several men, from the singer boy Dulera to the kings of several states who enjoyed Dara's friendship. Did men never honor women?

 26th March 1644, Red Fort, Delhi

 

"By contracting her dress, fire has acquired such dignity that angels may well make their rosaries of sparks" ~ Karim

 

Music and dance enchanted Jahanara to forget sorrows. She had left behind her mother at Agra. She had yet again convinced the emperor and sent the Raja to war. Dara was weak. As much as Shah Jahan adored him, Jahanara saw the truth. Dara was not a warrior. He needed guidance at war. Chattar Sal could be the guide and protector he looked for. Shahjanabad was beautiful and well planned. A perfect capital. But her heart remained at Agra. Perhaps because her mother slept there now. How beautiful was the Taj and its architecture. The moment she entered her mother’s tomb she felt goosebumps. She felt her mother was blessing her.

 

She was listening to Dulera sing. His voice enchanted her. How beautifully his voice reflected emotions. The dirty serpents of politics called him her lover. He who had no pedigree. Jahanara Begum respected his art. But love? Her soul had always belonged to one warrior knight. This they didn’t know. Shah Jahan hated Aurangzeb for his ways. Over the years, in the influence of Dara and Jahanara he had learned to love all religions. Aurangzeb was called the white serpent by her father. This rift between them disturbed Jahanara. She was watching her mother’s family fall apart slowly. She felt guilty.

 

Rao had gifted her Kachli in return for the rakhi she once gave him. She often held it to her chest and wished for his safety. The merriment ended and so did the flow of wines. The night was dark and she struggled her way to her room following the dancing girl to give her some jewels for her performance. The veil of the girl caught fire from the nearest lamp. Without a thought the Begum Sahib threw her body upon the burning girl to help her. Her back was burnt completely. Two of her maids were injured trying to douse the flames. The girl died. The night of spring spelled disaster for the empire.

 

Shah Jahan left his darbar to be with his beloved child. As Jahanara lay unconscious for several days in her room, numerous doctors and fakirs tried their best to save her. The emperor gave away alms and prayed at Ajmer. When Jahanara opened her eyes after countless days, she was happy to find all her siblings together, worried, and standing by her bedside. Aurangzeb and Shuja left the next morning. Her sisters stayed by her. Dara informed her that he had left the war to the Rajputs and rushed to her side. The jealous Roshanara had tears in her eyes. She had seen the worried faces of her brothers. She had felt a sense of unending happiness. Not all the love was lost between them. It took her six months to stand on her feet again. She decided to visit Ajmer to thank the Almighty. Shah Jahan decided to build a Jama Masjid in her honour.

 

10th November 1647, Agra Fort

 

Aurangzeb had proved himself to be a great warrior. Ruthless too. The nobles who accompanied him were all gathered at the Diwan E Khas. The Emperor ordered the Begum to give the chieftains’ gems and coins. One by one they came to the court and bowed. She from behind her veil had sent them all trays full of gifts. Then came Raja Chattar Sal with his cavalry. He bowed to Begum at court. Didn’t look up at the veil. She threw her pearl necklace upon his tray of gifts. He looked up with his eyes shining. Like he had got all the answers he ever sought. Jahanara’s cheeks grew hot as he bowed and left. The merriment continued.

 

That night she had been lost in a dream, a dream of ruling Hind together, with the Raja, and Dara by her side. They would together unite all of Hind under the Imperial banner and no Rajput or Mughal would fight among themselves. Stirring her best wine a little she had stared in awe at the newly made dome of the Taj. The white pearl drop as she called it, shone on the moon lit night. How she wished she could spend a serene night talking of their forefathers with him. Her father was leaving for Shahjanabad. All she knew was that she was leaving behind a lot in Agra.

 

1654…

 

"This obvious to every man of common sense, that kingship knows no kinship" ~ Qudsi

 

Dara was more of a saint than a warrior. But Jahanara’s hopes were still on him. Her hopes for the liberation of women in the harem and peace in Hind, was with Dara’s accession on the peacock throne. And her hopes were more with the warrior knight and his troops. He, who promised to fight for her, had abandoned their side, like the others? Aurangzeb’s sword was indeed mightier. But wasn’t Dara’s cause enough? She sighed. He was after all the rightful heir. But wasn’t Khusrau so too? She had heard the gossip of Zenana, her father had killed his blind and helpless brother in prison. Was Aurangzeb and his men any different?

 

Probably not. Most of them called Dara a heretic. Her Father was ill. Jahanara tried in vain to write to Aurangzeb on the emperor’s behalf to reconcile before things went out of hand. The reply was cold, “He will suffer his misdeeds.” Begum Sahib shed powerless tears. First for her brothers, then her ailing father. And then for a love lost to fate. Power was proving to be mightier than love.

 

She had yearned to hear from the Raja. She had written to him for a picture of him she might keep in her room. A cold and short reply shook her as it said “Will the picture of a Chauhan Prince’s be worthy in a room of a Mughal Princess?” His coldness shunned her off as she looked for peace in Sufism. Maybe love did wither with time. But what about his promises to protect her interests? Dara needed him more than ever with danger lurking.

 

Around the Autumn of 1657...

 

" Our world may crumble, our lives may end,

The soul remains with you, for eternity."

 

It had been years since that fateful day she received his letter and she wrote no more. He was crowned king and was probably busy with his kingdom. Her father often sent him to wars with the brothers. She spent most of these years planning and looking after the constructions of the Jama Masjid of Delhi and the Chadni Chowk market. She had helped her father and arranged the weddings of her brothers.

 

On the emperor’s birth anniversary, Jahanara Begum was arranging for a feast for the poor at Agra. Her slave girl Koli came running and waited for the eunuchs to disperse.

“Begum Sahib.” She tried to suppress her excitement. “ Shehzade Dara has finally found some alliances it seems.” Jahanara stared at her with surprise.

“Nadira Begum has sent you the news.” She confirmed “It's Rao Raja Chattar Sal, the king of Bundi.”

Jahanara’s heart skipped a beat. She remembered his cold reply. Dismissing Koli she sighed in relief. Then an urge to see him made her heart flutter like a teenaged lover. What if she never saw him again?

 

The position of Rao Raja Chattar Sal of Bundi had grown in the Mughal court because of his closeness to Dara and his valor in fifty two odd wars. He was still present at court when Jahanara had decided upon visiting Fatehpur Sikri and Sikandra. She had caught a glimpse of him paying his respect to her ill father and Dara and she felt an ache in her heart. The gossip was doing the rounds as Shah Jahan fell ill and returned to Agra; the war for “throne or death” was soon to begin among his sons. Jahanara was restless. In her rushed decision to visit the tomb of the great Akbar and then Sikri she took very few troops and her maid Koli with her.

 

Fatehpur, the beautiful city of Akbar’s dream. She had moved around the almost abandoned fort. She had found peace sitting in the shrine of Salim Chisti. Like a prayer that came as easy to her as breathing, she had prayed for someone who would provide peace and enlighten her heart at this hour of need. She had heard horse hooves and footsteps. She assumed the soldiers were on their rounds. But like a dream Rao Raja Chattar Sal came to sit before her, paying his respect to the saint. A moment of silence seemed like eternity as she stared at him from behind her veil.

He finished his prayers and smiled at her. In his smile she found peace.

“I haven’t received or replied to any letters Begum Sahib.” He said much to her relief as they sat near the Turkish Sultana’s house. “In fact the reason I am here is because I didn’t see you at court. And the lack of letters at such a time of crisis made me wonder if you had lost your faith in me.”

“The reactions of Aurangzeb and Shuja on hearing of our father’s illness scares me, Raja.” Jahanara frowned behind her veil. He nodded “I had always defended their misdeeds and so has Dara. Aurangzeb and Roshanara have been so hungry for…” She stopped. It now made sense. The letter was forged. Hence it was short and unlike Rao’s previous letters. Perhaps Roshanara had a hand in this. Did she know of Jahanara’s feelings and convey the same to Aurangzeb? Her heart skipped a beat.

“Can we not stop Aurangzeb from such a sin?” She stared at him.

“You probably can. Give it a try. He still respects you. The rest he doesn’t care about.” He had said.

“I can write to him as I did previously. It will go in vain, for the people around him want him to fight, and he listens to them. He respects me but doesn’t care about me, neither does Roshanara.” Jahanara’s voice seemed distant as she stared at the Panch Mahal. “People change.”

“They only care about power and alliances.” He had jolted her.

“And he hates us. He hates all the sons of Hind whose forefathers are not from a Turk house.” Jahanara sensed the tension in his voice, “The future of Hind only remains secure if Dara ascends the throne.”

“When… When Dara ascends the throne, I will sit beside his throne in Delhi and choose to live the life I want. Dara will think about the poor, the needy, the girl child and the women of his harem. He will think about the happiness of his sister.” Jahanara’s eyes shone as Rao stared at the fountains lost in thought.

“Except the Rajputs, none want to side with Dara.” He murmured. “And no Rajput will side with Aurangzeb.”

“My father’s loyal troops will help Dara, so will mine.” Jahanara said softly. “And you help him lead.”

“If and when such a war happens Begum Sahib, I hope Shehzada Dara will be ready to become a warrior”

“ Will Mewar help?” Jahanara asked a little worried “ If you…”

“No, the Mughal war of accession is of no use to Mewar. Or the Rajputs for that matter.” He had said coldly.

“But Akbar had Rajput wives, he married them and gave them all the comfort and…”

“He didn’t always honour them. Remember the Sisodia Princess, wife of the Raja Prithvi?” He had stopped her midway. Jahanara felt humiliated.

“I would have done anything to have an emperor like that set his eyes on me.” She retorted like a child making him stare at her eyes.

“Had you been married to a Rajput you wouldn’t have said that, because Rajput wives honour their mind, heart and body only to one man.” He had said with a calm smile. The breeze blew gently.

“Had I not been in a Rajput’s heart, I would have died for his attention.” Jahanara corrected as her cheeks grew hot and Rao smiled.

“Had the princess remembered her Rajput warrior in her heart, all the while?” He had asked.

“All the while, and beyond this life and soul, she will forever remember her Warrior knight.” Jahanara had replied.

A silence made her heart thump loud as he said in a calm soothing voice “You know Princess, when I received no letters, I still had an image of you I carried in my heart and believed will be waiting for me on the other side. Now that I hear you, I request you to tear a piece of your turquoise veil and wrap it around my wrist, as I promise you, that nothing and no one can now stop Chattar Sal from protecting your honour and interest like a Ratan Singh once protected a Padmini”

 

Jahanara watched him kiss her torn veil that now formed a band on his wrist, as he walked away to retire for the night. The night was sleepless for Jahanara. She remembered meeting a fakir once in Shahjahanabad. He had said “Why do you seek happiness? Your soul has so much to offer beyond that” Jahanara smiled melancholically. How she yearned for happiness that no title, power or riches could bring. How she craved to call him her own, have children of her pedigree.

“What are we but shreds of the past, and those who bear no seeds of the future are left to disappear in oblivion” She often wondered.

 

She wondered about his family. How would his rajput wives would treat a lady who could never jump into the fire for his life, or perhaps a lady who enjoyed more freedom and power than they did in their zenana? They would hate her. She sighed. They would hate her for who she was, her breed and background. None, but they knew the love that was. She watched Koli sleep at the doorway and the next threshold led to Rao's room.

 

Her hand stopped at the quilt she was making. Tip toeing out of her room, she reached his, and slowly pushed the door open. He had been sleeping with a smile, so content that he had won a war that day. She watched him in the moonlight. Putting down her quilt beside him, she laid down on the floor beside him. Watching him sleep in peace. Such peace she knew not all her life. Suddenly the sound of a vase falling startled her as she rushed back to her room. Shutting the door behind her she found her quilt missing. She had heard him enquire about the noise. How could she go back and face him? How could she face him?

 

Her action made her feel she had disrespected their love. He had never seen her without the veil. Neither did he ever cross his Rajput codes of conduct to reach her in any way. Yet, she had felt an urge to show herself to him, and an urge to feel his touch, and kiss his hands like a wife kissed her husband’s. She laid down on the stone floor and cursed her thoughts.

At dawn Koli said he had already left. Her father was ill and calling upon her as well. She peeped into the deserted room of the Rao. Her quilt was missing.

THE ENIGMA 

" In blood shed and hatred,

In battles and bravery,

Tears of love, years of hope,

All was lost."

March 1658, Agra

Months passed by as Shah Jahan grew sicker than before. His mind was disturbed with the constant move of his sons and the talk of their alliances against Dara. He had crowned Dara the heir. Jahanara had backed his decision. Now he feared for his most loved son’s life.

“Janni.” He had feebly extended his hand to her as she entered the Khas Mahal. “My child”

“Yes Father.” Jahanara stared at the empty eyes of the Emperor that lacked spark.

“How long has it been that your mother left us?” He asked, staring at the Taj in the distance.

“Father…”

“Tell me Janni.”

“It’s been twenty six years, that she…”

“She was my will to live with Janni. I see Dara finding that will in Nadira. After her death, I didn’t rule well, did I?” He stared at his favourite child.

Jahanara’s jaws stiffened. “You were a father like a king… You are…” she stopped at his hand gesture

“I was…” He stared at the sky “Janni, Your mother calls me, but how can I leave like this? I have sinned. I have hurt my father and killed my brothers. Am yet to receive my punishments. Watch my children…” Jahanara could hear no more. She left his chamber for her garden house.

 

April, 1658. Agra.

 

" Without death can thy name be immortal?

Without a servant can a master be Noble?" ~ Dara Shukoh

 

 Jahanara was at her chambers when Dara sought an audience with the Begum Sahib.

“ You wrote this?” Jahanara looked proud at her younger brother as he handed her his last work.

“Mingling of the two oceans.” She read “I am so proud of you Dara.”

“Begum Sahib” He spoke with sincerity “I need to talk.”

“What is it?” Jahanara grew worried.

“I will be going to war any time it is required. I know all our brothers have stopped writing to you.” He stopped as Jahanara stared at him.

“I know the day is near, but will you…” he stopped.

“Tell me Dara.”

“Will you take care of Nadira and my children if I…”

“Dara!” Jahanara stood up “How can you talk like that? If a war happens, you need to fight and win, for our sake!” She almost scolded him; he shook his head and apologized. He turned to leave.

“Dara.” He stopped at the threshold “I promise to look after them as much as I can on my last day” He left without turning as Jahanara shed tears.

May 1658, Agra

" He who knows Virtue and Vice, knows that intrigued ruin the country" ~ Qudsi

Aurangzeb and Murad were marching to Samugarh. Jahanara could hear the army nearing, or was it her imagination? Dara was marching his troops out of the fort the next morning. Shah Jahan was no longer a king. He was a father who hugged his favourite son and wept like a child. Jahanara had extended her hands towards Nadira Begum who stood at the threshold. She had no words. A Soldier came in “Rao of Bundi is here with his army and he requests an audience with the prince.” Dara nodded.

 

“I…” Jahanara had made her father, the prince, the queens and Nadira stare. “I would like to meet him first.” She had said with authority. Her father and brother nodded. She requested his audience at her pavilion. He was there, in minutes. Clad in a golden turban and white attire.

“What is the news from the enemies?” She sounded normal.

“Our troops are greater in number as expected. Mir Jumla has been aiding Aurangzeb. So are Najabat Khan and his troops.” He fisted his palm. “I can’t stand that man, Najabat”

She stared up from behind the veil. What had he heard about the Khan to hate him? Or worse, what had he heard about ‘them’?

“And who will lead our sides apart from you and Dara?”

“My brother is here at your service Begum Sahib, and so is my son. Bharat.” She smiled at the name. The son of Hind.

“Is there anything…” she paused to choose her words while he looked up “anything you want…” and the last words came almost like a whisper “from me?”

A pause made her feel she shouldn’t have said that. Not in front of his soldiers, or the eunuchs or Koli.

“Make sure my younger son lives to become king, to take forward the pedigree, if I…”

“I will try my best if I have the power.” She promised “May you win.”

“Take care…Begum Sahib.” He said with a salute and left. Jahanara ‘s chest felt heavy. 

 

She watched the women of the zenana, anxious. She stared at her father being pacified by his queens. She watched Dara’s daughters sit scared. She could stay in the harem no longer.

“Koli, send for my ride. I will visit mother at dusk”

“But pardon me Begum Sahib, isn’t that risky?” Koli’s words made her laugh. Yes, so unlike her and the situation. She was amused.

“I hold no crown Koli, no one will gain anything by killing me. Send for my ride.”

 

The moon has just started to show itself in the fading lights of the evening. The sky was red. So was the marble atop the Taj. Much like the blood that was going to be shed. She stood admiring the architecture of the Taj. She then dismissed the guards at the base of the tomb as she climbed up the stairs to her mother. She wanted to be alone. Perhaps the red reflecting on the marble was her mother telling her “Janni. I know why you are here.” She entered the tomb.

The cold marbles housed the warmest heart she knew. She had woven a garland with her own hands that she now placed upon the tomb. Tears rolled down her cheeks as she sat down hugging the marble tomb.

 

“Our world is crumbling, Ammi. Your brave Janni, is not that brave after all. “she sobbed. The stone was cold and silent. She craved the comfort of her hug. “I was told such a day will come and I have to be strong. Look Ammi, your daughter is failing.” She heard footsteps at the entrance. Alarmed, she wiped her tears. It was dark already, a little lamp shone at the tomb. And in its light she saw him. He paid his respect to the empress he never saw and stared at her moist eyes, and the face she had veiled.

 

In the silence, she had softly said “Call out the name of the thing you hold dearest to your heart, and hear the Taj echo your voice.”

Her name had echoed, sending shivers down her spine. She stared at him with longing. Twenty five years since the first time she saw him at court, and he never looked up at her face. Neither did he ever speak to her about things she wanted to hear. Did she mind if the mother she held closest to her heart heard her secrets tonight? He was about to leave when she extended her hand to him with a short “Stay.” He held it and sat down beside her on the marble floor. The moon light was reflecting upon the jharokhas.

 

“Once, someone wrote me a letter.” She found words at last “ A letter I hide in the amulet I wear, a letter I dare not part with till my last breath.” She stopped as his hand tightened on hers.

“Once someone called me his Samjogini. Does he feel the same after all these years? Am I his will to return home and fight for love, like Prithvi did for …” she could speak no more.

He was silent. She removed her veil and said “Look at me and answer.” He didn’t look at her. Instead he left her hand and got up.

“Once in the brink of my youth, I had a dream. A dream that seemed like an impossible one, but I dared to dream it. I dared to hope it was for real. Growing older and wiser, closer to death makes you see things clearly, and I see those. I see all the hate and bloodshed that could have been if I acted upon it. Some dreams are so perfect that they can never be real. They are never for the world to understand. They are never for the world to accept. Some Love needs no acceptance. They are greater than that. All these years made me realize, Jahanara Begum, that you and I have lived a love people don’t often encounter. Haven’t we?” He stared with his deep eyes warming her heart like never before as he wiped away her tears with his cold hands.

 

“We have lived a love that transforms souls, enlightens them.” She nodded.

“And you enlighten mine. Our worlds are different. You see my world. You make me see yours. And you respect what you see Jahanara Begum. That in itself is divine love”

Jahanara had never felt him so near to her heart ever before even in her dreams. She had woven another garland. He bowed before her, just like the groom in her dreams, as she put it around his neck.

“If I survive the war, I will go on a pilgrimage to the Himalayas. I will stop fighting wars, like Ashoka once did, and I will leave my title upon my son. But now, I will fight for the oath I took in your name and protect your brother. Nothing will happen to him as long as I am alive.” He spoke with his eyes shining. 

 

Jahanara felt like it was the last time she would see him. She held his hands in hers and kissed them, like she saw her mother, kiss her father’s and Nadira, Dara’s. She smiled at him as he said “If I die trying to save Dara, it will be my honour, and then I will wait for you on the other side of the realm of the Sun, to meet you there, or in another life. And if I survive Jahanara, I will wait for you at the foot of the mountains, for the pilgrimage of the Himalayas. I will wait till you come.”

 

Jahanara had never dreaded dawn like she did that day. As the first lights of dawn stirred her awake from her slumber she found he was gone, and so was the garland she had brought for him. She bowed to her mother from afar and hurried back to the fort. The troops were leaving in front of the Diwan E Khas. Dara was consoling a sobbing Nadira. Jahanara remembered what Rao Raja had told her once.

 

“When a Rajput goes to war, the Rajputani smiles as she bids him goodbye. Once Samjogini told Prithvi that to die with honour was to live forever. And she would meet him again to be his afterlife, embracing the flames for his love, if he shows his valour against his enemies. A Rajputani never cries when a Rajput warrior goes to fight”

Jahanara watched from afar as Chattar Sal assembled his troops. Her quilt was now on his elephant and her garland on his war horse. He had come to bid a formal goodbye with salutation. Jahanara stood with a smile, not a tear shone in her eyes, as she met him. He was proud of her.

 

She had watched the elephant go from the top of her tower, till as long as it was visible. At the gates, he had stared back while she stood at the stairs. She could see the fierce will for glory in his eyes. She watched Dara leave behind a weak Nadira. She smiled at him with hope.

 

 

9th June, 1658

 

" Rarely has a piebald pearl (half black and half white) been seen, unless it be the tears of a damsel with collyrium in her eyes." ~ Zeb Un Nissa

Jasmine Tower, Nur Mahal

 The moonlit night of the Nur Mahal was peaceful, but her heart remained turbulent. Her brothers were in a hunt for each other’s blood. The red bricks of the Agra Fort itself reminded her of the blood that was being shed. She stared with a sigh at the Taj at a distance. White Marble. Precious stones. A symbol of love, of which she was the first fruit. For the last twenty seven years, her mother laid there. She wished her mother would talk back to her today. At forty four, she felt like her world would crumble. It was the end. She knew in her heart that even when the surroundings were silent, a lamp secretly burned in each chamber, each heart anticipated the fate of the future.

The Taj Mahal, was a symbol of Love and forever, for her parents. The world didn’t know what it meant to her. She tried to calm her restless heart, holding an amulet close to her chest. Inside the amulet was a letter. A letter she dare not part with, till her last breath.

 

She was going to meet her brother Aurangzeb on behalf of her father in the morning. The Battle of Samugarh was lost, so was a hope, after fifteen days of war. Dara was on the run. His wife and kids had joined him. Fearing for his life Jahanara decided to talk to Aurangzeb. Shah Jahan became more ill at the news. The fate of his Harem was in question, so was his life. Jahanara had started tasting all the food given to the emperor herself. To avoid a murder. Sins, her brothers had done enough.

 

She remembered how the messenger described the war, the clash of the sides, how each of the brave hearts fell. All she heard was his name, then the world around her seemed distant. She had walked away numb from her teary father and into the darkness of her chambers. She had held on to the amulet and heard her heartbeat. She had felt him nearer than ever. She let her silent tears flow. 

Did he remember her when he breathed his last? She wondered between her sobs. She remembered his last words. Dawn seemed far as her life was plunged into darkness. 

 

Aurangzeb had seized the fort as Shah Jahan closed the gates. It was opened at Jahanara’s order in one last attempt to reconcile. “He will listen to you.” It was someone’s voice in her head. She had met the new emperor crowned “Alamgir”. He expected gifts and acceptance. But Jahanara was an elder sister meeting her youngest brother.

“You have sinned. Now apologize to father and stop the bloodshed. He will make you the emperor. Divided the empire among you all. In return let Dara live with a small province peacefully.” Aurangzeb laughed at her offer. She also knew that the emperor was in no position to make such offers. Besides, Dara was the popular one. His survival would mean danger.

 

“ Begum Sahib” He had said calmly “I don’t accept such offers. And since you always showed your never ending love to Dara, as did the emperor, all of you will remain in the Nur Mahal, until I find and kill the Heretic.” Jahanara’s blood boiled as colour flushed from her face. This was the same Aurangzeb she had saved so many times. The same one she loved and defended. She left without another word. 

 

On her way back, an injured Rajput soldier from their camp stopped her procession and demanded a meeting. He was from Bundi.

“The Rao gave this “ he handed her a blood soaked pearl necklace. The blood painted her hands red as she shuddered in horror. “How… how did he…” She had managed.

 

He was attacking Murad with all his might. He had called upon the Rajputs and shielded Dara who ran away. This left him exposed to the enemy. Aurangzeb’s men fell on him. Najabat Khan cut the Rao with his sword as he bled to death before Dara felt guilty and arrived back with help, too late.

Jahanara held the pearl close to her chest and wept her way back to the palace.

 

Aurangzeb’s troops had shut the emperor and his queens along with her up at the Nur Mahal Palace. Since that day she started keeping a journal for her buried thoughts. She spends the days reminiscing about her childhood with her aging father, keeping him away from the politics of the country and Aurangzeb. Roshanara came to visit, only to show her might as the new Padishah Begum and had little sympathy for her father.

 

Spring of 1663...

 

" O water fall, for whose sake dost thou mourn?

And what matter of pain was it that like me,

Through the life long night, thou didn't dash thy head against the rock and weep?" ~Zeb Un Nissa

 

Aurangzeb was reimposing the Jizya. He had also stopped music and arts in the court. Jahanara longed for the music that once filled the air from the Diwan E Khas. Dara’s severed head was sent as a gift to her father and she wept inconsolably for her brother, Nadira who had died in illness and the children who were in captivity. Jahanara took more interest in Sufism under the teachings of her mentor Mian Mir who once taught her tolerance. Tolerance she needed more now. She spent her days remembering things she learnt and wrote about it and read every work Dara left behind. In his words, she found Dara closer to her. She had asked for the custody of Jani Begum, Dara’s youngest daughter from Roshanara seeing how she mistreated the girl. Aurangzeb didn’t oppose it. Roshanara for her ways was falling out of his favour too. She had misused his name in her favour as the Padishah Begum while he was ill. She had even mistreated his favourite wife Dilras. Aurangzeb didn't forgive her. Shah Jahan had told Jahanara to write to Aurangzeb on his behalf. He had reminded his son that his sons could do the same to him. Aurangzeb reminded him that he was paying for his sins and partiality. His cruel attitude made Shah Jahan weaker.

 

Agra, 1666

Shahjahan was dying. He spoke of Mumtaz more often than not. One night, the Akbarbadi Begum handed Jahanara the Quran to be read out to her dying father. He stopped her recitation with his own clear voice and also ordered his queens to live in peace and in god’s name. He held Jahanara’s hand and said “I forgive him Janni, you forgive him too and reconcile. You have a lot more to do. To take care of Dara’s children and that of your other brothers. “ She nodded in silent tears, and ordered for a procession for him the next morning. Aurangzeb did not permit that. Shah Jahan was buried in the silence of the night. The little he had left, Jahanara gave away to the poor.

 

" A fakira, who was cursed to be a princess,

Lived and died in oblivion, forgotten by time."

 

Nearly a month after Shah Jahan's death, Emperor Alamgir came to take the throne of Agra. He visited Jahanara Begum and apologized for his behavior. He offered peace and raised her monthly revenue and gave her back the post of Padishah Begum. She left for Delhi with Jani Begum for Ali Mardan Khan’s house in Delhi where she stayed and worked on Sufism. She refused to stay in the fort where her brother was murdered. Her influence on Aurangzeb’s politics was very limited as she tried in vain to make him change his opinions on Hindus. He however, at her request made Chattar Sal’s youngest son Bhao Singh the Rao of Bundi and the jagidr of Aurangabad.

 

Since her arrival at Delhi she took to complete Sufism and saintly ways of living secluded from public eyes. But Aurangzeb often visited her and talked for hours on politics and took her opinions. She didn't give her opinions freely to the intolerant one. She however was an irreplaceable treasure to him and his harem. 

 

" The way of the world, is not worth seeing a second time, not a man looked back, when he left this heap of dust"~ Abu Talib Karim

 

Jahanara made sure that Jani Begum had a secured life and proposed her marriage to Aurangzeb’s third son. The Marriage was held from her palace in grandeur. Later that year, as she headed the women’s education system that was once Nur Jahan’s dream she talked to the Emperor Alamgir about the abolition of the marriage law imposed on the princesses. The emperor, who was against everything Akbar stood for, agreed instantly and abolished the law letting his own daughters marry their cousins. Princess Zebunnisaa however, followed Jahanara’s path to Sufism and became a saint and poetess. 

 

Jahanara spent her last days, not wearing any jewelry or riches, living simply in her house away from the politics of the Red Fort and writing two books she left behind as her legacy to Sufism. One was the life story of her mentor. She lived like the saint she always wanted to be. Upon her illness when the emperor asked for her last wish, she said “Let no marble cenotaph or rich gems cover my tomb. For even in death, graves are plundered for riches, and people find no peace. Let my tomb have an open sky and a grass covering. Because grass only grows back when being stepped on. God always cares for the poor.”

 

She died finally in peace, on the morning of 6th September, 1681 at her house in Shahjahanabad and was mourned by her nieces and the people of Hind. The emperor declared a three day state mourning for the beloved sister of his, upon whom he bestowed the title of Sahibat Ur Zamani or Mistress of the Age. 

Thus, true to her wish her simple tomb stands amidst many at the Hazrat Nizamuddin Dargah in Delhi and beside her rests her niece. On a marble slab near her tomb is the carving,

“He is the living, the sustaining

Let no one cover my grave except greenery,

For this very grass suffices as a tomb cover for the poor

The annihilated fakira Lady Jahanara

Daughter of Shah Jahan the Warrior”

 

The grass cover is often occasionally laid with rose petal offerings and women offer her prayers like a deity to the poor and helpless. These people who are often clueless about who she was gives her the respect as a saint she didn't get as a princess. Many homeless people still live inside the premises of her small tomb.

 

Lost in the pages of history, Jahanara Begum remains a princess who had worked all her life for the people in the very limited resources she had. She yearned for a child and a family, which she found in bringing up Jani Begum and her life’s purposes were fulfilled at the abolition of the law. She lived her life, in mystic ways, attending to religious saints who taught her about life. She often missed her parents and brother terribly and the rumours of incest and having multiple lovers still haunt her image in numerous books. She forgave Aurangzeb of all his sins, and also gave him advice when his own son Mohammad Akbar rebelled against him in January 1681. Away from the veils of politics and darkness, she had loved deeply and remained loyal to the Rao Raja Chattar Sal till her death, and kept her promise to him. She was a lady of deep understanding, patience and intelligence and a character often not given the respect she truly deserves. Her writing, literacy and political senses while helping her father and brother run the empire too were worth the praises. Even British ambassadors to India had been mesmerized by the essence of the character of this great princess whom history remembers as “Begum Sahib”.

 

" Death hath no sting for the Mystic,

The awakened heart fears no sleep,

If thy soul hath abandoned the body,

What matters?

When the skin becomes old,

The snake casts it off." 

~ Dara Shikoh