Nurjahan's Daughter (3 page)

Like every woman in the harem, Meherunnisa would be delighted when the imperial army returned home after a successful campaign. The news brought joy and hope in every heart as the women rushed to decorate their homes, buy new clothes and jewellery, cook special dishes and wait impatiently for romance to return to their frigid lives. The long winter in their lives was brushed off with hopes of a romantic spring, no matter what the season. Arrival of the men brought rejuvenation and love in its wake.

Meherunnisa’s eyes misted whenever she recollected the years she had spent, pining for her husband’s comforting arms around her. Thousands of times she wished for a child; a child that would bring joy to her lonely life. And finally, Allah had answered her prayers. It did not matter that he had blessed her with a daughter.

She bathed the child with her own hands and dressed her in beautiful clothes. Intricately embroidered dresses in pastel colours, lace-fringed caps and pretty shoes, she made them all. Meherunnisa sang lullabies to her baby, spent sleepless nights when the child had colic, went frantic if her precious daughter as much as sneezed. The smallest indication of sickness in the baby drove her to summon the hakim.

Minutes, hours, days and weeks passed, yet Sher Afghan didn’t return to his wife and daughter.

He came back after two months, only to leave immediately for another tour without meeting his wife or asking about the baby. This time Meherunnisa was distressed.

‘Is it my fault that we don’t have a son? Allah has granted us a daughter after so many years, should we not accept his gift gracefully?’ she asked Firdaus. ‘Why is he upset with me?’

‘He will come around. They always do. It is just a matter of time. One glance at the innocent face and his heart is bound to melt. I wager he will love her as much as we do.’

‘I hope so,’ sighed Meherunnisa looking at her child who was happily kicking in the air, staring fixedly at the colourful silk ball her mother had hung above her crib. Laadli was a happy baby, smiling and gurgling through the day.

‘The next time the master comes home, I will take Laadli to his chamber on some pretext. I am sure he will lose his heart to her.’

‘You will do nothing of the sort,’ admonished Meherunnisa. ‘He will have to come here to meet his child. I want to see how long he can keep running away from her. We have a daughter and he has to learn to love her.’

Many weeks later, tired of travelling, Sher Afghan returned home. But he made no attempt to meet his wife or see his daughter. Finally, running out of patience, Meherunnisa walked into his room one evening.

She had taken hours over her bath, scenting and adorning herself with great care. Her pastel green silk bodice was intricately patterned with tiny pearls and sequins that reflected the light with each movement. The tight, green satin trousers were topped with an elegantly embroidered white kameez in diaphanous muslin. Meherunnisa had thrown a gossamer gold veil carelessly over her shoulders, enhancing the golden glow of her complexion. A heavy emerald choker adorned her slender throat, and large tear-drop pearls dropped on her bosom from a gold string wrapped around her neck. They had been a wedding gift from her father. Lodged in the parting of her lustrous hair was a string of pearls ending in a diamond-studded ornament. A string of red roses festooned in her hair let out a fragrance which mingled with the aroma of tobacco in his room.

She walked with languorous rhythm, her feet gliding over the smooth marble floor. Motherhood had caused her slender figure to fill out at the right places; her angular features had acquired a softer look. The cheeks that had carried a sunken look just a couple of months ago were glowing with pleasant plumpness; the blush on them was born out of good health and happiness. Meherunnisa had grown more beautiful with each passing day after she had become a mother.

Sher Afghan gaped at his wife. He had never seen her so lovely or happy in the eleven years of their marriage. This was a different woman, not the Meherunnisa he knew.

Meherunnisa threw him a coy smile and advanced seductively towards him. Sher Afghan felt his heart revving up with a long forgotten beat as blood surged in his loins and he experienced a rush of desire for his wife.

‘Are you angry with me, my master?’ she said flirtatiously, stirring up his lust.

In a voice hoarse with passion, he stammered, ’Angry...why...why should I be angry?’

‘I know you have every reason to be annoyed. I do feel guilty at having produced a daughter after all these years. But, think about it–isn’t it better to be a father to a daughter than to be no father at all? Haven’t we waited so long to hold our child in our arms? Now that Allah has blessed us with a daughter, should we spurn his blessings and hold back our love from her?’

He could barely hear the words she spoke as he lurched towards her.

Meherunnisa knew when to use her guile; she was adept at it. There lived no man who could resist her when she exerted her charm. Neither could her husband. He grabbed her in his arms and kissed her lips, savouring the freshness of her breath. His hands strayed to her bosom and she arched her back ardently. It had been a long time since Sher Afghan had made love to his wife. His hands moved over her body impatiently, tearing away the layers of clothing while she sighed with pleasure. Her body yielded readily to his demanding hardness. The rush of passion took them by storm till at last, spent with their fervour, they lay side by side on the huge, round bed near the fountain. Smiling secretively, Meherunnisa got up and stretched sensuously. He mumbled sleepily and stretched out his arms for her but she evaded his grasping hands and walked away.

Minutes later she came back with her daughter and laid the child next to Sher Afghan.

‘Don’t go away, Meher,’ he pleaded, turning on his back. His passions sated for the moment, he wanted to hold her in his arms and atone for his conduct. Suddenly a kick landed on his side.

‘What the...’ he swore. Turning on his side he found himself gazing at the cherubic face of his daughter. Fascinated, he took in the perfectly formed limbs and the bewitching smile of his child.

‘Allah be praised, is the imp trying to kick some sense into me?’ he laughed. Gone were his dreams of nurturing a son, teaching him the intricacies of soldiering, sword-fighting, dagger-wielding and horse riding. They were suddenly replaced by his desire to watch his daughter grow, listen to her melodious voice and to hear the tinkle of her anklets as she ran around the house.

‘A daughter is better than having no child, isn’t it?’ he asked Meherunnisa.

‘Of course, it is.’

‘Yah Allah, this child is a spitting image of you,’ he said, reaching out to caress the child.

Laadli gurgled happily, kicking her legs energetically.

Tenderness suffused Sher Afghan’s face as he lifted his daughter.

‘I have named her Laadli Banu hoping that she would be your beloved child just as she is mine.’ His wife moved within the circle of his arm.

‘Laadli Banu!’ he mumbled, rolling the name on his tongue, trying to enjoy the feel of it. ‘That’s a beautiful name. Yes, she will be my beloved just as she is yours,’ he promised, his words delighting his wife.

‘I had never imagined that the child was so beautiful. She is perfect.’ Sher Afghan opened the child’s fist and spread out her fingers. Then he examined the little pink toes and the perfect pair of ears. His fingers strayed all over the child, delighting in the softness of her body. She smelt of a strange mix of milk, perfume and babyhood. He felt proud. This was his daughter, his flesh and blood, all perfect and beautiful. The powerful rush of his emotions made his eyes mist. He had waited so long for this moment.

‘Tell me, does she resemble me at all?’

‘Well, babies change as they grow. But I think she will be tall like you, because she seemed to fill my womb. And look at her eyes, they are grey like yours.’

‘I hope she is as beautiful as her mother,’ Sher Afghan’s eyes were ardent as they slid over his wife’s lissom body. ‘I have behaved like a boor, but I shall make it up to you,’ he promised, hugging Meherunnisa. ‘I will try to be a good father, I promise.’

Tears of joy clouded her eyes as she clung to his strong body; he had not chided her for bearing him a daughter.
Everything is going to be all right,
sang her heart.

‘We must celebrate Allah’s gift to this house. It has been four months since the birth of our first child but it is not too late to rejoice. Begum, we will invite every emir in this area and throw a grand feast–a feast no one will forget. We will distribute silver and grains to the poor and the holy men.’

The next morning he donated a generous amount of money to the mosque. The elated mullah offered a special prayer for the health and well-being of the child.

The house was decorated with garlands of flowers and festoons of ribbons; the vases overflowed with fragrant flowers of all kinds. Special cooks were employed to prepare a grand banquet; Meherunnisa personally supervised the cooking, and prepared Sher Afghan’s favourite kheer herself. Dozens of dishes were laid out on the dastarkhan spread in the male section, with different types of kebabs and biriyanis, roasted meats and halwas heaped on them. Inside the zenana, the women rejoiced, congratulating Meherunnisa. They sang songs and blessed Laadli.

Wine flowed liberally and there was merriment in the large mansion. A large troupe of musicians and dancers had been called from the city to perform for the guests. The large hall resonated with the sound of anklets as the nautch girls performed, their dances punctuated by the loud appreciative claps of the inebriated men while the women watched from behind screens.

Silver spoons, gilded toys, wooden rattles, yards of brocade, silk and satin, pieces of gold jewellery, pearl strings and all kinds of gifts poured in for the newborn baby, along with blessings of happiness. Matrons exclaimed over the fair complexion of the baby, and spent much time speculating on the child’s resemblance to her parents.

‘The next one will definitely be a male child,’ they told Meherunnisa.

If ever there is one,
thought Meherunnisa, smiling sweetly at the women.

‘You must hurry up with the next one so that you can have many children before you are too old,’ advised an old crone. ‘I waited too long and then I could produce only daughters for my husband.’

There was much laughter at her statement.

‘And what do you think he did?’ she continued. ‘He went ahead and brought home three more wives. Your husband is a good man. I guess he loves you, for he has not brought home another wife.’

The assembled women nodded their heads in agreement. Most of them had to contend with rivals.

‘You are a fortunate woman,’ they told Meherunnisa. She did not need them to tell her that.

Sher Afghan was true to his word. He took up the role of a father with enthusiasm. The strapping soldier spent hours in the company of his daughter. His frequent hunting trips were forgotten, and so were his visits to the nautch girls. It amused the women in the household to see the tall man crouching on all fours to play horse with his daughter. For the first time in many years, there was laughter and happiness in the house. Meherunnisa was filled with contentment. She neither had to compete with Sher Afghan’s paramours nor bait him to return to her bed.

For the moment she didn’t mind being at Burdwan, she cared not that it rained for months or that the musty smell was tedious. She didn’t mind the isolation and the humiliation heaped on her husband by the emperor. For the first time in eleven years she was happy to be away from the royal court. She didn’t miss the splendour and glitter any more.

Before Laadli’s birth, Meherunnisa had waited eagerly for the letters that came from Agra, with news and gossip about the royal family. She scanned the letters carefully for mention of Prince Salim, the heir to the Mughal throne. She went repeatedly through the fine calligraphy of the missives looking for the hidden messages. Her father, aware of her love for the prince, fed her little titbits about him. Through the years of her difficult marriage, her heart remained with the handsome prince who, in his ardour, had once promised her the crown and the throne. Laadli’s arrival took away some of her restlessness. She no longer pined for the exciting life of the harem–instead, she was riveted by every small step in her baby’s development.

Laadli turned on her side when she was just two-and-a-half months old.

‘That is pretty early. Children generally turn on their side when they are three months old,’ the nurse declared with pleasure.

The proud parents delighted in narrating the exploits of their child to anyone willing to suffer their enthusiasm. Meherunnisa wrote volumes about Laadli’s activities to her parents.

By the time she was a year old, the child was running around on her chubby legs, lurching all over the place, pulling out things, breaking china and creating a minor havoc. The little brat delighted in having everyone running behind her, especially her mother. The entire retinue of servants were always on the run: even a little scratch on Laadli’s knees could send her father into a rage. No matter how hard they tried, the child would manage to fall or hurt herself, and there would be dire retribution for the servant who couldn’t prevent her fall.

Although Meherunnisa enjoyed playing hide-and-seek with the child, she often ran out of patience. It was Sher Afghan who never tired of playing with his daughter. She loved it when he pretended that he couldn’t run fast enough to catch her. The game Laadli enjoyed most was playing horse with her father.

Laadli also loved listening to Firdaus’ stories. She refused to go to sleep until the old nurse had told her a story. Like a skilful weaver, the woman wove tales that mesmerised the child. Even when Laadli was just a year old, Firdaus would tell her stories of her grandfather’s escape from Persia, his journey through the desert and Meherunnisa’s birth. By the time Laadli was two years old, she knew all the stories by heart; there was nothing that absorbed her more than the real life stories of her grandparents.