Princess Ladli Begam's
PROLOGUES
“In this poor stranger's grave, leave no lights or roses. Let there be none
butterfly wings also chant nightingale.”
—Tomb of Nur Jahan, Lahore, Pakistan
To Umi and Sriti, full of love
*
Life is a network of loss. That's what my grandfather always said, Ghias Beg. We
receive something today to give back in later days. It is up to the fire to devour his house, or a robber to take his camel and his merchandise. No. gabe. That's a terrible example and too rough to count. Love, wealth, status, power, come to us and go as fast as he arrives. My grandfather left his native land because the wealth was taken from him. He was a man before. And turned into an escape with rocks and horse dung thrown around behind him.
My cousins used to teach me how to play chess. He said it was a matter of survival. Eat or be eaten. And I always let mine be eaten and lost. Maybe I'm not so good at survival knowledge. But the years that followed have proven it all wrong. If only I could, I would go back to my cousins and say that his philosophy on chess is nonsense.
Ah, my dear readers. Where do I start this painful story? Which I cannot even write in long prose sheets, or poems of suffering and longing. I've read buku— many books when I was young and passionate. And there is no story there that can represent my empty and twisted story. You alone, my dear reader, may not understand anything until you finish your own reading. Whether you're going to be disgusted or feel sympathy, it's your heart's business. I myself have died ashamed of the prejudices and opinions of others. Dull by tears from the past.
I've chosen to save my suffering for years. Hidden behind my long black veil. But now I write it boldly because I myself am too old to suffer. Even though I know what I wrote, as I said earlier, I cannot represent anything from my despicable story. And I walked in the markets, in the parks, in the tombs, in every crevice of the high building bearing a shameful past. I watch people laughing with their kids. The young men who fled under the shadow to make love, the young men who waited for their beloved under the closed balcony. But I don't feel anything. It was as if my passion for life had tucked up a toilet.
I once wondered who would bury me. Here, there are no relatives. No taulan partners. No one will kindly say, “I am his friend.” Brave ribs chewed by the ground.**** quickly. Embedded bodies leave only gravestones with the sentence from the Qur’an as a marker. Most of them are forgotten by the time and progress of the country. Never remembered living and swallowing tempests in the past. Unable to scream and tell about how bitter life was before his death.
I was born from the womb of the most powerful woman in the history of Mughal India. The woman whose voice is heard, her command is executed, her wrath is mourned, her existence is acknowledged, but finally, her death and disappearance are welcomed happily and are not at all mourned.
For many years, our family was a loyal servant to the Mughal Sultans of India. My grandfather was a diwan of the sultanate. My mother, after my father's death in 1607, was Queen Ruqaiya's court lady, Padshah Begam zenana Sultan Akbar. Under his beautiful charm, bright blue eyes, thick black hair, and curves like smoothed ebony, my mother has captivated the Prince
Salim, son of Sultan Akbar who would later become Sultan Jahangir Padshah Ghazi.
Their wedding was held in 1611. Four years after my father died—or was killed, if I agree to the rumors that milliseconded because my father and Sultan Jahangir were involved in a relationship that was not at all harmonious in the past. The feast was held at Agra Fort, the residence of the Mughal Sultans of India. With so many gifts, redundant feasts, precious stones, rolling silk and velvet, horses, lands, and of course, the titles and blessings of the sultanate. Since my mother married Sultan Jahangir, her title was Nur Mahal, the Palace Light, and was changed to Nur Jahan, the Light of the World. And my mother turned into the most beloved wife. Padshah Begam's. Queen of Queens in zenana—harem sultanate.
I know my mother well. He knew that he refused to be confined to tradition and the pursuit of life. He had, in his elaborate and incomprehensible manner, broken through the entire sacred tradition of the Mughals, placed himself in the special position of the court of justice, affixing the royal seal on the farman of the sultanate with a special seal of his own. And so it is precisely the cause of plunder, of forests to be destroyed, rivers to be drained, taxes to be withdrawn, wars to be declared, people
he started to fear her. Know that this woman is present as a threat. Because the nobility and Mughal ministers believed that women should lower their voices. Sit behind the curtains. Walk with a veil like a ghost. No vote in the court of the royal palace. In the end, women have no place to rule.
In addition to my mother, the rest of our family members have also been blood-stained with the Sultan. My cousin, Arjumand, was the fiancee of Prince Khurram, the favorite son of Sultan Jahangir of his other Queen, Jagat Gosain. Arjumand is the most beautiful woman in our family. Her body was light, with limbs so agile that it was as if she was always flying behind her skirt. Her lips were thin and red without mulberry fruit. Her eyes, the most beautiful eyes in my eyes, were deep brown, covered in black arched eyebrows. Her face was framed by her long, thick hair, and decorated by a pair of tiny ears with large earrings of jewels. It is quite remarkable***** if Prince Khurram is not interested in Arjumand.
Prince Khurram himself was not a man with a sickening look. He has a firm jawbone, jet-black eyes, a crooked bird beak nose, and a smiley stroke that makes it seem as if the heart is pulled by two starving lions. He's blameless. Not at all because the sultanate has given him a decent livelihood and a beautiful woman.
However, due to various things, he did not marry Arjumand for five years. I observed their drab relationship without meeting, which was bound with sacred words at the engagement, which the Sultan signed over the farman of the sultanate. However, marriage shows no direction at all. Khurram married Arjumand as his third wife five years later, a year after my mother married Sultan Jahangir. There is a zenana market rumor that says that the marriage was done because my mother asked for it. And fortunately, luck fell upon Arjumand's head, becoming his most beloved wife. He has given some children to Khurram, amazing children.
But then trouble arose in me. Ever since my mother was Padshah Begam zenana sultanate, I lived there with her, breathing within the scope of the beautiful women. It was specially forged to warm the Sultan's cold bed every night. The whole girl, from the age of about sixteen, had been working as a servant. And if they were lucky, Paduka Sultan would call him and his status would rise to become a mistress who was slapped for one night only. And I, this poor me, am a princess without complaint. Where can I complain while I fall into the hopes and dreams of men. The Queen's daughter, but not the Sultan's. I am indeed a noble Princess, but it should be underlined that my father is not the Sultan.
So, there I was, turning west, to the direction of Mecca, to pray, just in case God gave me a bright way to get out of this sad zenana that looked more like this labyrinth. At least to quench the thirst of my own dreams by going out with a handsome man, who saw his muscles, who looked at his life, who was loving in his nature, who was gentle in his temper. Wh why? I am a noble princess and I am not ugly.
I feel myself deserving of what my title and status should cost me.
But baby, I fell for the wrong guy. For he has been bound by a holy promise, has been fastened by prayer and hope. For he has been possessed, has been the lover of others, the husband of a woman, the father of her children. And more considered a nista, her lover is my own family.
I fell in love with Prince Khurram.
This crazy story begins []
