Princess Ladli Begam's

CHAPTER II: NASHUDANI

Sultan Jahangir has four princes. The four have their own stories, either in the form of being ignored or underdog, exiled or revered. And even so, the nobles have—and should—know to put their heads under the feet of which Prince. Because it will determine the direction of their heads rolling. In bed in the form of aging, or at the stake of execution, beheaded.

Jahangir's first son was Prince Khusrau. Born by his first wife, his cousin Queen Manbavati, daughter of King Bagwant Das of Rajput Amer Hindu Kingdom, whom Jahangir married as a political alliance when he was still named Prince Salim. Khusrau was greatly revered, raised by the best tutors, taught extraordinary things, and said to be the successor of the sultanate. But because of that, because he was too confident and judged, Khusrau rebelled against his father when Sultan Akbar died. Simple thinking. He was more worthy than his own father.

Thus, Sultan Jahangir sent his son into exile, not allowed to touch the light. Khusrau and his wife were left to pity their own lives. Years of living like a poor man. Just observe without being able to touch it. In addition, Sultan Jahangir blinded his eyes. Now, he's half-crazy, not knowing what to live and die for. I've seen him, and I'm horrified by his life covered in dark grilles.

Jahangir's second son was named Prince Parviz. He was born to his third wife, Queen Sahibi Jamal, daughter of Khwaja Hasan. Parviz lived with little teaching, for both his father and the whole sultanate had convinced themselves that it was Khusraulah who would rule the sultanate after his father died. So Parviz descended into a supernatural catastrophe, which led him to utter indecision and blasphemy, for he dwelt in wine and women, placed far away in the Deccan, in the south there with the caretakers of the highest general in the sultanate until now.

The third son is Prince Khurram. Born by Jahangir's second wife, Queen Jagat Gosain, daughter of King Udai Singh of the Hindu Rajput kingdom of Mewar. Padshah Begam zenana sultanate before my mother came. Handsome, intelligent, promising, authoritative, strong, tasteful, without lacking anything. Khurram was the best prince after Khusrau was exiled. She was maturely forged, prepared as a successor to the sultanate, pampered in facilities and women, educated by elective tutors. In the end, he did indeed grow capable as a dazzling Prince, making me wish too much in a dream undifferentiated. He had been given orders to quell rebellions in southern and northwestern areas at a young age. He has been given the title Shah Jahan, King of the World. And how women want her touch and kiss in their uncomfortable sleep. Imagination or the real world.

The fourth son of Jahangir, oh O Allah, how clumsy my heart is to explain this man, is Prince Shahryar. Born by a lucky concubine who was scammed one night named Yasmina. Birth status determines the luck of life. Therefore, Shahryar was completely unnoticed, almost unrecognized, and always neglected, left alive as he wished. Later, as a result of his misfortune, he was nicknamed nashudani— useless, the most despicable call for a Royal Prince. I once observed it from behind a frangipani tree. I thought it would be better if I just established a friendship with this nashudani guy because we were born in the same year. What's wrong with feeling sorry for a drowning and neglected life together. But how horrified I was to see him half naked in front of his residence with the slave women. It looks disgusting, the beard is messy, not at all in rhythm with the frame of his shabby and haggard face. He would often hum indistinctly, utter a word without meaning, then kiss one or two slave women he had embraced with him. By then, I had realized that Shahryar was not, at all, for the love of God, a choice.

A news from Khurram darted into the Red Fort Agra in the early hours of the morning. I blinked as Nazeer Khan woke me up all of a sudden, grilling me from behind a grating veil. Half whispered. But his voice was clearly inviting. I flipped my silk blanket, ran towards the door leaf. Along the zenana corridor, my little legs ringed the golden bracelets, which fused with the singing of young crickets behind the grass forest. My skirt swept over the cold floor, carrying sticky dust and water on its surface. When I arrived at Mother's residence, Sultan Jahangir was with her. So I stood behind the veil, avoiding making noise, hidden under the warm darkness.

I listened well with Nazeer there until Sultan Jahangir cried out in anger. He rolled up his letter, threw it into the burning fireplace. The fire licked and ate the paper to ashes, leaving a smell, and I closed my nose tightly as white smoke poured out into the open air. When the last moment of his anger grew, I got something that, Prince Khusrau had died in Burhanpur.

Cause of death colic. But then, as the sultanate almost fell into mourning, Sultan Jahangir had a conjecture, and was reinforced with a noble who came from the side of Khurram, drifting silently from his residence, that it was Khurram who killed his brother!

I flinched, realizing the uneasiness. I caught the turmoil and the wrath. And I did nothing but gallop grimly at my residence with bristling fur and abnormal heartbeats. Dreams about death messages come back, and often do not go even though I am awake. The dreams were hunting me, for either when I was awake or asleep, they came and told me that someone was going to die. Now, Khusraulah is dead! And it is bitter to say this, for it is Khurram who caused his brother's death. I pray to Allah that Khusrau's life will be forgiven. Because he had enough of himself to accept so much as a prince of the sultanate who had been revered. But it was discarded and ignored in the end. He was blinded by his father. Half-crazy, half-living, in the end, he died on the verge of delusion and fear. What else is the worst possibility after that that that Khusrau can accept? For he knew that if it were not his father who killed him, it would be his brothers and sisters who would do so to secure the throne.

We met one morning in the dim light, when my mother hurriedly betrothed me to the half-blind Khusrau. I pray, for the love of God, that Khusrau will not agree. My mother had planned to pull the Prince from the darkness to the light, planning to place him again as the rightful heir of the sultanate after his quarrel with Khurram. However, as I expected, Khusrau refused, and I am grateful for it. For I have come to believe that he will bring nothing but trouble. I've seen his wife. And he's aging at a tempestuous young age.

The next day, Sultan Jahangir wrote a letter to Khurram, invoking his explanation at the palace, waiting restlessly, galloping on a thick Persian carpet with or without turbans. He refused to drink wine or quieted his mind in opium. The slave girl and the music have been thrown out. But Khurram did not come! He wrote a letter to his father. Answering the potluck, Khusrau did die of colic, not murder as the leopard reported. And Khurram, overcome with fear and protected by his own situation, reluctantly marched out of Burhanpur towards the north.

Shah Abbas, Shahinshah Safawi-Persian captured Qandahar—the most important trading city in the north-west of the sultanate. Khurram was recalled, but in a hurry he refused on the grounds that he had to protect the territories his brother Parviz could not control. Thus, Sultan Jahangir granted a new title to Khurram, the same title as his glorified Shah Jahan. He called Khurram bi-daulat—bedebah. Sultan Jahangir has sent me another letter. It was confirmed that he would not see his face until he came to the Sultan himself to explain his cowardice in explaining his own situation.

Now, roughly speaking, Khurram has been banished from his father's affection. And this is all in line with my mother's plan to weaken Khurram's influence on the throne. Because if Khurram is no longer expected, there is only one Prince in the palace. Khusrau is dead, whether expected or not. Parviz is in the Deccan, with its wine and women. Khurram, the bi-daulat, banished from the lap of his father's affection, was exiled from the sultanate. There was only one prince in the palace. Living in the deepest recesses of mardane. His presence was wasted and forgotten, almost never touched. Reluctant to be embraced by nobles and palace ministers. However, my mother remembered it, once, with good will to reach her hand out of the deepest darkness and futility of life. He will regret his choice.

As the youngest, Prince Shahryar, the nashudani, the useless one who was born in the same year as me, was ready to get married.

***

I took a paste of henna and carved it into the hand, forming rose tendrils that coiled around the back of the hand. I don't think of anything—or have tried, rather. And I am sure that my eyes have now swelled from their original size. The emptiness of the royals in my heart. Hardened, petrified to hurt. Sometimes my heart feels heavy, and then I drop myself in a never-ending pit of sadness. I have unleashed my own soul's desire on the world. I am so confident that there is no happiness that God has left me. Now I know that what past romances tell me about separation and squalor is true. Not everyone gets the happiness they want. Some are forced to suffer with their destiny. While others try to be happy with what they have.

My mother arranged my marriage with Shahryar. That Nashudani, oh my God, I don't know what I'm going to get out of his pathetic self. Imagining it has brushed my hair. Horrify me. Until I throw away my own life force. I'm pulling my leg. I put my head on my knee, and I cried there.

I saw Nazeer Khan standing in the doorway. His hands were folded, his eyes were lowered, his chest puffed up like a camel's neck. I ignored his presence there. But, he came here because my mother had called me, he said. So I left, not wanting to cause any unnecessary fuss.

I left in a shaky step, staggered and almost fell as the floor slammed into my tiny fingers. During the journey, I could hardly see anything in front of me because my eyes were now narrowed and sore. I have trouble seeing things around myself. Neem trees, tamarind trees, frangipani trees, servants, and there are so many walls. Only because Nazeer's blessing guided my elbow could I reach my mother's residence. During the trip, I heard whispers. Some sound like insults. While others are condolences and sad decak for the misfortune of fate.

When I arrived, my mother was sitting at her desk. He was writing the sultanate's farm about this marriage. Sultan Jahangir has given him a previlese for it. And a number of other previles to write other farman. He sat with his back straight. His eyes were watchful, a brilliant blue glittering. He barely even noticed my movements when I went in there.

“Burfi, Ladli?” tanyakanya. He walked, took a plate of burfi in a golden plate, thrusting the food in my face.

I shook my head, avoiding conversation to talk.

Mom sat next to me. His breath was pulled slowly, then he exhaled it in a rhythmic tone. I saw him raise his head, and his eyes were twitching lazily. Her black hair is as beautiful as ebony. “Why?” He looked at my eyes and scrunched his forehead. I shook my head again, and he held both of my shoulders carefully. “You need something, Ladli?”

I'm shaking. This time it was stronger.

He's getting pissed. “Say something, Ladli!” he said angry while shaking my shoulder. He paused for a moment and then said. “Married you to this wedding?”

“Tell me what can I get from Shahryar?”

He nodded again. “Oh? Is this about Khurram or Shahryar, Ladli?” His gaze turned cautious, and I could not endure any longer the pain that was pounding in my heart. “Since when did you calculate the profit loss against something?”

I threw away my face. Blindfold. Don't want to hear him start babbling.

“Do you still love that bi-daulat?” tanyakanya.

“She has a name, and a title anyway.”

“Shut!” his screeches. His voice floated and then flew. There was no one in this room, so the loud noise just suffocated the two of us. “What's the point of Shah Jahan's title now? So stupid for him to have to kill Khusrau? Now he is terrified as a coward when his father finds out the truth and reluctantly comes out of Burhanpur to confront Shah Abbas. The bi-daulat will definitely ask for asylum to Golconda and make his father more angry. Khurram makes this all difficult. If only he wasn't stupid, he wouldn't have had to step away from the throne to take what belonged to him.”

I took a breath, trying to stay calm. “These Sovereigns are no different from the Nashudani. There's nothing useful about those princes, then. They're all just stupid guys who dream a lot and rush.”

“You're right. But at least we can cultivate our dreams with them. Think of the opportunities and gifts we get ahead, Ladli. Women like us should take the place when men are too stupid to handle their own affairs.” He's trying to embrace me. “Do you not want to be one of the women remembered in the Mughal saga?”

I let go of his grip on my arm. “Have you ever questioned Khurram about me, Mom? Even if, maybe.” I started crying again. My heart melted by my own tears. Yet he was quickly hardened by hatred and despair. When I believe that Shahryar is not an option, he is an obligation. I had no chance to choose, for I was no one but the daughter of the lucky widow. But I also cannot say that Khurram is an option. Because Arjumand is there. Arjumand still lives with him. And as long as she exists, as long as she has her children from Khurram, there will be no other woman for her husband.

“Ear,” he said slowly. “Multiple times and can't.” There was a tone held in his sentence. It was as if he had bitten his own irritation.

“You Padshah Begam zenana, Mom. If you really care about me, you'll do it for it.”

I turned my face away, avoiding his gaze. “And is that a good reason to marry me to Shahryar? Marry me to someone out there. I have the right to choose someone. I don't want to be confined to a made-up obligation. Call a capable noble, look at his life, be merciful in his nature, meek in himself. Not the nashudani! He's badmash!” I was crying again. “Is there any affection between us? I doubt it, and I'm not at all sure that he'll love me. So did I, Mom.” I'm getting sobbing. “I don't love him, because my love is only for Khurram. I've never lived to see another perfect man besides him. And when I chose it, I had to fall for his sister who ********. Whatisthis? By the love of God, do you ever think that I should be left to my own happiness, Ma?” Before Mom answered, I continued my sentence quickly. “When? In reality, this harsh reality, I have to give up my life as someone else's game.”

“Oh, Ladliku darling.”

He tried to reach me, but I stayed away. I have seen his greed for the throne and power. If Khurram accepts my mother's offer to marry me, when Sultan Jahangir dies, there will be a special position for him in the sultanate's zenana as Sultan Begam. He will fight in the political world of men until death comes to him. But, now, the Shahryar******* that is what will be controlled. My mother had judged that if Khurram had been hated by Sultan Jahangir, then Shahryar could have been promoted as successor to the sultanate.

“I will accept this wedding even though I don't like it,” I said slowly. I know what I'm saying, some perhaps, but I doubt the meaning. For my life will fall upon Shahryar and his humiliation. “How many gifts for this wedding?”

“Ten thousand rupees from him,” replied mom.

“Oh,” responded me indifferently, pulling one of my eyebrows up. “I doubt whether I will enjoy this wedding or not. He's poorer than me. Ten thousand rupees? And he's a Royal Prince. Is that the only treasure? Khurram bought Arjumand jewelry in Meena Bazar for ten thousand rupees.”

“I'll make sure there will be many more after.”

“I hope so.”

“Trust me, Ladli. Shahryar is a good man.”

I frowned, noticing the incomprehension in that sentence. So, I came out of disgust. My eyes were getting swollen, and I was suffering from it. During the journey, I galloped in anger. My days are running out in a terrible wait that I don't want at all. Is there no love of God in this? I have trusted Him with all my heart, but He has given no way out on this issue.

Ten thousand rupees? I muttered in silence. How much Arjumand jewelry was bought by Khurram? Is it so low? But I was reluctant to call for this protest because I knew that there would be no point in thrashing around like a madman. Marriage is about to happen, and I'm crumbling dimly into this sacred bond. I pray that God will take Shahryar's life on the night of the wedding. In order to free myself from misfortune and mala. But, until the wedding day, he was still alive. I've heard that he's been talking about things he doesn't need to say to his friends. He has said that he is the only now recognised Prince, who has the right to his father's throne, who was so accomplished that he was appointed Padshah Begam's son-in-law. But he was wrong, terribly wrong. He thinks he is now recognized. But Shahryar did not understand that he was only made one of the chess pawns in the game of others. My heart doesn't want it. His presence will be rejected.

The wedding took place a week later. Dozens of gifts were sent from mardana to zenana. Since their morning, dozens of silks and velvet have flooded the courtyard of my room. The servants came to rub my body in the tub, which they continued by applying henna all over my hands and feet. It was reddish in color, more like blood in my eyes. At that time, various jewelry came from Shahryar. He had formed his entirety in an incomparably beautiful petite form. Necklaces, bracelets, anklets, rings, nose rings, earrings, all inlaid with gems, rubies, sapphires, lapislazuli, and glowing greenish jade. None of the gifts were of interest to me, but marriage required a bride to choose jewelry from her future husband. So, I chose a small ring carved like a crown of roses, given a tiny pearl on it. In my heart, a few things. Did the news of this marriage reach Khurram? And what does he think about this? And Arjumand? Oh, how I miss him here. Because during my drab life in zenana, she was the only woman who understood my life was passing.

I stood behind a thick veil, in the frontmost position with a veil that covered all of my face except for my eyes. I touched this curtain, leaned forward, looked at the situation. I felt the coldness of the veil running through my head, which matched how cold my heart was. The women sat behind me, with mother as their leader. Sultan Jahangir sits across the street, with the sultanate's qadis, the patricians, and of course, Prince Shahryar. The light from his tunic shimmered, his clothes more luxurious than his own face. He was like a poor man who suddenly became king. I chuckled trivially at him. It was my mother who had sent him such a gift to cover his uselessness in the palace. But, whatever it is to be polished, for everyone he is still the nashudani.

The marriage was recorded at the farman, the Sultan's seal was erected, and the qadi led the prayer together. I cried at that prayer, because all the prayers told me about hope and happiness and dreams. What is all that in me for? Which now has been empty of all three. What else am I expecting, and why am I hoping. Shahryar is very stupid, more stupid than buffalo in the royal palace. He was even too clumsy to write his own name on the farm. His hands were shaking and his eyes were red. I'm guessing she just got drunk before getting dressed this morning.

The wedding was over in the afternoon. Believers are called to pray in the offered Adhan. So we laid out the prayer rug on the Persian ambal, bent our foreheads there to pray and said three times: Most holy is Allah, most exalted, most praiseworthy. As prayers are extended to the holy sky once again, while the horizon is still bright pink, leaving an orange and indigo hue, the wedding is closed together in arms and congratulations.

At night, polo matches, horse races, and dance and theater performances are performed in the grounds of the Agra Fort. All the nobles, all the ministers, the veil-covered women of Zenana, the Sultan and his relatives, all took notice, raised their chins inquisitively, and, tiptoes saw sickening performances only performed by men with those loamy muscles. But, for me, there's nothing tonight but discomfort. For the groom and the bride will be united in the bridal room. What will happen, O God, and what will happen in the days to come? Is that day coming? Or I will die before those days come.

The show finished at midnight. The pale moon shimmered, perched single in the night sky. I watched as the servants and eunuchs led me into the bridal chamber. Along the alley, the rose petals are sown irregularly. It smells sick, but promising. Is this what Arjumand and Khurram felt when they were about to make love? With sacred is their love united? The smell of the rose penetrated the stimulation of my nose, united with the taste of my body. My feet adorned with henna stepped hesitantly. For a moment, I was excited, but the excitement was quickly dissipated by fear. A golden-colored barrier curtain was prepared from the door leaf, and I stepped inside. I sat myself on a clean white sheet, sprinkled with red rose petals in the middle. Scented candles and rose water have been splashed throughout the room.

I waited so long that my eyes could not resist sleepiness. However, I insisted that I would not fall asleep to sleep. The smell of a sharp rose pierced my nose without pause, and I could think of nothing but romance or happiness I had failed to obtain. I close my back to the head of the cot, lean there, then stir and cry. Will God be kind to me tonight? Perhaps, what if He just put Shahryar here to bed until dawn. Perhaps, if only, perhaps, if only, that was all I could say. I know God hates such words.

A man rumbled at the end of the door. Voice blaring. Anger has burned his own words. He cursed and entered in a hurry. He stopped and breathed like a gazelle being chased by hunters. When he realized that someone was sitting on a couch, he stopped at his curse and watched carefully. His hands were on his waist, his eyes were hurried and impatient. Our views meet. He looked at me wildly. And I watched her while horrified alone. This it? My groom? Shahryar unleashed his turban hastily, released his tunic and headed to the cot. Body ugly. Her chest is hairy mess. And his tanned skin looked dull. His eyes crept over my body, making me ashamed as well as disgusted. Then he smiled in a horrible tone.

“Is this the Princess Padshah Begam? Really beautiful.” He wiped my cheeks, grinning. “Oh, My dear,” he said sharply. “Have you ever seen me? Ah, ever, maybe. Just once, and it doesn't matter. Don't we? I'm the nashudani, you know?”

I didn't answer, my head looked down at myself. My heart is jumping madly. Unexpectedly, he held onto my chin violently, forcibly raising me. “Jawab me!”

How hard I heard it. “Ya, Sir. Yes,” I replied.

“Girl nautch!” He threw his hand out of my face. I wanted to cry, but I held back as much as I could. Shahryar went back to hunting my eyes and speaking. “Do you know what I got from this marriage? There ain't! Mansab and my jagir have only improved a few. And your mother, that Padshah Begam zenana, said that I was the heir of the sultanate. Bah!” He spit on the floor. “The woman tried to trick me. Which heir to the sultanate has not even more wealth than his own minister? Everyone tried to trick me. My father, your mother, the generals of the sultanate, the ministers and the parents of the court. They all said that I would wear my father's crown. But I know that they still want Khurram.” He turned and stood up. “Why is everyone still expecting that bi-daul child? I never defied my father. I never wanted to fight him. I never even tried to hurt my brother. But everyone hates me and loves the killer instead.”

“Maybe because Khurram has proven himself to be useful and meritorious.” I tell myself to talk. But, a slap landed on my cheek. It was so loud that I screamed in pain.

“Who told you to answer my question?”

“I'm sorry, Sir. Me ..”

“Shut!” said strong. He was upright in front of me, showing off his chest that field. His breathing is irregular. He was drunk, I thought, and his anger became so because of trivialities. His eyes were as red as cherries. The smell of his breath was disgusting. “You brave girl, Ladli Begam. Who taught you that? Your mum? You must pay for it because you have dared to answer my question.”

“But, Sir, I'm just trying to keep you calm.”

A slap landed back in my face. “Silence, Ladli! Silence I said!” His voice was more terrifying than thunder, more wrathful than a storm. I sobbed in front of him, which made him very happy about it. “I am not at all calm because of your words. No words can make me better today. Everyone sounded mocking and playful praise. Now, you must stand like a dog *****. Do it because I ordered it.”

I'm unmoving. He was wrathful, so he forced me to stand up and forcefully cut off my thin tunic. Now, I'm half-naked, and she's so excited when I beg her not to be the way she treated me on our first night. But he refused. That I was a bad wife. He treats me like a stray dog. I shower my body with pain. He was hurried and torturing. Is this what it's like when Arjumand and Khurram make love? This must be a lie, because it feels so bitter and painful. But, Shahryar was excited alone. She pulled my hair when I cried.

“Be quiet, nautch girl! Shout then I'll beat you up here!” he said in anger. I held on so that I wouldn't cry despite the pain of being so-so and unbearable at all. He continued his work contemptuously, and I remained as the dog**** which he was forced to submit to. My lips are bleeding because I endured this pain by biting them with my teeth. My hands were squeezing white sheets, sweating because it was unbearable at all. He overstressed my body, showering me with the same pain many times. In the end, she knew I was crying. He knows I'm suffering. But he continued his torment.

I'm sobbing right now it's not stopping. He said while slapping. “If you tell your mother, I swear you'll suffer more the next day.” So I kept quiet too. When he reached the top and was exhausted, he fell into my arms. Hugged my body, and I let go of it in disgust. I felt pain between my legs. Blood flooded there, pooling like a puddle in the snow of Kashmir. The pain did not go away all night, in line with Shahryar's sickening snoring. I think, I think in my heart, that the Qur’an His Majesty must be wrong. The book says that the torment and torment of hell will be felt after death. And now, as I still feel my heart beating alive, I feel in the crust of hell.

Later, the sultanate would travel to Lahore to oversee Shahryar's movement in securing Qandahar from Safavid-Persian. But, everyone did not know, never expected, that Prince Khurram was galloping furiously from Burhanpur to Agra in a mad parade. He rebelled against his father.[]