Princess Ladli Begam's

CHAPTER IV: THE SAD SIGNS

Sultan Jahangir needs fresh air, the judges said. He often has acute asthma which makes it difficult to breathe at night. There are times when the asthma stops, replaced by a cough that whack his old chest. Then, the sound of his breathing motion sounded hoarse and empty without stopping. He is no longer fit, nor is he mighty. The tubers had been lodged in his head, even in his round and bushy beard. Leaving nothing but pale white. Now, the memory of Sultan Jahangir is collected. He could not clearly remember anything that the palace court decided at the previous meeting. And often asked if he did decide so, or not infrequently assume that the verdict was never dropped. The Sultan also became suspicious. He considered his ministers unfaithful. They were often asked whether they supported Prince Khurram or him. He put his suspicions on the few people he valued had crawled up further to his side to take what they could reach out to more money and power. Letters of dismissal often drop suddenly and a noble can be thrown into a corner of the sultanate.

My mother, Mehrunnisa, took the opportunity to rule on behalf of the Sultan. As long as Sultan Jahangir lay weak, not knowing whether he would breathe again or die on the brink of death, his mother was the final seat of the court. All petitions, gifts, letters of criticism, punishments, blessings, finding their way in and out of zenana. It was her mother who led the jarokha behind the veil in the morning to the commoners. And it is he who hears their whole story, responds to it, or rejects it with contempt.

Thus, the sultanate's entourage moved to Kashmir in 1626. Sultan Jahangir always called the place in his sleep. Kashmir is located in the north. Being on the border of the sultanate, in direct contact with the Himalayas. The air was extremely cold, even colder than Lahore, but it promised a non-threatening calm. We again walked in a giant parade that was showcased throughout the Sultanate's causeway. People do taslim awkwardly as their Sultan passes by. Elephants, camels, horses, stretchers, chariots, ministers, troops, slaves, take their own place in this long procession. The Sultan's camp was miles ahead, specially prepared so that when the Sultan reached his resting place, he would not have to bother waiting for his tent to be set up. On top of his elephant now, in the leading order of the entourage, Sultan Jahangir looks difficult. He was too difficult to breathe, until a healer was placed specially by his side inside the howdah.

In my own howdah, Arzani jumped up and down in joy. He was three years old, too agile and too smart for a child of his age. He had learned to write some letters, broken in Persian— because Persian was the official language of the sultanate. Arzani likes to wipe the curtains of howdah, while I try to touch his little body away from there so that he does not fall down.

“You're going to fall, honey. When are you going to learn that elephants are too tall?” I lifted his body back into my lap. I noticed her dark-black eyes twitching, and then I rubbed her dense hair back. “What happens if you fall and the elephant steps on you? It will sound like ..”

“What's it like?” ask me to want to know. He climbed up my body, and then wrapped his tiny arms around my neck. My golden necklaces were swaying, swiping at the thin skin. “Can her voice be dipped?”

I pecked her soft lips. “No. I can't, Honey.” And he's pouting no like. “Anyways, my grandmother and I will be sad when you fall. Even Paduka Sultan. You want to see our Sultan weep for his granddaughter?”

“Sultan is sick,” he said plainly.

“He will be healed, God willing. May I kiss you, my dear?”

“No,” answer. He's not far from me. Crawling towards the boundary of the curtain.

I took my embroidery from behind a pile of veil cloths, inserted a red wool thread into a large sewing needle. My back was held back, and I took my knees to my chest. I saw Arzani trying to wipe the front curtain, take an iron rod, then stab the elephant rider in front. Suddenly, the rider looked back. But he knew that his views had to be fixed forward despite Arzani doing such a thing.

“He's riding, Arzani. Don't bother that guy.”

Arzani watched me, putting his wand back on his side. “Is Kashmir far away, Bu?”

“About a week's journey, perhaps.” I shrugged, “Entahlah. Mom never went there. Maybe even longer. We must rest at night because Sultan Jahangir cannot sit comfortably in his howdah.”

“But he was never seen grumbling,” he said with the children's behavior. She ran to my side and hugged my right waist comfortably. He made me look like a big moving pillow. I'm glad Arzani did. He is the heart of my heart. The only reason why I still let my poor self live. His own father did not want it. So she had been practically raised selfishly by a charcoal-broken woman.

“You feel comfortable?” ask her. I put my embroidery back, then I took a book of Mughal history from behind my back. I opened the part that had been marked with a barrier, a silk cloth with gold thread. “Perhaps you want to hear me read a story from the past?” He nodded, so I continued my sentence. “Which one did you choose?”

“Sultan Humayun?”

“Oh? I thought you became interested because I told you about his escape, didn't I?” He nodded, making me excited. “Sure, Dear.”

I also talked about it during our long journey. I tell how Sultan Humayun fought in the fight for the property rights inherited by his father, Sultan Babur over their conquered lands in Hindustant. I describe how the horror of Sher Shah had ravaged Humayun's army, how he fled to Persia and pleaded for the Mughal army he was carrying to be given giant reinforcements from the Safavids-Persians. At the end of the story, I whispered also to Arzani gently, so that his curiosity was sticking out, that Sultan Humayun married a Persian Princess, Hamida Banu Begam, and gave birth to Sultan Akbar from his womb.

In fact, the Persians had influenced so many things in Mughal-India. My mother and father were Persians, my grandfather and grandmother were Persians, Sultan Akbar's mother was Persian. But we are always fighting with them now. In a subtle way, we have betrayed our own nation.

The Sultan Jahangir camp stops at night around the Jhelum river. He must rest, the judge said. And it will be so until dawn goes up half a track overhead tomorrow. The campground had been arranged in a circular manner from the beginning, with the Sultan's tent in the center in a red and unusually large. Fireplaces were set up, torches lit, and palace chefs clang their pots in the kitchen. The tent of the zenana women was placed not far from the Sultan's tent, but was limited by several barriers that allowed the ministers to not be able to see us during the palace trial.

By then, Arzani had fallen asleep. I put her little body on a pile of pillows filled with big feathers, then her body wriggled and her thumb put in her small mouth. I watched him so, slowly, and for a long time I sat staring at him, until pain crept in my body. Shahryar never acknowledged Arzani, but he still hoped too much that I would give birth to a son for him. But I emphasized to him, frankly, who had a slap, that I would not give him another child. I sip tears like a silvery light, afraid that someone might see me like this.

The sound of galloping horse legs forced me to get up. I saw from behind the door of the tent, four brown ponies were being moored around the Sultan's camp. The male's nape is fluttered into the night air. I had no idea who it was, but my mind and ears were clinging to the whispers and laughter of the zenana women behind the curtains and tents across. And as far as I thought, although my guess was only part of my ridiculous prejudice, they were whispering and laughing at my fate.

“Friends of Khan come, Princess.” Nazeer Khan's voice surprised me. I saw her pecking in front of the connecting curtain between my room and Mother's. His facial water was unsettled, and he himself was agitated until his turban sank to part of his forehead.

“What happened? Why was he called from the south?”

“That's where the problem is now.” He wiped the tent, looked around. “I have ordered the women not to stand behind their place in the Sultan's tent. Their meeting was secret. And as far as I could see,” he looked around the tent, realizing that no one was around except Arzani who was sleeping. “It's not a good meeting.”

“Why? I mean, what's the reason the Sultan called him from the border? What happened to Khurram, Nazeer?”

He shook his head, then took off his turban. “Nothing. Prince Khurram has been exiled, no longer in the south. But Mahabat has a large army of his own with Rajputs on his side.”

“You mean he rebelled? Why did he come to Sultan's tent?”

Mahabat Khan defeated a prince half his age. He had been an old grandfather, but was determined to win a landslide battle against Prince Khurram who marched madly to the north. But, either Sultan Jahangir or my mother had forgotten, that Mahabat Khan was never rewarded for his services. Never called to receive a title or blessing or land or even a piece of sapphire from his Sultan. Literally, he had been exiled in his pursuit, months of waiting for a call he never got. Everyone knew that he was deliberately called to be banished. My mother's dislike of him was still bloodied and, although Mahabat was called to be asked for help, he was not really considered to be on the Sultan's side.

But finally, fed up with being played with, Mahabat Khan came alone to the north after hearing Sultan Jahangir was about to move to Kashmir. Paraded with a large parade in the style of showing off to the Sultan that he had his own strength and army. That the almighty Khan was too rich to buy his own army. Who can stop him now? The one who was given the order to drive out the rebels is now rebelling to his own master. Now, Sultan Jahangir will know what he has done.

“I heard that the relationship of Prince Khurram and Mahabat has improved, Princess.” Nazeer Khan whispered into my ear, his head lowered.

“Really? What do you think—”

I had not finished that sentence when the screams from the Sultan's tent were shrieking in wrath. We both flinched, then took our heads out, realizing that something had happened to Sultan Jahangir or to my mother. Four tethered horses sped too fast in the middle of the night. Escape with a captive behind their horse. I ran past Nazeer Khan towards my mother's tent. He was not there, so I walked from the tent to the tent owned by Sultan Jahangir. The grapes spilled and cracked, causing stains on the carpet. The bottle has been splintered.

From behind the veil, I leaned forward, pressed my lips against it, looking around faintly. The sultan does not exist. Mahabat Khan was not there either. My mother sat on a velvet pillow, farman on her left, stamp on her right. He sat cross-legged with a wine pitcher in front of him, broken ceramic glasses strewn there. The door of the tent was wide open, flapping played by the wind. On our face, nature has displayed a panoramic view of the indigo-colored river Jhelum. The water seemed calm, yet rippled wrath at its edges. Above him, the moon has perched on the horizon, swimming around him over the clouds. The night wind raced in circles, revolving around the tent with the intention of scaring.

I entered without saluting, heading straight in front of him. I saw tears smearing his face. His hands shook, and his lips diculum in teeth were chirping in rhythm from behind the tightly closed chiffon veil.

“What happened? Where is Sultan?” I asked while holding his hand.

“Friend!” his yell. “You badmash! Badmash, Grandpa! I swear I'll cut your body apart while you're still alive later!”

I sat down to calm down. The veils had painted grooves around her neck and forehead, making Mother seem so old. I poured the wine into the glass, gave it, but he was reluctant. “What happened to Sultan?”

“Si Mahabat ***** it has brought her as sandra.” Mother roared there, saying prayers and wishes of curses to the Lord from her lips. “I've seen my own husband taken away. Oh, think about this. How unfortunate my fate is.”

Pretty impressive, I thought later. But I did not expect that Mahabat was too brave to hold Sultan Jahangir hostage alone. He had known the risks, knew that his head might just—no, surely— would roll laughably on the stage of execution. Or his body will be sulked or swinging on a banyan tree. But, Mahabat, I thought quite calmly, had shown his prowess to Sultan Jahangir. That they, either the Sultan or the Mother, should both realize that the Mahabat is worth reckoning with.

“Nazeer! Nazeer!” shouting Mother. His eunuch was flushed in without a turban. As she stood in the threshold of the curtain, my mother continued her words. “Call Abul Hasan and Shahryar. Tell the two to lead the pursuers to Mahabat Khan's army. I want all the elephants to come along, and no one can stop until the head of Mahabat is dragged to me. Now!”

Nazeer Khan ran without saluting. I saw him disappear from behind the curtain. Then, as he left, the slaves came to clean the stains and quote the scattered fragments of ceramics. I observed Mother, wanting to ask her something, but she was too busy with the farman of the sultanate. Mother affixed the seal, attached it, wrote the same farman, then attached the seal again. When I want to talk, he will say, “don't now, Ladli.”

So, I'm quiet. It took a long time until Mom was completely ready and stood up from her job. She tightened the veil on her face, taking out a small mirror to prepare her beautiful face again in public. “Prepare your clothes. We'll drive now.”

“But, the troops are resting. And our horses are asleep at the stables.”

“Care it, Ladli! Listen to my words because I ordered them.”

We moved an hour later with a big army. Shahryar and Abul Hasan's uncle led the troops at the front. I wondered in myself if it was right to put those two people on the front line. Shahryar is not a great leader. Too sloppy, idiot, no spirit anyway. Uncle Abul Hasan was indeed impressive, experienced on the saddle of the saddle of the sultanate's horse. But Abul Hasan's uncle was Arjumand's father, Khurram's father-in-law. I began to think that he could have betrayed us for the sake of his son-in-law. No one ever forgot what my mother had done to her about the inheritance. And I know, even though he smiled and complied, the wound was still gaping on his chest.

Our troops chased Mahabat's forces into darkness, too clumsy and confused to set foot on the soft ground wet with rain and the ripples of the waters of the Jhelum river. Elephant feet often go into deep mud. Our troops, half conscious, flabby and lackadaisical in walking, desperately took the animal out in the biting darkness of night. I began to doubt our achievements.

Next to me, Mom tightened her thick veil. He straightened his back, lifting the oil lamp to the front of his face so that the streets looked perfect in their embrace. Then, his voice shouted out loud. As he shouted, our troops straightened their withered nape and walked as they should. The lights were walking with us, as if we were moving in a termite encirclement. I can't hear anything from howdah. There were too many voices, but not a single one got caught in my mind. Why is Mahabat Khan's entourage nowhere to be seen? How far is it? All we did was swirl around sniffing the faint tracks of his horse, which somehow ran to which side of the river.

As I lay back, I saw Arzani sleeping there. I moved him in a hurry with the help of Nazeer Khan to get on the howdah. Arzani did not say a word of space even though he realized he was being raised on an elephant. When the first elephant in the front row stepped on the deep mud, a shouting voice rippled around us. I don't know where the sound came from, but the whole army surrounded us like ants protecting the sugar. They gathered together and docked, and then the oil lamps shimmered around us. I can't see anything further. My eyes narrowed to deduce the one two shadows twitching under the gripping darkness. But, all I got was a hideous dart. The rain of arrows hit our troops, including the elephant I had.

I headed towards Arzani. I wrapped her little body in a blanket of silk and warm wool. The arrows came back, accompanied by the cries of the invasion from our soldiers. From behind the darkness, which was slowly no longer faint as the light rose from many directions, the forces of Mahabat Khan gave a horrible shriek. The Rajputs he was carrying drove in wrath without a shirt. They only used white dhotis rolled up to their knees, splattered with river mud. I'll bet that Mahabat Khan paid them dearly. Where is he?

When our troops were scattered, fear overpowered me. And I started thinking no-no while feeling that my throat was choked for whatever reason.  Rinai descended from the black sky, followed by a deep-rooted white lightning, flailing to the low earth. Slowly, I shivered on the elephant. This animal was shrewd because of the rumble of a long barrel rifle that was raised in the air, but returned to normal when the handler controlling it full of expertise.

“Sleep, Darling. Everything's gonna be fine. Mom is here,” I replied as I clenched her mouth with my index finger. But, my own condition is no better than that kid, because I'm freaking out. It's all playing in my mind now. What would happen if our troops lost? What if one of us threesome—aku, Arzani, mom—shot?

Mother took her rifle, lifted it over the shoulder, then pressed the trigger to aim at a horse in front. The animal shrieked as lead bullets pierced through the rain. The rider slammed, fell on his horse. Not far from us, I saw Mahabat Khan and Sultan Jahangir on an Arabian horse. He looked panicked and frightened. While Sultan Jahangir is like a death row inmate who wants to be rushed to avoid punishment.

“Pursue that traitor badmash!” squealing Mother.

In front, Uncle Abul Hasan's horse was galloping among the corpses of the enemies who died silly. He leaped from the animal, pulled the sword from its jewel-encrusted sheath, threw it at the horse of the Highness. The animal squealed, knocking the rider behind. His neck was torn apart by a sharp stone, then his eyes stared blankly. Mahabat Khan was cornered, while Sultan Jahangir fell not far from him. He groans in pain.

The friend moves fast. He took a dagger from his pocket, rising from his slump on the ground. Mahabat ran towards the Sultan, intending to hang a dagger between the hands and chest of Sultan Jahangir. But, uncle Abul Hasan was unrivalled. He captured Mahabat Khan, dropped him on the ground, bent him so that he would no longer be free. The dagger was now stuck in his back. I thought Mahabat Khan was dead, but it seemed like the stab was just to bully his people. Just then, knowing the leader was in danger of death or forgiveness, a dignified officer ran over with the banner, shouting the cue to retreat to the rear line. The rain came without hesitation. As we lasted longer there, the rain fell crazier.

I can't guess what happens next. Lightning came scaring, accompanied by a thunderous shrill voice between the two teams. Too many are tucked behind the back of the back of the back. And my mother threw herself back, too tired, but her spirit has not yet subsided. He asked to be brought to Mahabat, but the elephant rider lost control as our troops ran around the elephant's feet.

“Where is Abul Hasan?” ask mommy.

I squealed, looking for my uncle behind the backs of the men who ran from the dead. At the end of there, where Abul Hasan's uncle had crippled Mahabat, he was talking to him. I don't know what it's about. But the look on my uncle's face was not threatening at all. Mahabat Khan looked at his face, nodding several times before finally galloping away with his shrewd horse towards the other side of the Jhelum river. He went south with his troops, leaving our troops empty, without calculations or threats. But I wonder why Uncle Abul Hasan let him go. I don't want to guess anything. Or just asking. My mother questioned her unwise decision. Why would he let go of a fugitive from the sultanate? Why did he let her escape? While we could hang Mahabat tomorrow morning as a traitor. His insolence and my mother's anger were not at all worth letting him waltz free. And Abul Hasan's uncle replied casually that the Sultan and his army had been ordered to flee south, away from his Sultan to pity themselves because now, the whole sultanate rejects the presence of Mahabat everywhere. Practically, Mahabat was ordered to seclude himself under surveillance in exchange for his life and devotion to his Sultan. And indeed, Mahabat Khan returned the Sultan to us safely, without injury or wound.

This is what concerns us now. The health of Sultan Jahangir demands attention. The fever attacked him, too high, and we doubt if he can survive in the air like this. The rain hit the earth with wrath, and the thunder screamed mercilessly. Mother held Sultan Jahangir in the main elephant, while I held Arzani in my elephant.

Where is Sharyar now? I did not see Nashudani fighting in the middle of the battlefield, pitting a sword, firing a bullet from his rifle, or shouting orders at all the officers. I pray, with God's permission, that he will die on the field. But later, after questioning an officer, I learned that Shahryar was not involved in this battle. He was sick, he said, and it was impossible to get out in the threatening air. He secured his ass as a coward behind the tent while we were almost dead pierced with arrows and swords.

Sultan Jahangir was taken back to his tent safely. He was laid on a couch, warmed with a warm, fragrant fireplace. She called five judges, sat among them to listen, and prayed to Mecca. May Allah not be bored with us, until He gives Sultan Jahangir enough age, at least, until we arrive in Kashmir. The air here is very threatening, and we do not know what kind of rebels are coming to this camp. In addition, Prince Khurram is still worth counting. During his years of exile, he may have thought that he was again worthy of an outgoing lead army. Why must he survive in his place as an outcast while his father has been dying and helpless. The president has given him an open show. He knew his father would not - or could not, perhaps, resist. It only depends on the people around it. So I'll bet that my lover has prepared in his place.

After making sure that Arzani was safe on the cot, I searched Shahryar everywhere. She wasn't among the zenana women, so she must have been at her residence. What kind of disease has paralyzed the coward? Who now considers that he is the one who deserves to be reckoned as the next Sultan. When I walked into his room, he threw a vase. I retreated backwards, realizing that I was now dealing with a half-beast man.

“Don't come! Go!” his yell. He hides under a thick blanket.

I stepped in, lifted up the skirt and tiptoed to avoid any shards of objects.

“What happened, Milord?”

“Go say! Who told you to come here, nautch girl! I never ask, while you come as you please. Did Padshah Begam order it? Has the Sultan died at the hands of Mahabat Khan?”

“Forgour mouth, Sir. He's still alive. And I'm here because I care.”

He lifted the blanket, came out of hiding. It was moving, and my heart felt angry. When he appeared rudely, I was stunned unexpectedly. My breath was restrained, my mouth opened without saying a word. There was not a single hair, not even eyebrows, not even eyelashes, not even a mustache, not even a beard. I retreated, as if in a dream, a nightmare. The creature laughed horribly, which made my hair bristling and tense. Is this Shahryar? Is this the man I married? What's up with his looks? Where are all the hairs on his face and head? Why is he bald? And, her skin, the skin that touched me without that love, peeling and rotting.

He laughed, rising from his bed to me. “You care about me, Ladli? Come, Honey. Comehere. And kiss me,” he said with a horrible facial water.

“What happened?” tanyaku. My gaze still hung on his horrible face. He looked more like a newborn monkey. I turned my head towards the waiter next to the door. “What's with him?”

Shahryar sits on the red carpet. He smiled, then picked up the apple lying there. My heart suddenly hardened and grieved, but in the corners of my cruel heart, God, forgive meI—I have thanked God because He has made Shahryar a miserable creature. He's not gonna be Sultan. Not in this condition, I thought sourly. No one will want to enthrone a bald Sultan with a rotten skin. I was still standing at my place, slowly retreating to close myself to the wall of the tent.

Shahryar scanned his arm. “It's a kind of leprosy,” he said calmly. “Thank God you've married a leper, Ladli.” He paused his words to bite the apple, chew it to ***, then swallowed it. “I'm fine. Everything's normal. I don't have a fever and don't digest anything. Only my skin is troubled.”

“You are sad, Syahryar,” I said as I shook my head. “God is angry at you.”

“Bah!” Shahryar spat, threw the apple at me. “What do you know about God's wrath? Al-Qur’an His Holiness said “And why do you wonder when hit by a disaster while you have caused a calamity twice.”

“Why are you quoting that verse?” ask her. “If you think, Shahryar, you are a disaster for me. You're the one who slapped me, treated me like an animal. Where is your love? I never even felt that I was married and loved. There was no love in you from the beginning. How is it different from a virgin out there? I never felt like I was married. That our relationship is only limited to having children. You only come to me when you want to. And we're both always like strangers in the face of a crowd. I've never felt what they say about married love. Now God has punished you. It is an embarrassing punishment. Be aware that God has left you.”

“Shut!” his screeches. “Shut up or I'll kick you!”

“You will die if Khurram manages to reach Lahore to defeat you.”

“He won't!” Now, he grumbled while scratching his skin. His dirty fingers grinded the part until his skin bled and scattered on the carpet. How disgusting it is. “I will be the Sultan, Ladli. Khurram would not come out, and never would, from his exile because the whole sultanate had rejected him. And if he dabbles, I will turn off my sword will kill him.”

I shook my head, mocking, but my eyes did not change. “You're too weak, nashudani. You weak badmash!”

“Stop calling me badmash because I am not ********!”

He threw me with a gold plate. The dish broke when the tent wall bounced it back onto the carpet, colliding with the coated ground. I took the shale and threw it back. How grim I am now, and he, unaware of whether to live or die, is still stubborn. Had Shahryar not been so despicable, I would have loved her slowly. However he is worse than **** though. Grief came to me, wrapped in a humming word for anger. “Stupid! You badmash! Do you think your son would look at you like this? How many boys are you now? Stupid!” I threw the fragments at him while continuing to curse. “Think what happens if we have a son before you take the throne. Think if Khurram comes to attack you! Whose son will he kill? Of course your son! You are****, Shahryar. Khurram will not let your son live because he can claim his father's throne in the future. What'd you do all this to me for? And now,” I've paused my sentence for sobbing, while tears drip from my chin. “You blame me for everything that happened to you? Where's your mind? For the love of God, Shahryar, look at you.”

I'm silent. I took a deep breath to calm down. My face paled, then frowned in anger. If Zenana Sharyar could hear this quarrel, let them know that their sons could have died if Khurram had lowered Shahryar's head under his feet.

He smiled, then scratched his arm again. “Do you still love Khurram, Ladli? After so far?”

I flinched at his question. “What? What did you say?”

“Jawab me!” his screams.

“What do you know about what is between me and Khurram?”

“She's round, Ladli. He's a heretic who's against his father.”

“Better than nashudani,” I replied grimly.

He stands. I know I've talked too much, and it doesn't satisfy him very much. He will definitely come to me, hurting my body for the umpteenth time with excitement. He got up to advance, then Nazeer Khan appeared suddenly in the doorway. His face hardened watching Shahryar, then watching me as well.

“Sorry, Your Grace. Sultan Jahangir is dying. Both of you are expected to be present in his tent now.”

“We have to go, Shahryar.” I looked at him.

“You should, not me! I'm not going out with this.” He insisted.

I took a breath, realizing that he was too stupid for the size of a Royal Prince. So, I galloped with Nazeer Khan. I went into my tent, broke into my mother's tent, then slowly went behind the veil in Sultan Jahangir's tent. He was lying down. His hands clasped mother's fingers, too weak, and there was no slow-spoken vocabulary. His breathing was noisy, but not clear, too noisy as it went up and down. His eyes blinked, then momentarily closed. My mother cried beside him, praying that Allah would make it easy for the Sultan. But God seems to be bringing death. Sultan Jahangir groaned twice, his chest was pulled up, and his eyes were cracked. He took a breath, flailing his own air doubtfully. Then, a moment later, when all the gazes of the people were too watchful, as the people waited, as the messenger was preparing with his swift limbs, when the people were ready yet attentive, he said, Sultan Jahangir has died.

My mother kissed her husband's neck sorely. He roared, occasionally reciting prayers from the mullahs for forgiveness. I do not know how painful it feels, but I think part of his soul has now been floating with the soul of Sultan Jahangir. That last breath has signaled to everyone that happiness and life have been drawn from it. Sultan Jahangir had left the entire sultanate under Princes who could each claim the throne in his name. However, an opportunity seemed open to Khurram or Shahryar, as it was only a few minutes later, news from Burhanpur arrived that Prince Parviz had died. Many years of his life were poor and entirely spent on wine. Well, I suspect that it's as insignificant as any other news for my mother. He had thought of one thing. That if Sultan Jahangir dies, Shahryar will ascend the throne. For if Khurram had defeated his brother, literally, to kill Shahryar, we would have no place in the heart of Khurram or Arjumand.

News of grief spread throughout the sultanate. The days of waiting have now come, but are awaited without doing anything, for only death comes. The sultan had died peacefully, believed to be drinking heavenly wines. All the ministers and military units have now weighed, with great care, where will their heads be raised? So, the flow of power was turbulent after death. The verses of His Majesty's Qur'an were preserved throughout the sultanate. The verse was quoted from Surah Al-Fatihah, then continued with a sacred prayer for the Sultan.

Too hasty, because Mother was afraid that Prince Khurram would seize the palace's treasure vault into her own, Shahryar was sent to Lahore, like it or not, to preside over the emergency palace trial, which was to be held, forcing everyone to recognize him as the Sultan on behalf of my mother, Ratu Nur Jahan Begam. In this way, the woman has assured us that we will live in the grip of the Shahryar government. And if Shahryar could reach Lahore uninterrupted, he would become the Mughal Sultan of India. And I am Padshah Begam zenana.

As Shahryar marched to Lahore in a hurry, we had forgotten someone among us. Uncle Abul Hasan is still with us, still, though forgotten, holding a grudge that is burning inside him for my mother. In the years he spent, Abul Hasan's uncle did not get even one rupee from my grandfather Ghias Beg's estate. Uncle Abul Hasan did not get any position in the palace, except the title as Prince's in-law and brother of Queen Nur Jahan Begam. So, he wants more than that. If Uncle Abul Hasan could obtain anything he could have more than what he could get, he would definitely side with his son and daughter-in-law.

So, Uncle Abul Hasan betrayed us.[]