Princess Ladli Begam's

CHAPTER VI: SELF-PITY

    The foot of time has led me to flee from the dream world into a time of emptiness without waiting. Dreams and delusions that offer a friendly and charming life have turned into a reality hell of no mercy. The graceful stars had incarnated into blood dots. Nightmares have changed as ghosts of reality. I was drowning in an ocean of sadness. Then I reached for happiness clumsily and out of breath.

    I have aged perfectly as a lonely Widow Prince, and exhausted my time in self-isolation in Lahore. My soul has told myself that all that remains is empty heartache. Which will not be lost by lamentation and prayer. I stared at my face in the mirror many times, staring at the void and hope framed above the aging facial water. Observe how the passion of youth drifts and disappears. I studied the wrinkles that slowly created grooves, carving sorrow and its nista from within the soul. I felt it under my fingertips in annoyance. Don't know who to curse.

    I almost nelangsa desperately in this land. There's no one but me, Arzani and Nazeer Khan. The days were heavy and slow. Without love or romance, such as sipping the pedar without the turmoil of various flavors. What the fuck? Love leads me to live. Now that love stopped caressing my beautiful body and breezing away. I broke charcoal on my own as well, against my holy and forbidden love. I cursed myself. Crying and wailing. Regret and pray. But still nothing has changed.

    Here, there is little hope. Our lives have been isolated. Literally or figuratively. We ourselves are strangers. I am a stranger. My mother is a stranger. We have Persian blood in our veins, but we live in the Mughal lands of India in the auspices of Sultan Shah Jahan. Strangers living in isolation. How irony. And our hometown was far away, many miles away from where I stared at the defiant sun.

    I have heard that Khurram, whom I will call Shah Jahan from now on, put down the rebellion in the south, the place he used to run rampant as a King-Spirit was ridiculous and hid when his father called him to the north. The Deccan rebels with the Golconda tribes and kingdom had gnawed at the border region of— when he had come there as a beggar Prince who asked for mercy after almost dying of being chased as a dissident.

    The rebels were never strong. Yet troublesome. They would keep popping up as much as any sultanate undermined them all to leave. The pretentious bandits gathered their men a thousand and came up silly to challenge the great sultanate on which they hung their lives. They rob and plunder. Very confident against the army of the sultanate. In the end, the Sultan Shah Jahan himself went down there. Go with the troops and tents outside the Red Fort Agra. Deccan and the surrounding area are boiling. The fierce birds hungry for the carcass had swirled and laden in the air.

    I was standing on the balcony of our house, a luxury griya that my mother had built while she was still in power on the side of Sultan Jahangir. This house is the largest house in the village of Shahdara, where we now live in the city of Lahore, isolated on a small plot of land outside the city's fortified walls. My mother has been juggling the city as her trinkets for a long time, which she can taste her pleasures now. The ground is so loose. In the morning, I saw the women with the sari lifting the king's banana over their heads, or the watermelon or pumpkin they had placed in the covered wicker basket. Children play bamboo groves on a stocky buffalo in the mud of the Ravi river, singing one or two silly childish songs while running half-naked eating a forest apple.

    Arzani grew up completely in this place. He has developed as a vivacious country boy. His days were exhausted with rivers and fields and mud. Everyone knows that it was Sultan Begam of Jahangir who occupied the mansion in Shahdara. That it was the grandson who was running and laughing among the crowd of their children. Who sometimes steal one or two fruits in their fields. That the son of Sultan Begam was the widow of the poor Prince Shahryar nashudani. Who sometimes buy kitchen spices in the market. But, no one ever touched on that matter. Or just talk of gossip in the shops.

    “Cup chai, Princess?” Nazeer Khan put a cup of chai by my side. I saw white smoke flailing through the air, and then it disappeared.

    I sighed, sitting on a chair with a velvet pillow. I buried myself deeply in my weak arm. My bracelet rattled, then I found that the sun was struggling to climb into its trajectory in orbit. Nazeer Khan was the only servant here, placed dishonorably by Shah Jahan in the service of his old employer awaiting death. I was moved when he insisted that living with us without pay is an obligation. “Sultan Jahangir has left Sultan Begam with me,” he said when I asked him why he did not expect a rupee from my mother's pocket. Although the sultanate still provides pension funds for the mother, which allows her to design this place to be more beautiful, life like this is not fun. One rupee flies, another one comes. Mother built gardens, sarai-sarai, markets, and fed hundreds of people every month. I looked at myself, pitying my soul that would die without romance and love.

    I sipped my chai. “How much sugar did you put in here?”

    “Two Spoons, Princess.” Nazeer Khan frowned. “Is it too sweet?”

    “I can't even tell if this is warm water or chai, Nazeer. Get me some sugar,” I told him. He leaned over and left, but I stopped his steps as he was going down the stairs. “Is Arzani awake?”

    “Nona Arzani has gone to play, Princess.”

    “This spring?” I just can't believe it. I left my seat, and I stepped quickly on the stairs to get down. Arzani is always gone, not knowing the time, not even remembering whether he has eaten or not. He would come back when his body was dirty or a farmer in a corner of the village chased them for stealing a watermelon. She is a daughter, a granddaughter of Sultan Begam. And that's totally inappropriate. Well, even though the girls here do behave like men by climbing and swimming.

    When I got to the porch, I saw he wasn't there. I called his name around the house, circling between the garden and the trees. He wasn't there, but his footsteps indicated that he had just played under a papaya tree. His name and the names of his friends, carved in Hindi and Persian. I held onto her writing flow, smiled wryly and cried like a person *****.

    “Why do you still have to keep crying, son?” Mother stood on the edge of the door leaf, crouched down, then sat down. Her face looked fresh, but her spirit had withered like a dying flower. “You've lost everything long ago. Isn't it enough for you to let everything pass and sink?”

    I guess my eyes are slow. My mother has been incarnated as an old noble with treasures and rank. But his nature has softened. I am thankful that God has changed the mood of his soul. Perhaps being away from the heart of the sultanate and breathing non-threatening air every morning had tamed his lust. He never faced a farman or a sultanate stamp. Never nag at the negligence of one or two patrons. Never imposed punishment or declaration of war. His anger has been blunted by the state of life.

    I realized that my body as a daughter was booked here. Without the servants, I would have to take care of all my own needs. It was very unusual for her to do everything alone while her days behind were passed as a Queen being served. That's life. Everything is turning and changing. My grandfather was right about this. We get something in the back of the day to hand in the later days. We have started this life with loved ones. Fathers, mothers, grandparents, uncles, aunts, cousins. Then, as time draws them one by one, we will lose name by name in our minds, embraced by death.

    “Good morning, mother” I said slowly. Smoke it on the cheek. “Nazeer and I made you my favorite burfi this morning. The tea was ready half an hour before I left the room. This morning the milkman did not come. So Nazeer went to the market after dawn this morning. Where is Arzani?”

    “Nazeer and you. I know Nazeer did it all, Ladli.” Mother leaned against the pillar, her legs straightened forward. “Arzani has been gone since you hit the carpet on the balcony.”

    I took the scissors over a pile of bricks, scoured our rose patches. “Girls don't well get out before the sun goes up half a circle.”

    “He's just a kid. What can children do here besides bathing buffalo and cows?”

    “I never got that kind of freedom just yet,” I said as I cut a brown and skinny rose branch. With a pretentious and sulky tone.

    “Don't I ever let you set up a page, Ladli? Did I lock you up like a monkey?”

    “Stay only. I never saw the river,” I replied jokingly. Playing emotions.

    “You want me to let you out the fort?”

    “Of course.” I took out the trash of the broken leaves that the caterpillars had eaten. “We often see the river when we live with dad in Bengal. We often look at it up close. Noticing how the fish netters came back upset because the net was empty.” I patted my hand, clearing the ground from there. “And mom is not a Queen.”

    Do my words touch him? Mom's staring. He scrunched his forehead. I thought he wasn't feeling good about what I said. But he clucked while swinging his hand at me. “Cabin, Nak.”

    So I came to him too. I sat my body in front of him. He looked me in the face like a visionary, reading fortune and the future. His fingers held onto my dry cheeks, as if fumbling with sadness and doom. I have drowned in pools of tears in the hard and late nights. The silence in this place has brought more moments from the past to be remembered and remembered. My eyes are tired of crying. But he did not stop pouring water. Like a person who drinks sea water, he will still ask even though he has taken many times. I myself have assumed that my heart has shrunk and shrunk. There are no cavities available to be happy and joyful.

    “Do you regret our lives, Ladli?”

    “No,” I said carefully.

    “Did you miss the palace?”

    “No. I never thought about going back there.”

    “Then do you miss Khurram?”

    I stopped my movement. Face away. Blushed. “I'm trying to set up my new life here. No time to miss that guy.”

    “Swear on behalf of Allah that you do not miss him.”

    I'm silent.

    He released his grip on my face. Back and look up at the sky. The clouds are chasing around the earth. The sun is no longer shy. “I don't blame you,” said my mother. He stared at the ring of the bracelet on his arm. “You've never loved anyone in the past. And Khurram is the first for you. My mother once said that we can never forget our first love.”

    I looked into her intense eyes. “Did mom ever have it? I mean, first love?”

    “No. I never have. God protected me from the bitterness of love. Sultan Jahangir is the first and I am grateful to have had it—or, I should have it. And I made it mine. Yep. Mine. I'm luckier than you, you know,” he said to tease me.

    But she quickly took my arm before my mood changed. “Listen. You have a new life here. There is much more to it than just wishing and dreaming that Khurram will come and kneel by your side. Begging you to go to his Harem. That's never gonna happen. You know it's impossible. He's the Sultan and he doesn't have time to think about the whiny woman he's been alienating. We live in exile, Ladli. Assume that he never knew us and we did not live under his rule. After all, Arjumand is among you. And she'll never like the romance you've built. All you need to do, my dear, is just let it go and start a new life as a free woman. Your soul is here, Ladli. On here. Release your own feelings. You're not a shackled slave. Who must resign if his master is injured or perished.”

    “But I feel that I have been enslaved by love.”

    “Omong empty,” angry. “Love you said it was just silly stuff. He's changed nothing but making you look pathetic and worse. No love can live you. He can't keep you full. He just tortured you as a lunatic. He makes you skinny and haggard. He made your eyes sunken and your cheeks taper. He has made your hair rough and damaged. He has taken your sleep. He has kept you awake to regret and cry. Tell me. What do you get out of your love other than silliness? You think your love story will be written by poets like Amir Khusrau? No, Ladli. No time to glance at the story of a stupid woman like you.”

    My heart was struck by lightning. And I was cursed to be a stubborn stone. My mother said and I listened. I had pityed myself long before her sympathy—if her sympathy had just grown lately. I turned my face away from him, facing the apple tree whose branch was occupied by a wild monkey. Below, Nazeer Khan picks up a broom to drive it away, while the animal throws it with a piece of apple he bites.

    “I ... don't know,” I replied slowly. Almost not sure what I said. “I'm not sure of myself. I have tried to live my own life. But my fortress quickly collapsed and its defenses were difficult to build.”

Mom patted me on the shoulder, squeezing my long, skinny fingers with her other hand. “Look at you, Ladli. Look at you pathetic! You must learn to forget your Khurram, Ladli. He is no longer Khurram. He's Shah Jahan. Sultan Shah Jahan.”

    “Even if he is ********, I will love him.”

    “He is a badmash! Oh, my God, what happened to this kid? You're an adult, Ladli. It's time for you to live as a strong-hearted woman.”

    “Mature should take our thinking forward. But I felt my soul had stopped in childhood. And make him too honest to interpret feelings. I can't lie to myself. And I'll cry if I want to. There is no lie between me and my soul. But I tried to educate him slowly so that he would obey the orders of mother.”

My mother pulled her hand. I can feel the pain on his face. So, he moved to get up. She fished herself to endure while holding onto the beautifully carved pillars. “I'll let you do this until you learn about reality. Your life is in Shahdara, Ladli. We're in Lahore. No one wants to visit us. We're human outcasts. And your Sultan, your beloved Sultan, would not be willing to walk to Lahore and see his political prisoners.”

    At that time, Arzani ran to reach me. “Mother!” pekiknya joy. I kept the box back and searched for his voice. How flabbergasted I was when Arzani came back with a muddy blouse and skirt. Her veil's waving. I don't know what he's doing, or where the village kids are taking him to play. When I came to him, he smiled innocently. There was a mud stain on his teeth and he was wet like a floundering fish coming out of the water.

    “For the love of God, look at you Arzani. What are you doing, honey? Look,” I lift the stained edge of her skirt.

    He laughed, then thrusting something in the hand he hid behind his upright back. Inside the wooden bucket, a fish squirmed. I looked at my son's face, and he answered calmly. “Village boys brought me to Ravi river to catch fish.”

    I'm shaking. “You have done it many times. What's worse than this?” I said take the bucket. “If you play further in the sun, you will make yourself jet black.”

    “We almost get bigger than this.” He spread his hand. “If only uncle riding did not tell us to go up from the water. He's a friendly guy who taught us how to ride a horse.”

    “A nigrat? Who?”

    “Entah. Probably from Fort.”

    I looked back at the dying fish. “Good. You're gonna eat this for the night, Arzani. Now take a shower or you won't get your share.”

    “I will,” he said run.

    When I saw Arzani come in for a bath, the water jars and jugs were almost empty. I have to fill the whole thing up or we won't have a drop of water tonight. So, I took Nazeer Khan to lift the thing onto a carriage pulled by a bull with a canopy and a curtain of cover. We took a train to the Ravi River to fill the water with the other women who were going to wash.

    The Ravi River is located south of the village of Shahdara. Her waist was beautifully curled along seven hundred and twenty kilometers. Mouthed on the Chenab river, the Ravi river displays beautiful water panoramas with mountains and cliffs as well as its rising plains. The Ravi river valley is filled with vegetation of walnuts, evergreen trees, pine trees, mulberry trees, chinar, daphne, cedrela and kakkar. When the day rises, the Ravi River displays slippery rocks as large as mossy watermelons that are driven by waves of wrathful water. There will be fresh fish around him waiting to be caught with nets or spears. This river is also called the Lahore river, and the view is very not boring because I am entertained by non-threatening air and mountains that rise like walls. Squirrels squeak merrily, banging walnuts into branches or chasing each other on low branches. When afternoon comes, the hordes of nightingales and sriti return to their tall nests among the pine trees.

    I got there when Nazeer tethered our carriage to a large pine tree by the river. I heard my car crackling in surprise, then stopped when the ox's glue sounded. I got out of the canopy with the curtains of our carriage, sped up, then lowered the empty barrel carefully. My hands led this thing down, and Nazeer Khan carried it in a hurry to the bank of the river. I helped him bring some, stopping by the shallow riverbank. Although not deep, the fish breezed around me. Below, Hindu and Muslim women slam their laundry on rocks. No, no, no, it sounded. They laughed and gossiped, just like women do. The wives will tell about the children and her husband, while the girls will whisper about one or two loves in the handsome young man.

    Nazeer Khan took out a wooden bucket, immersed it in water, then put it in a barrel. I took off my silk sandals, sitting on a boulder half of which was submerged in shallow rushing water. From here, I could see the part across the river that was crowded by palm trees or spruce. A wild deer peeked, his ears swayed, and he fled back into the forest.

    The water ripples had taken my mind to float. The question from my mother this morning came back to my mind. “Did you miss the palace?” Yeah, do I miss the palace? Whynot? Why do I answer no? It's a lie to say that I don't miss the palace. Who wouldn't want to be brazen with gold thread embroidery? Who is not tempted by the flickering of rubies or lapislazuli or jade or jewels or sapphires or rubies that glow under candlelight?

    I sighed, then tears came out. As the sun's fireball slowly reached its position in the eastern sky, the heat touched Shahdara's village, emitting beams of light held back by Lahore's cloudy clouds. I buried my face in my arms, ignoring Nazeer Khan or the women whispering in the distance. Now, the pain hit my heart again. I had expected too much of Khurram's love, which was never manifested in any real way. My love for her is a reality, and her love for me is a mirage.

    “You heard me, Princess?” Nazeer Khan patted me on the shoulder, trying to bring me back from that stifling thought.

    I looked at him. Showing a tear-stained face. He ducked, pretending not to see it while I wiped it off cepay-quickly in shock. “Ya?”

    “You're leaving again? Where are you this time?”

    I blinked. Slowly, I reached for his stocky body and walked to the edge. My anklets clattered, and I fluttered them into the air. “Nothing,” I said responding to his question. “That's not important. Has the barrel been filled?”

    “I already raised it to the top of the train.”

    I cringe. “Tega nian you forgot me. Why are you lifting that thing alone? I have to drive over the bulls now instead.”

    He laughed, sounding so sweet and comfortable. “Mari,” lead it on my arm. I followed her steps to get on the train. “I won't tell you what I saw on Sultan Begam,” he said smiling. But with his head bowed obediently.

    I smile. “I know you'll.”

    As my feet were about to step on the train, my eyes grabbed something. A brown pony galloping in the distance. Stop over. And Nazeer stopped our steps. Is that him? My heart blinked, darting in unfriendly tones. I watched the rider with jelly, and was very awkward with myself. Have my eyes deceived me? Is this reality or a cruel dream? It's Khurram! He galloped with a white green turban, wearing a matching white tunic and silk shoes. His horse neighed, his breath smoky in the air. I stared at my place, not trusting my own eyes. As the horse approached, and the rider sauntered on his saddle, I kept watching the man galloping forward past the two of us. He shouted kind words at his horse, which made the animal neigh in excitement.

    The man got off the horse. He left the animal untethered, then crouched down to wash his face. I walked towards him, as magic led its victims to commit suicide. My hand reached for air, as if eager to touch his upright back. His muscles are loamy, and I believe that he is indeed Khurram. He was joking. Why he plays and doesn't watch me.

    It was only a few steps away from him when Nazeer Khan caught my hand. “Cadarmu, Princess. What are you doing?”

    I looked at him, but my eyes were empty. The person is in contact and facing backwards, realizing that someone is nearby. When he turned around, I looked at his face, the curves of his eyebrows, the curvature of his lips, his firm jaw, his taper chin, the turban framing his face, his loamy muscles, and I gasped at me. He's not Khurram. A young man, a foreigner. At a glance, there will be an equation, a very obvious equation. But, when he was really noticed, he was someone else. I realized what I was doing, and I pulled the veil over my lips to the nose.

    The man leaned over, doing konish. “Sorry. Am I bothering you?” he said in Hindi.

    “No,” I said while looking away. Rona burned my face, because of how embarrassed I was at my actions. “I'm sorry, Sir. I thought you were someone I knew.”

    “Ah,” she nodded. “Can I know with whom I am talking?”

    I looked at Nazeer Khan, but he shook his head in disagreement. “Ladli Begam, Mr.” And, Nazeer Khan sighed while closing his eyes. His view changed.

    “Ladli? Loved ones? Are you a Persian? Because Ladli is Persian.” he changed his language to Persian.

    “Perhaps so, Mister,” I told him. He was a very polite young man, reflected by his honest gaze. His smile was tempestuous, burning my soul. He is not Khurram, but something else, something like him, something similar, but not him. I took a breath, holding the heartbeat that was pounding in the ribs. “Can I know who to talk to?” ask her.

    He's doing konish again. I was very awkward with his attitude, but he knew he was talking to not just any woman. “Jafar Husein Beg, Miss,” replied.

    “Beautiful name.” I smiled at him. This is the first time I've ever smiled sincerely at someone. And, a man anyway. God will curse me for this, but I still insist on speaking to him. Something inside him had drawn me to speak further, while Nazeer Khan was clumsily tugging at the edge of my skirt. “Are you a native or immigrant, Mr Jafar?”

    “I'm Persian, Miss. My father took our family to move from Isfahan to Multan. Then, I moved to Lahore to run country duties.”

    “Is your father a noble? Or a Mughal minister?”

    “Well, I don't know how to say. My father worked for Shah Safawi-Persia in Isfahan and then Qandahar. For some reason, our family served Sultan Jahangir Padshah Ghazi when he moved to Multan. When the Sultan died, my father died there fifty days later. I moved to Lahore to become the secretary of Wazir Khan.”

    I'm exalt. He is Persian. Just like us. How wonderful this meeting was. “Does that mean, sorry I asked like this, your father is a runaway?”

    “Ya, Miss. Lucky escape,” he said sadly, and I condemned my own question.

    “That's no disgrace, Mr. Jafar. My grandfather and grandmother were also refugees from Persia.” He looked up, surprised. Back then, Nazeer Khan pinched the back of my body, signaling that I had spoken too far. So, I diverted to the others as he was flabbergasted. “Where do you live, Mr Jafar?”

    “Not far from here.” He pointed to the path that led us out of the forest to the village of Shahdara. “In the corner of Shahdara village, close to Lahore Fort. I live in a griya belonging to Mr. Wazir Khan.”

    Wazir Khan was subahdar, governor of Lahore. I've seen him salute mom once, and I wonder if he ever took Jafar to Mom's place. It's a pity because I never realized this man existed at all.

    “Come to our home, Mr. Jafar. We lived in a big house in the middle of the village with tenements around it. There will be a plate of biryani and a cup of chai for you there.” I smiled at him, then left because Nazeer Khan had gripped my arm too tightly. I followed his clumsy steps, and his gaze bowed. I don't know if he'll keep his promise not to tell my mother anything he saw.

    Jafar nodded, doing konish last time. “Ya, Miss. I will, with God's permission, come there.” He lifted his back as we passed.

    I watched him from behind the curtains of the carriage. Jafar picked up his horse, rode it and galloped behind us from a great distance. Nazeer Khan commented on my hasty nature. He said that it was very inappropriate for a noble woman, the Dowager Prince. But, I ignored it. He did not know, Jafar did not know that I was a widow, because I was still beautiful and untouched by premature aging. For the first time, after a long time, I looked back at my face. I should think about decorating and polishing myself as best I can. For the first time I slept well after years of bitterness. Jafar has brought something. Like blessings. Lifespan. The life that was lost. He has brought a reality, not a delusion. That it had really happened between the two of us, that he was talking to a noble Princess, that she had said in language and an honest look and merta from her heart, not forced or fabricated.

    But, I don't understand. Should this be called love? I've heard that love can happen at first glance. When a burning soul and thirsty love are drawn in his eyeballs. Now, I'm trying to believe it. His honest eyes had spoken that he was a fine young man. His words were as courteous as those of Shahryar and Shah Jahan. Is God being kind, or is he giving back the test? Ah, this time it was the answer. Way out. Consolation. There is no time to be sad and sad. God has given the answer in the most amazing way. In the end, after a long time, I felt like my thoughts were free.[]