Bankimchandra Omnibus: Volume - 1: v. 1 Read online

  Crown Prince Salim was one of the secret recipients of Lutfunnissa’s favours. Salim, until now, had not made Lutfunnissa part of his harem, for fear of incurring the wrath of his impartial father if this unchaste woman brought family dishonour upon one of the umraos. Now, he found his opportunity. The sister of the Rajput king Raja Mansingh was the Crown Prince’s chief consort. The Crown Prince appointed Lutfunnissa her chief companion. Officially, Lutfunnissa was the begum’s companion, but in private, she became a beneficiary of the Crown Prince’s largesse.

  As we can easily imagine, a clever woman like Lutfunnissa quickly won the prince’s heart. So completely did she dominate his affections, eliminating all competition, that she developed a firm resolve to become his reigning queen at the appropriate time. This was not only Lutfunnissa’s own resolve; everyone in the royal palace also perceived this as a likely possibility. Lutfunnissa passed her days, rapt in these rosy dreams, when all of a sudden, she was rudely awakened. Mehrunnissa, daughter of Khaja Ayesh, treasurer to Emperor Akbar, was the reigning beauty of the Muslim community. One day, the treasurer invited Prince Salim to his home, along with other eminent personages. That day, Salim met Mehrunnissa, and gave her his heart. What happened thereafter is well known to readers of history. The treasurer’s daughter was already betrothed to a very powerful umrao named Sher Afghan. Blinded by love, Salim beseeched his father to break that engagement, but all he received was a scolding from his fair-minded parent. For the time being, Salim had to desist, but he did not give up hope. Sher Afghan married Mehrunnissa. But Lutfunnissa understood all the nuances of Salim’s psychology. She knew for sure that there would be no escape for Sher Afghan, even if he was blessed with a thousand lives. As soon as Emperor Akbar passed away, Sher Afghan would die, and Mehrunnissa would become Salim’s queen. Lutfunnissa gave up her designs on the throne.

  Akbar, the pride of the reigning Muslim dynasty, reached the end of his lifespan. The sun that had irradiated the entire region from Turkey to the Brahmaputra, was now about to set. At this time, to preserve her position of eminence, Lutfunnissa made a daring resolve.

  The Rajput ruler Raja Mansingh’s sister was Salim’s chief consort. Khusrau was her son. One day, in the course of a discussion with her about Emperor Akbar’s illness, Lutfunnissa congratulated her on the prospect of a Rajput’s daughter becoming the reigning queen.

  ‘A woman may indeed consider her life worthwhile if she becomes the Emperor’s wife, but the Emperor’s mother is senior to all,’ retorted Khusrau’s mother.

  A novel strategy immediately suggested itself to Lutfunnissa’s mind.

  ‘Why not?’ she responded. ‘That, too, is within your control.’

  ‘How is that?’ wondered the begum.

  ‘Give the throne to Khusrau, the Crown Prince’s son!’ proposed the clever woman.

  The begum did not reply. The matter was not mentioned again that day, but neither of them forgot it. The begum was not averse to the idea that her son, rather than her husband, should ascend the throne; Salim’s infatuation with Mehrunnissa was as much a thorn in the flesh for her, as it was for Lutfunnissa. Why should Mansingh’s sister take kindly to the idea of being ordered about by an upstart daughter of a Turk? Lutfunnissa also had her own secret reasons for aiding and abetting this plan. The matter was raised again, another day. The two of them came to an agreement.

  It did not seem impossible to dismiss Salim, in order to establish Khusrau on Akbar’s throne. Lutfunnissa took great pains to convince the begum of this.

  ‘The Mughal empire is sustained by the might of the Rajputs,’ she argued. ‘Raja Mansingh, the leading light of the Rajput clan, is Khusrau’s mama, his maternal uncle; and Khan Azim, leader of the Muslims and chief minister to the emperor, is Khusrau’s father-in-law; if these two men are ready to accept the arrangement, who would not follow them? And with whose support would the Crown Prince ascend the throne? It is your responsibility to commit Raja Mansingh to this undertaking. It is mine, to enlist the support of Khan Azim and the other Muslim umraos. With your blessings, I shall succeed, but I fear that Khusrau, having ascended the throne, might expel this errant woman from the fort.’

  The begum understood her companion’s intentions.

  ‘You will be accepted by any umrao in Agra whose wife you wish to become,’ she smiled. ‘Your husband will become a royal official on a salary of five thousand.’

  Lutfunnissa was satisfied. This, indeed, had been her motive. What joy in clipping the wings of the bee that flitted from flower to flower, to live in the royal palace as a humble housewife? If freedom must be surrendered, what pleasure would she derive from being slave to Mehrunnissa, her childhood playmate? More glorious by far, to marry some important royal functionary, to become the centre of his existence.

  It was not merely this temptation that spurred Lutfunnissa to adopt such a course of action. She also wanted to avenge herself because Salim had ignored her and showered all his attention on Mehrunnissa.

  Khan Azim and the other umraos of Agra and Delhi were very much under Lutfunnissa’s thumb. It was hardly surprising that Khan Azim should promote the interests of his son-in-law. He and the other umraos agreed to the plan.

  ‘Suppose things go wrong and our plot does not succeed?’ Khan Azim urged Lutfunnissa. ‘There will be no saving us then. So, it’s best to devise some means of saving our lives.’

  ‘What would you advise?’

  ‘There is no refuge but Orissa,’ Khan Azim declared. ‘That is the only place where the hold of the Mughal administration is weak. It is necessary to have the Orissa army within our control. Your brother is an official in Orissa; tomorrow, I shall spread word that he has been injured in battle. On the pretext of going to see him, you must leave for Orissa tomorrow itself. Come back as soon as your mission there is accomplished.’

  Lutfunnissa consented to this proposal. The esteemed reader has encountered her on her journey back from Orissa.

  2

  Change of Route

  We fall to the ground but rise again, with the earth’s support;

  Whoever dies of despair at a single blow of misfortune?

  The storm has brought me low but I shall not give up hope;

  Though thwarted today, my efforts may bear fruit tomorrow.

  —Nabin Tapaswini

  HAVING TAKEN LEAVE OF NABAKUMAR, MOTIBIBI ALIAS LUTFUNNISSA SET OUT for Bardhaman, but she could not reach her destination on the same day. She spent the night at a different chati. That evening, she chatted with Peshaman.

  ‘Peshaman! What did you think of my husband?’ Motibibi suddenly wanted to know.

  ‘Why, what should I think of him?’ asked Peshaman, rather surprised.

  ‘Isn’t he handsome?’

  Peshaman had developed a special aversion to Nabakumar. She had once coveted the ornaments that Motibibi had given Kapalkundala, hoping that one day, the jewels would be hers for the asking. But now that this hope had been shattered, Peshaman felt a tremendous hostility towards Kapalkundala and her husband.

  Hence, she replied: ‘How can one think of an impoverished Brahmin as either handsome or ugly?’

  ‘If the impoverished Brahmin becomes an umrao, would he not appear handsome?’ laughed Moti, sensing her companion’s mood.

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Why, don’t you know the begum has agreed to appoint my husband as an umrao if Khusrau becomes emperor?’

  ‘I know that, indeed. But why should your former husband become an umrao?’

  ‘What other husband do I have?’

  ‘Your husband-to-be.’

  ‘Two husbands for a chaste woman like me? What an impertinent thought!’ protested Moti with a faint smile. ‘Who goes there?’ she called out suddenly.

  Peshaman recognized the person in question as a resident of Agra, a trusted member of Khan Azim’s entourage. The two women grew agitated. Peshaman called out to the man. Approaching them, he greeted Lutfunnissa and handed her a lett
er.

  ‘I was carrying this letter to Orissa,’ he told her. ‘It’s very urgent.’

  Motibibi’s hopes evaporated as she read the letter. This was what it said:

  Our efforts have been fruitless. Even at the time of his death, Akbar Shah has defeated us with his intelligence. He has now left us for his heavenly abode. By his orders, Prince Salim has become Jehangir Shah, the emperor. Please do not worry about Khusrau. To ensure that no one acts against you in this matter, please return to Agra as fast as possible.

  How Akbar Shah handled this conspiracy, history books have recounted; there is no need to go into those details here.

  Having dismissed the messenger with a tip, Moti read the letter aloud to Peshaman.

  ‘What should we do now?’ wondered Peshaman.

  ‘There’s nothing we can do now,’ replied Moti.

  ‘Well, what harm in that?’ pronounced Peshaman, after some thought. ‘You may as well continue as before, for any woman who belongs to the royal establishment enjoys more importance than even the reigning queen of some other state.’

  ‘That’s not possible anymore,’ Moti explained, with a faint smile. ‘I can no longer remain in that palace. Jehangir will waste no time in marrying Mehrunnissa. I have known Mehrunnissa since adolescence. Once she enters the palace, she will become the emperor, and Jehangir will remain Badshah only in name. She will discover that I had tried to obstruct her path to the throne. What will be my fate, then?’

  ‘What will happen, now?’ Peshaman was almost in tears.

  ‘There is only one hope. What are Mehrunnissa’s feelings for Jehangir? Such is her firmness of character, that if she cares more for her husband than for Jehangir, then she will not surrender her heart to Jehangir even if he were to murder a hundred Sher Afghans. But if Mehrunnissa is genuinely in love with Jehangir, then there is no hope for us.’

  ‘How will you discover the secrets of Mehrunnissa’s heart?’

  ‘What can Lutfunnissa not accomplish?’ smiled Moti. ‘Mehrunnissa is my childhood companion. Tomorrow, I shall set out for Bardhaman, to spend a couple of days with her.’

  ‘If Mehrunnissa is in love with the Badshah, what will you do?’

  ‘My father used to say: “The situation will determine our course of action”.’

  For a while, they were silent. A faint smile began to play upon Moti’s lips.

  ‘Why do you smile?’ asked Peshaman.

  ‘A new idea has occurred to me.’

  ‘What is it?’

  Moti did not tell Peshaman what it was. We, too, shall withhold it from the reader. Eventually, the truth will reveal itself.

  3

  In the Rival’s Home

  Shyam alone, and none but he, rules over my heart.

  —Uddhavduta

  AT THIS TIME, SHER AFGHAN WAS THE OFFICIAL IN CHARGE OF THE BARDHAMAN administration, under the authority of the subedar of Bengal. Having arrived at Bardhaman, Motibibi presented herself at his house. Sher Afghan, along with his family, welcomed her warmly as a household guest. When Sher Afghan and his wife Mehrunnissa were residents of Agra, Moti had been one of their close acquaintances, particularly intimate with Mehrunnissa. Afterwards, the two of them had become rivals in their designs upon the throne of Delhi.

  ‘Which of us is destined to rule India?’ Mehrunnissa wondered, now that they were reunited. ‘Only Fate knows the answer, and Salim; and if anyone else is in the know, it would be Lutfunnissa. Let’s see if Lutfunnissa has anything to reveal!’ Motibibi, too, was trying to decipher Mehrunnissa’s frame of mind.

  At that time, Mehrunnissa was renowned as the most beautiful and talented woman in India. Indeed, very few women like her have been born into this world. Every historian has acknowledged her prominent place amongst the legendary beauties of this world. Among the men of her time, few could match her at any skill. Her talent for music and dance was unparalleled; in poetry and the visual arts as well, she could hold her audience enthralled. Her gift for conversation was even more captivating than her physical beauty. In all these aspects, Moti, too, was in no way less talented. These two enchantresses were now keen to understand each other’s minds.

  Mehrunnissa was in the special parlour, painting a picute. Peering over her shoulder was Lutfunnissa, chewing paan, betel leaf, as she watched her paint.

  ‘What do you think of my painting?’ asked Mehrunnissa.

  ‘It is typical of your artistry. It’s a pity nobody else can boast of your artistic skills.’

  ‘If that is indeed true, then why is it a pity?’

  ‘If others had your artistic talent, they could paint your image as a keepsake.’

  ‘In my grave, my image will be entombed.’

  Mehrunnissa pronounced these words with gravity.

  ‘My sister!’ cried Moti. ‘Why are you in such low spirits today?’

  ‘Low spirits? Of course not! But how can I forget that you leave at dawn tomorrow? Why should you not gratify me by staying a couple of days longer?’

  ‘Who doesn’t fancy a life of pleasure? Would I leave, if I had my way? But I must act as others decree: how can I linger here?’

  ‘You don’t love me anymore, else you would have extended your stay. If you could travel to this place, why can’t you stay on?’

  ‘I have told you everything. My brother, a mansabdar in the Mughal army, was grievously injured in a skirmish with the Pathans of Orissa. When I received tidings of his condition, I travelled to this region to visit him, with the begum’s permission. I have spent too much time in Orissa, but now I should delay no more. I spent these two days with you because we had not met for a very long time.’

  ‘By which date have you promised the begum that you will return?’

  Moti realized that Mehrunnissa was being sarcastic. She could not match Mehrunnissa in the art of polished, yet piercing irony. But she, too, was never at a loss for words.

  ‘Is it possible to fix a date when embarking on a three-month-long journey? But I have delayed too long; any further delay might incur displeasure.’

  ‘Whose displeasure do you fear?’ inquired Mehrunnissa with her captivating smile. ‘The Crown Prince’s, or his consort’s?’

  ‘Would you embarrass me, shameless person that I am?’ responded Moti, slightly discomfited. ‘Both could be displeased.’

  ‘But why not assume the title of begum yourself, may I ask? I hear that Prince Salim is to marry you, as his special consort. How far have those plans advanced?’

  ‘I am easily subjugated. Why should I surrender the little freedom I have? As the begum’s companion, I could easily travel to Orissa; but as Salim’s begum, could I have done the same?’

  ‘For one who will be the reigning queen of Delhi, what need to travel to Orissa?’

  ‘I would never dare aspire to become Salim’s reigning queen. In Hindustan, only Mehrunnissa is fit to reign supreme over the heart of Delhi’s ruler.’

  Mehrunnissa lowered her head. ‘My sister!’ she pleaded, after a short silence, ‘I shall not try to ascertain whether you uttered these words to hurt my feelings, or to know my mind. But when you speak to me, I beg you not to forget that I am Sher Afghan’s wife, his devoted slave in body, mind and soul.’

  Far from being put out by this admonition, the brazen Moti took this opportunity to advance her argument.

  ‘That you are a devoted wife, I know only too well,’ she persisted. ‘That is why I have dared to raise this subject indirectly. My aim is to make you aware that Salim has been unable to forget the magic of your beauty. Please remain careful.’

  ‘Now I understand. But what have I to fear?’

  ‘Widowhood,’ declared Moti, after some hesitation.

  As she spoke, Moti fixed her gaze upon Mehrunnissa’s countenance, but could detect no trace of fear or joy.

  ‘Fear of widowhood!’ cried Mehrunnissa proudly. ‘Sher Afghan is not incapable of protecting himself! Under the rule of Akbar Shah, even the emperor’s own son would not be
spared if he destroyed an innocent life.’

  ‘True, indeed. But according to the latest news from Agra, Akbar Shah is no more. Salim has ascended the throne. Who can stop the monarch of Delhi?’

  Mehrunnissa said no more. Tremors shook her entire body. Once more she lowered her head; tears flowed from her eyes.

  ‘Why do you weep?’ asked Moti.

  ‘Salim enthroned as the emperor of India, and what about me?’ sighed Mehrunnissa.

  Moti’s purpose was fulfilled.

  ‘Have you not been able to forget the Crown Prince completely, even now?’ she inquired.

  ‘Forget? Who am I supposed to forget?’ cried Mehrunnissa, in a choking voice. ‘I may forget my own life, but I can never forget the Crown Prince. But listen, my sister! I have suddenly opened the doors of my heart to you. You have heard what I just said, but by my word, let this matter not reach the ears of any other person.’

  ‘Very well, so it shall be,’ promised Moti. ‘But when Salim hears of my visit to Bardhaman, he will certainly want to know what Mehrunnissa had to say about him. How shall I answer him, then?’

  ‘Tell him that Mehrunnissa will dwell upon his image, which she cherishes in her heart,’ instructed Mehrunnissa, after some thought. ‘She will give up her life for him, if necessary. But she will never sacrifice her family honour. As long as her husband, her Lord and master, remains alive, this humble slave will never show her face to the emperor of Delhi. And if her husband’s death is engineered by the monarch of Delhi, then she will never give herself to her husband’s murderer, not as long as she lives.’