Escape from Harem

By Tanushree Podder

A self confessed word-a-holic and traveller, Tanushree is sure to be packing her bags and boots to zip around the world not brandishing her pen. With two successful novels, few best selling non fiction titles and a few hundred travel tales under her belt, she is all set to launch into yet another voyage with words. A bundle of optimism with wandering feet and a kaleidoscope of dreams, she loves nothing better than flirting with clauses and phrases. After leading a nomadic life for several decades, thanks to the Indian Army, she has finally grown roots at Pune.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Roli Books
• Release date: Aug 11, 2012
• ISBN: 9788174369215

Tanushree Podder

Tanushree Podder is a management graduate. She has specialised in labour laws and HRD. Her inquisitive mind led her to make forays into various fields like beauty, education, Reiki, Vipassana and computers. Lately, she has been doing a detailed study of the various alternative therapies used in India and abroad. Her forte lies in writing on various subjects, like humour, health and relationships. She has written articles for many newspapers and magazines during the last twenty years.

Book preview

One

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January 1610, Agra

The gnarled hands of winter gripped the capital in their freezing talons. It was one of the coldest years, people said. The water in the Yamuna seemed to have frozen and icy winds swept through the deserted streets of the city lashing the walls along it. No one stirred out of their homes. A deathly silence covered the city’s innards. In their hovels people huddled before crackling flames, coaxed out of reluctant logs, warming their numb fingers to keep themselves from freezing to death. Wind whistled mercilessly through the forests tearing through the trees denuded of their leaves.

The sun had set over the banks of the glorious Yamuna, speeding people on their way home. Doors were shut, the streets deserted. The thick silence was punctured occasionally by the piteous howl of a mongrel.

All traces of life were wiped off the narrow streets of the bazaar just outside the Agra Fort. At one corner of the narrow lane at the end of the wholesale grain mandi, flanked by shops, stood a cluster of tiny, mud-baked houses. Servants working in the shops occupied most of these. Open drains ran on both sides of the street that flanked these houses, filling the air with a foul odour.

In a small two-room brick house Humra Begum and her fifteen-year-old daughter, Zeenat, huddled next to their chulha, warming their hands over its dying embers. They had just finished their frugal meal of roti, and a heavily spiced, watery lamb meat-and-potato curry. ‘For poor people like us, the only spice in our lives is the spice that goes into the belly,’ Humra jested whenever her daughter protested the sharpness of the spices in her cooking.

For days, Humra had been saving some money for the occasion. She had bought a small pot of ghee to flavour the roti and splurged on the raisins and dry fruits that went into the halwa they were relishing as dessert. The elaborate meal was a rare luxury. But then it was a special day. It was Zeenat’s birthday. Today her daughter had turned fifteen.

Humra sighed as she looked at her daughter, who was licking her ghee-smeared fingers with contentment. The girl’s black curls hung loosely about her radiant face, her tiny shell-like ears embellished with a pair of cheap ear-studs. The rosebud mouth bore traces of the meal. Sensing her mother’s eyes on her, Zeenat’s dark eyes danced with joy, ‘Ammi, this is the best meal ever,’ she declared.

Sweeping back the curls from her daughter’s face, Humra kissed her on the forehead.

The girl deserves much more than I can give her, she thought and her eyes misted over with emotion. All she had been able to gift Zeenat on the special day was a pair of silver anklets that had been her wedding gift. She had taken it to the jeweller and got it polished and packed in a new velvet case. For the girl, it was priceless.

She tied the anklets and ran around the house, pleased with the musical tinkle of the umpteen bells that adorned the slender chain of silver. The cheap printed muslin skirt ballooned as she twirled, revealing her slender legs.

Humra Begum’s husband had been a foot soldier in the imperial army. The man had fought many wars for the emperor. A dedicated soldier, he barely found time to spend with the family; a couple of weeks each year when they were not engaged in battle. The happy memories were hoarded carefully, to see them through the long periods of separation. Ghulam Baksh died fighting at the Kabul frontier when Zeenat was just five years old.

Like many widows who depended on the munificence of the monarch for their survival, Humra found herself at his mercy. ‘I don’t want charity, I want a job,’ she declared proudly when her husband’s commander offered to put up her case before the emperor. ‘The emperor can give you a pension,’ he had said.

‘I do not want a pension. I am young and able. I will work.’

When this was brought to the emperor’s notice, he was surprised that the widow wanted to work; most of the widows settled for a pension.

‘Well, if she wants to work, give her work,’ he ordered.

And so Humra found herself employed as a servant in the harem, under the charge of the dowager queen, Ruquaiah Begum.

Her wages were meagre and the only house she could afford was located in one of the poorer localities of the city. Rows of shops surrounded the house, including a few that sold country liquor. Throughout the day, inebriated men loitered around in the streets, making it difficult for the women to move out.

Ever since her daughter turned ten, Humra was besieged by worry. A sigh escaped the mother whenever she looked at Zeenat, the girl is too beautiful to live here. With her peaches and cream complexion, buxom figure and chiselled features, the girl attracted the attention of the shopkeepers and the inebriated men walking around the street.

Reluctant to leave her alone in the house, the protective mother took her to work at the harem each morning. There, Zeenat carried out small chores for the inmates or whiled away her time playing pranks on unsuspecting women. Sometimes she regaled the concubines by singing or dancing for them. The girl’s talents were many; she could mimic the queens and concubines to perfection sending her audience into peals of laughter. It was quite natural that her services were sought by the bored concubines.

There were two overwhelming passions in Zeenat’s life – she loved dancing and she loved Prince Khurram. The rhythm of nature, call of the peacock or even the whispered lyrics in the breeze caused her feet to move in fluid steps. As for Prince Khurram, the teenaged son of the emperor, there was not a young girl in the harem who was not in love with him. Ever since he had been adopted by the childless dowager, the prince was seen more often in his grandmother, Ruquaiah Begum’s palace, than anywhere else. The conceited teenager, aware of his charms, flirted with the girls around the harem with a finesse that defied his young age.

Like most girls, Zeenat fantasized about a life as a paramour to the prince. It was the only way she knew of escaping the drudgery of her life. The imperceptive mind of the young girl saw only the gloss and the glitter of the harem.

Her mother understood the importance of nurturing dreams. They made it easier to deal with the stark realities of a difficult life.

Humra didn’t grudge her daughter the dreams but felt it her duty to warn the girl occasionally, ‘Zeenat, the harem is not a happy place. Don’t let your dreams tell you otherwise. There are too many sighs and sobs buried within these walls.’

The doting mother was aware that her daughter was beautiful and gullible. She was not too intelligent either. These traits were a poor protection in the intrigue-ridden harem. Women with sharper survival skills had perished within its closed quarters. ‘Who cares? One day, I would like to live here, Ammi.’ The daughter was adamant.

Humra doused the wooden log in the chulha with a sprinkle of water; it was good enough to be lit up for breakfast in the morning.

‘Let us get into the bed and talk,’ she suggested. ‘We can save the candle for tomorrow. It is the last one left and there is still a week to go before I get my wages.’

The two of them were preparing to go to bed when a loud knock on the door rang through the thin walls of the house. Frightened at the prospect of trouble, the duo exchanged troubled glances. No visitor had ever called on them, and never at such an unearthly hour.

Reluctant to open the door, Humra peered through a crack in the wooden panel and asked, ‘Who is it?’

‘Yakub,’ the muffled reply floated into the woman’s ear stuck to the door.

‘What do you want at this hour of the night?’ grumbled the widow.

‘Open the door, woman. You don’t expect me to stand outside in the cold and talk.’

Humra hesitated for a moment before removing the strong wooden plank that barred the front door. She didn’t dare to defy his order.

Yakub was the head eunuch at the harem. He was a dour and unpleasant fellow, hated by the harem women but a very important person in the hierarchy of eunuchs. There were two eunuchs who ruled the harem, Hoshiyar Khan and Yakub Khan. What could Yakub want from them, wondered Humra.

Curious, Zeenat peeped from the adjoining room. She found her mother and the eunuch engaged in a whispered conversation. Her mother seemed to be agitated with whatever the eunuch was saying.

All Zeenat could figure out from the exchange was Humra’s emphatic refusal to heed to the eunuch’s orders. ‘No, no, that is not possible. I can’t allow it.’

The eunuch seemed to get angry as the woman continued to defy his order.

Finally, he lost his patience and slapped her. ‘You stupid woman, I can get you flogged for your defiant attitude,’ he threatened. ‘If you have any sense in your head, send her with me or both of you will suffer. The emperor will surely send you to the dungeon or have you trampled by an elephant.’

Her face stinging with the sharp blow, Humra began sobbing helplessly. ‘Don’t waste my time,’ shouted Yakub glaring at her.

Zeenat cringed with fear at the ferocity in his voice.

‘Yakub, give me some time. Tomorrow, I will speak to the Queen,’ pleaded the woman.

‘I obey orders, I do not have the right to grant time,’ said the eunuch. ‘I can only promise that you will be well compensated for the trouble.’

‘She is just a child,’ cried Humra.

‘Not in the emperor’s eyes,’ he sniggered. ‘Go on, call her.’

‘Zeenat,’ sobbing, Humra called out to the girl. ‘Go with Yakub, you are required at the palace,’ she said, avoiding Zeenat’s searching look.

‘Now?’ asked the girl.

‘Yes, this moment.’ The reply came from Yakub.

Mystified, the girl wrapped her coarse woollen shawl tightly across her shoulders and walked over to the palanquin that was waiting to carry her to the palace. As she stepped into it, a chill ran down her spine. Was it a premonition or the cold, she wondered, that made her shiver. Something told her that her life was about to change forever.

The fringed curtain dropped over the palanquin and it rushed through the deserted streets, swaying gently with the quickening pace of the palanquin bearers. The bells on their wrists alerting the passers-by, the bearers grunted in unison as they carried the heavy wooden palanquin towards the palace. Zeenat sighed and sank back into the cushions, her mind absorbing the sounds and smells outside.

The mad tattooing of her heart was replaced with a sense of expectation. This was an adventure. She wondered why Ruquaiah Begum had sent for her instead of her mother. The fact that Yakub had come to take her indicated the importance of the mission. Besides, there was the matter of the expensive palanquin that had been sent to fetch her. Pleased with the thought that she was finally becoming important enough to merit such conveniences, Zeenat closed her eyes.

Maybe the prince wants to meet me. It could be a clandestine meeting arranged by him. He must have chosen this hour so that people don’t notice us. The thought gave her goose pimples. Although Khurram had not thrown more than a passing glance at her, she was naive enough to pretend that she mattered. Parting the curtains she peered. Yakub, solemn and brooding, rode ahead. They were nearing the fort.

The massive gateway loomed up in the distance, frightening in its grandeur. The red sandstone fort with its 10-feet thick walls and ramparts was manned by the elite imperial troops. The entire ambience was daunting. Zeenat could hear the verbal combat between the alert guards and Yakub as identities were established and the mission explained. A round of banter later they resumed their journey.

The weary palanquin bearers manoeuvred their way up the steep ramp flanked by high walls and turrets that led to the inner palaces. At the point where the slope levelled out began the periphery of the outer palaces. She could discern the magnificent outlines of the Diwan-i-Aam with its silver roof and ornate pillars, its walls covered with arabesque inlaid with precious gems. Although she had come hundreds of times to the harem, the grandeur of the palaces still managed to take her breath away.

The winding path from the Diwan-i-Aam led to a beautiful garden with fountains and terraced pavilions. There was a shaded path; flanked by trees ablaze with flowers on one side of the garden through which the palanquin wound its way. She had never been to that part of the palace. Servants were not allowed to enter from the Diwan-i-Aam side. With wonder she noticed the fountain spewing coloured water, and the precious stones set in the arabesque on the walls. Everything seemed larger than life in the dead of the night.

Travelling in the palanquin was a luxury for Zeenat. It gave her an altogether new perspective of the Mughal palaces. She felt giddy with excitement.

They passed through innumerable portals and passages, finally reaching the gates of the imperial harem, the most guarded part of the palace. Zeenat dismounted at the familiar threshold and passed the outer circle of Rajput guards to reach the central ring of eunuch guards. Following Yakub, she stepped into the inner courtyards that were guarded by giant Uzbek women with gleaming scimitars. These women were reported to be more ferocious than the royal guards. Their impassive faces seemed to be carved out of stone as the girl passed them.

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With practiced steps she turned towards Ruquaiah Begum’s palace but Yakub barred her way.

‘Come this way,’ he commanded, his face inscrutable. She recoiled at the memory of his stinging slap on her mother’s face. The eunuch terrified her.

Zeenat followed him into a small apartment towards the end of the corridor. In the harem as well as the emperor’s court, the proximity to the royals indicates the significance of a person so the apartment was likely to belong to someone low down in the hierarchy.

A wizened woman emerged from the inner room. Yakub nodded silently at her and departed. Perplexed, Zeenat followed the woman inside.

‘Change into those clothes,’ she ordered, pointing to a set of richly embroidered, diaphanous garments.

‘There is some mistake. I have to go to Ruquaiah Begum’s apartments. She has sent for me and will be very angry if you delay me,’ protested Zeenat.

‘Don’t worry about her. It is not she who sent for you,’ explained the crone. ‘You better hurry up or you will be in trouble.’ A toothless grin creased her wrinkled features.

Reluctant, Zeenat changed into the embellished attire that was too transparent for her liking.

Within moments, the skilled hands of the woman transformed the girl into a beautiful damsel with an elaborate hairdo, jewels and make-up. Zeenat stood staring at her image in the mirror, unable to believe her eyes. ‘I look beautiful,’ she whispered timidly.

Her fair complexion was ablaze with a radiant blush, the cascade of wavy hair braided into a wonderful coiffure set with pearl pins, the trembling lips a ruby red and the eyes kohled and darkened to enhance their beauty.

‘You’ve made me beautiful,’ the girl repeated, awestruck at her reflection. She preened and twirled, pleased with the transformation.

‘You are beautiful! Now run along. Yakub is waiting to take you to the palace,’ smirked the woman propelling her towards the outer room.

Mystified, Zeenat trailed behind the eunuch, sure by now that the prince had arranged the rendezvous. They traversed many chambers and passages of the harem to emerge on the other side of the palace. She had never stepped into that part of the palace before.

The path was lit by hundreds of lamps camouflaged between the trees like sparkling golden flowers. Fountains sprayed water in rainbow colours. She shivered apprehensively.

‘Where are we going?’ she asked, diffidently. Her query met with silence from the eunuch.

It seemed ages before they halted near the entrance of a discreetly lit chamber guarded by smartly dressed soldiers. The guards glanced briefly at her heavily veiled face but fell back on seeing the eunuch. They were accustomed to the nightly visits of beautiful girls. It was not their business to learn the identity of the women who visited the royal chamber.

Yakub pushed her towards a large chamber. It was the most luxurious hall she had ever seen in her life. All crimson and gold, splashed with patterns in green and blue, it was even more opulent than Ruquaiah Begum’s palace. A profusion of gems, gold embroidered hangings, Persian carpets, jewelled censors, silver filigree lamps, tinted crystal bowls, jade cups, and enamelled gold goblets adorned the room. There were rich brocade curtains hanging from gilded pelmets.

A heap of soft silk cushions embroidered with pearls lay on a large circular bed, near which stood a carved stool holding jade bowls brimming with almonds and nuts. A golden spittoon and a gem-encrusted spittoon stood in one corner of the room. It was a chamber right out of the Arabian Nights.

From a distance, Zeenat discerned the soothing notes of an evening raga being played on sitar. She closed her eyes in ecstasy as her feet threatened to break into a dance.

Where am I, she wondered as she stepped towards the centre of the room and stared at the beauty all around. Entranced, she walked around and smiled. It must be the prince’s apartment.

‘Does it meet your approval?’ a deep voice halted her in her tracks.

Stunned, she whirled around to face a majestic figure seated between a pile of cushions on a low divan in the inner room.

Zeenat reeled back with disbelief. It was the emperor. She recognized the portly figure instantly. She had seen him from a distance so many times when he paid a visit to the dowager Ruquaiah Begum. Terrified, the girl performed a clumsy kornish and stood trembling.

Why has the emperor summoned me, she wondered. Does entertaining romantic thoughts about the prince amount to treason?

‘Yakub was right. You are beautiful.’ The emperor commented, his voice slightly slurred from the heavy drinking he had indulged since evening. ‘He tells me that you are a very good dancer.’

He couldn’t have summoned me here to see me dance, not at this time of the night, her mind was spinning wildly. Her lips felt parched and a lump formed in her throat. Like a trapped animal she looked around for an escape. This is not real; it is a bad dream.

The inebriated monarch struggled to rise from his seat but the effort was too much for him and he fell back on his cushions. He stared at her nubile form visible through the transparent attire.

‘What is your name?’

‘Z… Zee… nat, Jahanpanah,’ she stammered.

Her eyes were riveted on the corpulent figure of the ageing emperor. His bejewelled person fascinated the girl.

‘Well, Zeenat, will you not dance for me?’ suddenly his voice was gentle, almost caressing in its silken smoothness. His lopsided smile terrified her.

She stood rooted, unable to move. Her limbs felt heavy and weak with fear.

A tinge of irritation crept into his voice. ‘Dance. We command you,’ he shouted.

Like a marionette, Zeenat began to twirl and shake, her body looping elegantly. The nervous movements quickly turned into a graceful rhythmic dance as she closed her eyes and immersed herself in the music playing in the distance. For the moment, she forgot where she was and why she was there. All that mattered was the compelling rhythm of the music that forced her feet to move with the cadence.

Enthralled, the emperor watched her lissom body executing intricate movements with abandon. The heaving movement of her bosom and the sensuous sway of the hips excited his senses and he began to breathe heavily. Unaware of the passion she was inflaming, Zeenat continued to gyrate to the tune of her silver anklets. After a while he tottered up to her and grabbed her in his arms.

Petrified, the girl allowed him to lead her to the enormous bed piled with colourful cushions. Buried under his weight, she sank into the bed. He tore at her flimsy dress, shredding it to pieces in his haste. Her feeble resistance merely served to excite his passions. This is not real; this could not be happening to me.

Her mind blocked out the face above her. The shock numbed her senses and she closed her eyes as he entered her brutally. Silent tears streamed down her cheeks at the violence of the act. Is this what women experience? Is the act of lovemaking so ruthless? The pain was excruciating. Did I imagine or did he really utter Meherunnisa as he entered me, she wondered as she tasted the tears that flowed into her mouth. Sated, the emperor fell asleep without throwing another glance in her direction.

Bruised and humiliated, Zeenat managed to gather the remnants of her dress and wrapped them around her shivering body. She remained crouched in a corner of the room, whimpering, till she had exhausted her tears and then fell into a restless slumber. In the wee hours of the morning Yakub arrived and tapped her gently on the shoulders.

He pulled her to her feet. Without a word, he led her back to the wizened woman in the harem. For a moment the mask slipped. There was kindness in his glance as he looked at the snivelling girl. At that moment he hated his job more than anything in the world. He had lost count of the girls who returned weeping to their homes each night after their rendezvous with the emperor.

Rejected by Meherunnisa, Jahangir vented his frustration on the young girls brought in by the eunuch each night. For four long years Jahangir had tried to woo the widow with every imaginable resource at his command but she refused to yield. The great Mughal emperor could command everything in

Reviews for Escape from Harem

[Ali · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

It's gripping like a fine novel but it's not fiction but history. The way the author had taken the POV of Zainaib amidst the grandeur of Mughal as a peasant is amazingly refreshing. This is history from a commoner's perspective!