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The entourage was too large and extravagant for a musician. Roopmati remembered that as a child, during festivities, she would ride on her father’s shoulder to see the entourages pass by the main streets of the town nearby. She had seen many a musician. None had such a huge entourage. Roopmati frowned a little, unsurely as she took her father’s leave. His warning rang in her ears. “Remember what you do, how you behave will all come back to me.” She nodded.
The chief queen was at a loss for words. She had never seen the Sultan himself step into the Mahal to check the chambers to be allotted to one of the girls who were coming in. She was not one of the girls. She was a musician. The queens were curious. What would her position be then? She could not be a concubine, and she was not a queen. A musician in the royal palace of the ladies? Had the Sultan lost his senses? Or did he have some other agenda? If he wanted someone, he had them. He was the Sultan. There was no way he was trying to pursue a poor girl from nowhere. It made no sense. But the ladies of the Mahal, the queens of the upper Mahal and the concubines of the lower Mahal, were all intrigued by the arrival of this new musician.
Roopmati could see the light and crowd of the city of Mandu as the procession walked across the busy squares towards the palace. Roopmati curiously separated the two curtains that acted as the door of her palanquin with her alta-clad hand and peeped out. Immediately, one of the maids walking beside her palanquin cleared her throat and abruptly pulled the curtains back. Roopmati was startled at first by this behaviour. “Pardon me,” she could hear the maid speak, “You are the Sultan’s esteemed guest and should not be seen by commoners.” Roopmati inhaled. A while ago, she was one of them, the commoners flocking on the streets, their curious pair of eyes on the royal entourage. The palanquin was lowered, and Roopmati stepped out of the shadow of the ride onto the light of the palace that seemed to dazzle in front of her eyes. “Jahaj Mahal…” the words escaped her lips like it was a fairytale she had heard as a child. A fairy tale coming alive before her eyes. She turned as soon as she realised her bundle of clothes was still inside the palanquin, only to find a soldier handing it over to the maid. The maid smiled faintly at the faded cloth that wrapped the bundle together. She would not need this.
“Come with me.” The maid nodded at her. Roopmati followed her like an innocent child lost in a forest. The entrance led into the different buildings spread across the lawns and gardens, and it looked like a maze of make-believe magic to her. Roopmati wondered who built these stone palaces, how they stood there so tall without rumbling into pieces and who carved those stones into intriguing designs. Some magicians, perhaps. She often fell back on her pace, watching the horses and elephants carved around the walls, stories of kings and queens, wars and charity. She would see the maid at a distance, break out of her enchantment and pace her steps to join the maid again before she got lost. The maid pointed at the Jahaj Mahal.
“The upper floors are restricted to the queens, and only their maids, entertainers, guards, relatives and of course, the Sultan are allowed there. The topmost floors and cenotaphs are only for the chief queen and our Sultan. The other queens share the floor below. The lowest levels are for the concubines and entertainers. In the middle are the …” The maid looked at Roopmati, unsurely. She was still an early teen, her innocence intact as she stared at the Jahaj Mahal with wide eyes. “Umm… those are for the ladies who stay here by choice.” The maid lied through her teeth. These were women the Sultan encountered on his various hunting trips and excursions, brought back here either by the greed for riches or forcibly to entertain the king when he was tired of his queens and concubines. He neither married them nor paid them allowances. They just existed. “Am I going to live there too?” The maid expected the question. Only Roopmati did not understand the consequences.
“No.” The maid was surprised at the senior courtesan of the palace walking down the corridor with her little entourage towards Roopmati. The ladies looked intrigued at the girl. The moment Roopmati saw the woman in an exquisitely sown saree wrapped around her bodice, the jewellery on her neck and hands shining in the light of the torches down the corridor and her anklets in sync with those of the others, Roopmati bowed. She took the courtesan as the queen, and her bow surprised the woman as they all laughed, amused.
“Who are you bowing to?” The courtesan stepped forward and picked Roopmati’s chin up to inspect her face in the flickering light of the torches. Her breath smelled of betel leaves. Roopmati knew the smell. The old men who sat under the tree in the village often chewed betel leaves, and occasionally, as a child, she was made to run through the village to the grocery store to bring them some. The woman smiled, satisfied. “I see that you are indeed a gem.” Roopmati’s brows narrowed slightly at her words.
“But you did not hear me sing…” She stopped before uttering any word of respect, for now she understood something was amusing in her understanding of these women to be queens. The women chuckled again.
“Where did he find you?” The woman looked astonished. “Take her to the chambers and get her a bath. The Sultan has ordered new clothes and jewellery for her. Lucky girl.” Roopmati stood there as the maid nodded. “You are the first singer to step into the zenana, girl.” The woman addressed her again. “I am indeed intrigued. But I don’t dare to hear your voice before the Sultan does. So after you entertain him, do summon me.” Roopmati stepped back as the women now bowed to her and left. She failed to understand this newfound respect. Who were they? What position in the palace did she hold now?
The chamber doors were pushed open by two women when Roopmati looked inside curiously. There was a bed in the middle of the chamber, with trunks of clothes and jewellery neatly stacked on the side, a huge glass mirror rimmed with gold standing in a corner, and a writing desk on the floor. A Sitar was kept in the other corner, and an entire wall was a jharokha. Roopmati curiously walked there to find that the view was not as mesmerising as she had imagined. There was a Kund down below where the maid gushed, and many birds flocked in the morning. Ducks, chicks, pigeons, peacocks and peahens. All were bred inside the palace walls. The horizon saw a range of green hilltops touching the clear sky. Roopmati hoped she would get a glimpse of the Reva from the palace.
“Which way is the Reva?” Her words made the maid frown.
“You mean the river?” The maid asked. “I have no idea.” Roopmati exhaled.
Roopmati was used to bathing in the cold water of the Reva. She took a vessel with her every morning at sunrise, and before the village woke up, she would take a dip, feel rejuvenated and thank the Reva as she would thank her mother. The moment Roopmati saw the cold, damp bath with the hot steam and cold water, maids lurking around with oils and scrubs, she flinched her nose as if the place had a bad odour.
“Are there no Kunds around here?” Her words made the maids stare at each other.
“Women of the zenana don’t go to Kunds, my lady.” The maid smiled politely. “They can’t afford to be seen.” Roopmati suddenly felt suffocated at her words. “They never step out?” She asked. She always assumed people in the palaces were the ones free from rules. “Only to the inner gardens and baths.” Roopmati gasped. These women never explored the forests, never watched the river flow by, never witnessed the moonbeam on the wildflowers. She unmindfully let the women help her clean herself. The bath made her feel tired in her limbs as they massaged her calves and wrapped her in clean clothes. Then she was led into the chambers and changed into a gaudy skirt and bodice as the maid took special care in tying her hair with flowers and ornaments and choosing a veil to go over her bodice. Roopmati looked at herself in the mirror as the maid put on a necklace around her neck. Might as well have been a chain of captivity. Roopmati could not recognise the person in the mirror. Her eyes were lined with Kohl and highlighted her features. She had never felt she could be so beautiful. Almost like a queen in stories.
“But I brought my clothes…” The maid chuckled at her words. “Pardon me, but nobody here wears hand-stitched clothes in such poor condition. I will give them to the maids in the morning. They would go to the market and distribute them to beggars.” Roopmati clutched her hands, making the maid stop brushing her hair.
“Please don’t. I beg you.” Her eyes shone. “Those are my only ties to my mother. I have her hand-stitched veils in there.”
“It is the Sultan’s order, my lady.” The maid stopped briefly “You can choose to keep one of them, I suppose; nobody will notice that.” The maid left her alone in the chambers. As she shut the door, Roopmati noticed a guard standing outside her door. Did they fear she would escape? Where would she go? There was no way Roopmati could trace her steps back home. She was too far away.
It was around an hour or so more when the hourglass was tilted that a soldier came and announced the arrival of the Sultan himself. Roopmati stood up, nervously. Her heart beat in her throat as she heard footsteps. She tried in vain to put the veil over her head and failed as the door opened. Before her stood the Sultan of Malwa. He was a lot older than she had imagined him to be. His figure was stout, and he wore a beard around his sharp jaw. His eyes were curious, and his brows furrowed. He wore a robe that was probably studded with gems, for it tinkled when he moved, and the necklaces he wore shone in the light of the lamps. The rings on his finger grabbed Roopmati’s attention as he clapped his hands and dismissed the maid and guards. Roopmati gulped.
“It is an honour and privilege to host an artist like you.” He said as Roopmati looked confused. “Please, sit down.” Roopmati stood uncomfortably as the Sultan walked across the room and sat down on a seat made of cushions and red silk embroidered rugs near the Jharokha. She had not noticed that when she came into the room. Roopmati did as she was told and sat down across the Sultan as graciously as she could.
“Are you comfortable here?” She nodded at his words. “Is there anything else you need?” Freedom. A sight of the Reva. A glimpse of my home. Father. The Forest. Its inhabitants. She shook her head. The Sultan seemed pleased. “Very well. Bring the Sitar and sing something for me. Perhaps the song you were singing by the river that day.” The mention of the fateful day made Roopmati blink away her tears. “I…” she fumbled, scared to upset the king. “I don’t know how to play the sitar.” She managed truthfully. The king looked surprised. “Then how did you learn to sing so well and on the right note?” Roopmati wanted to say her mother sang that song. But she did not wish to mention her to the king. She bit her lips and looked away. She could taste whatever it was that the maid put on them. Some kind of fruit that gave a red colour to her pink lips. The Sultan smiled. “Don’t be afraid. I know the first day here can be intimidating. I tell you what, you sing whatever you like, just the way you want to. Tomorrow I will recruit a teacher for your lessons.” Roopmati suddenly looked up at his smiling face at those words. She had always wanted singing lessons. She remembered her father’s words. This palace could fulfil all her dreams. She cleared her throat and started singing. This was a different song. A song she heard the cowherd sing while he took the animals to graze in the forestland. A song of two lovers separated by fate. The Sultan closed his eyes and leaned back on the couch as she sang. Every word she uttered was so emotional that the Sultan felt heavy on his chest. The maid served him wine silently, but the Sultan played with his cup. Bringing it to his lips only to draw it away again as he stared at Roopmati singing, her eyes fixed outside the jharokha, at the sky above. It took Baz Bahadur a while to find words to appreciate her song when she stopped.
“I would love for you to entertain my noblemen someday. But not before the teacher says you are ready.” He promised her. He took a ring from his finger and gave it to Roopmati. “Here, a token of appreciation for a great artist like you.” Roopmati stared at the ring a little unsurely and then stretched out her hands for him to place the ring on her palm. Baz Bahadur left her standing by the Jharokha as she watched the gems of the ring dazzling in the moonbeam.
The Sultan was a man of his word. Her lessons began early the next day. She had just taken a bath and realised that there was neither a shrine nor a river around her anymore. The maid, however, immediately paid attention to her need and brought her a small figurine. Roopmati watched the maid set up a shrine in one corner of the room, dedicated to the flute-playing God of Raas. She placed flowers at the Lord’s feet and prayed for her father. Then a soldier came to take her to the chambers of music, where the teacher waited. He was a very old man with wrinkled skin, white hair and a beard. He could barely walk straight, but the moment his fingertips touched the strings of the Sitar, Roopmati was mesmerised at how easily the man played such enchanting tunes. He was supposedly the best musician on the court. Roopmati started her lessons eagerly.
During lunch hours, the maid declared that since the housekeeper was unsure whether to sit Roopmati with the upper-floor ladies or the lower ones, she found it best to serve Roopmati food in her chambers to avoid offending anyone. That meant Roopmati was limited to her chambers and the only faces she saw were those of her guard and maid. She requested the maid for a stroll in the garden at least. But before the maid came back with permission, Roopmati opened her bundle of clothes discarded in a corner, about to be given away and found her mother’s wedding veil. She touched the veil to her lips as if to kiss her mother and smell her before she tucked it away neatly in her trunk. She regretted not bringing something that would remind her of her father. But the moment she saw her old clothes, especially the ones she sewed herself, she could see her better attire and gaudy jewellery, and immediately felt a distaste towards her old living conditions. The roof leaked, the clothes were worn out, the utensils were dirty, and food was scarce. Here, she could not even finish eating what was given to her on the silverware. Roopmati immediately felt a little guilty that the thought had consumed her. It had not even been a day since she was trapped in this world of greed, and she had given in to it consciously. But could she be blamed?
She stepped out in the evening in the garden, hoping to get some fresh air. In the garden she was allowed into, there were the women of the middle floors, oiling each other’s hair, making garlands, gossiping and giggling to themselves, chasing each other through the green lawns. The moment she stepped out, all of them stopped doing whatever they were busy with and stared at her silently. So many pairs of eyes staring at her made Roopmati feel nervous. Should she leave? Should she ignore them? Or speak to them? To her relief, she saw a familiar face approach her. The Courtesan looked much older than she thought she was in the darkness. She was about the Sultan’s age.
“Have you been settling in well?” The courtesan bowed. Immediately, there was a buzz among the women in the garden. Bits and pieces of conversation were carried by the breeze into Roopmati’s ears. “Heard that she mesmerised him with her songs.”
“What makes her so special? She looks plain to me.”
“Do you think she knows some kind of sorcery?”
“He came to her chambers yesterday and stayed very late. On the very first day here.”
“Oh, I want to see the face of that vain chief queen now.”
Whispers, giggles and stares continued.
“Ignore them.” The courtesan smiled as though she could read Roopmati’s mind. “It is a tradition that we find it hard to accept someone new. But once you blend in, they will love you like your sisters.”
“I don’t have any sisters.” Roopmati’s words made the courtesan smile.
“I see. Did you like your lessons?” Roopmati smiled with a nod. “The Sultan told me to hear you sing… so when you want to…”
“Can I sing now?” Roopmati asked. The courtesan was taken aback. “Here? Now?” Roopmati shrugged, “If I am allowed to. I mean… I always sang in the forest back home, why not in the gardens now?” The Courtesan smiled, amused.
“Allowed to? My naive mistress. You are now the queen of this garden. We will do what you allow us to.” She made her entourage smile and nod. Some giggled. Roopmati could not say whether she was making fun of her. But before she could ask, the courtesan clapped her hands and gathered the women around her. Roopmati cleared her throat and looked at her audience before she began to sing. When she ended the ballad she had sung to the Sultan, she opened her eyes to see the women wiping tears and smiling at her.
“She is truly the queen of the garden.” Someone said. “And soon his heart.”
