A week was enough for the master to be pleased enough with the new student to tell the Sultan that she was ready for her first performance. The Sultan was extremely pleased and rewarded him with a gold chain. As the master bowed to leave, the guards announced the arrival of the chief queen. Sultan Baz Bahadur sat upright. She was his first bride, a childhood alliance his father had forced upon him when he did not even know what marriage implied. Now he only saw her face when she had complaints about the inner palace and its inhabitants. Honestly, he expected her to be there since Roopmati arrived. His queen did not like changes, especially if those changes were threatening to her position.
The Chief Queen arrived with her maids, dismissed them at the threshold and came up to her husband to bow and greet him.
“What brings you here?” Baz Bahadur asked, with a lingering smile on his lips. The queen could hear the hint of taunt in his voice. She forced a smile. Her marriage to this reckless art-loving Sultan had not been an exactly perfect one, but she always managed to find her way through him.
“Of course, to see you, hear you…” She sat down near him on the cushion. “Is it surprising for me to come to my husband’s chambers?”
“No, not at all.” He shook his head. “So, what do you want to hear? About the new birds in the sanctuary? The painting I commissioned for the hallway? Perhaps the latest war happening in the north?” He watched her jaws clench. “Or do you want to hear some music?”
“Spare me that.” The queen snapped. “I have been hearing too much music in the palace. It is aching my head every day.”
“Is it now?” Baz Bahadur smiled. “But the others were saying they quite like what they hear.”
“Then they are deaf, too much of anything is bad.” She eyed her husband, nodding.
“Or perhaps you need to develop some taste in music.” He watched her nod quietly. “Anything else?”
“Do you want to make her a queen?” Her words made him chuckle.
“Now there’s the wife I know. She is a guest in the palace, a singer who deserves her due respect for her art…” He watched his queen staring at him in disbelief. “Not a plaything, not someone to disrespect with… You know…” The queen looked satisfied. She bowed and left, vowing to come back again when she had had too much of the Sitar.
Baz Bahadur sat in his bed now, as he could hear the faint sound of the Sitar coming from the Jahaj Mahal. He smiled. Roopmati reminded him of the new buds of lotus in the palace lakes. Pure, untouched and innocent. In no way, shape, or form did he have the urge to see her as merely a woman of beauty and grace. She was talented. He wanted to mentor her, nurture her and guide her. If she became famous, any king in the world would want an audience with her. Baz Bahadur would then hold the upper hand, vainly showing her off as Mandu’s pride.
The nobles had gathered in the courtroom for the weekly Mehfil. Artists came from all across Malwa for these gatherings. Musicians, dancers, jesters, poets, painters, everyone was welcome as long as they praised their king and had the talent to impress him. Baz Bahadur was not that easily impressionable when it came to art. The Noblemen spend their entire lives, especially in the court of the previous Sultan, discussing administration and warfare. Such occasions made them awkward and uneasy. They were not the right people to appreciate art. They knew that, and the Sultan did too. But he tried in vain to make them see what he saw. That pouring out his treasury on these people was never a bad investment, as they thought it to be. They would all someday become famous across the world and spread his name as their patron. Wine and food were probably what made these men attend anyway. But this evening, Baz Bahadur hoped to turn things around, now that he had the ace in his hand.
Roopmati watched her maid put the veil over her face as she stood at the threshold of the Mehfil, waiting for her name to be announced. She had practised all week for this day, and this was her test. If she failed, Baz Bahadur would perhaps throw her out of the palace for his humiliation or send her back home. Worse, he would trap her in a dungeon for her sin, and she would never see the light of day. Roopmati took a deep breath, trying to brush away these thoughts as she heard her name being announced. The room was silent. She looked up curiously from behind her veil to watch Baz Bahadur sitting in a high chair as she bowed and took her seat. She could see the silent eyes of the noblemen on her. For the first time, a woman had entered their Mehfil with respect and not a sneer. Her fingers trembled a little on the strings of the instrument as she calmed herself before she began to sing. This was a new song she learnt from the master, a story of a warrior lost in the forest of illusions. She could see the men stare at her voice with awe, Baz Bahadur smiling in pride. When the music died down, a moment of silence passed, and then the hall broke with a loud cheer and appreciative claps. Even the musicians who had come from across the land praised her. Roopmati felt a tear drop trickling down her cheek. She thanked god that the veil hid her face and her soul from embarrassment as she bowed. Baz Bahadur took a pearl-studded pendant from his neck and threw it at Roopmati’s feet. Startled, she stepped back and looked at him with narrowed brows. The maid stood by her, urging her to take the Sultan’s blessings, which she did, before she bowed shortly and turned to leave. Sultan Baz Bahadur, in his little intoxication, suddenly felt that he had disappointed Roopmati with his action, perhaps disrespected her. He needed to apologise to his court’s best music prodigy.
It was late at night when Roopmati sat by the jharokha, combing her hair. She had dismissed the maid after she helped her change into a simple robe, and the gift of a pearl lay carelessly on top of her dresser. Every time she looked at it, Roopmati could picture him throwing the precious garland at her feet. She fumed. It was strange for her to be angry at him; he was the Sultan of Malwa, and he could do whatever he wanted. But she felt like he had disrespected her singing more than her. The guard announcing his arrival startled Roopmati. It was very late at night. An instinct of fear kicked in. Could he have seen her rudely walking away? Did he want to punish her audacity? Or worse, was he here, intoxicated, hoping she was like the other women in his zenana? Roopmati imagined herself trapped in the Sultan’s advances; she had no way out. She searched the dark room for her veil and found it right on time to wrap it around her robe when his silhouette arrived at her threshold. He seemed to be walking straight after so many cups of wine. He snapped his finger at the guard who lit the lamps. One by one, the lamps flickered away the darkness, and Roopmati emerged from it like a celestial nymph who had come to his rescue.
“I apologise for the odd hour and …” Baz Bahadur stepped forward, making himself more visible to Roopmati, who subconsciously took a step back. Baz Bahadur stopped as if he could read her mind. “I am here to apologise for how I behaved in the court.”
“No, Your Highness, that is…” Roopmati managed to shake her head. Baz Bahadur smiled, a little relieved. “I was afraid you were angry with me.” He confessed in a child-like gush. Roopmati looked a little pale.
“Your Highness, I can never have the audacity to…” Baz Bahadur shook his head. “Please feel free to let me know if any of my actions ever hurt you. Or anyone here disrespects you.” He made her smile faintly. “Nobody ever respected me like this before.” She confessed. A moment of silence passed between them. Baz Bahadur broke it with good news. “Well, for the first time, my nobles realised the importance of patronising art, thanks to your talent.” Roopmati bowed. “I am glad I could help.” Baz Bahadur’s eyes now fell on the pearl garland that was sitting on the dresser. He walked towards the dresser as Roopmati watched him, a little embarrassed.
“I will put it away in a box…” She managed to fumble as he picked it up. He turned to approach her and was glad that she did not feel intimidated anymore. “Allow me.” Baz Bahadur surprised her by walking around her back and placing the cold pearl on her neck. Roopmati shuddered, a little surprised at the gesture as he hooked it around her neck. “Your music will again be needed in the next Mehfil.” His words made her nod with a smile. “I will try to perform better, Your Highness.” Baz Bahadur nodded back at her before he walked away. The moment his footsteps receded down the hallway and the guard pulled her door shut, Roopmati sat down on the edge of her bed, relieved and surprised. Her alta-clad fingers lingered on the pearls around her neck as she smiled to herself.
Every Mehfil started getting better than the one before as more and more guests of the Sultan flocked to witness the new musical sensation the Sultan patronised. The land of Malwa was full of rumours about this mystery woman. Was she a princess? An entertainer? A foreign lady? Someone rich? Where did the Sultan find her? Was she going to be the new queen? Along with praise for her singing, word spread about her beauty across the land. Most of it was imagined by bards who wrote poetry about their brief encounters with this mesmerising lady, hidden in the veil, yet their imaginations about her beauty ran wild. Some said her eyes were like a deer’s. Some said the mole on her lip made her look more intriguing. Some compared her skin to clouds, her hair to the waves. Nobody in reality ever saw how Roopmati looked behind the veil. All they knew was that someone who sang so well had to be beautiful inside and out and privileged enough to have met the Sultan of Malwa somewhere.
The Sultan was at first overwhelmed at how many of his friends and fellow kings wanted a place in his Mehfil just to hear Roopmati sing. He even refused to lend her for a day or two to the courts of these kings, forcing them to come to Malwa as guests, sending rumours of alliance across the land, like he had hoped. The more people heard Roopmati, the more they wanted to know her. Apart from these Mehfils once in a while, the Sultan wanted a private audience with Roopmati so that she could sing to him. Usually, on days that were tiringly uneventful or overly eventful, hunts that were unsatisfying, and meetings that ended in arguments, Baz Bahadur found himself seeking calm in Roopmati’s voice. One evening, Baz Bahadur asked Roopmati for an audience in the garden. It was something new for her, and Roopmati was unsure. He was sitting by the Kund when she arrived at dusk, and Baz Bahadur could see the red hue of the setting sun sparkle in her eyes.
“Why are we here today?” Roopmati managed to ask as she bowed.
“Because I was feeling suffocated in the palace. I needed to breathe.” Roopmati looked up at his words. Baz Bahadur looked a little perplexed. The smile he wore on other days was missing. “Is something wrong, Your Highness?” Baz Bahadur frowned slightly at her words. “What makes you say that?”
“Just that…” Roopmati stopped, a little embarrassed as she bit her lower lip and looked away. Baz Bahadur smiled. “It's strange that you noticed that when many didn’t…” Roopmati looked up at his words. “Just had a bad day hunting…”
Roopmati looked a little amused even when she tried to hide it. Baz Bahadur noticed her and asked, “Something entertained you?” She shook her head.
“I can understand the feeling of suffocation in the palace after spending a few days in the forest.”
“Does the palace suffocate you too?” His words alarmed her. She shook her head. “I apologise. I was not complaining.”
“Why not? You are right.” Baz Bahadur thought for a while, looking at the water rippling in the Kund. “You know what, next time I go hunting, come with me.” Roopmati gasped at his words. “But Your Highness, I don’t know how to.”
“I will teach you to.” He insisted.
“But you go with your noblemen…” She was reluctant, “I am only a woman…”
“ We will go on a private hunting trip outside Mandu then.” He had made up his mind. Roopmati was a little worried. Spending time alone on a hunting trip with the Sultan would only fuel the palace rumours. She was not naive to them any more. Most of the women thought she was just a talented concubine to the Sultan, no matter what her reality was. It bothered her a lot at first when she cried on her pillows at night, wishing she were back home, married to a farmer. That would save her the humiliation and character assassination. Now, she was used to smiling and ignoring them. But she could not say no to the Sultan’s order, could she?
“We have a very important Mehfil this week.” He broke her chain of thoughts, “I told you that the Prince of Khandesh is coming to hear you sing. Mubarak has been my friend since childhood, and his father was an important ally to mine. He must be impressed.”
“I will try my best, Your Highness,” Roopmati reassured. “Do you want me to sing the song I prepared?”
“If you insist…” Baz Bahadur smiled with a shrug.
“It is hopefully something you will like… the master said it's your favourite Raga.” Roopmati started singing a song of Viraha in Raag Sarasangi. Baz Bahadur was familiar with the song. Roopmati was pleasantly surprised when he sang along. Their voices sang the emotions of pain and love in perfect sync as the dusk melted into the darkness of the night.
“They were talking. It's not just songs anymore…” One of the queens said in a whisper as the chief queen sat up on her bed. “The maid overheard them planning a trip.”
Another queen gasped. “When was the last time he took one of us out of the palace?”
“Now they are singing together.” The first one made the others gasp. The Chief Queen stood up. “This has to stop. She has to go before it is too late.”
“Go?” The others looked amused. “He will never let her go.”
“Then someone has to take her away.” The Chief Queen paced her room. She remembered how Mubarak respected her like a sister. He was coming as a guest of honour that week. If he wanted to take Roopmati, Baz Bahadur could not afford to say no.
