Nurjahan's Daughter by Tanushree Podder Page A

embroider and stitch dresses for her,’ she told her husband, as she tried to capture the magical colours around her on her canvas.
    Sher Afghan, sprawled under a jackfruit tree, was amused at her complaint. His eyes swept over her svelte figure and rested on her painting. An indulgent smile played on his face as he patted her hand. ‘You are good at whatever you do.’ A look filled with intimacy and warmth passed between them and a delightful blush spread on his wife’s face.
    Suddenly Meherunnisa packed up her painting and stood up. ‘It is too beautiful a day to sit at one spot. Let us walk around the waterfront.’
    ‘I feel like playing a game of chaupar with you.’
    ‘We will do that after we have taken a turn. I want to feel the cool breeze on my face. It reminds me of my days at Lahore when the evening breeze blew through the terraced gardens and we took endless walks discussing all sorts of things.’
    As they walked around the mango grove, the smell of the tiny fruits lay thick in the air, attracting a host of insects around them. In the distance a koel cooed with ecstasy, heralding the advent of a joyous spring. Hand-in-hand they walked, with Meherunnisa humming under her breath. This is bliss, thought Sher Afghan, turning to look at Laadli trying to climb a branch of a tree. Like a monkey she clambered up the overhanging branch one minute, only to slip down the next, unmindful of her scraped knees.
    They lunched under the thick foliage of the trees, seated on the ground with a sparkling white dastarkhan spread before them. Despite all the grumbling, Firdaus had managed to put together an excellent meal for the family. There were parathas stuffed with minced meat, a meat curry and a bowlful of greens with a variety of pickles and chutneys.
    Even Laadli, who normally fussed over her food, stuffed herself willingly.
    ‘There is something magical about a picnic. The most ordinary food tastes so good that one ends up overeating. I have eaten so much that all I want to do is the lie down under a tree and sleep for sometime,’ Meherunnisa stated, suppressing a yawn.
    On her bidding, Firdaus brought an embroidered coverlet and spread it on the ground. It wasn’t until the sun decided to call it a day that they began packing up.
    ‘We must do this more often,’ Meherunnisa suggested, picking up her scattered papers.
    ‘Yes, if the weather and the emperor permit us,’ Sher Afghan agreed as he helped her pack the paints.
    The setting sun sprayed the sky orange as birds made their way to their nests. The women got into their palanquins and the men rode alongside, cantering lazily. Darkness had fallen by the time they neared the house. Servants walked ahead with lit lamps to light up the path. They were a short distance away from the house when Sayeed, the stable boy, ran up to them. Panting with exertion, he cried–‘Go back, go back Master! Don’t go to the house. The governor and his soldiers are there. I have heard them whispering ominous things. Please go to the village and get some help!’
    ‘Don’t be a fool, Sayeed, why shouldn’t I go to my own house?’ Sher Afghan said brusquely. ‘Move out of my way. The governor will not hurt us. We have not given him any cause for displeasure.’
    He spurred his horse and rode on despite the servant’s passionate appeals. Desperate, Sayeed ran towards Meherunnisa’s palanquin.
    ‘Please stop the master, I beg you. The governor’s men are in a foul mood.’
    Meherunnisa’s heart was hammering fearfully. She cried out to Firdaus, ‘Something untoward is likely to happen. My left eye is twitching. It is not a good omen. Someone please stop the master.’ But Sher Afghan was too far ahead by now.
    He rode into the courtyard of his mansion where the governor, Qutub-ud-din, and his deputy, Pir Khan Kashmiri, along with half a dozen soldiers lay in wait. Like ghosts, they emerged from the shadows of the trees and surrounded the lone man. This is no courtesy