After a lavish feast, a
mushaira
got going. I listened to the rhymed
tuk-baazi
rubbish without comment. A slip of paper was handed to me by a servant. I recognized Begum Sahiba’s handwriting—’Let your
kalaam
be worthy of your humble maidservant.’ The candle was placed in front of me. From behind the screen I felt her eyes fixed on me and her ears awaiting what I had to say:
How downhearted was Meer at night!
Whatever came to his lips became a cry for help.
When he started on the path of love, he was like fire;
Now it’s ended he is a heap of ashes on a pyre.
The
mushaira
went on late into the night with repeated requests for my
kalaam
. While it lasted I felt flushed with the wine of applause; when it ended, and I was alone on my
charpoy
on the roof with a myriad stars looking down on my wretchedness, my liver churned up angry vapours. Below the roof on which I lay, the woman who had made herself a part of my person was welcoming another man between her parted thighs. She had made me a stranger to my wife without any intention of changing her relationship with her own husband. I felt deserted and betrayed.
Nawab Rais decided to return to the capital. I accompanied him as far as Delhi Gate. That day, instead of returning to the
haveli
I went back to my family.
In the afternoon I took my wife to bed and savagely ravished her as I had not done since the first time I had deflowered her. The poor woman suffered my mauling with gratitude. She saw it as proof that I liked her. (That afternoon she conceived my second child, another son). In the evening the Begum Sahiba’s servants arrived with a trayful of food and fruit. The maidservant, Naseema, in whom the Begum Sahiba confided her secrets slipped a note in my hand. It began with a couplet I had composed: ‘For a long time no letter or message has been sent. A rite of faithfulness has been ended.’ It continued that without me her world was desolate and if I did not return by the next morning, she would take poison and her death would be on my head. My anger vanished. I was full of remorse. I told Naseema I would present myself the next morning.
I went to the
haveli
like a criminal to a court of justice appealing for forgiveness. Without looking at me the Begum Sahiba remarked sarcastically: ‘Meer Sahib treats us like beggars. When it pleases him he throws a few crumbs of his favour in our begging bowl.’ I made no reply. I spent some hours taking the boys through their lessons. She sat gazing dolefully at me without saying a word. I had my afternoon meal and retired to my room. There I found a note on my pillow, again a couplet I had recited to her:
Life is somewhat like a line drawing,
Appearances a kind of trust,
This period of grace we call age;
Examine it carefully!
It is a kind of waiting.
I awaited her all afternoon. She did not come. In the evening when I found her alone in the courtyard I asked her in dry tone, if I had her permission to return home. She replied: ‘Don’t bother to come to my funeral,’ covered her face with her
dupatta
and ran inside.
I was not used to playing the role of villain in a melodrama. I wished Nawab Rais had taken me with him to Delhi and I would be free of this woman who made me feel like a fly stuck in a pot of honey. More was yet to come. No sooner did I retire after the evening meal regardless of the servants who were rinsing the utensils, than she came into my room, bolted the door from the inside and came towards me. Before I could stop her she fell at my feet and began to cry. The wife of Agra’s richest Nawab crying at the feet of a poor teacher and poet! ‘You are angry with me,’ she said through her tears. ‘Punish me any way you like. Beat me, treat me like a prostitute, do whatever you like but don’t be angry with me!’ I forced her up on my
charpoy
and brushed away her tears with my hands. She drew her breasts out of her chemise and pressed my head towards them. ‘Bite them as hard as you can till you draw blood.’ I kissed them tenderly. Then I kissed her eyes and lips. When I entered her she entreated: ‘Let us run away to some place and get married; I hate that husband of mine. I don’t want him to touch me ever again.’ I smiled and asked, ‘What about your children. And the scandal?’ She looked intently into my eyes: ‘I will give up everyone and everything to be with you and serve you. Promise you will marry me.’ I promised. Soon I was about to climax and tried to withdraw; she held me tightly between her legs and cried hoarsely: ‘Don’t! Come what may this night I am yours.’
When the first bout was over, I asked her timidly whether she had extended her favours to her husband. ‘What kind of woman do you take me to be?’ she demanded angrily. ‘When I am in love with you can I offer my body to another? I knew it upset you to see me so solicitous about the old man. But one has to keep up appearances with the world, doesn’t one? Were you unfaithful to me with your wife?’ I lied by putting the question back to her, ‘You think that is possible?’
We slipped back into the game of love. Everything ever written in books on sex and much that is written nowhere we practiced on each other. We had our own private language: she was Qamar to me; I Jaan (life) to her. We gave our genitals pet names: mine was
Raja babu
, hers
Bahoo rani
. When she was unclean she described it as a visitation of a gossiping crone she did not like. We made it a point that every coupling was a complete success. If I was hasty she patiently rekindled my lust. If she felt exhausted by what was permitted she would generously offer other avenues for my pleasure. Could any man have known a woman better? Or a woman a man? I composed the following lines:
Passions have made mortals of us men
If men were not slaves of passion
They would have been Gods, each one.
Thus the days went by. And the nights. Whenever we were left by ourselves we told each other of our past. I had very little to say about myself but she kept nothing back from me. How she had fallen for that useless fellow
patanga
because of the way he sang only to discover that he was a philanderer and betrayed her trust by boasting about his conquest. There was nothing that we did not know about each other. A man can get away with his affairs with women, but a woman known to be promiscuous can be ruined for ever. That this woman should lay herself bare before me, convinced me that there would never be another man in her life. How little I knew of womankind!
It was not long before tongues began to wag. However, it seemed that the Begum Sahiba was not concerned about anything so long as the scandal did not get to the ears of her husband. Her servants knew that the slightest slip of the tongue about their mistress would bring ruin on their families. So they made it a point to tell Nawab Rais how, when he was away, the Begum Sahiba hardly ate anything and spent hours praying for his return. The old man would become most solicitous. Such is man’s vanity! However, the
haveli
was not Agra. Whenever I went out in the bazaar, people who knew me would talk in words which had two meanings: ‘Meer
Bhai
, what power you have in your pen! It can tear hearts as well as pyjamas.’ Or slap me on the back and say, ‘Meer Taqi, how fortune smiles on you!’ One evening, when I was visiting my family, my mother took me aside and spoke in a voice full of alarm. ‘
Beta
Taqi, there are as many stories as there are tongues. No one can lock up people’s mouths. Everyone in Agra is talking about you and the Begum Sahiba. I don’t believe any of it; but if such tales are carried to her husband, do you know what he can do! He has a terrible temper and will think nothing of having all of us murdered. I beg of you to stop going to the
haveli
. Make any excuse you can. Say your old mother is dying. Say anything you like.’
I told the Begum Sahiba what my mother had said. For once she became pensive. Then she said: ‘People have such dirty minds!’ Thereafter there was less ardour in her passion. And she began to tell me how important it was for me to gain recognition in the Mughal court. A month later she read out a letter from her husband saying that he had arranged for my presentation at the exalted Fort Palace as well as a patron and I should proceed post-haste to Delhi. She said: ‘My life will become desolate; but when I see your star shine brightly over Hindustan, I will say this man was my lover, I his beloved.’
When the day of my departure came she wrapped several gold
ashrafis
in a green silken scarf and put her lips close to my ear to whisper; ‘
Fallahu Khairun Haafiza wa huwa
arhumurrahimeen
–Allah is the best protector, He is compassionate and merciful.’ She tied the scarf round my arm and added in plain Hindustani: ‘Allah be with you wherever you go; may He preserve you from harm, and bring you name and fame.’ However her prayer did not include this sentiment— ‘May Allah bring you back to me.’
Before leaving I composed a few lines which I left with her as a keepsake of our love:
You came here of your own accord and are lost in yourself;
I know not what you search for, or who.
If I want anyone it is you, if I want to see anyone it is you.
You are the desire of my heart and my eyes’ prayer.
*
I wasn’t sure whether Begum Sahiba was more grieved or more relieved to see me leave Agra. I was not even sure of my own feelings. At first I felt like a bird let out of a cage and wanted to sing with the joy that freedom brought me. Then I missed the golden cage in which she had imprisoned me for more than two years, sang love songs to me, fed me and taken care of me. Was I in love with her? I did not know. Perhaps it was her love for me that made me feel worthwhile and fall in love with myself. Whatever it was, before I had passed Mathura which was our third halt, I found myself thinking more of my Qamarunnisa than of my aged mother, my younger brother to whom I had entrusted the care of the family, my wife or even my two-year- old son, Kalloo.
These were disturbed times. Gangs of Jats, Gujars, Marathas and Rohillas roamed over the country to prey upon hapless travellers. Even the royal road from Agra to Delhi was not safe from their depredations. I said to myself; ‘O Meer why complain of thorns at the start of the journey, it is still a long way to Delhi.’ I had attached myself to a caravan which had armed horsemen and matchlockmen to guard our front and rear. We travelled only during the day and halted at night in fortified
sarais
. At Ghiaspur I took leave of my travelling companions to pay homage to the tombs of Hazrat Nizamuddin Auliya and Khwaja Ameer Khusrau whose works had inspired me. I stayed two days and nights in an Arab
sarai
close to the mausoleum of Emperor Humayun. It was from its marble tower that I had my first look at the city of the Mughals which was to be my home for many years to come.
I approached the city by the Delhi Gate. Nawab Rais had sent word to the
havaldar
guarding the gate to let me in. The
havaldar
detached one of his sentries to escort me to the house where Nawab Rais was staying. The Nawab Sahib was exceedingly kind to me—a man who after having eaten his salt had betrayed his trust by becoming his wife’s lover. I told him how much the Begum Sahiba, the children and the household missed him. If nothing else she had taught me how to lie with a straight face.
Through Nawab Rais’s influence I was able to rent a couple of rooms in a bazaar close to Fatehpuri Masjid. It was a mean-looking hovel but it was the best I could afford with the money in my purse. I called it the ‘boaster’s grave’ and wrote a description of it in my diary: ‘There are fissures and cracks in the walls, dust dropping from everywhere; in one corner a mole, a mouse peering out of another hole; bandicoots share my home, ever present is the mosquitoes’ drone; spiders’ webs hang from the walls; at night the crickets’ grating call; edges crumbling, shutters tumbling, stones edging out of their places. Beams and rafters with soot-black faces. This was poor Meer’s bower; there he spent hour after hour.’
A few days later Nawab Rais presented me to Mohammed Wasit, the nephew of the great Nawab Samsamuddaulah who was the power behind the Mughal throne. He promised to help after I had proved my worth at a
mushaira
which was due to take place soon and where his uncle was expected to be the guest of honour.
The
mushaira
was arranged on the roof-top of a mansion in Faiz Bazaar called Daryaganj. It was the night of the full moon which always reminded me of my Qamar. On the floor were carpets covered with snow-white sheets with jasmine and rose-petals scattered on them and bolsters placed along the sides;
surahis
(pitchers) of
sherbet
were lined on the parapets; a soft breeze blowing across the Jamna mingled with the fragrance of
khas
, rose and jasmine. Only the nobility of the town had been invited. Over a dozen poets of repute were present including the most famous—Sirajuddin Ali Khan ‘Aarzoo’, the brother of my step-mother. Most people had heard my name but none had seen my face or heard my voice. I was very nervous and kept rubbing my palms against my shirt to keep them dry. I did not know which of my compositions 1 should recite before such an august assemblage.
The
nawabs
of the court began to arrive. As their names were announced we rose from our seats to
salaam
them. The last to arrive was Nawab Samsamuddaulah. Everyone made a low bow to greet him. He acknowledged our greetings and asked us to be seated. After a while, the host announced that it was Nawab Samsamuddaulah’s pleasure that the poets and guests should be allowed to wet their moustaches before the proceedings began. The announcement was greeted with applause. It was the first time in my life that besides
sherbet
, wine was served at a
mushaira
. Goblets went round and soon everyone was in high spirits. I had tasted wine before but never of such excellence—made from Kandahar grapes and chilled in snow brought down from the Himalayas. I had a poor liver for liquor. I realized that if I made a fool of myself at my first public appearance I would become the laughing stock of the city and decided to refill my goblet only after I had recited my piece.