Shehnaz Read online

  SOPHIA NAZ

  Shehnaz

  A Tragic True Story of Royalty, Glamour and Heartbreak

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  Contents

  1. The Girl Who Named Herself

  2. Mihir Tamsal and Her Descendants

  3. Begum

  4. Rebellion

  5. Aftab Bia—The Venomous Beauty

  6. The Spinner of Illusions

  7. A Bride in Bombay

  8. Almost Anarkali

  9. Shirodkar’s Stitch

  10. Divorce

  11. MonkGoose’s Revenge

  12. Hide-and-Seek

  Epilogue

  Illustrations

  Footnotes

  Mihir Tamsal and Her Descendants

  The Spinner of Illusions

  A Bride in Bombay

  Almost Anarkali

  Shirodkar’s Stitch

  MonkGoose’s Revenge

  Hide-and-Seek

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Follow Penguin

  Copyright

  To my mother and all the women whose stories remain untold

  ‘The past is never dead. It’s not even past.’

  —William Faulkner

  1

  The Girl Who Named Herself

  Bhopal, 1937

  Rabia Begum was not yet thirty when she discovered she was pregnant for the thirteenth time. She hoped that this pregnancy would succeed, unlike her last one which had resulted in a heartbreaking miscarriage. Like the vast majority of local adherents of her faith, Rabia Begum practised a hybrid variety of Islam that in many of its superstitions was virtually identical to the beliefs of her Hindu compatriots who formed ninety per cent of the population of Bhopal. Thus, upon her midwife’s advice, throughout her pregnancy she had abstained from new clothes, jewellery or kohl to ward off the evil eye. From her murshid she had obtained an amulet for protection, a ritually blessed cardamom pod to aid the conception, and for good measure had hugged a bael tree to ensure the successful delivery of her thirteenth child.

  While she waited for the amulets and spells to work their magic to aid her pregnancy, she couldn’t find anything to tackle the mischievous pranks and mutinous recalcitrance of her youngest daughter, Fatima. Despite all of Rabia Begum’s efforts to admonish and chide the child, her impishness and impudence continued unabated and she refused to be fazed by any threats or blandishments. Rabia Begum realized that strong-willed females were not uncommon in the family; it was this very quality that had produced the courageous and sophisticated Nawab Begums of Bhopal—the only matriarchal Muslim dynasty of India. They were a complete anomaly in an era when Pathan women rarely, if ever, broke seclusion, let alone ruled unveiled and excelled in all manner of statecraft and martial arts. Rabia Begum herself had an indomitable streak that brooked no disobedience, which was why the antics of her daughter were doubly annoying. She was immensely annoyed with Fatima for her incessant shenanigans and with herself for giving the precocious brat such a devout name.

  The little thief had been conspicuously missing all morning. Come to think of it, she had missed her own birth too! Rabia Begum was beset by false labour pains that had kept her up all night, causing her to summon the midwife, Dai Mushtari, a whole week early. Rabia Begum itched to tightly slap Fatima’s rosy cheeks when the child was eventually found. But it was a long way from the top of the marble steps of the veranda to the lush gardens of Nawab Manzil, especially in this sultry weather, so she remained reclining on her divan while a servant girl massaged her swollen feet. A moist green triangle of folded betel leaf, held in one delicate hand, waited patiently, in the manner of a penitent waiting to enter the inner sanctum of a shrine but unable to do so until a thick stream of expletives had first exited its confines like the teeming flow of passengers pouring out after a long and tiring train journey.

  The fusillade of curses ricocheted off the haveli’s ancient walls to reverberate in the green valley that gently curved upward into a hill. This wide swath of open land abutted the aged boundary walls of the Begum Sultan Masjid and helped to contain the overflow of worshippers at the Eid prayers. Behind Nawab Manzil was one of Bhopal’s oldest neighbourhoods, Shahjahanabad. It was essentially a maze of rutted stone walls, cobblestoned streets and narrow alleyways through which ice carts would ply, deftly manoeuvring past tribal Gond women hawking water chestnuts harvested from Bhopal’s lakes early in the morning, which they carried in baskets balanced on their heads. The last lane of Shahjahanabad culminated in a cul-de-sac at the colonnaded arch of Nawab Manzil. The gardens lay sequestered beyond the pink sandstone walls.

  It was in these gardens, or rather in a specific guava tree that Fatima had hidden herself. She was not eating guavas (they were out of season in any case), but nibbling on a gondh laddu, a special post-partum dessert to nourish nursing mothers and help eradicate unsightly stretch marks caused by pregnancy. Fatima had watched for weeks as the maidservants shelled and ground pistachios, melon seeds, almonds and cashew nuts before mixing them with jaggery, dry powdered ginger, coarse crushed cardamom seeds and ghee-fried popped lotus seeds before adding a small quantity of acacia gum to keep the fist-sized balls from crumbling. This time around, an extra quantity of the nutritious confection had been prepared as there was not one but two expectant mothers residing at Nawab Manzil. A tall urn of the laddus had been lovingly placed between their amply pillowed daybeds and covered with a ceremonial phulkari coverlet while important details of the imminent post-natal feasts were addressed. Fatima had seized this opportunity to fashion an impromptu pouch with the coverlet, filled it with laddus and made off for the guava tree with her loot.

  The entire household of Nawab Manzil did have a fairly good idea of where Fatima might be hiding. Everyone in Shahjahanabad had heard a story or two about Aziz-ul-Mulk Sardar Iqbal Mohammad Khan’s wilful daughter. They knew that the orchard planted by order of Sultan Jahan Begum in the southern half of Nawab Manzil Bagh was her domain, as was the back seat of her father’s Rolls Royce, which she would transform into a makeshift dollhouse whenever it was not in use. However, Nawab Manzil was a hive of activity in the relatively cool morning hours as it prepared for the impending double birth and no one had the time to chase after the truant child.

  As it was the custom for a woman to give birth in her maiden home, Naushaba, Fatima’s oldest sister and Rabia Begum’s firstborn had been living with them for the last six months. Only thirteen when she gave birth to her, Rabia Begum and Naushaba were more like close friends than mother and daughter. Now Naushaba herself was thirteen and due to have her own firstborn at the same time as her twenty-six-year-old mother. As the noonday heat rose, Rabia Begum felt a wave of exhaustion tinged with guilt wash over her. She was devout and held Lady Fatima, the Prophet’s daughter, as an emblem of ideal womanhood. Yet here she was, being constantly provoked to insult that hallowed name. Rabia Begum wished for the umpteenth time that she had called the little miscreant something else. Muttering an apology to the saint, she placed the moist green triangle in her mouth, sank back into the bolsters of the divan and soon fell into a snoring slumber.

  Sleep held sway like a hypnotic snake over all the inhabitants of Nawab Manzil who lay coiled in its heavy embrace when Fatima tiptoed in, glad to place her feet on the cool white marble of the long veranda. The marble filigree work depicting an arabesque of tulips which flanked each balustrade in the veranda was interlaced with native vines of night-blooming jasmine. The tulips were a Turkish theme made fashionable in the palaces and mansions of Bhopal by Sultan Jahan Begum following her sojourn in Istanbul. It was on that same trip that she brought back the Turkish kurta or tunic, which was somewhat similar to its Greek-style counterpart. This became known as the Bhopali kurta except in Bhopal where everyone call
ed it the Turki kurta.

  Because of this Turki kurta, there were two persons who were not asleep when Fatima crept up the veranda steps. Lajjo Bia and Sajjo Bia, Rabia Begum’s lady’s maids, had been entrusted with the task of attaching elaborate trimmings of pure silver gota to the kurta and the six diaphanous yards of veil that would complete the outfit that Rabia Begum was to wear at the post-natal feast. Lajjo and Sajjo had a somewhat higher status than the regular maids. The sisters were childless widows whose late husbands had been in the service of Nawab Hamidullah Khan. They had been placed at Nawab Manzil as genteel helpers who did not perform menial labour but carried out other rather refined tasks befitting their modest but respectable upbringing. As she snuck in, Lajjo and Sajjo silently rebuked Fatima with their eyes, unwilling to cause a ruckus that would disturb the siesta of their mistress.

  Fatima darted inside and cast about for a fitting place to hide. Her usual hideouts were the storeroom that contained the extra quilts and bedding or the capacious pantry or the roof. The first seemed too stuffy, the second was filled to the brim in anticipation of the birth feasts and the third was too warm. Then it dawned upon her that the perfect spot to hide was the deorhi, the long, cool, unlit corridor between the haveli’s feminine and masculine quarters. No one would seek her out there.

  She must have dozed off because the afternoon’s hot white glare had been replaced by the sunset’s gentle peach glow emanating from the other end of the passageway. She seemed to have been asleep for several hours because there was a lot of hubbub from the zenana, the women’s quarters. Did she have a new sibling or was she an aunt now?

  Curiosity overcame her trepidation and she quickly made her way to the lady’s section of the manor. She collided with a sweaty woman who was hurrying to the men’s chambers and both collapsed in a heap on the rough paving stones. It was the midwife, Mushtari Bia. ‘Fatima, you spawn of a swine! You’re nothing but trouble! Just look at what you’ve done! I was going to convey the happy tidings of your baby sister’s birth to your father. How can I go there now with torn pyjamas and bleeding knees?’

  Before the midwife could continue her harangue, Fatima sprinted away into the large courtyard of the masculine quarter. Still a young child, she could wander at will between the feminine and the masculine portions of the house. She knew exactly where to find her father. This being the first of the month, he would be in his study reviewing the accounts presented by Munshi-ji.

  Major General Aziz-ul-Mulk Sardar Iqbal Muhammad Khan liked to keep a tight rein on the family finances. He had inherited a large estate of fifty-two villages from his grandfather, Baqi Mohammad Khan, also known by the title of Umrao Doulah, or Nawab Consort. In his time, Umrao Doulah was the head of the armed forces of Bhopal and had distinguished himself by his astute military and diplomatic prowess, rescuing the State from both internal strife and external threats numerous times. Impressed by his loyalty and accomplishments, the ruler of Bhopal, Nawab Sikander Begum, had insisted that he marry her sixteen-year-old daughter, Shahjahan Begum, who would ascend to the throne as soon as she turned eighteen. Baqi protested that not only was he much older than Shahjahan, but he already had a wife. He even sent a bottle of his hair dye and dentures in a tray to Nawab Sikander Begum as a testament to his advanced years.

  His objections were to no avail. The ruler’s command had to be obeyed. They married and had a daughter, Sultan Jahan, affectionately known as Sarkar Amma, who was the mother of the present Nawab. Fatima’s father was the grandson of Umrao Doulah from his first wife. After Umrao Doulah’s death, Shahjahan Begum made a disastrous second marriage to the bigoted Salafist preacher, Siddiq Hasan, who forced her into purdah and tried to usurp her power and sow discord among the various religious communities of Bhopal. It was a perilous time for the State but Fatima’s family, the Baqi Khel, or clan of Umrao Doulah, made every effort to contain the damage done by Siddiq Hasan. Therefore, the Baqi Khel had the trust, respect, gratitude and affection of Sultan Jahan Begum and her son, the current Nawab, Hamidullah Khan. Sultan Jahan Begum also had a keen interest in architecture; Nawab Manzil had been built at her behest and she had personally ensured that it was a generous and gracious dwelling that would endure for generations to come.

  When Fatima entered the study, her father was deep in conversation with Munshi-ji. She knew better than to interrupt her father, even though she was bursting to tell him the news. Her father was a man of mercurial temperament. She went to her favourite spot in the study, the wall of family portraits.

  Several photographs of the young Shahjahan Begum adorned one area of the wall. One of them showed a young woman in her early teens wearing a hybrid of Eastern and Western clothing—a monarch’s cape over a traditional Bhopali joda worn with Western-style shoes. She unsmilingly stared straight into the camera—her expression held an edge of uncertainty, as if the young Nawab Begum was still coming to terms with the realization that it was her and not her overbearing mother who was now the ruler of Bhopal. Above her, casting a shadow over her daughter in death as she did in life, hung the portrait of Sultan Sikander Begum, whose expression could only be construed as daunting. If the intent of the elder Begum’s demeanour was to intimidate, it certainly had that effect on the young Fatima who preferred to avoid the baleful glare of that gaze.

  Of all the photographs on the wall the image of Sultan Shahjahan Begum that most captivated her was the portrait of the ruler that was taken when she was just five years old, the same age as Fatima. She recognized some of her own irrepressible spirit in that grin. Perhaps she too had played pranks on her elders? Could a princess be spanked? Fatima was fairly sure the answer was no.

  Next to Shahjahan Begum was a portrait of her husband, Fatima’s great-grandfather, Umrao Doulah. Although much older than his bride at the time of their marriage, he was still a handsome man. Fatima had inherited some of his best features including his aquiline nose and almond eyes.

  Beneath Umrao Doulah was a photograph of Fatima’s father, taken during the Delhi Durbar of 1911. Like many photos of its day the black-and-white image had been tinted. It showed a tall, well-built man with sandy-blond sideburns and moustache, a ruddy complexion and large startling-blue eyes. If one were not familiar with the differences in the uniforms of the Indian and the English officers, one could easily have mistaken him for an Englishman. Indeed, his fellow officers and peers addressed Sardar Iqbal Muhammad Khan simply as ‘Colonel By Jove’, the expression he habitually used to punctuate his speech.

  Next to Nawab Hamidullah Khan, Colonel By Jove was one of the most important personages in Bhopal. Besides being His Highness’s half-cousin, he was his chief aide-de-camp and the only person who addressed His Highness as Choté Mian, meaning younger brother, or by his first name, Hamidullah.

  Knowing that one word from his powerful employer could make or sink his fortunes, the obsequious Munshi-ji was always careful to address Sardar Iqbal Muhammad Khan by his official title, Qibla Aziz-ul-Mulk. Fatima was glad when the unctuous accountant finally finished with the ledger and took his leave. She waited until he had closed the door behind him before announcing, ‘Abba Mian, I have a baby sister!’

  Abba Mian, who had already been blessed with five sons and had been concerned about the health of his wife following her miscarriage, was relieved and delighted. He reached into his desk to procure a gold coin. ‘Go and give this to your mother with my felicitations.’

  ‘What about me?’ Fatima pouted. ‘Isn’t the bearer of happy news supposed to get a reward?’

  ‘Indeed!’ Her father smiled and extracting a silver two-anna coin from his pocket, he placed it in her little hand. She raised her palm to her forehead in the classic gesture of the adâb, which constituted an acknowledgement of a favour as well as a customary salutation. Delighted to have snagged the reward that would have no doubt gone to the midwife otherwise, Fatima opened the door to leave for the women’s quarters and saw Munshi-ji still loitering around, gossiping with one of the servants. ‘Munsh
i-ji!’ her father bellowed. ‘No doubt you have heard the news. Come back in. We need to make arrangements for the Aqiqah.’

  The Aqiqah or Birth Feast was also the day a child was christened. Usually, although not always, the name was chosen either by istikhara, a system of guidance which recommended that the first letter of a child’s name be according to the astrological house of their birth, or by fâl, the opening of the Quran on any random page and choosing a name beginning with any letter present on that page. The christening ceremony had given Rabia Begum an idea. Perhaps she could use this opportunity to discuss the options for renaming Fatima even as a suitable name was divined for her newborn sister. As long as he was coming for the naming ceremony, Maulvi Saifuddin, her murshid or spiritual guide, might as well deal with this long-standing thorn in her side.

  As per the custom, the Aqiqah was set for the seventh day following the birth. Preparations had begun early that morning with the sacrifice of a goat and now the khansaman or master of materials was busy supervising the procurement of the ingredients required for the various meat dishes and sweetmeats for the feast. Nawab Manzil was decorated elaborately for the occasion. Fresh flowers graced each doorway, braziers of incense burned in the corners of the freshly washed courtyards. Trays of betel leaf wrapped in pure silver foil were ready to be offered as post-feast digestives. Separate trays containing fahâs of attar, tiny perfume-soaked cones of cotton meant to be tucked in the ears of the guests, were prepared. At least two hundred people including extended family and friends were expected to attend the Aqiqah.

  Rabia Begum had chosen to name her neonate Razia, after the legendary Razia Sultan, the only woman ever to ascend to the throne of Delhi. While baby Razia, freshly tonsured and anointed with saffron paste, was being admired by her relatives, Rabia Begum, having obtained her husband’s permission, brought the matter of renaming Fatima to the attention of her murshid. Maulvi Saifuddin pondered for a moment and then, after consulting his table of birth months and auspicious names, suggested that since her birth month was February they could simply solve the problem by adding Kaneez to her name, which would not only enhance its piety, as she would now be the handmaiden of Fatima, but would also allow them to address their daughter simply as Kaneez, thus avoiding the shadow of an epithet or slur upon the sanctity of the Prophet’s daughter.