Sophia Naz - Shehnaz: A Tragic True Story of Royalty, Glamour and Heartbreak

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 midwifes 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 couldnt find anything to tackle the mischievous pranks and mutinous recalcitrance of her youngest daughter, Fatima. Despite all of Rabia Begums 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 Bhopalthe 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 Fatimas 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 havelis 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 Bhopals 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 Bhopals 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 Khans 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 fathers 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, Fatimas oldest sister and Rabia Begums 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 Prophets 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 called it the Turki kurta.