How will a changing Shahjahanabad, on whose horizon lurks a revolution, change the fate of a princess?
Today was the Jharokon Ka Zanana, a day when the ladies of the mahalsara came out of the palace to enjoy the fair that was held especially for them under the jharokha, as the balcony jutting out over the Jamuna was called, on the river's sandy bank. It was here that crowds gathered at dawn, every morning to pay their respects to the Badshah, and Falak Ara had often studied them from her small room in one corner of the mahal, as she sketched scenes. There was a young man who came every day and stood under that balcony, resplendent in his jama, with pearls around his neck and a dagger tied in a sash on his waist. Like her, his jama was made of chintz, and it would have beautiful damask roses or designs of the opium poppy, iris and lily.Sometimes his jama would be almost plain while his silk sash was profusely decorated with floral patterns. She had seen the same motifs on the floral borders that framed the miniature paintings in the kutubkhana.
This man would vociferously praise the Badshah Huzur's verses and she had even observed him writing them down. Was he a soldier or a poet?
Falak Goes to the Jharokha Fair 5 She hadn't seen many men up close as only the Badshah, baby boys and the khwajasaras or eunuchs could come into the part of the haram where she lived, but she'd heard stories from the other women. The khwajasaras loved to gossip, and their exaggerated accounts of passionate, praiseworthy men—often handsome or heroic or romantic or selfless-often drove the ladies wild.
Of course, even though the khwajasaras were supposed to perform guard duties in the passages and outside the haram, they had their ways of sneaking in and undoubtedly, they knew where some of the women would turn to satisfy their desires.
The colour code for the day was orange. The slight dusky tinge of Falak's skin glowed in orange clothes. She knew she was looking the best she had in her sixteen years, her beauty enhanced by the pearls and emeralds she had chosen to wear that day. She fiddled with the silver locket around her neck. It had been put on her neck by her mother before she had died, and to Falak's knowledge, had never been taken off. While bathing she just held it up; and in any case, amulets were sealed and the paper with Quranic verses in them was protected by waxed paper.
‘Oh, my princess, may I be sacrificed over you,' said Mubarak applying kohl to her almond-shaped eyts, you can slay with your eyes today.' Mubarak was Falak Ara's anga, or milk mother, having nursed the child after her mother's death in childbirth. Since there had been no one else to take care of the baby, she had become her nursemaid and now was her attendant.
(Excerpted from A Firestorm in Paradise by Rana Safvi, published by Penguin Random House)
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