Indeed it was, and neither of them was to forget it. The Barsaat Mahal, site of statesmanship and intrigue, love and dissolute enjoyment, glory and slow decay, was transfigured into something of abstract and final beauty. Above its sheer river wall it rose, its reflection in the water almost perfect, almost unrippled. They were in a stretch of the river where even the sounds of the old town were dim. For a few minutes they said nothing at all.
3.14
After a little while, without as such being told to, the boatman pulled his pole out of the mud at the bottom of the river. He continued to row upstream, past the Barsaat Mahal. The river narrowed slightly because of a spit of sand jutting almost into mid-stream from the opposite bank. The chimneys of a shoe factory, a tannery and a flour mill came into view. Kabir stretched and yawned, releasing Lata’s shoulder.
‘Now I’ll turn around and we’ll drift past it,’ said the boatman.
Kabir nodded.
‘This is where the easy part begins for me,’ said the boatman, turning the boat around. ‘It’s good it’s not too hot yet.’ Steering with an occasional stroke of the oar, he let the boat drift downstream on the current.
‘Lots of suicides from that place there,’ he commented cheerfully, pointing at the sheer drop from the Barsaat Mahal to the water. ‘There was one last week. The hotter the weather, the crazier people get. Crazy people, crazy people.’ He gestured along the shore. Clearly, in his mind, the perpetually land-bound could never be quite sane.
As they passed the Barsaat Mahal again, Kabir took a small booklet entitled Diamond Guide to Brahmpur out of his pocket. He read out the following to Lata:
Although Fatima Jaan was only third wife of Nawab Khushwaqt still it was to her that he made the nobile edifice of Barsaat Mahal. Her feminine grace, dignity of heart and wit proved so powerful that Nawab Khushwaqt’s all affections were soon transferred to his new bride, their Impassionate love made them inseparatable companions both in the palaces as well as in the court. To her he built Barsaat Mahal, miracle of marble filligral work, for their life and pleasures.
Once she also accompanied him in the campaign. At that time she gave birth to a weakly son and unfortunately, due to some disorder in the system, she looked despairingly at her lord. At this, the Nawab was shocked too much. His heart was sank with grief and face grew much too pale. . Alas! On the day of 23 April, 1735, Fatima Jaan closed her eyes at a shortage of 33 before her broken-hearted lover.
‘But is all this true?’ said Lata laughing.
‘Every word,’ said Kabir. ‘Trust your historian.’ He went on:
Nawab Khushwaqt was so much grieved that his mind was upset, he was even prepared to die which he, of course, could not do. For a long time he could not forget her though all possible efforts were made. On each Friday he went on foot to the grave of his best-loved and himself read fatiha on final resting spot of her bones.
‘Please,’ said Lata, ‘please stop. You’ll ruin the Barsaat Mahal for me.’ But Kabir read mercilessly on:
After her death the palace became sordid and sad. No longer did the tanks full of golden and silvery fish afford sportive amusements to the Nawab. He became lustrious and debauching. He built now a dark room where refractory members of harem were hanged and their bodies were swept away in the river. This left a blot on his personality. During those days these punishments were usual without distinction of sexes. There was no law except the Nawab’s orders and the punishments were drastic and furious.
The fountains played still with frangrant water and an unceasing water rolled on the floors. The palace was not less than a heaven where beauty and charms were scattered freely. But after expiry of the One of his life what to him mattered the innumerable blooming ladies? He breathed his last on the 14 January gazzing steadfastly at a picture of F. Jaan.
‘Which year did he die in?’ asked Lata.
‘I believe the Diamond Guide to Brahmpur is silent on this subject, but I can supply the date myself. It was 1766. Nor does it tell us why it was called the Barsaat Mahal in the first place.’
‘Why was it?’ asked Lata. ‘Because an unceasing water rolled freely?’ she speculated.
‘Actually it has to do with the poet Mast,’ said Kabir. ‘It used to be called the Fatima Mahal. Mast, during one of his recitations there, made a poetic analogy between Khushwaqt’s unceasing tears and the monsoon rains. The ghazal containing that particular couplet became popular.’
‘Ah,’ said Lata, and closed her eyes.
‘Also,’ continued Kabir, ‘the Nawab’s successors — including his weakly son — used to be found more often in the pleasure grounds of the Fatima Mahal during the monsoons than at any other time. Most things stopped during the rains except pleasure. And so its popular name changed.’
‘And what was that other story you were about to tell me about Akbar and Birbal?’ asked Lata.
‘About Akbar and Birbal?’ asked Kabir.
‘Not today; at the concert.’
‘Oh,’ said Kabir. ‘Did I? But there are so many stories. Which one was I referring to? I mean, what was the context?’
How is it, thought Lata, that he doesn’t remember these remarks of his that I remember so well?
‘I think it was about me and my friends reminding you of jungle babblers.’
‘Oh, yes.’ Kabir’s face lit up at the memory. ‘This is how it goes. Akbar was bored with things, so he asked his court to tell him something truly astonishing — but not something that they had merely heard about, something that they themselves had seen. The most astonishing story would win a prize. All his courtiers and ministers came up with different and astonishing facts — all the usual ones. One said that he had seen an elephant trumpeting in terror before an ant. Another said that he had seen a ship flying in the sky. Another that he had met a Sheikh who could see treasure buried in the earth. Another that he had seen a buffalo with three heads. And so on and so forth. When it came to Birbal’s turn, he didn’t say anything. Finally, he admitted that he had seen something unusual while riding to court that day: about fifty women sitting under a tree together, absolutely silent. And everyone immediately agreed that Birbal should get the prize.’ Kabir threw back his head and laughed.
Lata was not pleased by the story, and was about to tell him so when she thought of Mrs Rupa Mehra, who found it impossible to remain silent for even a couple of minutes in grief, joy, sickness or health, in a railway carriage or at a concert or indeed anywhere at all.
‘Why do you always remind me of my mother?’ asked Lata.
‘Do I?’ said Kabir. ‘I didn’t mean to.’ And he put his arm around her again.
He became silent; his thoughts had wandered off to his own family. Lata too was silent; she still could not work out what had caused her to panic in the exam, and it had returned to perplex her.
The shoreline of Brahmpur again drifted past but now there was more activity at the water’s edge. The boatman had chosen to keep closer to the shore. They could hear more clearly the oars of other boats; bathers splashing, clearing their throats, coughing and blowing their noses; crows cawing; verses from the scriptures being chanted over a loudspeaker; and beyond the sands the sound of temple bells and conches.
The river flowed due east at this point, and the risen sun was reflected in its surface far beyond the university. A marigold garland floated in the water. Pyres were burning at the cremation ghat. From the Fort came the shouted commands of parade. As they drifted downstream they once more heard the ceaseless sounds of the washermen and the occasional braying of their donkeys.