The hidden price behind the power

Waking up with the first beam of the sun was a ritual in most Hindu households. Pitaji would hymn the Aditya Hridaya Stotra while offering water to the rising sun. But my favourite part was watching Maa as she applied sindoor on her maang while gazing at her reflection in the mirror. Pitaji was a goldsmith, and his stories of transforming raw metal into mesmerising pieces were famous throughout our village. Maa’s collection of jewellery always fascinated me and deepened my longing for marriage. She would often say, “All this jewellery is yours, my love. I am waiting for your wedding day to give it to you.” Life was a fairytale, and I was the queen waiting for her Prince Charming.

That day is as fresh as the morning dew on grass—the day Pitaji had to give me away like an object. He had taken a loan from the Lodhi emperor to expand his goldsmith business into neighbouring villages but could not repay it in time. In a fraction of a moment, I was taken by the Lodhis. That day, I emerged from my la-la land and became an empty jar, devoid of emotion.

At the tender age of fifteen, when I did not even understand the meaning of the word womb, my worth was decided by it. My heart searched for life in an unknown territory, and my eyes searched for jewellery, hoping I would be made the Begum of Bahlul Lodhi. The heart is a strange and resilient thing—even in tragedy, it searches for silver linings. Mine was the hope of becoming the emperor’s wife. Perhaps God was not entirely unkind, I thought. At least jewellery would still be a part of my life.

As was the custom of the empire, a full-time maid, Dai Maa, was assigned to teach me the ways of the household. I learned to read namaz five times a day, learned to wear the burkha, and developed a taste for ghazals, which became the most beautiful part of my evenings. Humming those ghazals with the poets became my secret refuge.

But one day, Dai Maa came to me and said gently, “Since your roots are not Afghan, the king has ordered that you must always wear the burkha.” In that moment, my silver lining disappeared.

Bahlul Lodhi desired a son for his legacy. All the captured women were summoned in the hope that one womb would bear his heir. Giving birth to a son was considered an honour. Once again, I hoped this honour might bring me jewellery as a reward. Little did that fifteen-year-old girl know that her desire was insignificant compared to the price her womb would pay.

All pregnant women were instructed to offer namaz five times a day so that the child would hear the call of faith even before entering the world. Sitting alone and pretending to read namaz became my most cherished time during pregnancy. I struggled to memorise the prayers, unfamiliar as they were. Instead, I meditated. Sometimes, I silently chanted “Om Namah Shivaya,” remembering Pitaji.

Then the day came. My son was born.

The king held a grand feast to celebrate the birth of his heir. The moment my son was born, my maternal instinct awakened. I wanted to wrap him in the warmth I had stored within me. Dai Maa showed me his innocent face, and I longed to hold him, to kiss him. He was mine in this worthless empire.

But the queen arrived to claim him—to make him the prince of the Lodhi dynasty.

I was only a womb.

In that moment, I emptied again, experiencing a death while still alive.

He was named Sikander. He never knew who his real mother was or where his roots lay. For more than twenty years, I gathered fragments of his life through whispers from cooks and servants. One day, a cook told me that Prince Sikander loved music deeply.

I smiled.

I saw the entire dynasty crumble before my eyes. One by one, graves filled with the bodies of those who once ruled. My only wish was to be buried near my son, but fate denied us even that. My body was not laid to rest among the royal tombs.

My last wish still wanders somewhere in the Universe.