“She called herself ‘this Insignificant Person’ but she was not at all insignificant nor even just a person, although perhaps she was wise to call herself so because her name was Princess Rosebody, which sounds like someone in a fairy tale, but she was real, and of real and most dramatic times, being Gulbadan Begam, the youngest daughter of Babur, the first Mughal emperor of India. She was born in Kabul in 1522 or 1523—dates of birth of oriental girl children, even royal ones, were not thought worth recording then.’’
So begins Rumer Godden’s Gulbadan: Portrait of a Princess at the Mughal Court (1980). It is an absorbing little book—somewhat like a recreation of Gulbadan’s life and times based on what the princess herself wrote in Humayun-nama. Gulbadan, who composed Humayun-nama at the request of her nephew, emperor Akbar, is remarkable in being a woman from the royal household who could not only read and write but who could also hold her own in the family—when she died at the age of 80, Akbar had helped carry her bier. Godden’s Gulbadan probably isn’t very dependable as biography—Godden’s presence as a 21st century white feminist looking admiringly at this 16th century aristocrat is all too evident—but reads wonderfully well as a novel.
The novelistic appeal is aided by the fact both Gulbadan and Godden are quite informal in their approach. For instance, Gulbadan freely bodyshames her grandfather—Babur’s father, Umar Shaikh Mirza, the chieftain of Ferghana—saying “he used to wear his tunic extremely tight; so much so that, as he was wont to contract his belly when he tied the strings, when he let himself out, the strings often burst.’’
Godden continues: “One day, as he was feeding and fondling his birds, the wall began to crumble—his weight had helped to bring it down—and Umar Shaikh was precipitated, with his pigeon house and his pigeons, and ‘took flight to the other world.’’’ Did Gulbadan remark herself that Umar Shaikh’s “precipitation” was partly caused by his weight or is this Godden’s contribution? In several places, Godden’s Gulbadan raises such doubts by being too offhand.
Thankfully, there is a recent book on this scholarly princess by historian Ruby Lal that carries more authority. Because Gulbadan herself remained in the shadows while writing about her dynasty, any reconstruction of the historical figure has to be a work of imagination. However, Lal backs up her writing with research while Godden’s version is whimsical. Read the review of Vagabond Princess: The Great Adventures of Gulbadan by Madhulika Liddle here.
Rumer Godden’s Gulbadan is part of a series called “A Ruskin Bond Selection” brought out by Speaking Tiger in 2016. The series with books chosen by Bond is distinctly quaint, evoking the days of the Raj through writers like the Godden sisters; Frank Smythe, whose book, The Valley of Flowers, describes this breathtaking Himalayan landscape before global warming and tourists had spoilt it; Alice Perrin, whose ghost stories are still chilling; and Jerome K. Jerome, whose stories can still make you laugh.
One can guess why Bond chose them—his own writing carries traces of all these writers. Witty, humorous, forever young, Bond is a writer whose appeal never fades. There is a magic in him that makes readers of all ages—the youngest among them probably won’t know the meaning of nostalgia, let alone Raj nostalgia—ask for more, no matter how many times his stories have been repackaged and reprinted.
Bond’s latest book marking his 89th anniversary, The Hill of Enchantment: The Story of My Life as A Writer, recounts events that would mostly be familiar to his readers but is still engaging. Sample this: “I had learnt to live alone in the dark, and since then I have never been afraid of the dark. I see the night as a friend. Sometimes I get up in the middle of the night and take a stroll up the road. The mountains beckon and the stars shine bright. Jackals slink away.”
Reading the book, I have started dreaming again of starry nights, dripping pines, and haunted bungalows. I will be back when I wake up next.
Till then,
Anusua Mukherjee
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