going under (💖🕌🛕)
always confusing the thoughts in my head
so i can't trust myself anymore
going under by evanescence
when you receive news that might as well be the end of the world, your thoughts become your closest companion or your most treacherous advisor
dedicated to all the Jodhas of the world—women of the past and present—who have found themselves contemplating difficult decisions.
content warning: mentions/discussion/references to abortion
"Mubarak ho, Begum Sahiba, you are with child."
The words replayed in Jodha's head, echoing against the corners of her mind as she stared up at the mural on her ceiling—the same etched artwork that gazed down at her every night—and Jodha could only wonder to herself at the sight of Kanha and Radha.
Is this my karma, Kanha?
"You are with child."
Such words yet so heavy.
Jodha chuckled bitterly as she rolled to her side, her hand reaching for her abdomen.
A child.
How could she have missed this for two months?
Her body had shown her the signs all those weeks, but her mind had chosen ignorance and denial as the perfect weapons.
Funny, isn't it, Jodha Bai?
She sighed at the irony of the turn of events. Many years ago, as an Ameri Rajkumari, such news would not have had her staring up at her ceiling mural as if her answers would be instantly obtained from the gods themselves.
A child.
She would have wept with joy if not for the weight that came with this.
Mariam-uz-Zamani
What a title. One which signified the ultimate position for most of the begums living under the roof of this harem. Such a title would have brought a smile to a begum who was in the same position.
Jodha, on the other hand, found her heartbeat accelerating, along with her palms sweating at the thought of potentially bearing that title.
If she carried this child to term and the child was a boy, she immediately qualified as Mariam-uz-Zamani—which brought with it dread.
Dread that she would lose her autonomy.
Dread that she would ultimately be considered "conquered" in the eyes of the court—a Rajput womb bearing Mughal seed.
Dread that she would cease to be Jodha Bai.
Mariam-uz-Zamani was nothing more than a gilded golden cage for a woman who valued her identity and autonomy above all. The last thing she wanted was to lose her identity for a title she never asked for.
Then, there was he.
Jalal. Her Sarkar.
Her heart ached just at the thought of him.
The dark deity who held her like she was his loka and revered her like she was his devi. The man who had stared down at her and told her without blinking that if he had to burn down Agra to have her right before him, he would. The very same man whose touch had her clinging for stability and had her seeing Vrindavan.
How would he react to the news of her carrying his child?
Not even she could answer that question, and it frightened her more than ever.
Even with the time they had spent together, knowing each other, she found his thoughts on fatherhood ambivalent for the most part. They rarely talked about the possibility of parenthood, and she had honestly never considered that angle due to the proactive measures she had strictly followed to avoid that...until now.
No longer was parenthood a possibility; it stood right before her in its unwanted glory and stared back at her with these questions.
When they started this affair, she had slept with him, and reciprocated every kiss, every thrust because she wanted it. Because she had chosen to do so. But a child? That was more binding than a few hours behind closed doors.
How would Jalal even react to this news?
Would he accept her and their child?
Would he use this child as leverage to state his ownership over her? Over her body? Over her autonomy?
Or worse, would he reject her? Reject their child and leave her all alone to raise them?
Oh, Kanha, she found herself repeating this evening.
And then came the thought, one far more dangerous than the other thoughts that flooded her mind.
The thought in itself was one treasonous to think about and an act that could unravel every block she had meticulously built in her life if discovered.
You can end it before it begins, the thought whispered, curling itself around her like a constrictor. You do not have to go on with this; it spat its venom in her ears despite her effort to block it out.
She was no naive young girl who had just heard about abortions. In fact, it was far more common both in the harem and where she grew up.
All her years of working with Amer's best vaidyas exposed her to stories of women. Women of royal, noble or common upbringing. Women who had made the most difficult decisions to terminate their pregnancies.
Some were concubines who did not want to bring their child into a world that would look down on them for their parentage.
Some were ranis who had everything to lose should they bring a child to term.
Some were young rajkumaris married off to older men and had little understanding of what responsibilities motherhood brought with it.
Some were dasis assaulted by their masters.
Some were women who were assaulted by their patis or lacked the basic support to raise a child.
And some were women who had to choose between their lives and that of their child.
Jodha had never been involved — directly or indirectly — in the process of termination, but upon hearing these women's stories, she empathized with them. Little did she know that she would find herself in the same position as those women.
No one has to know, came that treacherous voice again, now louder than the previous times.
Not Moti.
Not Reva.
Not Ammi Jaan.
Not even Sarkar
Letting out a wry smile, Jodha rolled back to face the ceiling. The mural of Kanha and Radha remained, staring down at her. There was no hint of judgment on their faces, and she let out another sigh at the lack of response to her unspoken questions directed toward them.
No one, aside from Ammi Jaan, knew of her pregnancy. If she heeded this voice, she could lie to Ammi Jaan that Sufiya had made an error—that she had finally bled and it was just the stress of overseeing the spice trade taking its toll on her body.
But as soon as that thought came, another struck just as fast. What if someone finds out?
The harem was not exactly known for keeping secrets; in fact, it was the gossip hub of the Mughal Sultanate, where secrets did not go to die, but instead, multiplied like the death toll of a plague-infested village.
Unlike Amer, where the vaidyas swore themselves to secrecy out of loyalty, Jodha could not wager that on Agra, where just a single word slipping to the wrong person—like Maham Anga—could ruin it all for her.
And aside from that was the moral dilemma she found herself in. Can I live with myself if I do this?
Even if she was able to bribe a hakim who would help her terminate the pregnancy, could she live with the fact that she had carried life in her womb and snuffed it out just as quickly?
Could she live with herself if she lied to Ammi Jaan, the woman who had welcomed her to Agra with a procession of Hindu bandhis and treated her as another daughter? Could she do that to her?
Most of all, could she live with herself if she terminated the pregnancy without telling Jalal she was carrying his child? Did he not have the right to know that their union—their passionate affair—had created a new life?
Would she even feel liberated if she did this? Or would she find herself regretting this when next she set her gaze on Rahim or interacted with the young boy?
So many questions and decisions to make about her body and this pregnancy.
Closing her eyes, Jodha could only whisper a prayer to her deities. Please help me make the right choice.
She is not here.
Perhaps it was an observation he had made about himself these recent times—but his instincts had gotten so attuned to her presence that his mind immediately took note of her absence.
Jodha Begum rarely missed Diwan-e-Khaas for anything, not even while their relationship was fraught with conflict and tension. Not even after that night in his hammam.
What is happening?
That day would be the first time he would notice her absence from the diwans.
One day became two, then became three and three days became a week. Which was why he stood before her bandhi, Moti.
The young woman offered her respect—a slight bow as she whispered "Pranaam" solemnly.
He had attempted to make his entry into Jodha's hojra, but was about to when Moti gently stopped him in his tracks with a waver in her voice—fear that she might be provoking his ire.
"Kshama chahti hoon, Shehenshah, but Jodha Bai has given clear orders that no visitors be allowed in."
His eyes narrowed at that, staring down at the bandhi who looked like she had crossed paths with Shaitan himself.
His jaw clenched along with his fists as he momentarily looked away. What happened, and was it severe enough that Jodha would not let anyone, especially him, inside?
"Is it something of utmost severity?" He questioned, training his eyes on Moti as if detecting any clue that might lead to a cause for concern...and there it was.
The slight hesitation in her eyes as she almost turned her head toward the direction of her mistress' dwelling place, and then she turned back to him.
"Nahi, Shehenshah," she shook her head almost too fast. "She is only unwell and would like to take some rest for the time being."
That is strange, he thought to himself. Something was going on—one he could not place a finger on, but it was enough to have his senses on high alert.
Whatever it was, he was not going to override her wishes.
With a brief nod, he dismissed Moti, who nodded with a faint, tight-lipped smile before exiting.
Now alone, his eyes trained on the closed doors and he could only wonder to himself again. What is going on?
With a sigh, he turned on his heel and left for his Khaas Mahal, strictly ordering privacy for the remainder of the evening unless it was of utmost importance.
She was hiding something from him, and whatever it was, he intended to dig deep down to the root of the matter.
a moment of solitude, a moment of choice...
For the first time in the past week, since she had received the news that would end up shaking the foundation of her world, Jodha found herself basking in the simple luxury of a bath in her hammam.
Inhaling the scent of the lavender and rosewater fusion, she poured some of the water on her body, little drops landing on her torso.
She had previously dismissed Moti and Reva, electing for solitude, not like that had been helpful within the past few days.
That forbidden thought kept on whispering in her ears, keeping her company for that duration.
You can end it right now.
It never stopped, despite every measure taken to cull it in its bud.
She had spent the past few days pondering if she should give in to that voice, find a hakim who would keep it under wraps with the right amount of mohurs and finish the work.
You could keep on being Jodha Bai, ruling the spice trade, and overseeing the docks. It will be as if nothing happened, the voice slithered.
What do I do, Kanha? Will I be the same after I terminate this pregnancy? Will I look at myself the same way if I do this? Please, Kanha, give me the strength to take the right path — the path that leads me not to regret.
Because the thought still lingered as her mind played out different paths and their potential endings.
Because she could not face the thought of looking at him without disclosing the fact that at one point, he could have been a father.
Because she could not bear the thought of staring at him and telling him that she had ripped away his second chance at becoming a father—again—should she go ahead with termination.
Because she remained uncertain as to whether her life would return to what it had always been before she learned about the pregnancy.
When did life ever get so complicated to the point of her contemplating her choices alone in a hammam? Would she have ever found herself in this position if she had married a fellow Rajput, rather than the Mughal Emperor?
She remained uncertain as to his thoughts on fatherhood or his potential reaction to being a father.
Would he react with joy or would he react—?
Even now, she dreaded filling in that thought.
Unpredictable men like Shehenshah Jalal-ud-Din Muhammad were the most dangerous men to encounter, and more than ever, she found herself petrified by him because now, it wasn't just her life but the life of this child that hung in the balance.
And Jodha had heard enough stories—in Amer and around Rajputana—of men who had acted out of rage or an unnamed emotion upon hearing the news that their patni was carrying their child. Such stories rarely had good endings, and she was not about to become one of those women—even if Jalal would rather fall on his talwar than become that type of man.
But the same hands that bring you so much pleasure can become the same hands that would wring the life out of you, Jodha. How can you trust that he won't do that to you?
Oh, Kanha, she shivered as a tingle went up her spine at the thought, because honestly, she could not dismiss that.
You have heard stories, Jodha. They call him the Butcher of Panipat for a reason. This is another reason why you need to end this.
Then another voice stepped in.
They call him the Butcher of Panipat. How do you think he'd react should he find out you uprooted his legacy before it had the chance to bloom?
A man like him would react in a way that would have the world combust and burn down to ashes should he discover that she had carried his child and chose to terminate it.
Would he care that she was scared?
Would he care that she mourned the decision?
Would he see her point of view and understand why she had to do it if she did it?
Even more than that, her thoughts strayed back to her personal dilemma of whether she would live with herself if she carried on with an abortion. If she felt liberated by the choice, and if indeed she could go back to being Jodha Bai.
Would she be able to smile at the world while carrying the phantom pain in her womb?
Will I?
Her breath came out in shudders as her hands went down the water, past her midriff to below her navel.
Still flat, she thought to herself as she looked down. Deceptively flat to conceal the fact that her body was growing a new life.
A child.
Her eyes brimmed with tears as she let out a laugh—not of joy or bitterness, just disbelief.
What if this child makes you more than Mariam-uz-Zamani? What if this child could be yours...just yours.
Not the empire's, not even Jalal's. Just hers.
What if I can also make this choice for myself? My child...just my child.
After years of wrestling to retain her freedom and autonomy. After years of coming to terms with being in a forced marriage of a political alliance. After years of refusing to give herself to him until she did.
This could be another of the few times where she could choose to have this child regardless of what the empire would try to label her, despite how Jalal might act upon the knowledge.
Maybe you can still be a mother and be Jodha Bai.
For the first time in a week, Jodha found herself letting out that long exhale of relief as she shut her eyes.
Mera bachcha.
For the first time since discovering her pregnancy, she found herself claiming this child—her child.
"No one will hurt you, nor will they try to take you away from me," her voice came out like a whisper in the calm. "You are my child, my blood, my labour. By Ambe Maa, I will protect you against them—the empire, the world."
The tears flowed freely, from her eyes to her cheeks, into where they merged with the water.
Thank you, Kanha, were the words she could muster as, for the first time, a sense of calm filled her.
The soft sound of a door shutting was enough to pull Moti out of her reverie. She ought to have been in her quarters, but had decided to stay the night behind in Jodha's hojra instead.
Her eyes lit up at the sight of the aforementioned now dressed in her night clothes—loose and light enough. Her dupatta lay around her shoulders, and for the first time this week, Moti could note the serene look on Jodha's face—one that indicated a sense of peace with whatever decision she had been warring with.
At first, Moti had found herself wrangling her dandelion yellow dupatta at the sight of Jodha's recent change in mood, which had all started as soon as Mariam Makani, Hamida Bano Begum, had returned with a pale Jodha.
Every attempt to get an answer was met with a catatonic form of silence. A week had sped by with Moti and Reva exchanging worried glances as they found themselves pondering what could possibly ail their mistress.
"Jodha Bai has given clear orders that no visitors be allowed in."
She remembered telling the Shehenshah, holding her breath with the fear that he'd order her emmuration—or something equally slow and painful—for not letting him gain access into Jodha's hojra.
Orders are orders, she rationalized in her mind as she slowly stood to meet Jodha.
A small smile lit her face, and it was then Moti's eyes trailed down, and she frowned.
Is it—?
"I'm with child," the voice was soft, resigned—not from weariness but acceptance.
Moti froze in her tracks, her mouth opened, before she shut it. Her eyes fluttered—once, twice—in confusion.
Child?!
She had been there. Not once, not even twice. Both she and Reva plucked herbs while Jodha meticulously measured before blending to make the concoctions.
Could it be—?
"It took me a while to come to terms with this and I—," Jodha's voice cracked and she smiled again. "I am still coming to terms with this, but I thought you—and Reva—should be the first to know about this."
Slowly, Moti exhaled, nodding in understanding. Besides, such measures to prevent pregnancies were liable to fail and as long as Jodha could make a decision that brought her peace, who was she to protest?
She moved forward, her hands reverently on Jodha's, to announce her solidarity.
But—
"Shehenshah?"
Moti could note the moment when Jodha lowered her head as if in contemplation, but a sigh only escaped her.
"He needs to know; he deserves to know," she replied, slowly and carefully as if on eggshells. "I wish I knew what his feelings would be once I announce the news to him."
Moti could already figure out the direction this was heading.
"And...?"
Another deep exhale from Jodha who took a seat on the divan. Beside her stood a trunk, not intricate but simple, and she reached for the contents.
"It is best if he finds out with a patr," she added, making Moti pause again in her steps.
"Patr? Is this a good idea? What will he—?" She found herself letting out a barrage of questions, only to stop at the sight of a quill dipped into black ink.
Dear Kanha, please.
No further words were exchanged as Jodha's pen marked the paper. The message appeared short and brief in what appeared to be Urdu—Moti was still learning bits of the language.
With a sigh, Jodha rolled up the paper before sealing it with wax. Then, she turned to her dasi, who held a wide-eyed stare at the unspoken implication of what was being requested of her.
Slowly nodding, Moti could only whisper another prayer as soon as the patr was in her hand.
closing notes: let's just say that the next two chapters are gonna be a rollercoaster of emotions. that being said, thanks for reading and I look forward to your comments and feedback 😄💜
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