The Moghul Hedonist

by Farzana Moon

  The royal entourage was emerging on one sun-spangled terrace, to be dissolved into the dusky gloom of a passage which would lead them straight to the tomb of Great Akbar. Another lofty vault was waiting at the end of this passage, and the emperor was the first one to feel its peace and simplicity. His visit to the tomb of his late father was actually a wistful homage to the emperor who was loved and mourned by the people of Hind as the Great Akbar. Jahangir was approaching the simple, unadorned tomb of white marble with a reverence akin to humility and worship. The wistful look in his eyes was gathering the warmth of peace and serenity as he stood facing the head of the tomb, his hand caressing the cold marble where a single word Akbar was inscribed to identify the royal occupant. Jahangir was kneeling beside the tomb ceremoniously with his head pressed against the smooth marble, and closing his eyes, his lips murmuring prayers. Suddenly, his heart was aflutter. Something inside it stabbing and churning as if it was being ravished right this moment by the throes of pain and loss. These were the same daggers of pain and loss, which he had felt only when Anarkali was no more.

  Jahangir's heart was at peace all of a sudden, much like the caprice of the tempests, replacing stormy gales with the calmness of blue skies, as if no violence had marred the face of nature. The royal guards had covered the tomb of Akbar with a sheet of fresh roses, offering their own respects to the late emperor before retracing their steps somberly. The royal entourage had already returned to the full glory of the Bihishtabad with all its color and fragrance. And Jahangir was standing under the bower of deep-scented Indian roses, smiling to himself. He was attended only by Bir Singh Deo, the rest of the viziers and grandees had wandered away to absorb and explore the beauty of this garden where magnolia blooms stood gathering sunshine in their own cups of pink and alabaster. Jahangir's gaze was arrested to the wisteria blooms, his thoughts sailing over the palace at Agra where he was to return soon to attend the Mina Bazaar.

  Mina Bazaar was a kind of shopping mall where the royal ladies displayed their precious wares, luring royal customers, especially the emperor as the wealthiest of the patrons. Mina Bazaar had become the perennial trade-festival of the royal ladies, commencing with the first day of each New Year, called Nauroz, and lasting for nineteen days in conformity with the Nauroz celebrations. While Nauroz was celebrated all over the empire, Mina Bazaar was the privilege of the royalty alone, where only the members of the family and the closest of friends could visit by invitation alone. Paradoxically, even the emperor had to be invited, but then he had no dearth of invitations from the ladies of his harem. This was the only time the emperor could shop and squander his wealth, and he was accustomed to doing both, just to enhance the fun of these festivities. Pretending to be cautious, he would go from stall to stall, ranting and haggling, and giving in to his temptations for a few impulsive purchases.

  The festivities of Nauroz were lowering their festive colors in Jahangir's thoughts as he stood gazing at the wisteria blooms. Last year, on the very first day of Mina Bazaar he had purchased a ridiculously expensive gold necklace studded with emeralds from his wife, Jodh Bai. The very next day he had presented to her the same necklace as her birthday gift. Within a week, Jodh Bai had put it up for sale again, demanding double the price of what it had fetched before, and Jahangir had left her stall, laughing hysterically. The same laughter was choking his thoughts as he stood there absorbing the haze in memories. Drunk with mirth and sweetness, his thoughts were falling prey to reveries, but were snatched quite abruptly from their abodes by one song of a prayer.

  La Illaha illah Allah— the words carried on the strings of the breeze were not from the lips of a muezzin, but from some devoted disciple of the late emperor. They appeared to be slipping down the white minaret with the poignancy of a lone cataract.

  Jahangir stood there motionless. Listening. His heart filled with awe and dread. This ripple of a cataract in words was followed by the beating of naqqara drums, and Jahangir's own heart had begun to hum a tune, brimming with grief and anguish. Anarkali had stolen close to the very throne of his bruised heart. She was with him in this paradise of a garden, in this abode of the dead and the living. A familiar, long-forgotten ache with all its loneliness was tracing a large rent inside his heart and soul. He could feel one throb of a laceration inside the very silence of his soul and psyche, but it was pulsating with the pain-joy of hope. With the promise of love! With the flowering of a miracle? Some sort of bliss-anticipation was overwhelming his senses, he could inhale the perfume of union, he would be united his Beloved? He was smiling, but alas, the smile in his eyes was replaced by anguish so stark that he could feel the pain and sting straight from the flames of agony inside his soul. His eyes were flashing commands as he turned to Bir Singh Deo abruptly, his heart still lit with the fire hope and agony.

  "Bir Singh, you are to search the whole of Hind once again, and bring my Anarkali to Agra. And this is the emperor's Farman." Jahangir commanded.

  "Your Majesty!" Was Bir Singh Deo's abashed exclamation. "You know, Your Majesty, Anarkali died—her tomb in Lahore testifies to this fact. The tomb, which the emperor never deigns to visit?"

  "She never died, Bir Singh. No, she never did." Jahangir chided vehemently. "And no tombs or monuments could attest to her death as long as I live. Anarkali is alive, my heart tells me so. My father spared her life. She is living somewhere? I will find her. She is alive, right here, with me, in this garden, even now. Our love is true and holy, and it will bring us together, soon, soon, I can feel that." His gaze was gathering stars as if he was arresting a beautiful vision inside the very profusion of blooms.

  "Anarkali never loved you, Your Majesty, if I may be so bold as to say that." Bir Singh Deo whipped up a lie to jolt the emperor out of his reveries. "And you loved a dream, Your Majesty, a dream." He murmured apologetically.

  "A dream, which is capable of living and throbbing with the pulse of reality! It lives, absolutely and eternally, inside the tiny mirrors of one's own soul, till it becomes a glittering reflection strewn with the light of reality." Jahangir murmured heedlessly. "I might even find my dream-reality inside the shimmering bowl of today, Bir Singh? And then you would be spared the perils of long journeys in search of my long lost beloved. And if I don't find her soon, my Farman stays in affect. You would commence your journey on the third day of Nauroz, wearing knighthood as your armor with the holy quest as your talisman." His eyes were pouring the warmth of hope and promise.

  "I will ring the Gold Chain of your Justice, Your Majesty." Bir Singh Deo resorted to wit and flattery. "And all its sixty bells will not cease their pleas and clamor till you retract your Farman, Your Majesty."

  "Ah, my Chain of Justice, my truant knight, would shackle you to the chains of treason." A gale of mirth escaped Jahangir's lips. "Farman or no Farman, the emperor would make you cross Jamna on the sharp edge of a sword, if not order you to fend for your life on the top of Shah Burj with whole Agra watching you."

  Some sort of hysteria and delirium were escaping the emperor's mirth, as he stood there checking the deluge of his pain and laughter. The daggers of reality were stabbing him. Anarkali had left, her sweet vision replaced by the tragic face of Prince Khusrau. His sightless gaze was searching Anarkali, and before all the demons could break loose the gates of hell inside his head, he was becoming aware of the slow approach of his viziers. Man Singh, followed by Abdur Rahim and Mahabat Khan were edging closer, their advance checked by the emperor’s mirth.

  "Your Majesty, since you are in a jubilant mood! May I ask why you changed your name from Salim to Jahangir?" Man Singh inquired with one flourish of a curtsy.

  "Seven long years since my accession, my dull-witted vizier, and you still don't know?" Jahangir's mirth was subsided, his eyes gathering sunshine in their merry cups. "You mean, none of you have ever probed into this matter of learning the significance of names apart from words, or of Emperor Jahangir apart from that of princely Salim?"

  "Our lips were sealed due to the awe
and propriety of the occasion, Your Majesty." Mahabat Khan was the first one to confess his ignorance.

  "Your accession, Your Majesty, was a feast of joy, breeding no thoughts but the thoughts of gaiety and celebration." Man Singh offered humbly.

  "No one could dare violate the sanctity of that feast with inquiries which could be interpreted as rude, Your Majesty. Least of all, any of us who are close to you!" Was Abdur Rahim's low exclamation.

  "Seven, heedless years, and no one had the audacity?" Jahangir murmured.

  "Not heedless, Your Majesty, but brimming with the eternal springs of rejoicings and celebrations." Bir Singh Deo intoned with a dint of apology and flattery.

  "Ignorance can be rightly named, fear, if it hinders one from the path to knowledge and understanding." Jahangir contemplated aloud. "On my accession, it occurred to me that my name Salim resembled that of the emperor of Rum. That was when I wished to change it, and was inspired by a thought that the business of the emperor is in controlling the world. So, I selected the name Jahangir, meaning, the World-Seizer. With the same inspiration as my talisman, another title dawned upon me. And I added the name Nuruddin, which means the light of faith. It coincided with my attaining the throne, in conformity with the Sun rising and shining with its great light. When I was a prince, one Indian sage told me that after the reign of Jalaluddin Akbar, one named Nuruddin would sit on the throne. Therefore, I changed my name to Nuruddin Jahangir Padishah." His gaze was ruminative, gathering the fire of memories.

  "A propitious year that was, Your Majesty, that year of your accession." Bir Singh Deo's font of devotion was doling out more flatteries. "And this one is more propitious than all the rest. Peace and prosperity reign high in the empire of Hind. And the zenith of your justice is gaining continents in friendships and alliances. The letter from the Shah Abbas of Persia alone has marked this year with the stars of fortunes, though our fortunes outnumber that of the monarch of Persia."

  "Ah, flatteries, all the way from Persia to the streets paved in gold-dust of Hind." Jahangir laughed. "Shah Abbas! I call him, my brother. Is it appropriate for the emperor to call him, Brother? Perhaps, so, for he in his letter bestowed upon me the exaltedness of Sikander, with the banner of Darius, he who sits on the throne of the pavilion of glory and greatness, my Brother says. Lending me the dignity of Jamshed amongst the stars of the hosts of heaven—" He paused, his gaze straying over to the monument of Great Akbar, its marble and red sandstone gleaming under sunshine. "But the emperor's heart is yearning for the wine and gaiety of Mina Bazaar. Back to Agra with its riches in beauty and laughter." He announced abruptly.

  The viziers and grandees following the emperor were feeling giddy, rather drunk with the wine of beauty in Bihishtabad. They were walking jauntily, laughing and whispering amongst themselves as if free from the cares of the world. The royal guards too were possessed by the scent and beauty of this garden, drifting along dreamily, and lagging behind in the mist-haze of their own languor. The songs from the fountains were luring all to stay, but the emperor was pressed by his will to hasten toward Agra.

  "Shah Abbas is in love with the gold and jewels in Hind, Your Majesty, and in love with you, it seems." Abdur Rahim appeared to recite his thoughts.

  “I sit beside thee in thought, and my heart is at ease

  For this is a union not followed by separation's pain”

  He quoted this couplet of Shah Abbas. "I can't forget this sentimental couplet, Your Majesty, though the contents of the letter escape my memory.”

  "Shah Abbas rightfully named you, Your Majesty, the sovereign of Gurgani throne and an heir to the crown of Tamerlane." Mahabat Khan sang proudly.

  "Though, this Persian monarch was late in sending his felicitation to you on your accession, Your Majesty." Man Singh was quick to voice his skepticism. "He could be excused, I guess, for he was piously involved in conquering Shirnon and Azerbaijan." He commented low. Feeling slighted that the emperor was not heeding.

  The palace garden where Jahangir sat enthroned seemed to encompass the entire city of Agra in its efflorescent bosom. From where he sat, the emperor could see his palace of red sandstone, honed and chiseled, its majestic contours spiraling upward in domes and arches. Its four imposing gates, and two sally-ports, where his sight could not reach at this moment, were etched magnificently on the canvass of his mind. He had reached Agra a few hours ago under some spell of great urgency, as if pressed by the very hands of fate to arrest time in its whimsical flight. His heart and mind were sailing on the clouds, his sense of euphoria some swollen bubble inside him which could neither be contained, nor punctured. He had dined alone in his chamber, holding the same whip of urgency over his shoulders, which had made him fly back to Agra in utmost haste. He was anxious to join ladies at the Mina Bazaar, but the amenities of the royal court were to be observed, before he could seek the diversions of gaiety and laughter in the bazaar of trade and treasures. Right now, drinking goblets upon goblets of wine, he was being entertained with music and gifts to commemorate Nauroz with all due felicitations. A few cumbersome embassies were splintering the joy of his drinking and merry-making, but he was forcing his Farmans and commands to a disciplined trot where his justice and patience were to remain intact.

  The makeshift throne upon which the emperor sat receiving embassies, was made of wood and inlaid with mother-of-pearl. The canopies of gold cloth splashed with silk and velvet were erected on all sides for shade as well as protection from heat and wind. The canopies were held in lofty abeyance by four columns strung with pearls and embellished with pure gold in shapes of pears, apples and pomegranates. The silk friezes in shimmering colors were afloat over the trees and balconies, vying with the abundance of colors in robes and turbans. This profusion of color and adornment was more of a ritual to celebrate Nauroz, than to display the emperor's riches in this garden of delight, already brimming with natural treasures.

  The sun-spangled evening with the banners of early dusk was weaving a few clouds on its horizon, as Jahangir sat mired inside the clouds of his own decisions and embassies. He waved dismissal at Bhanu Chandra—the Jain Monk, whom he had just appointed the tutor to Prince Shahryar. His heart was heavy with the burdens of royal duties, and weariness was alighting in his eyes, dimming their sparkle and intensity. Besides, the gray clouds hovering above the trees were cutting his spirit of fortitude to rags of fatigue. And the wine coursing smoothly in his veins was gathering bouquets of melancholy, his spirit yawning with a familiar sigh of ache and yearning. He was longing to explore the silken comforts of the Mina Bazaar. Before another embassy could squeeze its way into his audience, Jahangir turned his attention to his court poet.

  "Talib Amuli, recite a few couplets of yours, before the emperor's heart is buried under the heap of more embassies." Jahangir commanded.

  "Your Majesty, if you honor me with such commands more often, my couplets will be as abundant as the pearls in your royal treasuries." Talib Amuli bowed his head.

  "Both first and last, Love is eye, music and joy

  A pleasant wine both when fresh and when mellow."

  "A sublime verse, and more sublime than the lover who may sing it." Jahangir smiled, his eyes lit up with inspiration, an impromptu verse escaping his own lips.

  "The cup of wine should be quaffed in the presence of one's beloved

  The clouds are thick, it is time to drink deep."

  A thunder of applause erupted forth from the sea of viziers and grandees, which was silenced by one imperious wave of the emperor's arm. His other arm was poised in a staccato gesture, signaling his consent to proceed with the embassies. Suddenly, all the rings on his fingers were aglitter, catching shafts of sunlight from the parted lips of the clouds, as he watched Muqqarab Khan stumbling forward. This nonchalant courtier was trying his best to curtsy, but the bird behind him pulled by a string tied to his wrist, had fluttered forward, getting in his way. Muqqarab Khan was attempting another curtsy, almost crushed by a sudden volley of mirth from t
he lips of the emperor.

  "Your Majesty, a rare gift this is, causing so much royal mirth!" Muqqarab Khan began hastily. “I fetched this bird from the port of Cambay, for you, Your Majesty. This rude creature comes straight from Goa." He swept the fluttering bird into his arms, and held it tightly against his breast.

  "A rarity indeed!" Jahangir exclaimed laughingly. "Hold this impudent beast of a bird little higher, Muqqarab. Let the emperor have a good look at this untamed clown." His gaze was avid and shining. "A strange mixture of beauty and ugliness. Its face is like a fox, and its eyes are larger than those of a hawk. Its feathers, more like the wool of a sheep. Its color, look! The color of ashes, if I am not mistaken. How it is spreading its feathers, much like a peacock? How the colors change? Is this magic, or the emperor's eyes are catching false hues, coral red under its wings." The naturalist in him was fascinated, his attention shifting to his court painter. "Bishan Das, get your canvas ready. And hold this chameleon of a wild creature in your captivity, before it wears rainbows under its wings." He commanded. His gaze returning to Muqqarab Khan. "A rare treasure. It would delight us in our royal aviary. "Does this bird bear any stamp of a name, or should we bestow one on it?" He asked amusedly.

  "It's called turkey, Your Majesty. Its meat is lean and tender. The Portuguese eat it with relish." Muqqarab Khan expounded happily.

  "To kill beauty for gluttony is a crime." Jahangir was appalled. "Fetch a mate for this beauty, and they would breed happily for Hind. Not to be devoured, but to be admired." A sudden recollection as to the recent crime of Muqqarab Khan was kindling his eyes to rage. "Don't you stand charged for violating one young girl? The daughter of a widow, and this girl died, didn't she?" His look was probing, mirth gone from his eyes.