The Moghul Hedonist

by Farzana Moon

  "I bought it for Prince Jahandar, Your Majesty, if you kindly approve my decision." Was Prince Perwiz's laconic response.

  "In all justice, then! Bestow your gift upon Prince Jahandar." Jahangir commanded.

  Prince Perwiz was relieved to get rid of this controversial gift. Prince Jahandar was in a stupor of ecstasy, hugging this scimitar and bowing before the emperor, before sprinting away to flaunt his prize. Prince Shahryar was standing there pale and sullen. Simmering with rage. His expression one of defiance and mute challenge.

  "I want a scimitar—that scimitar." Bihar Banu was whimpering, and burying her face into the folds of Jahangir's robe.

  "The emperor would give you his own, my sweet Princess." Jahangir murmured.

  "I want that scimitar!" Prince Shahryar protested in a loud, blatant tone. A mysterious challenge shinning in his eyes as he stood there raging inwardly.

  "For your impudence alone, my Prince, you would weep for mercy from the emperor." Jahangir chided with a sudden impatience.

  The shining challenge in Prince Shahryar's eyes was meeting the emperor's gaze without remorse or contrition. A sudden flush was creeping over his cheeks, and under the sheer weight of his bitterness, he was unable to speak.

  "You will, you manner less colt, if you keep standing there defiant like some raging lord." Jahangir's eyes were shooting daggers if not commands.

  Prince Shahryar had turned to a statue of fire and ice. His fair cheeks were burning with rage, and the gold-brown in his eyes kindling to one enigmatic blaze of a challenge which he dared not voice. The emperor's silence itself was breathing a threat of rage which could explode without warning. The air itself was charged with silence, leaving everyone in abeyance, with the exception of Prince Perwiz who was slipping away cautiously, his flight even unnoticed by the Begums.

  "Come hither, the fairest of my princes, and let the emperor humble your childish pride." A whimsical challenge splintered through Jahangir's lips.

  Prince Shahryar obeyed slowly and reluctantly. Hauteur and bitterness were his weapons of defense, his eyes bright and burning. With his head high, he stood there unintimidated, his gaze bold and defiant.

  "No tears of guilt or apology in your eyes, my Prince, but the flames of defiance and rudeness! Bend down, my royal rebel. The emperor must toast your royal bottom, to pour the warmth of discipline into your veins." Jahangir whipped his bottom harshly, even before the prince could obey the emperor.

  The royal ladies were in utter shock, unable to speak or protest. Their eyes were widening in disbelief at the sudden rage of the emperor. Princess Bihar Banu was the next one to flee, more so to chase Prince Jahandar, than to escape this unhappy scene. But Prince Jahandar was returning with a sense of childish intuitiveness. Sensing the charged silence, he was edging closer, quiet and contemplative. Upon seeing his brother, Princess Bihar Banu had halted momentarily, pressed by an urge to stop him, but then had fled as if pursued by fever and excitement.

  "Stand straight, my young Prince." Jahangir flashed another loud command. "No tears in your impudent eyes yet! Let me test your pride." He slapped him on his right cheek. "You will not weep?" He landed another blow on his left cheek.

  Prince Shahryar’s eyes remained dry, and shining with some inner challenge he dared not voice. The ladies were startled out of their shock and silence, and were protesting. Prince Jahandar was offering the scimitar to Prince Shahryar, but he was molded into a statue of pride and immobility. Standing there erect, his expression was taut and unflinching. Only his red cheeks smarting against the impressions of the emperor’s fingerprints were revealing the traces of his pain and chagrin.

  "Your Majesty, what are we witnessing here, rage and impropriety? As far as I know you have not ever struck anyone before, save alone a child. And your own child, too?" Sahiba Jamali's voice was trembling under the weight of shock and outrage.

  "Impudence and discourtesy from my own royal brood are not to be tolerated by the emperor." Jahangir murmured under his breath without meeting the gaze of his wife.

  "Your Majesty! How could your love turn to such violence?" Karamasi Begum's bold protest was barely audible. Her arms were locked around the twins protectively and possessively. She was kissing their hair with a profusion of love and tenderness.

  "My sweet, he is the best loved of all my sons." Jahangir murmured with a dint of remorse. "As you yourself admit, the prince is royally spoiled. And the emperor's love knows no violence when striking with the rod of discipline. Take him away, dear Karamasi." He intoned half imploringly, half soothingly. "Yes, take him away, before the emperor sends him to the tower, where Prince Khusrau languishes alone—" He breathed hoarsely, noticing the hurried approach of Jodh Bai.

  Jodh Bai, the white rose of the harem, as Jahangir called her, was best loved by him. She was, on this auspicious day of Nauroz, dressed in pale silks stitched with rubies and diamonds. Her eyes, the color of agates, were liquid-bright and sparkling. She was sailing closer like the goddess of wind and fire, and even the emperor was feeling humbled and remorseful.

  "Your Majesty, what do I hear? How could you grant your rage such freedom on this auspicious day of Nauroz?" Jodh Bai’s eyes were flashing accusations.

  While the emperor's sad gaze was fixed to Jodh Bai, Sahiba Jamali was slipping away quietly. So was Karamasi Begum, her arms still cradling the twins into a comforting embraces. The emperor was aware only of the white rose before him, his sight and senses swooning with that familiar ache which he could never dissolve when she was near. He was rather awed by the marble purity of her features, haloed by the glitter of rubies in her ears and around her throat.

  "My love! The daggers of accusations in your eyes are cutting the emperor's very soul to islands of wounds." Jahangir smiled.

  "Your Majesty!" Exclaimed Jodh Bai. Before she could voice her protest, Prince Khurram emerged forth from behind the bower of roses like a silvery knight.

  "Mamma, Your Majesty." Prince Khurram bowed with the ease and grace of a charming knight. "A horde of patrons, dear Mamma, rich and impatient, are laying siege over your stall. And no prudent owner there to benefit from their gold and riches!" His sharp features were attaining the warmth of ivory and sunshine. "I followed you right after you left, Mamma, but you vanish like a cloud, you always do! I was distracted on the way, though." He laughed.

  "How handsomely you lie, my handsome Khurram!" Jodh Bai’s eyes were holding her son captive. "Lies don't sit graciously on your face, sweet Prince, so young and innocent-looking?" She murmured.

  "Would I lie to you, Mamma, if I were to benefit from your gold?" Prince Khurram smoothed his silver coat stitched with pearls and diamonds, as if feeling its warmth and opulence.

  "No!" A ripple of mirth escaped Jodh Bai’s seductive lips. "Cheer the emperor with your keen wit, while I earn gold to satisfy the greed of my Prince." She flitted away. "And warn the emperor about the forthcoming inquisition by his wives commencing this very evening, which he won't be able to postpone." She shot this edict over her shoulders before fleeing.

  "The emperor doesn't need cheering, my beloved Prince, but obedience and discipline from his sons." Jahangir reminded Prince Khurram, laughing. "And you are the pillar of discipline, my ascetic Prince. How old are you? Twenty odd springs, and still practicing abstinence! How many times the emperor has urged you to taste wine, tell me? Still resisting. When would you learn to appreciate this soma of the gods?"

  "Never, Your Majesty, I hope." Was Prince Khurram's suave response. "The pure and fresh juices from the bounty of God's good fruits are more delicious to me than any wines smooth and tempting. Why do the gold flagons and jeweled cups brimming with such sweet nectar fail to tempt me, I can't tell?"

  "Do you ever feel the stab of any temptation, my heedless Prince?" Jahangir asked capriciously.

  "Jewels of the earth tempt me, Your Majesty. The gems most precious in nature and in your royal treasuries! Beauty in all its form and color is the greatest of temptations to me
, to explore its mystery, to know and befriend this art."

  "Ah, the poetry in youth." Jahangir smiled profoundly. "Are you besieged by the longings of your heart, yet? What does your heart seek or longs for?" His eyes were gathering agog and mischief.

  "My heart is always longing to get lost in the beauty of the gardens, Your Majesty. Longing for the sight of the hills and the valleys. My heart, yes, Your Majesty, goading me to wed the bride of architecture where the monuments grand and ancient celebrate the art in living. And archery is my love, not longing, if you care to know more about my heart, Your Majesty?" Prince Khurram chanted dreamily and poetically.

  "What poverty in love, where maidens most beautiful stay unloved and neglected by my heartless Prince?" Jahangir chided merrily. "Do you love birds?" He turned abruptly to retrieve his pigeons from Abdur Rahim.

  "Only a few, Your Majesty, if they are song-birds, or blessed with colorful plumage." Prince Khurram sang merrily.

  Jahangir had not even heard his son's response, completely absorbed by the sea of mirth in his viziers' eyes and on their lips. Both Man Singh and Abdur Rahim were startled to awareness after becoming the subjects of the emperor's abrupt attention fixed upon them. But Jahangir, after reclaiming his pigeons, turned swiftly to face his son.

  "Have you ever seen such breed, such strange and lovely pair of pigeons? The emperor wishes not to part from them for all the jewels on this earth." Jahangir held out the tame pair to his son. "You are not afraid, my valorous Prince, are you?"

  "Forgive me, Your Majesty, I am loathe to touch anything with feathers, dead or alive. They—" Prince Khurram could not continue. His fear itself trembling against the thunder of mirth on the emperor's lips.

  "Ah, my craven Prince!" Jahangir was foundering inside the ocean of his own mirth and incredulity. "Get thee gone, my handsome Prince. Get thee gone, before the emperor makes your silver coat the home of this lovely pair." He stood laughing, while Prince Khurram fled, with not as much as a glance at the tame birds.

  Jahangir's laughing eyes were turning to his viziers, and then following his son's swift flight. This time, neither Man Singh, not Abdur Rahim was startled by the emperor's surge of attention and indulgence, but joining him in his mirth. They too were watching the fleeing prince with a keen interest. Prince Khurram's flight was truncated all of a sudden close to the stall of Salihah Banu, as if he was confronted by another feathery foe. From where the emperor stood, he could see his son caught under some daze of chill and inertia, but he returned his attention to his viziers.

  "In my love and indulgence, I have neglected to perceive the craven, and at times, the impudent nature of my sons." Jahangir murmured to his pigeons, rather to his viziers. "Let us fill our coffers with worthless treasures from the bounties of Mina Bazaar." He bestowed a generous smile upon his viziers. "If the emperor is fortunate, his perception might lead him to discover the weaknesses of his wives." His feet themselves were leading him toward the inviting stalls of the Mina Bazaar.

  Man Singh and Abdur Rahim were following the emperor a few paces behind, quietly and respectfully. Jahangir's leisurely stroll was coming to an abrupt halt a few paces away from Prince Khurram, from where he had not stirred an inch as if planted there in some stupor of dream-haze. A ponderous spell was upon the emperor too as he followed his son's gaze. Prince Khurram, oblivious to all, was standing there rapt and smitten. His gaze was devouring the young princess behind the stall, who was spilling jewels on velvet cloth from a gold casket.

  "Who is that beautiful flower? She has smitten my son with her charms?" Jahangir asked of no one in particular.

  "Don’t you remember, your Majesty?" Man Singh began thoughtfully. "That princess is Arjumand Banu, the daughter of Asaf Khan. "It has been a long time since you celebrated her betrothal to Prince Khurram with a great feasting and rejoicing.

  Jahangir appeared not to hear Man Singh's slow, thoughtful comment. He was lost into the mists of his own intensity and oblivion. His gaze was fixed to his son under some spell profound, the ripples of music and gaiety all around him grazing not the slumbers in his awareness.

  "You yourself put the ring on the finger of Princess Arjumand Banu, Your Majesty, not too long ago." Abdur Rahim sought the emperor's attention. "More than five years though. A long time for the emperor to remember?" He fell to ruminating, as stark silence was the emperor's only response. "A year after Prince Khurram's betrothal to Princess Arjumand Banu, you made the Prince wed the daughter of the Persian monarch. That may refresh your memory, Your Majesty. Mirza Muzaffar Husain Safavi, a long, long name for Prince Khurram's father-in-law, and a long, long wait for Princess Arjumand Banu. This betrothal has lasted the longest time, in my opinion, Your Majesty." He succeeded in catching the emperor's attention.

  "A young man in love, my own son!" Jahangir smiled. "Such purity of love is tragic for a youth of his age." He intoned inaudibly. "My Prince must be wedded, soon." He resumed his stroll.

  Jahangir did not disturb his son's immobility as he strolled past him, his gaze now admiring the fresh beauty of Princess Arjumand Banu behind the stall, though she herself was unaware that she was being admired by her betroth and by the emperor. The emperor's own heart had begun to ache with love and longings. It was awakening to the pulse of time where Anarkali was buried alive, or living in obscurity inside the vacuums of her unmarked grave or palace. There was a sudden violence in Jahangir's heart, a thunder and an explosions, embracing the promise of some precious boon, it could neither see nor fathom. He was drifting in a dream-haze, neither stopping at the colorful stalls, nor seeing the dancers and the jugglers eager to be noticed by the emperor. The sparks of elation were now alighting in his eyes, leaving behind the world of illusions, and welcoming the facade of joy and laughter. His inner sadness' too were wearing the masks of festivity, and the violence in his heart was breaking into mists to cover the altar of his beloved in a shroud of holy longings. The beloved, his unforgotten and unforgettable Anarkali was breathing anguish into the pools of his elation. Sending chills down his spine and beckoning him to the raptures in union. His fingers were tightening over the feathery gifts in his hands, though he himself seemed not aware that he was about to choke the innocent pigeons. Against the drums of violence inside his own heart, he could hear the hearts of the birds heaving a million sighs. Dreaming about freedom, yearning for flight! One abrupt thought was claiming the emperor’s attention.

  Jahangir's dreamy thoughts were turning to the silent rebels in his hands, but his gaze was straying toward the field of poppies in a blaze of orange. His gaze as well as his thoughts was chasing the delirious poppies, their half parted lips gleaming under the Sun like the gold goblets. Suddenly, the field of poppies was disappearing before the emperor’s gaze, his attention shifting to the glittering stalls huddled together with brocaded canopies overhead. The first colorful stall which caught his attention was brighter than the poppies, and dreamier than the dream-haze in nature. He was drifting toward one stall in particular, fresh poppies in a jade bowl on the velvet-lined counter attractive and alluring. He almost stumbled to a slow halt as if struck by a bolt of lightning, his gaze arrested to the lady behind the stall who was absorbed in arranging gold vases on a shelf already crowded with precious bric-a-brac.

  The living, pulsating incarnation of his beloved! Anarkali! Jahangir's heart had missed several beats, and was now thundering inside his breast with the violence of a hurricane. Which dream was true? The one he was having right now? Or the one he was wont to conjure up in the insane asylum of his thoughts? The emperor's mind was caught into a whirlwind of chaos and shock.

  The dear, dear face with the warmth of ivory and marble! The small mouth with lips the color of red, red poppies. The fair, smooth forehead haloed by the gold in flaxen hair. The large, dream-boat eyes fringed with silken eyelashes. This sweet, youthful face was his beloved's which he had stolen from the colors of reality and had etched it into his dreams. Anarkali had returned from the valley of death to the
abode of the living—in Agra, and the emperor didn't even know? The light of joy and anguish was alighting in Jahangir's eyes, brimming with the fire of worship and adoration. His mind and soul were frozen inside the caskets of time, only the pain inside his heart, alive and stabbing. This sudden violence inside him was demanding action, bubbling forth to dissolve this enchantment, and to crush his beloved into his arms in one eternal embrace.

  An eternity was suspended inside this one cosmic bubble of silence. The lady behind the stall was stepping back to view her crowded treasures. Suddenly, she turned her head, as if she had felt the intensity of a burning gaze which was reaching out to devour her. Her eyes met the emperor's, and a lovely smile curled upon her lips.

  The enchantment was broken!

  Jahangir's heart fluttered like a wounded bird, and lay sprawled in his breast, with one last cry of agony before dying, his very thoughts were confessing. The large, blue eyes were not the eyes of Anarkali, and he could not mistake his beloved for another. The unforgettable eyes of his Beloved were still kindled in his soul like the candles of holiness with a liquid softness absorbing the night-blue skies in their very depths. This dream-vision before him had the eyes of a temptress, his wounded heart was murmuring in throes of longings. He could not take his gaze away from the bright, sparkling cups in the eyes of this lady whose youth and beauty were cutting his sanity into splinters of desire and madness. Her eyes werelight, holding colors of the seasons in their seductive pools, where love for life could be seen stark and shimmering.

  Anarkali, and yet not Anarkali? She is the goddess of torment and vengeance. Jahangir's thoughts were a thunder of fury and outrage.

  The emperor’s gaze was holding this lady captive, but she had escaped into her own world of silks and brocades, which she had begun to hang and observe with utmost attention. Blind to his own devouring intensity, Jahangir's gaze was slipping from the top of her head to her toes, caressive, lingering. His gaze was embracing her tiny waist, singing hymns of adoration to some divine sculptor who had fashioned each contour of her body with love for perfection. Jahangir's gaze was weaving a spell over the smooth, round pearls around her throat, and in return becoming entangled inside the coronet of pearls in her hair, but his fair prisoner was not aware of his mute intensity. After that one brief smile, she had resumed her work as if oblivious to the whole world all around her.