by Farzana Moon
The emperor was dressed in all the Moghul fineries of a wealthy monarch, especially so, to honor the wedding celebrations of his son, Prince Khurram. His pale silks were the color of citron, and his red turban studded with a large ruby in the middle. Seated in his gilded chair as his throne of solitude, he appeared to be some lone prince right out of the pages of the Arabian Nights. A young prince, not a forty-three year old emperor, whose bride of thirty-four was another beautiful bloom in his harem with the worthy title as, Nur Mahal. One gold flagon was keeping the emperor company, as he sat luxuriating in his gilded chair. Enjoying, both his wine and the wealth of poetry by Talib Amuli. His two other companions, of whom he was oblivious, were Princess Bihar Banu and Princess Ladli—the latter, the daughter of Nur Mahal. Princess Ladli was of the same age as Princess Bihar Banu, and they had become the greatest of friends right after the emperor's marriage to Mihrunnisa. On this auspicious day of Prince Khurram's wedding, they were both swathed in brocades with matching ribbons in their hair and around their waists. Leaning against the window with crimson drapes, they were painting fields of poppies on the silk canvases. Both the princess' were aware of the privilege to be permitted to sit in the library, and worked quietly, so as not to disturb the emperor.
Were I glass instead of body
I would reveal thee to thyself without thy unveiling
Two lips have I, one for drinking
And one to apologize for drunkenness
Jahangir's thoughts were trying to steal the nectar of music from this verse of Talib Amuli. A sudden fatigue was overpowering his senses. His thoughts were trooping along in one mournful procession to follow Talib Amuli, who had died recently.
So young, so young! Plucked out of the bower of this existence so suddenly? The greatest of poets! Jahangir's hand was reaching out to the gold flagon beside him.
His gaze was commencing a leisurely stroll over the inanimate splendor of this library, as he sipped his wine slowly and thoughtfully. The bookshelves with gilded volumes, and the chests with patterns of koftgari, were the objects of admiration where his gaze was lingering the most. The Moghul paintings with scenes of hunting and the European marvels with the depiction of Madonna and the Child were dissolving his sadness into pools of awe and veneration. His wine goblet was poised before him, and he appeared to be catching the scent of roses from the large floral arrangements.
Cradled between a pair of bookshelves on each side of the east wall was a masterpiece of art and sculpture, and Jahangir’s gaze was arrested there involuntarily. This exquisite piece of ingenuity was presented to him on his birthday by one of his imperial artists. And it could never fail to evoke his awe and admiration whenever his attention was lured to it. Carved out of a solid block of marble, this wonder of inspiration housed spacious chambers with awnings in gold and ivory. The first chamber boasted three wrestlers, two engaged in a fierce fight, and the third one watching the other two, holding out a smooth stone on the palm of his hand. One spectator too, carved out of marble, could be seen lifelike, his bow and arrow abandoned beside a piece of log and one small pot. The second chamber was furnished with a throne and a canopy. A prince was seated on this throne with brocaded cushions at his back. The gaze of this prince was fixed to all five of his servants standing under the shade of tree. It was a Jacaranda tree, drawn and painted so craftily, that it could be mistaken for a real tree. A large pavilion was carved out of the third chamber, displaying rope-dancers and men of learning. A trio of rope-dancers was performing together, one balancing a pole with three silken ropes, and the other swinging on the middle rope, sucking on his left foot which was held tight into his right hand. His left hand was stretched behind his back to keep the goat and the drum in balance, while the third companion on the adjoining rope stood beating the drum. Five men with staffs in their hands were the silent spectators in this chamber. The fourth chamber was smaller in contrast to the other three. In the middle of this chamber was Jesus Christ, facing two men. One man was kneeling at the feet of the Christ. The other, with his lips half parted, simply stood watching.
Jahangir's gaze was shifting from this masterpiece to the wall-to-wall bookshelves, bulging with volumes, all illumined and lacquered. Next, it was alighting on the two princesses, so serenely absorbed in their artistic endeavors. The fair profile of Princess Bihar Banu was carving rills of tenderness inside his heart, but his gaze was contemplating Princess Ladli whose back was toward him. The sheen of flax on her little head, were jolting his thoughts in quest of his beloved empress, Nur Mahal. His thoughts were stumbling into some den of absurdities.
How did my Nur consent to marry the emperor? Jahangir could hear his thoughts wading through the waters of disbelief and astonishment.
The emperor seemed to admire the colorful tapestries on the walls, but his thoughts were racing after Nur Mahal. A string of tragedies had been her only link to the emperor, even before she had met him. Her first husband, Sher Afghan, had killed the emperor's vizier, and in return was murdered by the imperial guards. Her father with the grand title of Itmadudaula Khan had been charged with the embezzlement of funds from the royal treasuries. He had been forgiven though, and later reinstated in the favor of the emperor. Her eldest brother, Sharif Muhammed, was charged with treason by joining hands with the royal rebel, Prince Khusrau. The prince's life was spared, but Sharif Muhammed was hanged by the emperor's orders with no room for clemency.
A sad and ponderous smile was frozen on Jahangir's lips as he sat contemplating, his thoughts retracing the gullies of time. His features flushed with the warmth of wine were attaining the glow of sunsets, beautiful and mournful. The taste of sweet estrangement between him and Mihrunnisa, which he had tasted during the months of his wooing and courtship, was coming back to him. But nothing could have deterred him from marrying the lady of his love, he had told himself. Knowing the anguish and bitterness in her heart, he was longing to adopt her pain as a gift or dowry from the coffers of her beauty, where his own living torment could neither be gauged, nor revealed. Mihrunnisa in return had been an angel of prudence, gentle in slicing the onslaught of the emperor's wooing, and concealing her pain within her, more graciously than he had ever hoped for or expected. But once she was married to the emperor, all her anguish and bitterness were dissolved into the vast ocean of her great love. She had given all to the emperor, her mind and body, and her soul and spirit too. Loving him intensely and devotedly, and in exchange receiving nothing but the violence of his passion. The emperor's heart and soul were eternally lost to Anarkali, Jahangir was not blind to the unspoken thoughts of his living beloved. Anarkali was growing inside him more powerful in death than she had ever been in life. Now that the emperor was wedded to her semblance, Anarkali had begun to reign like a living, breathing tyrant. And not even the bewitching charms of Nur Mahal could rescue him from this undying torment. Anarkali had returned to rule and stay, assuming the role of an empress, who was bent on taking vengeance for the loss of her love and life. The emperor had begun to drink heavily, more than ever before, though Nur Mahal's love alone was enough to drown him into the rivers of oblivion.
Paradoxically, Nur Mahal had become the emperor's sight and senses, and he too had given all to her whatever he could afford to part with. Since he could not bear to part with the aching wounds in his soul, he had given the bloom and prosperity of his whole empire to his one and only empress, Nur Mahal. He was moved to raptures by her beauty, but her wit and wisdom had lifted his thoughts to such ecstatic heights, that he had begun to court freedom from the burdens of his royal duties. Jahangir's hand reached for his gold flagon once again, a whimsical smile widening on his lips.
Even on this grand day of my son's wedding, my empress could not be detained from the cares of her royal duties? My beloved, receiving embassies from Surat, Turan and Deccan, I am sure. Jahangir's thoughts were a mockery of delight and indulgence.
Before he could taste the cherished sweetness from his cup, his sight was struck by the glow
of an apparition drifting toward him. It was the living, breathing wraith of Anarkali-Nur Mahal, approaching closer and closer to where he sat gazing and pondering. Not Anarkali! One bubble of reality was bursting to nothingness inside the agonies of his awareness, but his heart was leaping with joy to greet the new beloved. Nur Mahal was haloed by the aura of grace and beauty. The ghost of Anarkali! Jahangir's thoughts were blinking away the sad illusion.
Nur Mahal was arrayed in shimmering brocades, slashed with blue velvets. The décolletage of pearls on her gown and a pearly sash at her waist were designed by her, to start a new trend in fashion. This gown called Nur Mahali was stitched with pearls, rippling and cascading. She was wearing a lavaliere of pearls around her throat in the pattern of dewdrop roses with interlocking vines. This too was her original design, which had become a vogue for royal ladies in the Moghul court. She flashed a smile at the emperor before drifting toward the princess'.
"Now off with your indolence, my dears, and join the merriment down the halls." Nur Mahal beamed at the young princess'. "Your brother is getting married and you should be dancing your little feet off with joy and laughter." She left a little pause, and then swept Princess Ladli into one arm, cradling Princess Bihar Banu into her other. "The dancing girls themselves are waiting for the royal, little angels like you so that they could proceed with the Khattak dance. Prince Perwiz has saved the gold and silver bhutans for you two, if you know how to whirl on your toes and tap your bhutans with your partners'." She pinched their cheeks laughingly. "Now run off, while I goad the emperor to join me in dancing."
"I want the gold Bhutan." Princess Bihar Banu shot for the door.
Jahangir sat sipping his wine, watching the velvet bundles flying out of this gilded chamber, and disappearing down the hallway. His gaze was returning to his empress. This wraith of light and purity was sailing closer, radiant and glorious.
"Put your gold cup away, Your Majesty, I implore! Wine sits heavy on your pallor, and you mistake the color on your cheeks as a natural glow of health." Nur Mahal sang winsomely.
"This wine keeps me sober, my Nur, but the wine in your eyes is making me drunk." Jahangir smiled, relinquishing his goblet with a sigh.
"Then make merry, Your Majesty. The ocean of wine in my eyes never runs dry." Nur Mahal sank into the gilt chair beside him, mirth spilling from her lips.
"And yet, the emperor needs only a flagon of wine and a piece of meat to make him merry." A spontaneous gale of mirth escaped Jahangir’s lips. "And yet, my sweet, you have harnessed the emperor by the collar, and he obeys each little whim of yours with utmost devotion."
"The red, red rubies on your vest, Your Majesty, are in truth, the drops of my blood, holding each great whim of yours by the collar." Nur Mahal teased poetically.
"My whims are at your mercy, love!" Jahangir claimed her hand, kissing each finger with reverence. "Your beauty has chained me to subservience, Nur? Your wit and wisdom, to devotion! And now your poetry is robbing me of my own wit." His own thoughts were exploring the verses of Amir-ul-Amara.
“Pass, O Messiah, o'er the heads of us slain by love
Thy restoring one life is worth a hundred murders."
"My wit, beauty and wisdom have failed to keep you away from your cup, Your Majesty." Nur Mahal murmured with a dint of sadness. “All those poets in your court with strings of poetry hanging from their lips, Your Majesty. If only, they had the power to break all the gold flagons, and save you from the temptation of drinking?”
"O censor, fear the weeping of the old vintner
Thy breaking one jar is equal to a hundred murders."
Another couplet broke forth on Jahangir's lips from the pen of Mulla Ali Ahmad. This poet too had retired to the abode of the dead two years from hence.
With this couplet still stinging his lips, Jahangir rose to his feet under some spell of desire which could not be postponed. Cupping Nur Mahal's face into his hands, he kissed her on the lips. Then staggered back, and began to pace, his hands tied behind his back in a tight knot.
"Your Majesty." Nur Mahal gasped for breath. "How dismal this poetry! Two murders in two couplets and tears and sadness and on this auspicious day of your son's wedding too?" She was trying to discipline the violence inside her heart. "Let us join the dancing and feasting, Your Majesty, the music is calling us."
"Dancing and feasting would last till dawn, sweet Nur. And the emperor rarely gets a moment of peace with you alone. All those intrigues and rebellions in his empire, leaving him no time to satisfy his great passion." Jahangir murmured, still pacing.
"All those viziers of yours, Your Majesty, the whole undisciplined lot. They are corrupt, conceited and avaricious." Nur Mahal intoned softly. "You should appoint men who are prudent and pure of heart, and then there would be no intrigues or rebellions."
"Rebellions, my sweet rebel!" Jahangir exclaimed. "Didn't you rebel against the veil, and got the emperor's sanction to stay unveiled?"
"That sort of rebellion is favorable, Your Majesty, if I am to preside over the embassies to share the burden of your royal duties." Nur Mahal smiled to herself. "Did Khadija, Prophet Mohammed's wife wear a veil when she conducted the business transactions?" Her eyes were questioning the veracity of her own thoughts.
"Ah, why connect religion with the foibles of mankind!" Jahangir intoned with a sudden interest. "Prophet Mohammed's other wives didn't veil themselves, either, the emperor is well versed in theology." He flashed her adoring look. “Veiling is a mark of wealth and royalty, not the emblem of religion. And since you disdain this honor of wealth and royalty, the emperor respects your wishes."
"My wishes are to promote the health and wealth of the emperor and of his empire. Drawing his attention toward appointing viziers who are skilled and judicious." Nur Mahal's tones were sad and dreamy.
"Didn't the emperor make your father the prime minister of Hind? With his title of Itmadudaula Khan alone, he could rule the whole world." Jahangir's look was ponderous. "And your brother, Sapur, receiving the title of Itaqid Khan, would he prove to be a great vizier? Asaf Khan, the youngest of your brothers, now the head of the imperial household. Of course, he is now the father-in-law of Prince Khurram."
"Just a fraction of devoted men to maintain repose and discipline, only in the capitol of Agra." Nur Mahal opined profoundly.
"And the husbands of your sisters, Manija and Khadija! They could rise to higher ranks too, if you recommend them to the emperor, sweet Nur." Jahangir's eyes were shining with a subtle challenge.
"A handful of just men to fight cruelty and injustice in your empire, Your Majesty?" Nur Mahal's eyes were unsheathing the daggers of mockery.
"Injustice!" Jahangir's feet were coming to a sudden halt by the mantel. "Are you inferring, Nur, that the emperor neglects the sprouting of cruelty and injustice in his empire?" His gaze was thoughtful and searching.
"Emperors are wont to carry the burdens of accusations, Your Majesty, the legacy of the royalty?" Nur Mahal began soothingly. "Prince Khusrau languishing in the prison. Your eldest son, Your Majesty? Is that an act of justice?"
"Ah, Prince Khusrau!" One flicker of a smile curled upon Jahangir's lips. "The traitor doesn't deserve even one patch of living space inside the royal palace, and all the emperor's wives are suing for his release. Including you, my Beauty." He paused, his gaze profound. "In the scale of justice, neither laity, nor royalty are permitted to claim special privileges." He murmured thoughtfully.
"The followers of Prince Khusrau impaled alive! Two of his men sown, one in the skin of an ox, and the other in the skin of a donkey. The one dying a wretched death, and the other surviving miraculously. Were those the acts of justice, Your Majesty?" Was Nur Mahal's low comment.
"If you were to become the emperor's conscience, Nur, he would have no chance to delight in your beauty." Jahangir failed in his attempt to smile. "Traitors suffering treacherous deaths, those are the laws of the empire, Nur, not of the emperor's. You have yet to experience the puddles o
f tragedies in this world, if you are willing to share the emperor's burdens, along with his desire. This heart bruised and lacerated!"
"That Sikh Guru by the name of Arjun." Nur Mahal commenced heedlessly. "The one who favored Prince Khusrau and blessed the prince on his way to Lahore. Was he not executed, his property confiscated? In the name of justice, Your Majesty?"
"Treason demands not mercy, but vengeance, sweet inquisitor." Jahangir laughed suddenly. "When would this inquisition end?"
"As soon as I contrive to pull the Chain of Justice, Your Majesty, pleading for the release of Prince Khusrau." Nur Mahal laughed.
"The emperor would spare your lovely hands the labor of such an unbecoming task, my Nur." Jahangir quipped. "The emperor would sanction Prince Khusrau's release after the wedding ceremonies are over." He sought his chair, and sank into its velvety comfort. "And now let the emperor worship you. The witchcraft of your beauty is much more favorable to me than the shafts of your intellect and inquisition. They make me forget my desire." His eyes were lit up with the warmth of adoration. "I have ordered the construction of a grand palace at Lahore. It would be named, Nur Mahal."
"And the tomb of Anarkali, is that not in Lahore too?" An abrupt pang of jealousy escaped Nur Mahal's sense of euphoria.
"The great empress jealous of a dead beloved of the emperor?" Jahangir intoned sadly. "Can you heal the emperor's heart, love?" His voice was barely audible.
"She is more alive than the oceans of love throbbing inside my heart, Your Majesty. Do you think that my heart doesn't bleed?" Nur Mahal averted her gaze.
"Your heart is like a diamond, my love, with the power of cutting. But never receiving a scratch in return." Jahangir moaned with all the passion of a great lover.
