by Farzana Moon
"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.
"No, Your Majesty, Yes, I mean the girl died, but I am not guilty." Muqqarab Khan murmured low. "The judges have proclaimed me innocent—have discovered the truth. The truth, which I have been telling all along—" He was becoming flustered. "The judges are right here, attesting to the facts, that's why I? My attendant is found guilty of that crime, Your Majesty, and he is sentenced to death. The judges are here to—" He could not continue against the flash of rage in the emperor's gaze.
"And yet you are an accomplice to that crime?" Jahangir flashed him a quick rebuke. "You kept that young girl in your own house, didn't you? Had not that widow, the much-wronged mother of that young girl sought the Chain of Justice, the emperor would have been kept ignorant of that heinous crime. Death for your lout of an attendant is not a punishment, but kindness! He would be tortured, feeling the agony of his own corrupt flesh, before his soul could be delivered into the hands of death. The emperor would look into the verdict of the judges, later. But as for now, you stand guilty as an accomplice. Yes, Muqqarab Khan, the emperor's justice is quick to bestow a just reward. Your salary would be cut into half, and that part of your income would be allotted to the widow. Though, nothing could compensate her loss of her daughter. Begone, Muqqarab Khan, begone, before the emperor does injustice to the justice proclaimed by the judges." He raised his arm, his eyes flashing regret and reproof.
"Your Majesty." One mute protest trembled on Muqqarab Khan's lips.
Muqqarab Khan stood hugging his arms, as if clutching something warm and alive to his breast. But if he was hoping to find the feathery bird into his arms, he was sadly mistaken, for his turkey was relinquished into the care of Mukhlis Khan long since, who had departed straight toward the aviary.
"Don't look so stricken, Muqqarab Khan. At least you are not to die on the gallows as the emperor feared?" Jahangir intoned rather gently. "The emperor's justice may yet reinstate you to his favor? The blood is drained from your very lips. Before your strength returns to hurl you to obedience, inform the emperor if our ship Rahimi has entered the port of Cambay?" He paused, murmuring, as if to himself. "The emperor is hoping that his mother, Mariam-uz-Zamani, might be able to join him for the Nauroz celebrations. Such a long journey back from Mecca, even to fathom that distance takes time and courage. My spiritual needs suffer neglect against the material ones as I sit burdened by the weight of my royal duties, and no time for a pilgrimage to Mecca. But I remain a pilgrim at heart, taking not the long roads, and savoring the journeys in my head to lands holy and incorruptible." He paused again. “Has your tongue expired, Muqqarab Khan? Speak, lest I cut it and feed it to that rarity of a big bird?"
"No, Your Majesty, I didn't hear anything about the ship." Muqqarab Khan attempted one quick response. "Mariam-uz-Zamani is traveling in Rahimi, I have been assured." His look was dazed and pleading.
"Mahabat Khan." Jahangir shot one abrupt command at his vizier, who was appointed to parade the embassies before the emperor. "Summon the next embassy, and make it short and a happy one. The emperor is wearied of cruelties and tragedies."
A small group of Englishmen stepped forward, curtsying as best as they could, after Mahabat Khan presented them, retracing his steps. Jahangir sat watching the alien faces, while sipping his wine slowly and thoughtfully. His eyes were lighting up with amusement all of a sudden, as he espied Thomas Best amongst the Englishmen, his curtsy most impeccable. Almost a year ago, the emperor was recalling, he had granted permission to Thomas Best for a free trade between India and England.
"Your Majesty." Thomas Best was the first one to step forward. "It's my privilege to present two envoys from England. They are to represent the trade treaties between India and England. Thomas Aldworth and Paul Canning." He indicated the two tall men beside him with a flourish of his arm. Two more young men were standing behind him, bashful and flustered.
"Treaties don't grow on the trees, Thomas! Even if they did, the emperor has no mind to climb one to explore the intricate patterns of greed woven inside the very veins of those leaves, exposed to the gluttony of foreign dreams." Jahangir laughed. "Didn't the emperor grant you permission for trade in Gujrat not too long ago?"
"Yes, Your Majesty. Your generosity has not been forgotten. And we hope to achieve more." Thomas Best smiled affably. "Paul Canning here, Your Majesty, has brought two musicians with him to present before you." He nudged Paul Canning, as if urging him to make a signal impression upon the emperor.
"Musicians are always welcome in the Moghul court. Not the traders! And certainly not the traitors!" Jahangir exclaimed mirthfully. "Paul Canning. Such a heavy, swollen name. Reminds me of pears and peaches. Don't ask the emperor, why? Well, Paul, introduce your musician friends.”
"With all due respect and great delight, Your Majesty." Paul Canning curtsied, requesting the two young men to step forward. "Lancelot Canning, Your Majesty, is my cousin, and he plays the virginals. This young man here is Robert Trully. He plays the coronet." He introduced with the profusion of a cavalier.
"Welcome to our court, and you would play for the emperor tomorrow along with our own singers and musicians, who would most certainly vie with you both." Jahangir’s gaze was shifting to Man Singh. "Man Singh, summon Hafiz Had Ali to court tomorrow, he is to sing before the emperor. Right now, the emperor is longing for the gaiety of the Mina Bazaar." He was about to rise to his feet when his attention was caught by a rude rider galloping toward the throne most boldly.
This rude rider was no other than the governor of Delhi, Zulfiqar Khan himself. He had been entrusted with the duties of a sole messenger concerning ship Rahimi's safety and its safe arrival at the Indian ports. His fiery steed was claimed by the emperor's attendant, Sharif, he himself charging toward the throne as if whipped by the breeze of urgency.
"Your Majesty." Zulfiqar Khan bowed low, gasping for breath. "The Portuguese have captured Rahimi. And all seven hundred people on board at port Goa are their prisoners. Mariam-uz-Zamani refuses to leave the ship until all the prisoners are released." He could speak no further. Fear and consternation choking his thoughts.
"How dare they capture the ship of the emperor's mother?" Jahangir thundered, his eyes flashing rage and disbelief. "The emperor's wrath would rain fire on them for this outrage." His gaze was turning to Muqqarab Khan. "Step closer to the emperor, Muqqarab Khan. This outrage of the Portuguese has reinstated you to the emperor's favor. Your fortunes would rise in exchange for the downfall of the Portuguese. And downfall it is, for the Portuguese." He prophesied. Allowing a pause, before his vizier could rai
se himself up from his lengthy curtsy. “A grand army would be entrusted under your command. You are to march to Daman and to reduce this evil city of the Portuguese to ruins. Also, order Iradat Khan to repair to Surat to chastise these wicked intruders."
"Yes, Your Majesty." Muqqarab Khan could barely murmur.
"Abdullah Khan." The smoldering rage in Jahangir's eyes was falling on his next vizier. "You are in charge of sealing off all the churches of the Portuguese in our empire. Father Xavier too must share the ill rewards wrought by his own countrymen, though the emperor loves him dearly. He is banned from proselytizing until further orders." He got to his feet slowly and ponderously. Dismissing all with an impatient wave of his arm.
Jahangir's restless gaze was arrested to Madho Singh as he dismounted his throne. Madho Singh, cradling two beautiful pigeons into his arms, was scaling the length of the imperial carpet unrolled all the way from the throne to the garden entrance where the Mina Bazaar bustled with teeming festivities. He was edging closer. His eyes shining with anticipation were seeking the emperor’s attention.
"More rarities from the lands evil and alien, Madho Singh?" Jahangir smiled.
"The rarest of breeds, Your Majesty, all the way from Benares." Madho Singh chirped happily. "May I present these pigeons to you, Your Majesty? They can sing and somersault and you would be delighted by their tricks."
"The rarest of the treasures, indeed!" Jahangir claimed the pigeons eagerly. "They would delight the royal ladies more than they would the emperor. Adding charm and novelty to the opulence of Mina Bazaar." He strolled away, the silken carpet under his feet his guide toward the gate of Mina Bazaar. "Man Singh and Abdur Rahim, you are welcome to keep the emperor company." He murmured over his shoulders.
4
Empress Nur Jahan
The four storey palace at Ajmer with its lofty chambers was bathed in a hush so profound, that not even a whiff of breeze dared make a whisper. Jahangir, seated at his rosewood desk was making entries in his journal, the jeweled pen in his hand making long strokes as soundless as the profound hush inside this room. He had moved his court to Ajmer a year ago, now almost two years after the wedding of Prince Khurram. This particular afternoon, Jahangir had chosen this bedroom as his study to write down his impressions of the birds and the beasts, which his instincts as a naturalist had moved him to study during his pleasure excursions. The large bath with blue tiles and rose decor adjacent to this bedroom was occupied by Nur Mahal, who was finishing her toilette.
Almost three frolicking years had elapsed since Jahangir had wedded Nur Mahal, and he was still floating inside the mists of love lost and love gained. The tomb of Anarkali as well as Nur Mahal's palace at Lahore was complete, and both the emperor and the empress had visited these places at brief intervals of time. Jahangir had prayed earnestly at the tomb of Anarkali, but the dead beloved had no wish to leave the hedonist emperor to his hope of joy in living. She had come back—indeed, to torment the emperor! Alive and beautiful in the semblance of Nur Mahal, she had made a permanent abode inside the heart and soul of the emperor. Now that he was wedded to his living love, she was materialized like a tyrant to reign over his passions as the queen of agony. He could see nothing but Anarkali in the face of nature and into the eyes of Nur Mahal. Though possessed by the memory of Anarkali, he was hopelessly in love with Nur Mahal, loving both in the everlasting torment of his dreams and reveries. Nur Mahal, in return, was tormented by the duplicity of his love and despair. Each moment of her married life, unfolding before her the cruel truth, that the emperor was capable only of loving the unforgotten and the unforgettable! Paradoxically, at the inception of such a loss when Jahangir was young and vulnerable, hope had become his foe and friend. And now that the hope had revealed itself in the guise of benevolence, it had plunged him deep into a pit of utter hopelessness.
All was not entirely hopelessness, though. Jahangir was too much of a hedonist to even think of relinquishing the pleasures in living, or of letting his beloved suffer the dearth of feasting and entertainment. He was destined to love life as intensely as Nur Mahal herself, gathering both joys and pains out of the very husks of life. His need for oblivion had become stronger than ever before though, and inebriation itself was his sanctuary to numb the ache and yearning inside his heart, wild and passionate. He could not visit this sanctuary often, for Nur Mahal was always there to defeat his need with the ocean of her own love, always sweet, always irresistible. If wine was denied to him as a result of the charming appeals from the empress, her wit and beauty were enough to reward him with bounties of love. Besides, both loved sports and hunting, and pomp and ceremony, and Nur Mahal was getting skilled in planning such excursions in advance even before the emperor's mood, rather his need, could tempt him toward the rungs of inebriation. The emperor had relinquished all his power into the hands of this bewitching empress who reigned over his joy and torment too, much like the goddess of love. A few of the royal duties which he could not abandon were performed by him with a feeling of disinterest and obligation. Receiving embassies, and issuing Farmans to maintain peace and justice in his empire. Even now as he sat delineating his impressions about the albino species of the birds, his thoughts were lumbering toward his throne outside this palace where he had to preside over the embassies, joylessly.
Jahangir's gaze as well as his thoughts was straying, before he could seal his well-cherished expressions with authenticity. His desk was facing the great window with damask drapes, the color of old rose, the gold tassels sweeping them back in neat folds. From where he sat he could see the abundance of early spring in foliage and flowers, against which the fountains stood bubbling. The day was much too lovely to be ignored, and the pen slipped from his hand, his gaze devouring the hush and beauty of his gardens with an aching tenderness. Before Anarkali could pervade his senses to dull misery, he whirled his chair around, the Bokhara carpet under his feet soft and protesting. The first thing which arrested his attention in this room was the large, mahogany bed, with a canopy of rose and ivory. He was forcing his attention on the rosewood shelf where Nur Mahal had arranged his favorite poetry books. Several volumes were peering back at him, along with the marble vases and cedar boxes so craftily displayed. But Jahangir's gaze was shifting to the bedside table, its mother-of-pearl glistening in patterns of vines and flowers. A silver candelabrum and several clusters of tuberoses in a glass bowl were gracing this table. Right below the candelabrum was a book by Omar Khayyam, its green binding hugging the polished wood.
My Nur, how unpredictable, didn't take Omar Khayyam with her to the bath. Jahangir's eyes were closing, his chair swung back to its former position.
Absurdly and inexplicably, he could hear laughter in his thoughts, which were unfolding a scene, arresting the form of one mad dog that had inflicted fatal wounds on two of his royal elephants. Then his thoughts were hovering over the death-bed of Inyat Khan. Inyat Khan was one of his courtiers, whom he had ordered to be brought to his presence so that he could observe the expressions of a man in his final stages of demise. He could hear the laughter in his thoughts as they sprang forth to embrace another memory which had nothing to do with death and dying. One daughter of a gardener was coming into view, which had a thick beard and a moustache. She had no breasts and had hair on her chest, though in any other way she was an ordinary woman. The laughter was leaving Jahangir's thoughts at the sudden assault of another recollection—that of his own illness. He could vividly imagine his body burning with fever, his lips thirsting for wine, and Nur Mahal snatching the gold cup away from his trembling hands.
The taste of that fever and thirst was relinquished by Jahangir's thoughts, as more memories were sprouting forth to make him opiate and listless. While his thoughts were bound to tease and frolic, his hands had a mind of their own, feeling the smooth, round pearls in his ears. He had holes bored in his ears right after his recovery from that illness. It was not caprice, Jahangir's thoughts even now were adamant in professing, but gratitude, to the
saint, who had bestowed upon him the gift of health. The fact was that while despairing of his health, the emperor had visited the tomb of Muinuddin Chishti, and had prayed fervently. Ill and desperate, the emperor had made a solemn vow at the grave of the dead saint that if his health was restored, he would bore holes in his ears in the fashion of the true disciples. His recovery was quick, and he had fulfilled his vow. After that, the emperor had become a frequent visitor to the tomb of Muinuddin Chishti.
Jahangir's eyes were still closed, his hands now limp into his lap, but his thoughts were feeling the fineries on his royal person. One great, uncut ruby in the middle of his turban was encircled with emeralds and diamonds. A jeweled dagger was slung at his waist, radiating its own fire of jewels. His thoughts now were crawling over the mounds of duties which he could not avoid, though Nur Mahal shared half the burden.
Nur Mahal? Nur Jahan, now! The light of the world! Didn't I bestow this title on her after the death of Salima Sultan? Jahangir's thoughts were a volley of exclamations. Salima Sultan! Had my father been alive, he would have mourned herdeath with ashes in his hair to heal the bleeding wounds in his heart.
Jahangir's thoughts were poetic, and gathering the mists of forgetfulness. He could hear his thoughts as if they were a string of hearts, throbbing away to cling to the mists of awareness. He had to attend a few embassies this afternoon, and then visit the tomb of Muinuddin Chishti to participate in the ritual of feeding the poor. Beyond the limit of these two facts, Jahangir's thoughts were getting lost against the islands of clouds, gray and billowing. Reality was somewhere in abeyance, turning to ashes inside the flames of unreality. So absorbed was he inside the void of his thoughts, that he didn't even notice the rustle of silks, as Nur Jahan approached.
