by Farzana Moon
5
The Tomb of Muinuddin Chishti
The palace gardens at Ajmer famous for their lush, silken grandeur, this late afternoon were a bazaar of music and festivity where Jahangir sat on his throne receiving embassies. From the palace windows, the ladies of the harem could watch all this pomp and ceremony if they needed such diversion, or if their needs were as varied as Nur Jahan's. Nur Jahan would often stand by her bedroom window, absorbing not only the color and pageantry of such scenes, but the import and execution of the emperor's commands. This was no secret to Jahangir, but right now the beautiful eyes of Anarkali were spilling wine from the very ocean of clear, blue skies into his heart as he sat receiving embassies. His beloved Nur Jahan was continents apart from him, yet his beloved Anarkali was tenderly close to him—so achingly near. He was not seated on his throne of mother-of-pearl, flanked by a canopy of gold and brocade, but at the altar of his beloved. Spilling libations of worship before her presence, and drinking draughts of pain-bliss from her absence-nearness.
This pain-bliss was Jahangir's companion as he dismissed one embassy, stalling the others with an imperious wave of his arm. He was leaning back against the velvety softness of his chair, luxuriating in the sense of his power and might. His aesthetic senses were arresting the beauty of his gardens, before it could be dimmed against the dull haze of embassies. The Makrana fountains could be seen sprinkling marble terraces with gleams of pearl in sunshine. Beyond the bower of roses were an exquisite array of bushes pruned in shapes of gazelles and peacocks. The scent of jasmine and Indian roses was in the air, and Jahangir inhaled it deeply. His gaze was sweeping over the flood of princes and courtiers, before settling on a group of singers and musicians on the white stage. This stage was garlanded with white tuberoses, shuddering with the beat of qawwali, it seemed. The ecstatic refrain in this qawwali was from the verse by a late poet by the name of Amir Khusrau.
Jahangir was familiar with this famous verse as he had heard it quite often, recited by his court poets when they lacked inspiration. His attention now was diverted to Sayyid Shah, who was mimicking a religious dance to the refrain of this verse. Sayyid Shah was Jahangir's courtier, a maverick, who was wont to act as a buffoon whenever a chance presented him this luxury. Right now, he was indulging in such a luxury, dancing and whirling like a dervish.
"Each nation has its right road of faith and its shrine—qibla-gahi
I have set up my shrine on the path of him with a crooked cap."
Laughter was alighting in Jahangir's eyes, as he crushed the madness of his courtier with a loud command. He summoned Sayyid Shah to his presence, before he could whirl himself to absolute giddiness. Obeying the emperor's command, he was whirling his way toward the throne. His multicolored turban had fallen awry as he himself fell into one heap of a curtsy.
"Satisfy the emperor’s curiosity, my court fool, what does this verse mean?" Jahangir demanded capriciously.
"Your Majesty!" Sayyid Shah's hands were fumbling to adjust his turban. "This verse has a history of being misconstrued and misinterpreted. But I would relate a true account which made it possible to survive distortions. Here it goes, if you bear with me, Your Majesty. One old saint, now retired to the abode of the dead, by the name of Shaikh Auliya was once sitting on a terraced roof. His house was by the bank of Jamna, and he was watching with devotion the ritual bathing of the Hindus. He was wearing a cap tilted to one side of his head. He seemed to be deeply immersed in his quiet contemplations until he espied Amir Khusrau on the street. Suddenly, he was heard reciting, Each race has its right road of faith and its shrine—qibla-gahi and waving and drawing Amir Khusrau's attention to him. Amir Khusrau in return was heard paying homage to the saint by reciting this line I have set up my shrine on the path of him with the crooked cap. Shaikh Auliya, hearing this hemistich fell senseless and delivered his soul to the Creator. No true account such as this would you ever hear from another, Your Majesty?" He sprang to his feet jauntily.
"The saint must have mistaken the poet's reed of inspiration, ascribing it to his own crooked cap." Jahangir's gaze was intense and piercing. "Crooked Cap has gone through many transformations in relation to its meaning and connotation. Being presumptuous is one, or the one who has left the true path of religion. It is known to connote beloved also, one's own spiritual mentor." He smiled. "Yet, begone, my fool of a courtier, before the emperor falls senseless on his own throne?"
One Persian ambassador was being heralded toward the throne, which could not be stalled in making his presence known to the emperor. This proud ambassador was Muhammad Riza Beg, sent by the Persian monarch Shah Abbas of Persia. He was approaching closer with a sea of colorful pennants behind him, and a marching band following at his heels. He had just abandoned his train of fifty horse saddled in shimmering gold, and was now attended by a coterie of men, all turbaned and bejeweled. These men were carrying gifts, to be offered to the emperor. The Moghul viziers and courtiers in disciplined ranks were making way for this illustrious guest, though not quite graciously. Prince Khurram, Asaf Khan and Itmadudaula Khan had already moved to their assigned posts close to the emperor.
Itibar Khan, the governor of Agra, was the first one to greet Muhammad Riza Beg. The governor of Orissa, Ahmed Beg, was craning his neck to have a better view of this haughty Persian with six-pointed turban in red. Ibrahim Khan, the governor of Bengal, was the next one to receive the Persian ambassador. Khan Jahan, the governor of Multan, was next in line, greeting the Persian ambassador with merely a nod of his head.
Asaf Khan, standing behind the emperor was watching this whole show with smiles both amused and condescending. Itmadudaula Khan beside him was simply indifferent. Prince Khurram beside the emperor, was ignoring the Persian's haughty approach, and exchanging amenities with his own attendant, Salih. The first and second row closer to the throne was teeming with the emperor's viziers and courtiers. Amongst them, Nahir Khan, Sayyid Dilir, Afzal Khan, Abul Hasan, Fadai Khan, Muqqarab Khan, Mukhlis Khan, just to name a few. They were marked for prominence, more so by the shining agog in their eyes, than by the badges of rank on their arms. The seventh row was reserved for the royal princes, both young and old. They too were all agog, watching this Persian galore with much interest. Asaf Khan's son, Abu Talib was the only demure one amongst the rest of the princes. Prince Hoshang and Prince Tahmuras, the sons of late Prince Daniyal, were seen whispering amongst themselves. Prince Khusrau's son, Prince Balaqi, was squeezed in there, rapt and speechless. Prince Jahandar and Prince Shahryar were attracting the attention of all with their loud banter.
Mahabat Khan was the one to present the Persian ambassador before the emperor. He was skilled in such a task, and after one flourish of a curtsy, was retiring into the background. Muhammed Riza Beg was left alone, bowing before the emperor twice and murmuring his greetings. He was quick to flaunt his gifts by commanding his men with a stiff wave of his arm.
The attendants wearing conical hats, obeying this signal, were quick to parade those gifts before the emperor. Five gold clocks embedded with jewels. Five swords studded with precious gems. Several boxes open at the top, revealing a wealth of Venetian glasses. One cabinet rich with cloth of gold was lowered reverently. Two chests holding exquisite sets of Persian hangings were unburdened. Eight carpets of silk were a tapestry of flowers. A chest of mother-of-pearl was housing clusters of rubies.
"Twenty-seven Arabian and Persian horses." One Persian attendant had begun to read the list of the gifts which could not be presented while the court was in session. "Nine mules, fair and large. Seven camels laden with velvets. Twenty-one camels carrying gold flagons brimming with Persian wines. Seven more camels loaded with bottles of rose-water. One large cabinet containing forty muskets—" His boastful recital was cut short by one impatient wave of the emperor's arm.
"How does my Brother?" Jahangir's abrupt inquiry was directed toward Muhammed Riza Beg.
Muhammed Riza Beg stood abashed for a moment. Understanding perfectly well th
e emperor's expression Brother, meaning, Shah Abbas, yet he was taken aback. He appeared to be expecting to hear from the emperor, the title The King of Persia, but was disappointed. Since the emperor's gaze was stern and commanding, he breathed quickly.
"Shah Abbas—His Majesty, The King of Persia, is in splendid health, Your Majesty." Was Muhammed Riza Beg's flustered response.
"And what brings you to our court with such pomp and ceremony?" Jahangir asked amusedly.
"To bring greetings, Your Majesty, from our King of Persia. And to—" Muhammed Riza Beg was stung to silence. More so by flashing intensity in the emperor's eyes, than by the imperious wave of his arm.
"And to win back Kandahar from us!" Jahangir declared.
"No, Your Majesty." Muhammed Riza Beg lowered his eyes. "The King of Persia seeks your alliance against the Turkish King." He murmured low.
"Concerning that, the emperor would convey his decision to you in a matter of time." Jahangir waved dismissal. "And send my Brother my profoundest of thanks for the precious gifts." He added.
Muhammed Riza Beg performed three consecutive curtsies without flinching, his look dazed. Jahangir was commanding Iradat Khan to escort the Persian ambassador to the aisle of the younger princes. Muhammed Riza Beg was being conducted to the seventh row, his face now ashen and seething with chagrin. He could not fail to notice the emperor's disfavor as being escorted to the inferior row where only younger princes indulged in fun and sport, besides making sport of the ones burdened with humiliation.
Jahangir, with his cup replenished to the brim, was willing the embassies to cease their assault. His gaze was warm and thoughtful though, bestowing smiles upon his viziers and courtiers whose faces shone with the light of ardor and expectancy. Catching one of Prince Khurram's comment, he was about to voice his own thoughts, when he espied Mir Ali edging closer to the throne. He was holding, rather hugging a large book with exquisite gilt binding. His eyes were shining, as if craving audience just to lay his treasure at the feet of the emperor. The large book itself had arrested Jahangir's attention, and his eyes were glowing with interest.
"What do we have here, my crafty calligrapher?" Jahangir flashed him a smile.
"A gift for you, Your Majesty, from Abdur Rahim." Mir Ali beamed with excitement. "He has sent you his own version of the story Yusuf and Zulaikha from the Quran." He held out the book to the emperor.
"A rare and most precious gift, which the emperor welcomes with a loving heart." Jahangir claimed the book with utmost reverence. He began flitting the pages with awe and wonder.
"Your Majesty." Mir Ali sought the emperor's attention. "May I present my own gift, if you permit it, Your Majesty? I will have it fetched."
"Yes, yes, Mir Ali." Jahangir consented, his eyes still glued to the book.
Mir Ali was too overwhelmed to speak, motioning Arab Dost with his eyes alone to fetch his much cherished work of art. Arab Dost was the imperial agent entrusted with this gift beforehand, and was quick to carry out this happy errand without delay. Mir Ali, the artist and the calligraphist stood watching the emperor with devotion and reverence. A thin, beatific smile curled on Jahangir's lips as he closed the book with a thoughtful reluctance. His gaze returning to Mir Ali with the intensity of warmth and admiration.
"This script is illumined by you, my genius of an artist? The emperor cannot mistake your unique style for another." Jahangir complimented profusely.
"Yes, Your Majesty." Mir Ali admitted happily. "Abdur Rahim wrote the story, and I copied it with my own hand. The binding and illumination, Your Majesty, are my own design as you judged it correctly." He murmured.
"This would grace our royal library after the emperor has had his fill. No other library could boast such a treasure. The work is noble and exquisite. Both in writing and depiction—" Jahangir's attention was diverted to a miracle of wonder floating in the air.
A silver throne hoisted on the heads of Arab Dost and Jawahir Khan appeared ethereal. It was supported in the back by Buland Khan and Hushiyar Khan. A little distance from the present throne, it was being lowered slowly and carefully. It was adjusted to a position so as to reveal its splendor directly under the gaze of the emperor.
"What splendid miracle has landed in our garden?" Jahangir exclaimed.
"My gift for you, Your Majesty." Mir Ali could barely breathe.
"A silver throne, the handiwork of a genius. Such wonder of art I have not ever seen before." Jahangir intoned, absorbing each little detail intensely.
This silver throne appeared to breathe on its own, inlaid with naurattan, its nine precious jewels in each cluster were blazing and throbbing with life. The legs painted with rosebuds and bridal vines were vivid and alive. Its velvety seat was meadow-soft, and gleaming like a large emerald.
"The emperor offers you his heartfelt thanks, Mir Ali." Jahangir bestowed upon him the warmest of smiles. "For this wondrous gift of yours, you are to receive one lakh of rupees in cash and trays laden with pearls and rubies. This one is more beautiful than the gold one which you designed." He paused, his look dreamy and reminiscent. "The gold throne which I ordered to be sent to Prince Perwiz. Did it ever reach him in Burhanpur, along with my gifts of pearls and rubies?" He retrieved a silk purse out of the coffer beside him, and offered it to Mir Ali.
"Yes, Your Majesty." Mir Ali bowed double after claiming the purse. The gold and silver ashrafis in there whispering to him the fortunes of the fortunate. "Prince Perwiz, Your Majesty, sends his warmest thanks, wrapped in silks of gratitude, says the happy Prince. Your express runner Banarasi himself, Your Majesty, brought this ecstatic reply from Prince Perwiz."
"What use the express runner, if news reach the emperor a decade late?" Jahangir laughed.
"Only this morning, Your Majesty, I—" Mir Ali's incoherence was stalled by an abrupt wave of dismissal from the emperor.
"Repair to the streets paved with gold, my genius friend, for the emperor would shower riches and honors upon you, much earlier than a decade. But he must attend to his embassies, lest he is late in praying and serving at the tomb of Muinuddin Chishti."
Mir Ali retraced his steps, bowing and curtsying, his eyes spilling joy into the very breath of air. Before further embassies could be announced, Itmadudaula Khan sought the emperor's attention.
"Your Majesty, may I look at this work of holiness?" Itmadudaula Khan's gaze was fixed to the book in the emperor's lap. "For all art is holy, and authorship a divine inspiration from the very lips of God."
"Holy stars in your eyes, Father, and holiness in the beautiful eyes of your daughter are the only two treasures, which the emperor wishes to keep and cherish." Jahangir murmured, relinquishing the book into his hands.
"Taking advantage of your happiness, Your Majesty, may I lay these holy stars at your feet, and request a boon?" Itmadudaula Khan requested humbly.
"Any boon, my worthy father-in-law, any boon! The emperor can deny you nothing." Jahangir's eyes were gathering rills of laughter and premonition.
"Then, may I be as bold as to request that Prince Khusrau be left under the charge of Prince Khurram, for the reason of his own safety and well-being?" Itmadudaula Khan pleaded softly.
"Safety!" Laughter was gone from Jahangir's eyes. His eyes as well as his thoughts were searching the faces of Asaf Khan and Prince Khurram before returning to Itmadudaula Khan. "My Prince! Is he not safe under the care of Rai Singh Dalan?"
"He is, Your Majesty, he is." Itmadudaula Khan agreed affably. "But since his thoughts favor gloom and depression, he is tempted to conspire, and might become the victim of rebellion once again. If he has your permission, Your Majesty, to accompany Prince Khurram on the campaigns, he might be cured of his dark moods and scheming thoughts. Prince Khurram would keep a close watch over him, keeping him away from the influence of his evil companions."
"The emperor would have denied you no other boon, but this, my kind Father." A volley of mirth escaped Jahangir's lips, spilling only pain and hysteria .
Again
st this ocean of the emperor's mirth, another raucous din was skirling high down the courtyard below. The mad Englishman, Coryat, as prophesied by Prince Khurram, was having a verbal tirade with a laundress. He had such perfect command of the native language, that he was drowning the voice of the laundress in colloquial Hindi with a shower of epithets she herself had not ever heard. The poor laundress was so flustered, that she was resorting to prayers and exclamations. Forgetting all about her arguments, she was seen fleeing toward the palace mosque, as if pursued by the demons. One demon was sure following her, no other than Coryat himself. Bounding past her, he was lost inside the white serenity of this mosque. Not for long though. He had climbed the minaret reserved only for the muezzin. Muezzin was not even inside the mosque. Coryat was seen waving his arms, and singing some litany of a prayer-madness.
"There is no God, but one God, and Jesus Christ is the son of God." Coryat was reciting with all the force of bellows in his lungs.
Jahangir was not laughing, but mirth was shining in his eyes. Prince Khurram, though not orthodox himself, was afraid that the Muslims would cut this man to pieces, if he repeated his litany Son of God. Asaf Khan was outraged, sentencing Coryat to death in his thoughts, even before he could voice his plea for such a sentence to the emperor. Itmadudaula Khan was vehement in his condemnation, urging the emperor to send this heathen to the gallows for uttering such blasphemy. The royal guards were dragging Coryat down the minaret steps as some burden most foul to be cast into the darkest of dungeons. They were literally hauling him before the emperor, their eyes flaming.
Coryat was bowing before the emperor most gallantly. Wearing the rags of dignity in his eyes, he was lowering a string of flattering speech in Persian, his accent fluid and eloquent. His eyes were feverish, but his oration was as refined as of any of the Persian scholars the emperor held in great esteem. So impressed was the emperor by Coryat's command of Persian language, that he had made a swift decision not to punish this madman. Coryat was rising in his esteem as a genius who had accomplished the most difficult of tasks in mastering both Hindi and Persian during his brief stay in India.
