The Moghul Hedonist

by Farzana Moon

  "On your birthday, Your Majesty, the fortunate ones are favored with great titles." Nur Jahan teased softly. "Prince Khurram, now Shah Jahan. The ruler of the world! What an envious title to hold and cherish." Her eyes were shining.

  "And didn't the emperor bestow on you the title of Padishah Begum? This very morning, officially and in the presence of all?" Was Jahangir's tender exclamation.

  "Then Padishah Begum is going to bestow precious gifts on valorous Shah Jahan, if not titles." Nur Jahan eased herself up gracefully. She clapped her hands for her lady-in-waiting to fetch the gifts. "Come, my handsome Prince. Receive your gifts from the empress, if not from Padishah Begum."

  "From Mamma, Empress, Padishah Begum, all in one." Shah Jahan murmured.

  "A jeweled sword and a dress of honor for right now, my gallant Prince." Nur Jahan held out gifts to the prince. "And an Arabian horse with a rich saddle and an elephant with gilded howdah are waiting for your pleasure in the palace gardens." Her eyes were brimming with love and adoration.

  "My deepest thanks and gratitude to the empress." Shah Jahan fell into another flourish of a curtsy. "May I, Padishah Begum, request, that you bestow gifts on Kunwar Karan with your own gracious hands?"

  "With the delight of an empress, and with the munificence of a Padishah Begum." Nur Jahan chanted happily. Her gaze selecting a couple of gifts displayed by her lady-in-waiting, Mehr Harwi.

  Kunwar Karan was summoned promptly, who was lingering behind not very far. Expecting such an honor, his heart dithering.

  "Padishah Begum." Kunwar Karan succeeded in offering one awkward curtsy.

  "A rosary of pearls. One jeweled sword and a dress of honor for the valorous friend of Shah Jahan." Nur Jahan beamed.

  "And the emperor has nothing to offer you, Karan, but a promise of hawks. Falcons, horses and elephants!" Jahangir declared suddenly.

  "You may offer him, Your Majesty, your coat-of-mail. It is hanging right below the portrait of Jesus and Virgin Mary, where your royal gaze can touch and possess it." Nur Jahan challenged mirthfully. "And a couple of rings from your fingers, perhaps? The one with the ruby, and the other with the large emerald?"

  "The emperor would be robbed of all his treasures on his birthday." Jahangir slipped off the rings from his fingers, holding them out to Kunwar Karan, who edged closer, bowing and stumbling.

  "Better check the generosity of the emperor, Padishah Begum." Shah Jahan shot a sweet warning at Nur Jahan. "His Majesty has given away Hind to Thomas Roe in some sort of trade agreement in his letter to King James, it seems?"

  "A letter to King James!" Nur Jahan exclaimed. Her gaze shifting from prince to the emperor with a flashing intensity. "May we hear its import, Your Majesty?"

  "It is of no interest to any of the ladies, my Nur." Jahangir drained his cup.

  "Yes, it's of great interest to us, Your Majesty." Jodh Bai floated closer, concealing the stars of jealousy in her agate eyes. "The account of the titles needs to be settled first, though. Since my son can boast of his title, Shah Jahan, as the Ruler of the World, his mother, doesn't she deserve a worthy title?"

  "You are the empress of my heart, my white Rose." Jahangir laughed. "Why do all the emperor's wives forget their titles? Didn't the emperor bestow on you the title of Bilqis Makani, Lady of the Pure Abode. Your heart is pure as snow, my love. Though, jealousy, at times, tarnishes its purity." His gaze was intense and caressive.

  "Your jests and flatteries, Your Majesty, corrupt my heart more than any pools of jealousy in my own thoughts." Jodh Bai quipped. "And yet thank you, Your Majesty, for this old, worthy title which I would be proud to take to my grave."

  "That letter, Your Majesty, must not be forgotten in this war of titles. Yet, I too request a title, since you are in a generous mood on this auspicious day of your birthday?" Sahiba Jamali floated close to the royal circle.

  “Another forgetful wife! The emperor is under siege." Jahangir murmured, mock disbelief shining in his eyes. "You are the emperor's Mistress of Beauty, love. How quickly you forget of your beautiful title?" His gaze was alighting on Prince Perwiz, trailing behind her as some shadow of love and devotion. "Come forward, my invisible Prince." He commanded suddenly. "Since your mamma is the Mistress of Beauty, are you the Prince of Peace, in Burhanpur, I mean?"

  "Yes, Your Majesty." Was Prince Perwiz's laconic response.

  Prince Perwiz was saved of a royal inquisition by the fortunate intervention of Malika Jahan. She had come upon this royal circle like the breath of perfumed air, her eyes shining with mirth, and her lavender gown evoking more attention than her beauty.

  "I don't need a title, Your Majesty. I am the Lady of the World, as my name itself proclaims." Malika Jahan sang happily. She was forgetting, why she had bounded into this circle with such tumultuous glee. "Oh, yes, the Lady of the World has to know each word and each detail in that letter, Your Majesty." Her eyes were sparkling with mirth.

  "Yes, that letter is getting lost in this melee of titles, Your Majesty." One loud chorus was rippling forth from the lips of the other wives. Amongst them, the voices of Nurunnisa, Khairunnisa and Salihah Banu more urgent and demanding.

  "How fortunate for you, Your Majesty! You can keep the contents of the letter sealed, while we chant and sue for titles." Karamasi Begum’s sing-song voice was rising above the crescendo of appeals. She was hugging her daughter, Princess Bihar Banu, who was seated not far from her husband, Prince Tahmuras. In the background, Prince Jahandar and Prince Shahryar could be heard laughing.

  "Your sweet rebellion has plunged the emperor into a pit of quandary, my Nur." Jahangir chided. "How is he going to construct this missive in his head now?" He was succeeding in eliciting a frown amidst the star-dance of mirth in her eyes.

  "You better breathe life into that missive, Your Majesty, before the insurrection really begins." Nur Jahan sank into the golden depths of her couch laughingly.

  "Shah Jahan, the instigator of this clamor, stands witness to my greetings to King James." Jahangir flashed his son a mirthful rebuke. "Since he is the chief rebel, he would have to recite that when the leisure permits him." His rebuke was unnoticed by Shah Jahan, who had installed himself at the feet of his adored wife, Arjumand Banu.

  Shah Jahan was arrested in a world of his own, oblivious to everyone and everything with the exception of his beloved. He was gazing into the dark eyes of his wife, as if worshipping a goddess. Oblivious even of his two royal children who had bounced right into his lap, now snuggled blissfully. His one arm was cradling his two year old daughter, Princess Jahanara, and the other stroking absently the head of his one year old son, Prince Dara Shikoh. Behind them, their royal ayah could be seen dozing off with the newly-born prince, Prince Shah Shuja in her lap. But Jahangir's gaze was riveted to the rapt expression on his son's face. So tender and sublime it was that he was awed by the purity of his son's love for his wife. Tearing his gaze away, he was returning his attention to the circle of his own wives, his look dreamy and profound.

  "Where to begin?" Jahangir waved his arms helplessly. "Ah, yes, it is coming to me in rags royal and bleating." His heart was melting by the warmth of eagerness in the eyes of his wives. "Make of it what you may and leave the rest to your sweet imaginations, my sweets. King James must be sneezing his heart out to be remembered by so many royal ladies all at once." He paused before reciting his missive in bits and shreds. “The letter of love and friendship which you sent and the presents, tokens of your good affection toward me, I have received by the hands of your ambassador, Sir Thomas Roe. He well deserves to be your trusted servant. I have given my general command to all the ports and kingdoms of my dominions to receive merchants of the English nation as my friends and subjects. So that, in what place whatsoever they choose to live, they may have reception and residence to their own satisfaction, concerning safety and comfort. And what goods whatsoever they desire to buy or sell, they may have free liberty without any restraint." He closed his eyes, as if trying to remember more.

>   "What goods whatsoever, Your Majesty?" Mariam-uz-Zamani broke her silence. "The English goods are not worth trading, Your Majesty. How could you sanction such a privilege? Have you forgotten the gilded mirrors? They arrived here unglued and unpolished. Falling to pieces in the very process of unpacking?"

  "And the leather cases, Your Majesty!" Shah Jahan was awakening to join his grandmother and to voice his opposition against this trade treaty. "All shipments gathering mold outside, and decaying from within.”

  "And the rings of most atrocious quality and design, Your Majesty." Asmat Begum could not help joining in this tirade.

  "And cheap velvet, Your Majesty!" Asaf Khan too was leaping into this arena of protests with the bravado of a soldier.

  "And the English coach with brass nails, Your Majesty." Itmadudaula Khan was the next one to jump into this sea of discontent.

  "Not to mention the Mercator's map, which depicted India as the smallest of the continents, Your Majesty." Nur Jahan was not to be left behind.

  Jahangir was absorbing all with an air of self-pity and self-resignation. A thin smile was curling on his lips, and his gaze sweeping from one to the other dreamily and indulgently. The serenity in his gaze and thoughts was reaching out to his daughter, Princess Bihar Banu, who stood by the latticework window, whispering to her husband, Prince Tahmuras. Princess Sultanunnisa was standing close by, her own gaze wandering. This eldest daughter of the emperor, the sister of Prince Khusrau, was pressing her niece, Princess Jahanara, to her breast. Balaqi, her darling nephew as being the son of Prince Khusrau, was watching her under some spell of mute adoration. The smile on the emperor's lips was fading, his own gaze now in wild pursuit to find Prince Khusrau. His heart was aching and throbbing, all of a sudden. Longing for one glimpse of his unfortunate son. His gaze was returning to the ocean of his sweet rebels. No pain surfacing in his eyes, but the warmth of mockery and indulgence.

  "This is the night of sweet forgetfulness! How you all sweetly forget, especially, my sweet Mamma?" Jahangir's tone was a ripple of half rebuke, half regret. "The ladies of my harem, their love for table knives, ostrich plumes, cloth of gold, just to name a few? All these we import from England, why? Simply, to sweeten the wants with precious needs nurtured by the royal ladies. And England, craving our own goods with the greed of a lion's share?"

  "And the lamb of the lion, Thomas Roe! Would he stay in Hind forever, Your Majesty?" Mariam-uz-Zamani shot her disapproval.

  "It is insignificant to the emperor whether he stays or leaves, dear Mamma." Jahangir murmured patiently. "Though, he is leaving!"

  "I have a feeling, Your Majesty, he would be following you to Gujrat where you plan to hunt." Shah Jahan predicted prophetically.

  "And if he plays his viol before you, Your Majesty, you would be inviting him to Kashmir where we journey next." Nur Jahan teased brightly.

  "My sweet rebel and my sweet tormentor." Jahangir flashed a warm challenge at her. "You will yet hear to—" He paused, noticing a coterie of servants carrying silver trays laden with fresh fruits. "Ah, the most precious of birthday gifts and the most delicious too, the emperor can predict." His eyes were lit up with joy at the sudden remembrance of these gifts promised to him at the dinner table. "These rare gems from lands far and undefiled by greed." His very gaze was tasting these fruits and the lips of the beloved lands. "The celebrated melons from Karez and Badakhshan." His eyes were following each tray, as it was being lowered on the table with a cloth of gold. "Grapes from Kabul and Samarkand. The sweet pomegranates from Yazd and Farrah. Pears from Samarkand and Badakhshan. Apples from Kabul and Kashmir. Pineapples from Cambay." He was watching the servants retrace their steps, catching sight of Shah Jahan on the way. The Prince in return was watching his step-sister, Princess Sultanunnisa. A familiar ache was uncurling its lips in Jahangir's heart once again, and his own lips were voicing its sudden violence. "Shah Jahan, where is Prince Khusrau?"

  "My wise brother, Your Majesty, didn't wish to sadden you with his state of melancholy on this auspicious day of your birthday." Was Shah Jahan's suave, yet flustered response. "He is languishing in his own apartments with his beloved wife." He added winsomely, as if awakening from a shock by this abrupt query.

  "And yet, the emperor is sad." Jahangir murmured to himself. He was heaving himself up slowly and ponderously. "Come, Nur, delight the emperor with tales wild from Gujrat and Kashmir since you have gathered much from books and dreams, all ethereal, all phantasmagoric." He assisted Nur Jahan to her feet. He was turning his back on all, seeking the polished rungs of the staircase, winding up toward the royal bedrooms.

  Inside the vast bedroom with Persian carpets and gilded paintings, Jahangir stood pondering with his back toward Nur Jahan. He had just picked a copy of Hafiz's diwan from his desk, and was holding it wistfully. Turning suddenly, he held out this book of poetry to Nur Jahan, as if offering her the world.

  "My own birthday gift from the emperor to you for your love for the tormented child in him." Jahangir's eyes were lit up with love and sadness.

  "Your Majesty!" Nur Jahan was overwhelmed. Claiming the book, and hugging it to her breast in mute reverence.

  She was in a daze. Receiving such a gift from the emperor was like possessing the kingdoms. For once in her life, words failed her. Her very thoughts were bereft of speech even in her head where they stood lurching and swooning. The sapphire stars in her eyes were gathering a mist of tears. Her white face with the touch of ivory was glowing, turning luminescent. The bluest of blue silks gathered at her waist in a jeweled sash had planted her there in the semblance of a marble figurine who would outlive the ravages of time, eternally young, eternally beautiful.

  "You love poetry, the light of my soul." Jahangir was smiling into the eyes of his own cruel past where Anarkali was much like Nur Jahan. He had parted from her once and forever with the sparkle of dewdrops in her eyes as tears, the emperor was blinking away this vision. "You are the emperor's love poem, so the emperor presents you a wealth in poetry, instead of riches in gold and jewels." His heart was thundering to absorb Anarkali and Nur Jahan into the very oceans of his numb, chilling soul.

  "Such riches as gold and jewels are not coveted by Nur Jahan, Your Majesty." Nur Jahan could barely murmur. "And yet, such riches too have made my dreams flower into gardens and rest-houses." She smiled through the mists of her tears. "Shaddara garden in Lahore, for one. Nur Sarai and another one in Patna—" Her sweet reminiscences were silenced by a sudden shower of kisses from the lips of the emperor.

  "Your dreams, my Nur, would flower eternally into the gardens of Kashmir when we go there—" Jahangir was kissing her under some spell of hunger and violence.

  The emperor was crushing Nur Jahan to him, hurting her lips, yet holding Anarkali tenderly into the ravished folds of his soul. He appeared to be draining the beauty of both his loves inside the chalice of his parched, hungry kisses. His heart was swollen like the river of pain and turbulence. Longing to find his love inside some abyss profound and bottomless. Clinging to the beauty of this terrible love, who was his torment and beloved both. The large, canopied bed before his sight was rising like the tomb of Anarkali. A sacred tomb, which he must defile by the raging lust in his loins and inside the vaults of his psyche.

  7

  Valleys of Kashmir

  The fragrant valley of Kashmir was welcoming the royal guests, as Jahangir and Nur Jahan rode side-by-side in utmost luxury, which the Moghul pomp and splendor could boast and provide. Ahead of the royal couple was a procession of the Kashmiri girls with flowers in their hair. They were singing and dancing in wild abandon to the nature's own rhythm. Nur Jahan had chosen to ride an Arabian steed with a white mane, while the emperor was riding his favorite piebald with patches of black. Their caparisoned horses with red velvet saddles were as royally decked as the royal couple splashed with colors in silks and jewels. Nur Jahan's blue silks were strewn with diamonds. The large amethyst in Jahangir's turban was spilling its own dazzling colors.

/>   This pine-valley itself was adorned with beautiful vistas to complement the royal couple with its abundance of color and wealth. The wild flowers in thick clusters were a colorful tapestry, filling the air with their scent and scenic splendor. Nur Jahan was awed by the vibrant colors, cherishing each bloom as if they were some jewels in the royal treasuries than silken wonders inside the hearts of these pine-valleys. Peace and serenity were all around them, she was thinking, but their hearts were tainted with the sorrows of the past and with apprehensions for the future. Nur Jahan, blessed with the spirit of joy and vivacity, could forget all with the exception of Anarkali's demon inside the emperor's heart, and of his health on a verge of collapse. And the emperor could remember nothing, but the shadows of death arrested somewhere between the bubbles of time where recent past could not be torn away form the years long departed. Four years with the glare of joys and tragedies had hissed past since Prince Shah Jahan's return from Deccan. And now the emperor himself was caught amidst the whirlwind of his own ailments and recoveries.

  The emperor's birthday celebrations had ended with his excesses in drinking and feasting. He was still celebrating the valor and victory of Shah Jahan, the emperor was always trying to convince the empress and his other wives when under the assault of the temptations to drink excessively on the verge of oblivion. Oblivion didn't come to him easy though. He could imbibe wine by the flagons for weeks and months, before it could obey the commands of his drunken stupor. Against his whims and temptations, he had interludes of light-hearted gaiety when he would be visited by a false sense of euphoria and buoyancy. The same sense of euphoria and buoyancy had been his companion when he had moved his court to Ahmadabad, the capital of Gujrat. Here, he was greeted with the news that Prince Shah Jahan was blessed with a daughter whom he had named, Roshanara. And then he had plunged himself headlong into hunting excursions, spruced with wine parties in the evenings. Fatigue from hunting, and drunkenness, were taking their toll on his body, and within a few weeks of his stay at Ahmadabad, he had become the victim of asthma. Nur Jahan, guided by the royal physicians, had pleaded with the emperor to cut down on his drinking. Making a slow and steady progress in her endeavor, more so by her wit and wisdom than by her pleas followed by restrictions! For almost a year, Jahangir's health was balanced on the scale of asthma attacks and recoveries, but he had not fully recovered. Within that year, as the emperor had moved to Gujrat, he had heard about the death of Man Singh.