The Moghul Hedonist

by Farzana Moon

  "How much did it cost you, my Nur, to have this great monument erected in such a short time?" Jahangir asked capriciously.

  "As much as that, Your Majesty." Nur Jahan pointed at her shoes in red velvet, studded with cluster of rubies and diamonds.

  "If my court ulemas heard your response, my beloved, they would be horrified." Jahangir smiled. "For sullying the name of this mosque, they would say? For, mentioning your precious shoes in connection with the mosque is an act of heresy itself, in their estimation?" His eyes were gathering mists of gloom and sadness.

  "The ghosts of the dead are with you once again, Your Majesty." Nur Jahan commented. "Sadness weighs heavy on you. Especially, today! I was wrong in assuming that the beauty of Kashmir has melted away all your sorrows. Is it so very difficult to caste away the burden of grief? Come, Your Majesty, let us pray in this mosque. To pray for the peace of the dead souls, and for the peace in your heart."

  "Pray for Man Singh first, I presume." Jahangir laughed suddenly. "Prayers for my old uncle! That doting imbecile, who probably took poison and surrendered his soul to the lords of hell!" He declared, no mirth shining in his eyes.

  "Your Majesty!" Nur Jahan exclaimed. "Now, that smoldering remark, Your Majesty, if I may be as bold as to say, reeks of bigotry. The entire Moghul court would be scandalized, if they heard such a remark from the emperor?"

  "Scandal and tragedy have become worthy portions of pain in emperor's life, my Nur." Was Jahangir's heedless response.

  "You keep your griefs and tragedies of the past locked inside your soul, Your Majesty, as some precious gifts, not to be shared or abandoned." Nur Jahan sang with a dint of irony. "Pray, Your Majesty, absolve the grief for your son, with kind thoughts and sweet remembrances. This burden is too heavy for your delicate constitution. Your health, Your Majesty, how I pray and suffer."

  "If Prince Jahandar was your son, my lovely Nur, you would have wept all the way from Agra to Kashmir, without ever relinquishing your grief." Was Jahangir's thoughtless response.

  "And if I had more sons like Prince Perwiz, Prince Shahryar and Prince Shah Jahan, I would have kneeled before God in utter gratitude. Thanking Him for His mercy for the health of the other three. Everything belongs to God, His to give, and His to take, if we can only mold our wills to surrender to one Supreme Will?" Nur Jahan’s eyes were flashing mirth and profundities.

  "Prince Shahryar is going to be your own son, my love, since he is to be betrothed to Princess Ladli. And pray, my sweet, that he stays in good health." Jahangir began with a dint of cheerfulness. "You are right once again, love. Let us forget about our grief, and fly to our beloved gardens to drink deep of health and beauty." He urged his horse to fly.

  The fanciful flight in Jahangir's thoughts itself, was leading him down into the valleys cool and slumbering. Nur Jahan riding behind him was merely letting her steed guide and follow. The grand vistas in splendid contours were rising and dipping before their eyes in a splash of colors as they rode down the paths, dreamy and meandering. Jahangir, with the enthusiasm of a tour-guide was pointing out various sites to Nur Jahan. It was her first visit to Kashmir, and she had already turned quite a few of the pine-valleys into garden-retreats during her brief stay of more than half a year. Jahangir had bestowed upon her the palace of Hari Parbat at Dal Lake, as soon as they had reached Kashmir. This palace was built by Akbar during his frequent visits to Kashmir. But after his death, it was left in sore neglect. Its gardens wild and unkempt were a living testimony of utter neglect, though the faded splendor of the past was still intact behind the palace walls. But under Nur Jahan's guidance, the entire palace had emerged forth like a polished jewel. Its gardens were restored to their original beauty in design and neatness. Its lakes boasting lotuses and its fountains flanked by colorful flowers.

  The empress had paid thirty thousand rupees to an architect by the name of Haider Malik to discipline Dal Lake into some semblance of order and conformity. Haider Malik, with his skill and devotion, had managed to carve a canal from the very mouth of Lar Valley into the heart of this garden to nurture lawns and flowers. The wealth of the empress and the dedication of Haider Malik had wrought wonders in this much neglected garden of Dal Lake. The flowers had sprouted forth so quickly and in such abundance that even the old gardeners were awed and surprised. Jahangir was so delighted by Nur Jahan's artful restoration of this garden that he had named it, Nur Afza. Not only had he named this garden after the name of his beloved empress, but the whole village. Changing the name of Chardara Valley to Nurpur.

  The Chardara Valley, now Nurpur, was welcoming the royal riders with the joy of a dream beautiful and awesome. The Dal Lake with its clear, blue waters was mirroring Chenars and willows. Hari Parbat in the distance was a gleaming enormity, rising above the majestic heights of the planes and cypresses. The sun in the west was lowering its ribbons of gold on the orchards on each side of the garden. The cherry, guava, apricot and pomegranate trees were motionless against the hush of the falling dusk. A small bridge over the meads and cascades was coming into view as the emperor and the empress rode along, awed and humbled. The apple and orange trees down yonder were just a rippling silhouette. Their eyes were turning to the colorful tapestry in flowers, and absorbing the glory of nature all around with a sense of wonder and humility.

  The roses in hues pink, yellow and crimson were as big as the sun disks. French marigolds were an ocean of sunshine. Irises, lilies and tulips were gathering sunshine in their own colorful goblets, large and luminous. The soft breeze itself was humming the tunes of the wind-chimes, lulling the Crocuses and narcissi to sleep. Lilac, dahlia and jasmine appeared to be swooning in their own jars of color and fragrance. Nur Jahan was inhaling the scent of pine and lavender from the very womb of earth, while Jahangir astride his mount appeared to be drinking wine from the cups of beauty in nature.

  "You have done wonders with this garden, the pearl of my harem." The dreamy languor in Jahangir's gaze was spilling compliments. "I would order our court painter, Mansur, to paint each bloom, each scene, if possible."

  "And you, Your Majesty, said you preferred Damascus roses over the Indian, scented ones." Nur Jahan laughed with the sheer abandon of a young girl.

  "Damascus roses are excellent, my love, silken and sweet-scented! Yet, one is entitled to prefer the scents of Indian roses over those of the other scented ones, and the emperor has the prerogative to shift his preferences." Jahangir laughed, watching one hoopoe sailing up and swooping down under the shade of the willows.

  "If I had my gun with me, Your Majesty, I would have shot that bird." One ripple of mirth escaped Nur Jahan's lips.

  "No shooting in this valley of love and enchantment, my love." Jahangir chided tenderly. "In Ajmer, you have had your fill of shooting the birds. Remember the one which weighed two hundred grams. And the like of it in size, color and beauty has never been seen before or after. What did I name it, yes, Qrisha." He reminisced fondly.

  "Who can remember shooting the birds, when one can boast of being a tiger-slayer, Your Majesty? Hope, you have not forgotten." Nur Jahan chanted happily.

  "How can I, love?" Jahangir boomed quickly. "When court poets pen verses in praise of the empress and neglect the emperor altogether!"

  "You are jealous, Your Majesty." Nur Jahan teased. "Could we rest here, Your Majesty, and explore more charming wonders of this garden?" She murmured.

  "No, my love." Jahangir murmured back. "The emperor's jealous heart yearns for the garden of Verang. Our lone retreat of bliss and solitude! Where streams gurgle with the promise of love, and where nightingales serenade the buds of roses yet to be awakened to the sense of their beauty." He raced ahead.

  "Your Majesty, how I wish I had gardens like these in all the cities of Hind. Especially in Agra and Delhi." Nur Jahan spurred her own horse.

  "In Agra, you do have gardens vast and magnificent, my Nur." Jahangir commented merrily. "Nur Afshan, Nur Manzil, Moti bagh. You do need a few in Delhi and Lahore, though." He
opined aloud.

  "Not in Lahore, Your Majesty! Not in Lahore." Was Nur Jahan's passionate response on a verge of poetic delirium. "We have purchased Lahore with our soul. We have given our life and bought another paradise."

  "Your poetry, my Nur, gathers the moss of politics." Jahangir commented.

  "When I pass through this garden with such beauty and perfection, a cry blessed arises from the very souls of the nightingales." Another poetic refrain broke forth on Nur Jahan's lips. "Can't you hear it, Your Majesty?"

  "Be careful, my lovely poetess, your poetry may slay the beauty of Kashmir." Jahangir laughed.

  "Look, Your Majesty, the deer with the silver ring in its nose!" Nur Jahan exclaimed, espying her pet deer in the orchard down below. "The same one who let me bore a hole in his nose and slip the silver ring. It has come from the garden of Verang to greet us here."

  "Yes, the gifts of our love to the lovely beasts of Kashmir." Jahangir guided his horse, leaping over the small bridge. "And now, let us return to our paradisiacal Verang to put gold and silver rings into the noses of our goldfish." His heart was racing along with his mount to reach Verang.

  8

  The Garden of Verang

  The garden of Verang was half open to the sky and half concealed by the mountains. Jahangir and Nur Jahan were seated at the imperial pool, its clear waters catching reflections from the trees overhead in its mirror-like deeps. Nur Jahan had had her legs tucked under her over the Bokhara rug, and was luxuriating in the sense of a carefree abandon. Jahangir was in absolute bliss, his legs dangling knee-deep in the water, and his bare feet tingling with the sense of joy and freedom. Both the emperor and the empress were absorbed in slipping gold and silver rings into the noses of the fish which they had just caught in their gold net. Right below the pool was a terraced garden of most exquisite form and contour. Here, the blue Kashmiri irises were dreamy like the night sky, lolling against the bower of white tuberoses. The jafari flowers in molten clusters were drinking sunshine from the half empty cups of dusk, it seemed. Poppies were crimson as the dark sunsets, and carnations white as the pearly dawns. The graceful poplars over the streams were guarding a grand palace not far beyond. This palace could not be seen from any spot in this secluded garden, not until one had crossed the narrow path edged with planes and cedars.

  Nur Jahan was lowering her golden net into the pool with the wistfulness of a mother who wished to hug her tender babes, not hurt them. Jahangir was securing one silver ring on the gill of a rather big fish, and then releasing it back into its own liquid freedom. His gaze was wandering away to the terraced gardens down below with a savoring intensity. The pale dusk with all its wealth of gold and haze was vivifying the flowers into a rare tapestry not ever to be captured by mortal sight in word and color. Some sort of pain was stabbing his heart, while it knelt in throes of agony before some altar unknown. Silent, reverent. He could hear himself murmuring.

  "It is a page that the painter of destiny has drawn with the pencil of creation." Jahangir was not even aware of his poetic reverie as he looked at Nur Jahan.

  "Our little, beautiful garden has turned the emperor to a poet." Nur Jahan smiled.

  "You hide the stars of poetry in your eyes and in your head, my love, and the charms of your beauty alone have turned the emperor into a toad. Look, how he is perched!" Jahangir declared happily.

  "If a rosebud can be opened by the breeze in the meadow, the key to our hearts' lock is the smile of a beloved." Nur Jahan sang, as if drunk by the wine of poetry in nature.

  "Can a prisoner of beauty ever smile?" Jahangir gazed into her eyes. "I am a prisoner of your beauty, love. And a prisoner to the beauty of these flowers. And of course, to the fragrant nature in this bliss of a paradise."

  "The heart of one held prisoner by beauty sees nothing, no rose, no color, inhaling only the scent of love." Nur Jahan teased. Her white, oval face transfigured with joy.

  "Sightless my eyes then would steal color from my heart, lovely Nur, kneading it into a rose of love to quench the hungers of your soul." Jahangir claimed her hand.

  "My soul knows no hungers, Your Majesty." Nur Jahan protested happily. "It is sated with joy. Content and blissful it is, right now, that is. Little things, little endearments make it dance with pleasure, Your Majesty." She bubbled forth with joy. "The measure of my happiness, Your Majesty, if you must know, is that I have more fish with gold rings in this pool than yours?"

  "How can you tell, love." Jahangir kissed her hand.

  "Because, even under water, I can read my own inscriptions on the gold rings." Nur Jahan's heart was swooning.

  "Is that true, my pearl?" Jahangir looked deep into the mirror-length of the pool. "Yes, I should think. A grain of poppy seed can be seen in the bottom of this pool. And if a pea fell into it, even a bird could see it." His gaze was shooting up to the half open sky, where one sliver of a moon could be seen cutting through poplars like a blade of ice. "The crescent of the feast is apparent at the apex of the celestial sphere." He pulled his feet up from the pool, and sat hugging his knees.

  "The key to the tavern was lost, but is now found." The poetic gleam alone in Nur Jahan's eyes was teasing the emperor.

  "Your poetry alone, my Nur, would drive the emperor insane with desire, if not your beauty." Jahangir pressed her to him in one eager embrace. "Your beauty too, shatters my bliss! Robs me of peace and serenity." He was murmuring against the violence of his kisses hungry and scalding. "And all I wish is to stay in bliss, with you." He was cupping her face into his hands and kissing her small nose. "Yes, to stay in bliss. I can sit here till eternity, talking with you, to be with you! Sharing even the hush and the silence with you? You would get tired, I know, but I would stay in the everlasting spring of joy and bliss," his gaze was returning to the terraced gardens. "I have never seen such exquisite blooms in my entire life! Though, I have been to Kashmir several times. A wondrous miracle wrought by your mind and heart, Nur, how did you do it?"

  "My witchcraft is to blame entirely, Your Majesty." Nur Jahan could barely murmur. Her cheeks flushed and her eyes shining.

  "Besides that, my Nur?" Jahangir's gaze was ardent and dreamy. "The purity and innocence of your heart, perhaps. Yes, such a heart as yours can achieve wonders. These blooms—this time of the evening, are reminding me of a story I heard eons ago."

  "Would you share that story with me, Your Majesty?" Nur Jahan murmured.

  "With such an eager audience, how can the emperor decline?" Jahangir began hastily, lest he forget. "One king after his hunting expedition had straggled into a beautiful garden. Feeling thirsty, he asked the gardener to fetch him pomegranate juice. The gardener went inside and sent his daughter with a glass of juice. Finding the glass covered with leaves, the king asked the girl why she had covered the glass thus. The girl replied that the leaves were there to prevent one from drinking too fast. For when one is thirsty, one tends to drink too fast, and it is not good for anyone's health. The king was impressed by the wisdom of this young girl, and his thoughts were murmuring that he should make her his bride. Meanwhile, the gardener returned, and the king asked him about his income, and about the quality of his fruit trees. Also, how much tax he paid to the diwan. The gardener complied truthfully that he didn't pay anything to the diwan. But he did pay tenth part of his earnings to the state. Further admitting that he earned three hundred dinars a year. While the gardener was talking, the king was thinking to himself that in his dominions there were many such fruit trees, and that if he charged the revenue of a tenth of earnings, he would collect a great deal of money. The king was still thirsty and asked the girl to fetch him another glass of pomegranate juice. This time the girl was long in coming, and brought only half a cup. The king could not help asking about the delay and about the small portion in his cup. The girl replied that the first time one pomegranate was enough to fill the whole cup. But this time she had to squeeze several, and the cup would not fill. The gardener was quick to add that the quality of his fruit was e
ntirely dependent upon the good disposition of the sovereign. The king was astonished to discover truth behind the casual comment of the gardener. Thinking, that he would not levy any taxes on the fruit trees. Immediately, the king requested another cup of pomegranate juice. This time the girl returned quickly with a cup brimming with pomegranate juice. The king was convinced that the produce and abundance of the crops in his kingdom depended entirely on the justice and goodwill of the sovereign. Then the king divulged his thoughts and his identity to the gardener, requesting the hand of his daughter in marriage." He concluded rather sadly.

  "I like such folk tales with happy endings, Your Majesty. Most of them are so very tragic!" Nur Jahan commented brightly. "If one had faith in such stories with such beautiful thoughts, maybe one could walk into the valleys of past, communing with the dead and seeking their blessings for peace in the present." She ruminated aloud.

  "Surely, if one could raise the dead to life, one could commune with the dead in living." Jahangir intoned evasively, his look intense and ponderous.

  "How do you mean, Your Majesty?" Nur Jahan's eyes were lit up with curiosity.

  "To explain that I would have to tell another story." Jahangir murmured.

  "It would be sheer delight! I am your perfect audience, as you know, I love stories." Nur Jahan elicited more interest than she could feel.