The Moghul Hedonist

by Farzana Moon

  "This greatness must be named love, if not aberration." Jahangir ruminated intensely. "And yet, it is neither sacrifice, nor immolation on the part of that woman who took her life, but sheer devotion. Her son was addicted to opium, and she was used to feed him with her own hands. When her son died at the age of sixty, she took large quantities of opium herself and ended her life."

  "Love, devotion, sacrifice, and many more, much noble passions breed inside the hearts of women, Your Majesty, but not in men's." Nur Jahan smiled to herself. "Would any husband think of killing himself after the death of his wife?"

  "A lover, perhaps? And the emperor for sure, if you were ever snatched away from him by the cruel hands of fate." Jahangir laughed. "Do you remember Kalyan who tempted the fates? That life-immolating lover who gave up his life with joy and regarded death as a trifle." Laughter was fading from his eyes.

  "How can I forget, Your Majesty?" Nur Jahan chanted rather doubtfully.

  "You sound unconvincing, Nur. If you remember, refresh the emperor's memory?" Jahangir challenged, his gaze flying to the tapestry of colors in his garden.

  "Oh, that blacksmith, Your Majesty." Nur Jahan's memory was clearing the fogs of doubts. "Yes, that Kalyan who was in love with a widow. Boasting that he would fling himself down from the balcony of Shahburj, if the widow would consent to marry him. When brought before you, Your Majesty, you had promised him that you yourself would convince that widow to marry him if he was brave enough to jump down from the window of your palace? How literally, he accepted your challenge, and died of head injuries?" Her gaze was following the Carnatic jugglers coming into view.

  "It was sad, passing sad! Catching the emperor's jest as an ill-fated command?" Jahangir intoned sadly. "The emperor must present his gifts to the bride and the bridegroom before this day is drowned into its own waters of mirth and gaiety."

  The emperor and the empress were caught amidst a throng of merry guests. Exchanging amenities and felicitations, and drifting closer toward the garlanded stage. Mutamid Khan had joined the royal couple, carrying the gifts intended for the bride and the bridegroom. Prince Shahryar and Princess Ladli seated under the canopy of gold, were already surrounded by heaps of gifts from the guests. To these were added the emperor's gifts bestowed upon his son and daughter-in-law by his own royal hands. A chest of jewels and a set of exquisite paintings were presented to the bride. The bridegroom had received a jeweled coat with a matching turban and cummerbund. In addition, he had received two gold saddles, one for the Iraqi horse, and the other for the Turkish steed. Both these horses were from the emperor's royal stables.

  The emperor was showering gold and silver coins over the heads of the bridal couple as the final ritual to bless this wedlock. Saida, the poet and goldsmith, favored both by the emperor and Prince Shah Jahan, had begun to sing a panegyric verse.

  "O thou, of whose threshold the nine spheres are an exemplar

  Aged Time hath grown young in thy reign

  Thy heart is bounteous as the Sun, and like it needs no cause for bounty

  All lives are devoted to thy gracious heart

  Heaven is but a bright orange from the garden of Power

  Tossed by the gardener into the atmosphere

  O God, Thy essence has shown from eternity

  The souls of all the saints receive light from Thee

  O King, may the world ever be at thy beck

  May thy Shah Jahan ever rejoice in thy shade

  O Shadow of God, may the world be filled with thy light

  May the Light of God ever be thy canopy."

  Saida's voice was trilling after the emperor as he scattered his last handful of gold and silver coins. Nur Jahan was right beside the emperor, her eyes gleaming with joy and pride. The emperor's other wives had joined too, a mist of happy tears clouding their eyes. A few were roasting in flames of jealousy though, amongst them, Nurunnisa, Khairunnisa, Salihah Banu, Malika Jahan and Sahiba Jamali. Jahangir's own eyes were shining, but with the light of premonition. His heart had begun to thunder suddenly. Some sort of cosmic violence was brewing inside his breast as if all the furies of hell were let loose. He had not ever experienced such violence before, not even inside the anguished deeps of his soul, and he staggered. Before he could arrest this rising storm inside his body and mind, his attention was caught by Banarasi. Actually, this express runner, Banarasi, was attracting attention from all by the sheer desperation of his haste to reach the emperor. He was like a gust of wind, carrying woe and despair into his eyes.

  "What hideous demon of madness is pressing you to corrupt the joy of these wedding celebrations?" Jahangir demanded as Banarasi fell prostrate at his feet.

  "Your Majesty." Banarasi gasped for words, but could not speak. He heaved himself up, but was shrinking with terror by the flashing of rage in the emperor's eyes.

  "Untie this knot of delay, o crumbling wretch, and answer the emperor." Jahangir thundered, as if trying to banish thundering inside his own heart.

  "Your Majesty—Prince Shah Jahan, a letter from him. Prince Khusrau died of colic." Banarasi murmured incoherently. Standing there dazed and stultified.

  "From the valleys of ruin to the—" Jahangir's voice was one distant murmur of a thunder. His soul was listening to the drums of death, which were sounding the beat of treachery than the trumpets of misfortunes. "My son, my first-born son! A traveler on the road to non-existence." He was drifting away, dazed and stricken.

  The emperor was journeying on the road to silence, chased by grief and despair. Rocked by waves upon waves of agony, he knew not wither he journeyed, or when the walls of his own palace came tumbling down to lull his pain into a blanket of hush, stark and funereal. The wedding songs themselves were some mournful tunes, following him at his heels. Nur Jahan was beside him, the other wives frozen somewhere on the canvas of time.

  "Your Majesty, the face of death is not alien to you. You have seen it many times before. Have repelled it with strength and courage! Don't let this grief overwhelm you now, for the sake of the ones whom you love and who still live?" Nur Jahan pleaded.

  "Tablets of death are swimming before my sight, Nur. And the emperor can read murder on the very rags of deceit and treachery." Jahangir murmured. The bright and glazed look in his eyes keeping the flood of agony inside him chilled and forsaken.

  "Your Majesty!" Nur Jahan could barely suppress an exclamation. "Do you then, Your Majesty, suspect Prince Shah Jahan of—" Her thoughts were choked by this sudden assault of pain and elation. The pain was for the grief of the emperor. And elation, at the sudden prospect of winning the coveted throne of Hind for Prince Shahryar. She was becoming aware of her elation and shuddering inside. Her beloved Ladli would be the next empress of Hind, she could taste the poison of ambition within her thoughts, her soul whimpering inside throes of agony. Suddenly, the emperor's pallor was etched before her like a mask of death, and her heart was breaking under the weight of grief and shame.

  "Yes, Prince Shah Jahan, my Nur, if you already didn't know, is becoming the victim of his own barbaric corruption." Jahangir murmured tonelessly. "Baidaulat.” His lips uncurled to spew out the ill-fated curse. Baidaulat, meaning, fallen from grace. "He has killed his brother—the Cain of the Moghuls." He was storming through the palace doors as if possessed by rage and madness.

  "This sudden shock, Your Majesty. This grief cannot be mitigated by laying blame on someone, Prince Shah Jahan couldn't—" Nur Jahan strove to appease the grieving emperor.

  “How often did you warn me about Baidaulat, Nur?” Jahangir's pallor was replaced by a sudden flush, as he ordered a flagon of wine to be brought to his chamber.

  11

  Beautiful Kashmir Again

  The spring cremated inside the bowers of summer, was now chilled into the grave of winter. Still Jahangir's grief had found no balm of healing or consolation. The wine squeezed from wounds within had corrupted his health more than the wine from the gold flagons. Even Nur Jahan had despaired. Her wit and pleas wer
e of no avail, sullied by the power of denial to grief by the emperor, and by his need for oblivion. When her despair was at its culmination, her own mother had passed away, leaving her grief-stricken and disconsolate. So deep and profound was her grief after the death of her mother, that even the inebriated emperor could not help but notice the canyons of sorrow in her beautiful eyes. This great tragedy had become Nur Jahan's great boon from the mysterious bounties of God's own mercy and benevolence. Swirling the emperor back from the sea of drunkenness to the shore of sobriety. This one reed of sobriety which she was incapable of winning with her wit and pleas was now bending toward her to console and to be consoled. She herself was like a reed, not even knowing that her grief had reduced her to such extremity. This knowledge had come to her when she had found herself clinging to this boon with all the purity of her former innocence in living, loving, hoping. Almost scraping the balm of healing from the canker of the emperor's love bruised and love incomprehensible. Alas, her pure, undying love for the emperor had failed to crucify even one wound inside the bleeding ocean of his own heart and soul.

  The emperor was ailing, and was pretending to climb the rungs of health. Sober and ill fitted to carry the burden of love, Jahangir was to taste the bitter, bitter potions of more betrayals and tragedies. He had tried to exile his bitterness against Prince Shah Jahan in an effort to convince himself that his son was guiltless, but had not succeeded.

  Prince Khusrau, it was believed, was murdered by the orders of Prince Shah Jahan. Though, Prince Shah Jahan, at the time of his brother's murder, was on a hunting expedition in Burhanpur. Several canards were afloat, contradicting one story with another plausible one. But the popular story was that Raza Bahadur had entered Prince Khusrau's chamber late one night, and had strangled the Prince. Prince Khusrau's bedcovers had been arranged in such a fashion as to portray that he had died a natural death. The morning after this murder, Prince Khusrau's wife had found her husband cold and dead in his bed. Her cries and laments had awakened the servants and the palace guards. A couple of messengers were dispatched hastily to inform Prince Shah Jahan who had gone hunting in Burhanpur. Prince Shah Jahan had returned immediately, and had confirmed his brother's death. Sending a letter to the emperor with several seals from his viziers who could serve as witnesses that the Prince had died a natural death.

  Jahangir had swallowed each story in some stupor of grief. The cankerous rage inside him had remained unappeased, though he had drugged his senses with the rivers of wine. Nur Jahan had become his bride of delusion. Anarkali was his beloved dream inside the silence of his oblivion. After Asmat Begum's death, Nur Jahan's own grief had jolted him out of his oblivion. He had found himself staggering toward her in some sort of hope and delirium. Gathering warmth and strength from the fire of her grief, which his own cold torment had denied him so fiercely. The death of Asmat Begum had served the emperor as an antidote to his own grief. But the same death had become an everlasting draught of grief to Itmadudaula Khan. The grieving husband was plunged deep into the ocean of misery and disconsolation. His despair was so alive and palpitating that no shock, not even a miracle, boding fortunes or misfortunes, could wrench him out of his grief. While the emperor was awakened to the pain in living, Itmadudaula Khan was lowered into the pit of despair and darkness.

  Darkness had become Jahangir's portion too, before the light of his awareness. Prince Shah Jahan was rumored to be plotting treason, if not defying the emperor's orders most craftily and deceitfully. Feigning ignorance to all charges, and sending a siege of letters with honeyed protestations. Shah Abbas of Persia, taking advantage of such unfortunate events in the imperial household was heard gathering his forces at the borders of Kandahar. Prince Shahryar, the newly-wedded bridegroom, lacking skills in warfare, was unfit to be sent on an expedition to defend Kandahar. Prince Perwiz, the victim of his own moods and drunkenness, was no worthy candidate to lead an army against the great forces of Shah Abbas. Itmadudaula Khan, mentally and physically rendered weak by grief and despair, was incapable of offering any sound council to the emperor in saving Kandahar from the conquest of Persia. Nur Jahan, recently wading out of the mire of grief, was freshly caught into the currents of alarm by her father's failing health. Stricken by the blows of evil fates, the empress had ceased to be the emperor's advisor.

  Jahangir himself had sought no advice in matters small or great, from his beloved, amidst this sea of grief and tragedy. Postponing his decisions till he could recover his equanimity amidst the pine-valleys in Kashmir. This was the only decision Jahangir was prompt to put into practice by ordering preparations for this journey. He was hoping to revive his strength and the spirits of his household before embarking on any lengthy campaigns. One small campaign was on the way to Kashmir though, which could not be avoided. Jahangir had sent forces ahead to conquer the fort of Kangra, where the rebellions were rampant.

  This very evening, the imperial cavalcade was to leave Agra toward the fragrant valleys of Kashmir. Jahangir was seated at his rosewood desk, filling his journal with entries bleak and laborious. Many a rueful months had elapsed since Prince Khusrau's death, and the emperor had not had a chance to refresh his journal. Now his pen was shaping memories no more rife or conflicting, but buried deep into seasons under the clods of earth. Prince Shah Jahan, in his presumptuous haste, had buried Prince Khusrau in his palace garden at Burhanpur. Then the emperor had ordered Prince Khusrau's body to be exhumed and sent to Agra. Here, he was buried close to his mother in the garden of Allahabad. Jahangir had further ordered a complete renovation of the garden, where marble terraces were to be built flanked by a variety of mango trees. The emperor had named this garden, Khuldabad. It was enclosed by a wall in red sandstone with four gothic gateways, matching the facade of the fort at Allahabad.

  The tomb of Prince Khusrau was richly carved, with a large dome painted in gold from within. Fair arches and galleries were to embellish the tomb in a shrine-like magnificence. A frescoed summer house was erected close to it, with a deep well to quench the thirsts of the visitors, and boasting one hundred and twenty steps. Prince Shah Jahan was ordered to send the widow of the late Prince and their son Balaqi to the palace at Lahore.

  Such chilling misfortunes with vain consolations for the bereaved and the bereaving were melting in bold strokes from the jeweled pen of Jahangir, his journal dark and glowering. His thoughts were unwilling to carry the burdens of glaciers in time and memories. Donned in citron silks with a large opal in his turban, his pallor was deep and luminous. His features were not gaunt, but bloated. They were rather swollen as if the ravages of grief, neglect and drunkenness had made a permanent abode in the sinews of his body and soul. Anarkali was landing on his awareness with the swiftness of a wildfire. The glaciers in his mind were melting, but he was becoming more aware of his living beloved than the one risen afresh from the cold tomb of his past.

  Nur Jahan was lounging on a velvety couch from where she could see the emperor's back and the great paintings on the damasked walls. She was immersed in reading Bostan and Gulistan simultaneously, as if trying to follow the thoughts of the Persian bard, Shaikh Saadi. But her thoughts were blazing. Rather smoldering in the cinders of hope and hopelessness. She had picked the book of Ramayana to start with, and then had switched to Mahabharata without knowing her haste or indecision. The next book to attract her attention was Nal Daman by Faizi, which was slipped back to its shelf most gently. Then she had discovered a brief repose in the tales of the Arabian Nights. Now Gulistan was her lone companion, while the emperor was laboring through the task of recording a plethora of events in his journal.

  Nur Jahan's thoughts were getting restless again. Fluttering aimlessly, and exchanging secrets with his ailing father. Then bouncing down the valleys in Kashmir for hope and sustenance. Drinking perfume from the gardens where life and health was bestowed on all indiscriminately, regardless of their sorrows or misfortunes! Her gaze was straying from the book on her lap, and searching paintings on the damasked w
alls. The portraits in gilded frames were staring back at her, and mocking her intense scrutiny. The court ladies at their toilette painted in bright colors were revealing some subtle spark of life, as if they would leap to their feet at the slightest commands from their lords or husbands. The English damsels fanning away their lovers under the bower of roses appeared more congenial to stay in their gilded frames. Nur Jahan's gaze was wandering again. She was looking into the blue, orange hearts of the flames under the hearth. The blaze of intensity in her eyes was shifting to the back of the emperor, as if lending him the warmth of her own love and hope. Before she could think of any excuse to break the emperor's concentration, he himself was turning abruptly.

  "This task of writing is too burdensome for the emperor." Jahangir pushed his chair back and sprang to his feet. "I should make Mutamid Khan the master of this royal labor, all this editing and recording? He would prove to be a better scribe than the emperor." He stood by the hearth, warming his hands absently.

  "If he stays honest, he will not become the author of lies, Your Majesty." The night-blue in Nur Jahan's eyes was revealing its own volumes of trials and tribulations.

  She was watching the emperor's hands with utmost fascination. The flames crackling under the hearth were spraying gold on his white palms, and lending them the glow of sunsets. Jahangir's attention was shifted to the Persian carpet under his feet, where its pattern of rosettes appeared to shudder against the shafts of sunlight. The cold, cold shafts of December chill were settling into his heart, as he lifted his gaze to meet Nur Jahan's. He could see the dance of ice and fire in her eyes.

  "You yourself are one great patron, for the authors of lies, my Empress." Jahangir commented, reading volumes from her beautiful eyes.

  "If you are alluding to Prince Shah Jahan, then cast your worries away, Your Majesty. He is much too smart to cloak his weaknesses in the shroud of lies." Nur Jahan chose to defend the Prince whose downfall she could not help but plot.