The Moghul Hedonist

by Farzana Moon

  "Do you still believe, my Nur, that he did not murder Prince Khusrau?" Jahangir appeared to question his own doubts.

  "What motive did he have—" Nur Jahan left a pause, which was intended to reveal her sense of uncertainty. Her hatred for this proud prince whose ambition she alone well knew, was concealed hermetically inside her heart. "If he had intended murder, he would have not gone hunting? Knowing that he would be the prime suspect if Prince Khusrau died in his absence? Surely, he could have chosen poison—" She left another pause, as if demurring.

  "Only Glorious God knows what secrets are hidden inside the hearts of all! That's what Salim Chishti used to say—the saint, at whose hermitage I was born." Jahangir snatched that pause to voice his own strange course of thoughts. He had begun to pace, thinking aloud to himself. "Once my father asked Salim Chishti if he knew the hour of his own death since he was a saint. The saint, after much thought, replied that when Prince Salim—meaning me, would commit one verse to his memory and would recite before him, that's when he would die. Then my father forbade everyone to teach me any prose or verse. But one lady of the harem, ignorant of the emperor's injunction, taught me a couplet. I was almost two when I visited Salim Chishti with my father. No sooner had my father left to attend to some matters, that I was reciting this couplet to the saint.

  O God, open the rosebud of hope

  Display a flower from the everlasting garden.

  The saint was greatly agitated after hearing this couplet. He requested our court singer to sing sweet songs to him. When my father returned, he took the turban from his head and placed it on mine. Saying: We have made Sultan Salim our successor, and have made him over to God, the protector and preserver. Then he breathed his last. I heard my father exclaiming, that Salim Chishti has attained union with his True Beloved. What strange, mysterious forces work in our heads? I am recalling this, now that I am over fifty?" He stopped near the hearth, his back toward Nur Jahan.

  "You were not the murderer, Your Majesty. God's own mysterious ways and His grace summoning the saint to His presence." Nur Jahan murmured low.

  "Not a murderer, but an accessory to the murder? An innocent child, just the same." Jahangir murmured back. He was stroking the fire to a vigorous blaze. "All the innocence of childhood and youth is gone. Prince Salim is now the emperor Jahangir. Fleeing sorrows and betrayals. Seeking the sanctuary of bliss in Kashmir. Leaving Kandahar to the tyranny of the Persians?"

  "Why not send Prince Shah Jahan on this campaign against the Persians, Your Majesty?" Nur Jahan commented softly.

  "Send Shah Jahan! Send Baidaulat to fight the wicked Persians?" Jahangir whirled around to face her. "He will carve valleys of ruin wherever he goes."

  "Unpredictable as your health is, Your Majesty, it won't permit you to lead a campaign on your own. Kangra is close, but Kandahar?" Nur Jahan sighed.

  "Ah, the ailing emperor and the grieving empress." Jahangir smiled. "Yes, the emperor might send him, so that he can prove himself the traitor that he is! And the emperor loves him? And still—" His heart was too ardent to spill words.

  "There is no dearth of traitors in Sirhind, Your Majesty, if you wish to test their mettle." Nur Jahan challenged, her heart fluttering.

  "Not any of our kin, the emperor hopes?" Jahangir flung himself beside her laughingly.

  "No, Your Majesty. Only a Sayyid by the name of Shaikh Ahamd, calling himself, Mahdi. Which means the second coming of the Prophet, if I understand it right."

  "Then he is an impostor, not a traitor, my innocent Nur." Jahangir claimed her hands, kissing them wistfully.

  "A preacher and a wise man, Your Majesty. A holy man, as far as my innocence can judge." Nur Jahan teased, her eyes shining.

  "And what does this holy, wise man say, my Pearl?" Jahangir asked intensely.

  "In the course of my travels, he says." Nur Jahan began with a quick animation. “I came to the dwelling of two lights, the Sun and the Moon. Then I saw a very lofty and splendid building. From there I passed to the abode of Discrimination, and then to the abode of Truth. From there I reached the abode of Love, and I beheld a brilliant dwelling. It had divers colors and lights and reflected glories. I passed from the abode of the vicergents and attained the highest rank." She began to laugh as if judging this man presumptuous, whom she had just called a holy and wise man.

  "God forgive us!" Jahangir exclaimed. "This man is walking on the net of deceit and hypocrisy. And dragging his followers—which he must have gathered by the bushel, into the waters of impiety and infidelity. Hypocrisy attracts men like moths to a flame. This man must be imprisoned till his madness and confusion gain some semblance of sanity." He slipped his arm around her waist. "But that is when we return from Kashmir. Right now, the emperor must appease the hungers of his soul." He was kissing her hands.

  "I am afraid, Your Majesty." Nur Jahan's passionate heart was courting fear than love. "How my ailing father is going to make through this long journey?"

  "The haven of Kashmir will wash away his sorrow and restore his health." Jahangir murmured a bit hoarsely. "Besides, we would journey at leisure. Our first stop is at Kangra." His lips were seeking hers.

  They were locked into a tight embrace, their hearts mating passionately, even before their bodies were caught into the bliss-paradise of union and accolade.

  The royal encampment on the banks of river Banganga was swathed in silence. The mournful dusk bathing the colorful city of tents in its own haze and pallor. The impending darkness was just a burial shroud to lay the groaning day to rest, it seemed. All were hush, and the quiet mists a palpitating reality. Appearing to be more so, for the emperor had gone to inspect the siege at the fort of Kangra. A few of the royal guards who were left behind had completed their usual rounds. Now, they were enjoying their evening repast in utmost silence. Fatigue and lack of sleep had made their senses numb and their wits dull. Roasted mutton garnished with carrots was not enough to satisfy their hungering, thirsting spirits. They were hungering and thirsting for great feasts and great jubilations. Their allotted portion of wine, one goblet each, was ritually drained down their throats even before the evening meal began, and now they themselves were feeling drained and exhausted. Without song and entertainment to whet their appetites, they were not too keen to explore the morsels of dry roasted mutton. Besides, they were feeling rather dull-witted by the news of Itmadudaula Khan's sudden illness. Their strong, healthy spirits rebelling against the clouds of sadnesses or tragedies. They had formed a spacious circle where they sat sulking and languishing. Some of them were gazing at the sky, as if tracing the stars scattered here and there in the blue bowl of a sky. A few of the men had stirred themselves to activity, playing cards and gambling. These few were too intensely absorbed in their game to notice even the dark shadows, which were plunging this rich bivouac into a silhouette of mists gray and violet.

  Further down the banks of Banganga were the opulent tents of the harem ladies, furnished with carpets and gilded comforts. The emperor's wives had gathered in one large tent and were playing their favorite card games, Chaupar and Chandal Mandal. They were nibbling on fruits and dainty sweets from the silver bowls. Their glass goblets were brimming with wine, for the emperor's wives were never to know the dearth of wine or food, even on journeys long or campaigns arduous. They were duly informed of Itmadudaula Khan's illness, but nothing could dampen their spirits. They had their jewels and fineries, and the dancing girls to entertain them. Even after learning that a devoted courier was dispatched to fetch the emperor due to Itmadudaula Khan's worsening condition, their attentions were not diverted from their games or entertainments. The illness of Nur Jahan's father didn't concern them, nor were they worried about the siege at the fort of Kangra. To them, wars were the domain of the emperor and intrigues the privileges of Nur Jahan, whom they hated and envied. They were devoted to the emperor though, also holding dear the lives of the princes and princess'.

  The death of Prince Khusrau had caused them much anguish an
d suffering. They had mourned the prince with great sorrow and laments. But now their sufferings were abated and their sorrows banished in anticipation of this grand journey to Kashmir. Prince Shah Jahan was their favorite concern now, and they were devoted to him heart and soul. His acts of defiance and insurrection they chose to ignore, though fearing the grief of the emperor. The minds of all the emperor’s wives were molded into one Cosmic Whole, laying entire blame on Nur Jahan for any kind of rebellions or misfortunes. They were not afraid to protest that the intrigues of Nur Jahan alone had alienated the Prince from the emperor. Right now, as they sat luxuriating inside the comfort of this large tent with dancing girls to entertain them, they had forgotten all about Nur Jahan's intrigues.

  In her own crimson tent, leagues away from the happy brides of the emperor, Nur Jahan knew no intrigue, but her father's agony on his death-bed. The candles burning low in silver candelabrum were a pallid dance of mists, hovering around the dying man swathed in woolen blankets and velvet coverlets. Itmadudaula Khan's face was flushed with fever, his breathing loud and laborious, the only sound splintering the hush in the night. He lay there unconscious. Moaning occasionally. His haggard features, at times, could be seen convulsing between spasms of hot flashes, and beads of sweat trickling down his neck. Nur Jahan was sunk deep on a brocaded cushion right beside her father. Her small hands, white as snow, were clasped into her lap in the semblance of a prayer. The shadow of death was upon her too, it seemed, as she sat there with her eyes closed and uttering no sound. Only the diamonds in her ears and around her throat were breathing life of their own, vivid and glittering over the swath of her pale silks. She was not alone, two royal physicians with watchful eyes were standing alert to attend to the needs of the ailing vizier. Also, three ladies-in-waiting were huddled near the tent door, ready to leap to their feet at the mere whisper from the empress. Yet the empress was chilled inside her own pool of sorrow and immobility. The loss of her mother was too rife in her memory to entertain more grief. She was not prepared to let go of her father. Each fiber in her body and soul were willing him back to life with all the purity of her love and anguish unvoiced.

  Nur Jahan's mute pleas had reached the emperor through the hasty import of the messenger near the fort of Kangra. This impregnable fort with seven imposing gates and twenty-three bastions was on the verge of capitulation when the messenger had reached the emperor. But Jahangir was so moved by the urgent pleas of the empress that without delay, he had jumped on his horse, and was on his way to console his beloved. Arrayed in his chain mail and gold helmet, he was more of a gallant knight than a warring lord. Accompanied by a few of his royal guards, the emperor's Arabian steed was racing down the hilly slopes toward the bivouac across from the river Banganga. He had banished the warring scene from his sight and senses. The thunder from the cannons was left behind too, no more explosions to violate his sense of peace and freedom. And the Durga shrine at the foot of the Kangra fort, which he had glimpsed but in one flash of curiosity was vanishing into the very mists of his contemplations. Soon, the emperor's white steed was leaping alongside the banks of the river Banganga. The haze from early dusk was gilding the waves to molten gold, and they appeared to shudder and expand. The imperial encampment down below was wearing a shroud of silence, stark and mournful.

  Itmadudaula Khan had begun to moan and murmur once again. Nur Jahan's eyes were shot open, her hands reaching out to comfort her father, snatching his hand and pressing it to her bosom. One physician stood feeding the vizier a concoction of honey and borage. The ladies-in-waiting had bounced to their feet, noticing the emperor's stormy entrance. An invisible current of hope had slipped into the very silence of the tent, as the emperor rushed closer to the bed of his father-in-law. Even Itmadudaula Khan's eyes were shot open, revealing a spontaneous glow of light, of hope and anticipation. He appeared to be hurled back to a spasm of consciousness.

  "Papa!" One anguished plea escaped Nur Jahan's lips. She indicated the emperor at the foot of the bed. "Papa, do you recognize him?" She asked.

  "Yes, my Princess, yes." The feverish glow in Itmadudaula Khan's eyes was now falling on the emperor.

  "Was a mother-born blind man present

  He'd recognize Majesty in the World Adorner."

  An impromptu couplet trembled down his lips.

  "Had you graced your talents with the pen, Itmadudaula, than with the sword, the emperor would have bestowed upon you the title, King of the Poets." Jahangir smiled. "You are yet to see our victory over the fort of Kangra." He intoned.

  "The final victory—" Itmadudaula Khan could barely breathe. Light had left his eyes. "Final victory is death." This throb of a prophecy was mirrored in his blank gaze.

  "By the reckoning of the eye, there is one frame less

  By wisdom's reckoning, the lessening is more than thousands."

  Jahangir recited his own couplet.

  Hakim Qasim was bending over Itmadudaula Khan, trying to feel the pulse on his listless arm. His gaze, when lifted to the emperor and the empress, was revealing the tragedy of death. Even before he could pronounce the word died, Nur Jahan's head had slumped over the silent breast of her father. She was weeping and sobbing as if her heart would break. Her grief was lowering the mantle of darkness over her eyes and deep down her heart. Jahangir had flown to her side in some daze of fever and anguish. He was literally carrying her out into the mournful night toward his own luxuriant tent.

  The Shalamar garden near the valley of Phak in Kashmir was efflorescent in such abundance that its canals and fountains were reflecting no shades in greenery, only the rich colors in blooms. One black marble throne on the white terrace where the emperor sat enjoying this spring day was flanked by crystal-clear ponds. These ponds were edged with yellow, scented jafari flowers, swaying in the wind gently and happily. The emperor's health was failing again, though revived a little by the promise of life and renewal in spring. The long, dismal journey from Kangra to Kashmir and the harsh winter had taken their toll on the emperor's mood and health. Asthma and rheumatism had become his close companions, much closer than wine and opium, plunging him further into the pits of despair and depression. Nur Jahan, though freshly stricken with grief at the death of her father had tried to check the emperor's excesses in wine and opium, but in vain. Her attempts in showing the emperor fair plans for a bright future, had succeeded only in gaining one fraction of his attention amidst his bouts of euphoria.

  Since the past few days, Jahangir had been spurred by one of his euphoric moods. Visiting the beautiful shrines and gardens, and gallivanting in the pine-valleys without heeding Nur Jahan's advice to restraint and moderation concerning such pleasant excursions. This particular day, though feeling the stress of fatigue and weakness, his mood was still euphoric. He was seated in utmost comfort, several velvety pillows heaped behind his back and a colorful blanket of lamb's wool hugging his legs. He was watching a pair of saras under one Chenar tree, hoping that that this spring day would be conducive for their mating, so that he could observe this miracle in nature—the miracle of a lifetime? Almost a month had elapsed since he had begun watching this pair of saras with a religious fervor. A feast for his aesthetic senses! He had named them Laila and Majnun, after the lovers of a folktale whose profound love for each other was still alive in ballads, sung by the bards and troubadours. This pair of saras were oblivious to the world all around them, not even aware of the emperor's scrutiny, as if he was one of the inanimate objects in the garden. Nur Jahan seated at the terrace steps was adorning her goldfish with gold rings, and tossing them back into the blue pool under her feet.

  Though the emperor and the empress seemed worlds apart, immersed in their own individual pleasures, they were together, and a part of this garden and scenery. Their spirits merging and exchanging silences as well as anecdotes were profound interludes, right out of the gardens of their thoughts and recollections. The anecdotes were of the past. Those words and voices holding on to the glory of the present. They ha
d shared and exchanged all, burying past into the graves of future. Yet knowing, that they had the power to open the casket of memories, if need be, at their own discretion.

  Before departing from Kangra, Itmadudaula Khan's body was sent to Agra under the care of his son, Itaqid Khan. The emperor had entrusted the son with special instructions that the body of his father was to be interned in the garden across from Jamna. Since Nur Jahan was the victim of her own grief, Jahangir had tried his best to revive her spirits before resuming his journey to Kashmir. Acting more in affinity to the wishes of his heart, than to the dictates of reason. Bypassing the inheritance of the brothers, the emperor had assigned all the lands and wealths of late Itmadudaula Khan to the empress. The empress was further showered with titles and honors which no other Moghul woman could ever dream of attaining and possessing. The drums and orchestra which were played before the emperor as his sole right and privilege were now to be trumpeted before her wherever she went or appeared. She had also the choice and the privilege of sitting in the balcony, receiving nobles and courtiers alike, who were to prostrate before the empress and to receive robes of honor from her.

  The grief of the empress was mollified by such diversions, as Jahangir had anticipated, and the journey to Kashmir was less doleful than expected. Nur Jahan had recovered enough to be able to talk about the tomb of her father which she was going to design and build. The emperor had taken great interest in her plans for such a tomb, and had encouraged her wholeheartedly. Thinking that he had made Anarkali the empress of the world. Realizing only later in Kashmir, that Anarkali was not of this world, and that his death alone would unite him with his beloved. And he was courting it much too eagerly, rather welcoming it in oblivion and drunkenness.

  Nur Jahan was planning a great tomb, and yet, a greater mausoleum for her father. Of pure silver, she was dreaming! Wishing to lavish all her wealth on this monument, and the emperor's too, if it required more. But the emperor, in one of his sober moods, had dissuaded her from the use of silver. Presenting a genuine argument, that it would be a temptation for the plunderers if the tomb was built of pure silver. The design of the tomb was met with the emperor's approval with slight changes or suggestions as to the structure and adornment.