The Moghul Hedonist

by Farzana Moon

  The mausoleum of Itmadudaula Khan was to be erected on the left side of Jamna with a great wall enclosing the sprawling gardens. The tomb itself would be two storeys high with octagonal towers, surrounded by open pavilions. It would be hewn out of white marble, with the inlay of pietra dura. Nur Jahan's grief had found consolation in designing this tomb, and she was longing for the execution of her plans. Rather possessed by her ideas and inspirations, while the emperor was seeking oblivion in drunkenness to appease the wounds of everlasting memories in his soul. He was much too painfully aware of his malady. His curse, as he called it, for being incapable of forgetting the unforgettable. Amidst the flashes of his euphoria and sobriety, he had begun to wonder why he couldn't forget Anarkali. Several decades were a giant wall of separation between him and her since her tragic death, and yet she had the power to dissolve that wall and be with him, always. He was in his fifties, wedded to both his loves, Anarkali and Nur Jahan.

  Paradoxically, the emperor was too much in love, in love with Nur Jahan! Possessed by some sort of delirium in loving and suffering. He was wont to lay bare his mind and soul at her feet, hoping to absolve his sufferings in the deepest deeps of her own love boundless. Strewing her path with the gifts of kingdoms, to attain the kingdom of peace within his heart. Even in his need for oblivion and drunkenness, he could not endure to be separated from Nur Jahan. Wanting her beside him always, and worshipping her through the very mists of his senses bruised and anguished.

  Nur Jahan's love and perception could not miss seeing the waves of turbulence inside the rivulets of emperor's heart and soul. She would try to calm those waves as often as she could, but most of the time she would feel powerless against the storms and the tempests simmering and overflowing inside him like the floods of ruin and devastation. She had learned to surrender herself to the violence of his passions, neither despising his excesses, nor rejecting his madness'. Endowed with the bounties of her great passion, she could love him as he was. Accepting his moods and weaknesses with as much ardor as his tendernesses and generosities. At times, she was jealous of the emperor's dead beloved, but that sprig of jealousy too was conquered by the abundance of her love. She had become more of a mother to the emperor than his beloved, she would think, tending to his needs as to her own child's, who might have suffered the blight of grief and illness. Her warm, bright disposition was taking its toll though, against the burden of her own sufferings—and tragedies countless. Along with those, one canker of a fear had taken root in her heart that she would lose the emperor, if she could not separate him from his cup.

  This canker was now swollen inside Nur Jahan's heart like a wound, for she had failed to check the emperor's excesses in drinking. No sooner had he reached Kashmir that wine had become his cup companion. The snow-capped valleys, offering him no diversion in the outdoor splendor of the gardens, had arrested him in his own small world of inebriation. Then illness had struck him like the rod of chastisement. The merciless attacks of fever and asthma had imprisoned him in his gilded chamber. He would lay there gasping for breath, while holding on to the string of life by the sheer will of Nur Jahan. Then he was visited by rheumatism, and each joint in his body was racked with pain. He was unable to sit up, or even hold a pen in his fingers to fill his journal with entries dark or pain-loving. Nur Jahan's love alone, beside her strict vigilance and tender ministrations, had driven the demons of his illness away. He had felt such relief and gratitude, that he had surrendered himself, body and soul, to her advice and judgment. That was when he had entrusted Mutamid Khan with the task of writing his memoirs.

  During the emperor's illness, ill reports from the quarters of Deccan and Kandahar were kept secret from him by the explicit commands of Nur Jahan. Recently, now that the emperor's health had improved, Nur Jahan had dared reveal a portion of ill reports, considering the urgency of their import which demanded action. She had succeeded in concealing Prince Shah Jahan's overt acts of disobedience in euphemistic veils of comments and suggestions. The advance of Persian armies over the borders of Kandahar was also muffled inside the gentle folds of hope and encouragement.

  Since Prince Shah Jahan was reluctant to lead an expedition to Kandahar, the emperor had no choice but to think about his other sons who would be willing to fight the Persians. Prince Perwiz was his first choice, but he had dismissed that idea, knowing that the Prince was guarding the province of Bihar. Besides, he would prove to be more like a drunken knight on the field of combat than a valorous commander, Jahangir had thought. Prince Shahryar was the only choice left, to be sent on this campaign to Kandahar, and he had voiced his decision to Nur Jahan. Nur Jahan was ecstatic to hear the emperor's decision, but then had wavered, recalling the inexperience of Prince Shahryar in matters of intrigue and warfare. Besides, she had just received the happy news of her daughter being enceinte, and wished Prince Shahryar to remain with his bride till the birth of her grandchild. She could not afford to take any chances, considering the unpredictability of lengthy and arduous campaigns which could last for years, if not for months. Adroit in such matters of politics and decision-making, she was quick to devise a plan of her own, which could release Kandahar from the yoke of the Persians without involving any royal princes in such warring commands.

  Nur Jahan was quick to suggest to the emperor that Mahabat Khan should be recalled from Kabul, and dispatched on this campaign to Kandahar. She admired Mahabat Khan's skills in warfare, that much she was willing to admit to the emperor, but that she distrusted him entirely, were her secret confession to herself alone. In fact, she hated Mahabat Khan, whom she judged devious and deceitful, though devoted to the emperor. She was faultless in her judgments, rightfully so, for Mahabat Khan had his own idiosyncrasies of prides and prejudices which could not stay concealed. She could not forgive him for his audacity in sending covert warnings to the emperor that the emperor was delivering too much power into the hands of the empress. She too was left with no choices, considering the worthless sons of the emperor. Prince Perwiz as a drunken lout and Prince Shah Jahan as the patrician rebel, two unlikely choices to lead a campaign against the Persians? Prince Shahryar, she was preparing as an heir apparent to the throne of Hind. So Mahabat Khan was a worthy choice to be thrown into the cannons of warfare, in Nur Jahan's estimation.

  Mahabat Khan was dispatched to Kandahar, as the master of his own decisions, and furnished with a large army at his sole command. The emperor was pleased with this choice, and his spirit as well as his health had begun to improve. This improvement was brought about, not by restraining his need for wine, but by exorcising his pain in loving and hating his rebel of a son, Prince Shah Jahan. Moreover, a great burden had been lifted off his shoulders with the knowledge that Mahabat Khan was on his way to defend Kandahar. The emperor was fond of Mahabat Khan and trusted his devotion and prowess in warring and subjugating.

  Nur Jahan shared no such trust and devotion on the part of Mahabat Khan. Even now, as she sat veiled in the aura of peace and serenity, her thoughts were hovering over Kandahar. Her thoughts were a riot of revelations. With her perspicacity as her weapon of warfare, she could glean deceit and ambition from the very armor of Mahabat Khan's resolve to excel and conquer. So profound were the wild journeys in her head, that she was startled by the emperor's sudden exclamation.

  "A miracle, Nur!" Jahangir's outburst was awakening the whole garden to its own sense of beauty and perfume. "The emperor is to observe the mating of the saras! Quite different from mating of the cranes, I hope? The view is delightful from here." His gaze was fixed to the amorous pair, Laila and Majnun.

  "The mating of spring with the beauty of our gardens is enough to make me swoon, Your Majesty. This wondrous miracle itself, which has brought color to your cheeks." Nur Jahan laughed.

  Bouncing off the gleaming steps with the agility of a young girl, Nur Jahan floated toward the emperor. She sank down to the Persian rug at the emperor's feet in one rustling heap. Hugging her knees with a delicious squeeze, she had abandone
d her head on the emperor's lap. Her eyes were exploring the intimate courtship of the saras. The sunshine itself was kissing her flaxen curls, against which Jahangir's fingers could be seen stroking and fondling absently. His eyes were kindling poetic dreams. Though, he was oblivious to the poetic dream at his feet in crimson silks studded with diamonds, as if all the stars from heaven had fallen on her gown in twinkling clusters.

  "Look, my love, how Laila straightens her legs, though bending so coyly." Jahangir had begun to run a commentary. "And Majnun, how tenderly he lifts his one foot, then the other? How passionately he sits on her back! How blissful they look? Pairing and loving! So beautifully, so naturally—" His comments had come to an abrupt end, as abruptly as the separation of the amorous couple.

  Majnun was stretching his neck and digging his beak into the ground. Then he was walking around Laila, who was sitting motionless and wide-eyed.

  "It is possible they may have an egg and produce a young one?" Jahangir was watching the post-courtship syndrome of the saras with much interest.

  "Possible too, Your Majesty, that she may die during the labor-pains of child-birth." Nur Jahan teased, her first visit to Kashmir drifting closer to her awareness. "Then Majnun would sit grieving all his life on Laila's back." She continued ruminatively. "Remember, Your Majesty, when Qiyam Khan espied one sara sitting possessively on a nest. As he approached cautiously, that sara plodded away as if in great pain. What had appeared a nest to Qiyam Khan was nothing but the remains of a dead bird. Discolored feathers, no flesh underneath, but bones and a host of maggots. And when Qiyam Khan moved away, hiding himself behind a tree, the sara returned, hugging the pitiful remains of bones and feathers, as if trying to breathe life into them. Didn't you conclude then, Your Majesty, that that sara's mate had died and he had been sitting on it since then, grieving and wishing death?"

  "An eternal lover in every bird and beast." Jahangir laughed. "Not too old to be forgotten, not too young to be cherished." His eyes were gathering stars of adoration.

  "An avid naturalist, Your Majesty, the emperor—my husband. Can't help but cross-breed their love with strange species?" Nur Jahan quipped. Hoping, that the emperor would recall the time when he had ordered Markhur goats from Ahmadabad to be paired with the Barbary goats from Arabia."

  "And what fantastic results did the emperor achieve!" Jahangir beamed, divining her thoughts. "What charming issues, the result of that cross-breeding? Not like the bleating, wailing ones of the regular goats, but the pleasant little ones, and quite peace-loving. They were comely too. Especially, the ones with the black stripes, and the ones with the glow of cherries? Pity, that our court painters can't arrest those colors on silk canvases." He kissed her hand.

  "Pity, that they painted those Carnatic goats." Nur Jahan murmured with implicit distaste. "Such grotesque forms, and such atrocious colors, Your Majesty? True artists are loath to touch such colors, or to depict such enormities?"

  "Oh, those fat ones?" Jahangir lumbered to his feet slowly. "Were they not killed, and four pazahar stones recovered from their bellies? Hakim Rukna told me that such stones are an antidote against poison." He smiled, feigning vigor and energy, though feeling none. "Had I kept those stones, they might have served me as a cure for the poison in my heart against my own son and against all malefactors, who leave not the emperor in peace. As it stands, my love, let us explore the beauty of our Shalamar, before it absorbs ugliness in wars and treacheries. Ah, my beautiful Eden in Kashmir!" He appeared to steal warmth and strength from the blue lakes in her shining eyes.

  "The air is rather chilly, Your Majesty." Nur Jahan held out the blanket. "Wear it over your shoulders, Your Majesty. This blanket woven from the wool of Carnatic goats would keep you warm." She breathed apprehensively.

  "No, my empress, the emperor refuses to cover his shoulders with anything which is made out of the wool of Carnatic goats." Jahangir mocked.

  "From the wool of Barbary goats, then." Nur Jahan coaxed.

  "From the wool of both Markhur and Barbary goats." Jahangir claimed the blanket and his beloved into his arms. Kissing her with the hunger of a famished lover.

  "Your Majesty!" Nur Jahan protested even before he released her. "What if some eunuch straggles down here—some urgent message which can't be delayed?" A sea of violence was raging inside her heart, knowing, that this kiss was meant for Anarkali.

  "Then he would be beheaded, my love, but not before he had delivered his message." Jahangir turned away laughingly.

  The lover and the beloved were strolling side-by-side. The emperor was wearing a subtle and whimsical smile and the empress a wraith of serenity and self-surrender. The marble terraces with fountains splashing and gurgling were left behind. Further down the sprawling lawns were the orchards of peach and almond trees. The yellow jafari flowers were waving at the royal couple, intoxicated by their own scented sweetness. A few notes from flutes, harp and dulcimer were escaping the palace walls. Nur Jahan appeared to be catching those tunes, her gaze admiring the clusters of white jasmine in oval flowerbeds. Jahangir could hear nothing, not even his thoughts, only feasting his eyes on colors vivid and shimmering. His feet were coming to a slow halt before one mulberry tree. An exotic vine-creeper was entwined around its trunk in seductive contours, which was alluring him, to have a closer view. He stood gazing, his eyes penetrating the very sap of the tree-trunk.

  "This amorous tree has no precious secrets to reveal, Your Majesty. You are searching for something which can't be found here?" Was Nur Jahan's dreamy comment.

  "The amorous silkworms, my Nur." Jahangir murmured to himself. "Where could be the eggs of the silkworms which I had ordered to be brought from Tibet and Gilgit. The leaves of these trees are great feasts for the silkworms, while its mulberries are not fit for human consumption." His eyes were still searching the silkworms.

  "How you forget, Your Majesty!" Nur Jahan declared sweetly. "Those eggs were taken to the orchard of a silk-dealer, by your own orders. That same silk-dealer who sired twins. Two tiny girls with mouths full of teeth, and their backs joined together as far as their waists, how strange?"

  "Oh, those Kashmiri twins, now I remember!" Jahangir smiled, gazing at her. "Didn't I command my surgeons to operate on those unfortunate babes to release them from that bondage of deformity? How did I forget to inquire about that? Whatever happened to them?"

  "You didn't forget, Your Majesty." Nur Jahan murmured. "You were taken ill. And the twins died even before the surgeons could get to the house of that silk-dealer.”

  "Well, the mysteries of God and Nature! They confound our senses to awe and surrender, if not to fear and stupefaction?" Jahangir slipped his arm around Nur Jahan's waist, a sprig of inspiration trembling down his lips.

  "From head to foot, wherever I look

  A glance plucks at the heart's skirt, saying

  This is the place, to stop at."

  "Your Majesty!" exclaimed Nur Jahan. Her eyes shining with sad-happy recollections. "This is the verse you composed in the garden at Kangra. Right after you entered the victorious city, scattering gold coins from the fort to the gardens." Her eyes were attaining the sparkle of mischief. "Do you think, Your Majesty, that the gardens of Kangra are more beautiful than the gardens of Kashmir?"

  "Each garden has its own beauty, my love, incomparable in each season. Each season, which paints and redesigns this earth with the strokes of nature's own paintbrush." Jahangir murmured. "Though I wonder if the perfumes of paradise waft such sweet scents as they do here in Shalamar, in our own garden? And yet, Shalamar is the grandest in fall. We will stay here till fall, then journey back to Lahore. We must stop at Kangra though, to see the construction of the mosque which I ordered to be built."

  "Such a dismal and dreary journey in the fall, Your Majesty?" Nur Jahan protested sweetly. "The beauty of spring we must enjoy in Kashmir, but can't we start from here in the summer, Your Majesty? How exhilarating to watch the colorless, decaying leaves on the way!" She teased.

&
nbsp; "There is no exhilaration in decay, but to the eye

  The glory of autumn is more brilliant than the Spring."

  The eternal poet in Jahangir sang with a dint of sarcasm.

  Nur Jahan could hear the music of pain and poetry inside the heart of the emperor, it seemed. She was drifting along with him, half swooning, half praying. Swooning with pleasure at the very hearth of her perspicacity which was announcing, that the shadow of Anarkali had left the emperor at this particular moment. And praying for the emperor's health with a sense of delicious relief that he had been able to stroll for this long without having any difficulty in breathing. The royal couple was leaving the grove of the lofty planes and graceful poplars. Another grove of only the Chenars was welcoming them. In the center of this ancient grove was erected a white terrace, flanked by the fountains. A blaze of red, red roses could be seen swaying at the foot of these fountains.

  "Much wine should be poured on rose." Jahangir's thoughts could not voice the couplet in his head, for a violent fit of coughing had taken hold of him.

  "Let us return to your favorite throne, Your Majesty, where sun pours warmth, even from behind the veil of clouds." Nur Jahan pleaded.

  The onslaught of coughing had subsided as abruptly as it had begun. And now the emperor and the empress were retracing their steps toward the black marble throne on their favorite terrace. Jahangir was trying to regain the rhythm of his breathing, and Nur Jahan striving to pave the way for her thoughts on the road to equanimity. Half way to the throne, they were becoming aware of a courier in his livery of royal insignia. This courier was no other than the swift runner, Banarasi himself. He was hovering closer to the throne, his eyes darting in all directions in search of the emperor. He had espied the royal couple, even before they had caught sight of him, and was now hastening toward them with the speed of an arrow.