The Moghul Hedonist

by Farzana Moon

  The mute prayers in Nur Jahan's heart were dying, stabbed by one lone fear, alien and nameless. Her gaze was turning will-lessly toward the Pir Panjal range, where the white streams gurgled and churned down the rocky banks. She was fascinated by the wildness of these streams, foaming at the mouth, and rising in a fantastic uproar of glee and violence. Her eyes were riveted to those streams, which could be seen raging like the tempests, and disappearing somewhere into the deepest of gorges and ravines. A great storm or some seething fury was in those waters, the waves glittering and dashing themselves to pieces in jets of glassy foams against the giant rocks. She was sitting there rapt, watching—listening, her eyes shining with mute agonies of the heart and soul. That savage beauty of the waters was entering her spirit, dancing the dance of death and destruction, and chilling her thoughts. Only her eyes were sparkling, and courting their own dance of fire and ice. Something inside her were wild and screaming, on fire and numbing, yet neither chilling, nor scorching. So profoundly absorbed was she into the waters of chill-violence from within and without, that she knew not whether she lived or dreamed life.

  The emperor was not dreaming, but exhilarated by the prospect of hunting. His heart was climbing the rungs of elation, as if all his ailments had left him, and no more would he suffer any torments of the body and soul. He was feeling giddy and weightless, as if he could conquer the kingdoms in heaven and on this earth with the sheer power of his psyche, and could float into eternity forever. He could see the beaters driving the deer closer and closer, and he raised his gun with the precision of a skilled hunter. The shot boomed through the woods, and hit the intended victim on its hind calf. The stricken deer bounded off, causing panic and flight amongst the rest of the hunting doe and dear. One foot-soldier, in his attempt to urge the frightened deer back into a close circle, stumbled closer to a precipice, and was seen falling with a dizzying speed. His head was dashed against one rock, his body whirling down the valley, splattered with blood.

  Jahangir flung his gun away, his eyes bulging out of their sockets, as if he had witnessed the most awful of horrors ever encountered before! He was suspended there inert, all his senses numb and stunned under the stupor of this sudden shock. Slowly at first, and then swiftly, a tide of fear was rising inside him like one billowing omen.

  This is a sign of my own death. I am going to die, soon. Jahangir's heart was drumming an ominous beat.

  Jahangir was still standing there inert, suspended alive in the aura of doom and darkness. He thought he heard the angels sing? Or, was it the laughter of Anarkali, trilling down the hills and sailing over the mountains? Then the fury of a pandemonium was in the air, as if all the demons in the hell were let loose and were cutting their way out of the leaping flames. No, the hell was still invisible, all he could see were his own soldiers carrying the bleeding lump of a body out of the hunting grounds. The deer too were scattered in fright or relief, Jahangir's burning gaze was tearing the veil of life and confronting death. Death was looking him in the eyes! Death was standing before him mighty and inviolate! Death appareled in all its fineries of horror and ugliness was grinning and mocking.

  The emperor is going to die— One flame of a fear was licking Jahangir's thoughts to awareness. Why I am afraid? The emperor does not fear death? He longs for it, to be united with his— His thoughts were hissing and challenging. The ominous throbs inside his heart were searching the rags of his longings.

  Nur Jahan had heard one shot, but the raging streams inside the whirlwind of a dance in her head, had obscured all other sounds. Her dream-oblivion inside her mental frame-work was so intense, that this fatal fall would have gone unnoticed by her even if the man landed at her feet that particular moment. The mute, stunned soldiers scurrying down there could never enter her dream-oblivion, and she would have remained thus, immersed in her own silence, had not the echo of the shot fired by the emperor returned to her with the impudence of a warning. She was straining her ears to catch this warning, but she could hear nothing. There was a complete hush and the silence so stark that one could hear a reed whispering. The bubbling waters in her head were retreating, and her senses were gathering only the chill of silence.

  Something like a yawning abyss was uncurling its lips inside the very recesses of her soul and psyche. A cold shudder was tracing its way in her spine down to her very toes, but she had leaped to her feet without even being aware of her impulse and restlessness. Her eyes were fixed to the statue of an emperor, and she was sleep-walking toward this fresh dream. Jahangir had not moved, his gaze acknowledging her approach in utmost silence. His pallor was heightened and his eyes shining with the mysterious light of peace and knowledge. Both stood facing each other, both gazing and speechless. Nur Jahan was a bit discomfited, cursing her wits gone mad which could not elicit one sane expression. Besides, she was puzzled by that mysterious light in the emperor's eyes. The statue of ice, my husband and the emperor, she was thinking, not melted by the flashing intensity in my own eyes. By the sheer will of her own practiced calm, she heard herself toss one thoughtless plea.

  "May I hunt, Your Majesty?" Nur Jahan took a step closer, her thoughts now racing downhill to explore some heaps of the imponderables.

  "No, my Nur, you are not to tempt the tragic fates which challenge the emperor." Jahangir murmured with the somnolence of a dreamer.

  "Your Majesty!" One feeble exclamation was chilled on Nur Jahan's lips.

  "The emperor's wish to hunt has sentenced one man to a horrible death. He fell down the precipice." Jahangir made one hopeless gesture, his breathing heavy and labored. "This is an omen, Nur, an ill omen. The emperor is going to die."

  "No, Your Majesty, no." One violent protest trembled on Nur Jahan's lips. "This doesn't mean anything. You are getting well. You will live to rule till eternity. You cannot die. You cannot leave me. I will fight the fates—" She paused, becoming aware of her own raving.

  "The emperor has not found the water of immortality as yet, my love." Jahangir murmured tenderly. "No, love, he will not die, not until he reaches Lahore and proclaims you the empress of the world." He reached out and claimed her hand.

  "Your Majesty, why do you torment me so?" Nur Jahan murmured in response. Her heart was thundering with the violence of a presage.

  "To make you love me more than any man ever being loved before by an earth-goddess like you, my Pearl." Jahangir stood caressing her hand, as if holding the fortunes of the worlds into the very palms of his hands. "But, love, before the emperor forgets, make sure that you bestow grants and stipends on the family of this deceased man. He was not included in my hunting plans, my Nur, and yet he died a wretched death. Compensating his family might assuage the emperor's heart a little. Our journey to Lahore should suffer no more delays, unless the emperor takes the road to nonexistence." One sliver of a prophecy escaped his thoughts involuntarily. He stood there forlorn and ponderous. Smiling to himself. His smile was fading, a pale and withered smile to begin with!

  "Your Majesty." Tears of pain and hopelessness were stinging Nur Jahan's eyes.

  "Love! The light of my soul." Jahangir gathered her into his arms in one eager embrace. "No more of this, love, no more, I promise. Pardon the emperor." His heart was thundering in unison with his beloved’s.

  Both the emperor and the empress stood there locked into each other's arms, both listening to the rhythmic thunders inside the hearts of one another. The fear of death was constricting the emperor's heart, but he was divorcing all fears. Burying all fears inside the chilled tombs of his past sufferings. His thoughts were running wild, and groping for some anchor in sustenance. They were stumbling in the dankness, and wrenching themselves free from doom and death. A few reeds of old tales were waving their arms, urging him to comfort his beloved with words and ideation. One long forgotten reed of a tale was swaying and swooning. The winds of time itself were surfacing in his memory, and words were pouring out of his lips, urgently and desperately.

  "Have you ever read about the in
carnations of Krishna, love?" Jahangir's tone was a mingling of elation and tenderness. "He lived one hundred and twenty-five years in one incarnation alone. He had sixteen thousand one hundred and eight wives, each of whom gave birth to ten sons and one daughter. And each wife thought that she alone shared her husband's bed." He was gasping for breath, his beloved sobbing softly in his arms.

  The royal encampment halted at Rajauri was gathering sepulchral hush from the night studded with a myriad of stars. Below the encampment, the river Ravi glinted dreamlike, its waves calm and silvery under the moonlit sky. The guards, keeping watch and pacing aimlessly, seemed to be drugged by the beauty of this night. The incessant roaring from the mouth of the confluence was lulling their senses to peace and camaraderie. And yet the cool, night air with the gentle whip of a command, was keeping them awake and vigilant. Down the river, where the rough and slippery banks could be seen meandering, were also revealing the forms of a few men, those of the imperial guards. They had strayed there without even noticing the span of their wanderings, but now stood listening to the whispering cataracts and night shadows. The full moon was etching them in pale silhouettes, who could be seen feasting their eyes on hues russet and emerald from the thickets further down the cataracts. More guards were seen straggling toward this scenic splendor of the night. They were conversing in low tones, probably discussing the fate of the ailing emperor and of the distraught empress.

  The emperor had fallen ill a little after the tragic experience during his hunt, precisely so, after his delirious profusion in relating the tale of Krishna. The ghost of that foot-soldier who had fallen from the precipice, was never to leave him. He was to haunt him during the nights in the most horrible of nightmares. Jahangir had lost all appetite, eating nothing and growing weak in body and mind. He would sleep most of the time, and only a few sips of cold water were his daily portion of meals. He was losing consciousness, and could only be revived in brief intervals when coaxed by Nur Jahan's pleas to drink at least a little of watered wine. The physicians were in absolute despair, striving to discover some magic potion which could cure the emperor and of their own hopelessness. Their devotions and ministrations had proved unsuccessful, and they themselves were growing weak in body and spirit. Nur Jahan was succumbed to shock and disbelief. She had a feverish look in her eyes, which could be seen shining in all the sleeping, waking hours of the day or night.

  The emperor was carried in a palanquin from Baramagala to the village of Thanah. After a few days of rest there, the empress had commanded the encampment to proceed toward Rajauri. Their next stop was intended to be in Chingiz Halti near the city of Bhimbar. But while passing through Rajauri, the emperor's condition had grown worse, and he had fallen into a coma. The empress, still in a state of shock, had ordered a quick halt. The emperor was transported to his old summer house in the precincts of Rajauri, attended by Nur Jahan and a team of royal physicians. He was installed in his favorite chamber, that's where he lay now, completely oblivious to the world around him. At times, he could break through the fetters of his unconsciousness, murmuring feebly and opening his eyes briefly. But those times were rare and numbered few, lending no solace to the suffering empress. Besides Nur Jahan and the physicians, the ailing emperor was attended by Asaf Khan, Mutamid Khan and a few younger princes.

  Nur Jahan in white silks with only a string of pearls as her royal adornment was seated by the emperor's bed in a prayerlike silence. Her hands were clasped into her lap, and her eyes were closed. She seemed oblivious of all, even to her own mute sufferings. Pure and Madonna-like, she was immersed deeply in the purity of her white dreams. Her pallor had a glow of peace and tranquility, as if all her energies were directed toward the emperor in bringing him back to life. The large bed, upon which the emperor lay unconscious in coverlets of satin and velvet, was splashed with haze from the candles burning low in a silver candelabrum. The physicians had pushed back the crimson canopy dripping with laces, and were now leaning to check his pulse and breathing. One of the physicians was trying to feed the emperor with a sweet concoction which he had just prepared. Suddenly, the emperor's eyes were shot open, his look still opiate and drugged. His gaze was sweeping over all slowly and swiftly, kindling the ripples of confusion and incredulity. It was arrested on Nur Jahan, murmuring her name even before his lips could utter it.

  Nur Jahan felt the warmth of that gaze and stirred. The blue blaze of agony in her feverish eyes was reaching out to the emperor.

  "Isn't this exactly one year since Prince Perwiz died, Nur?" Jahangir murmured feebly. His voice was clear though, and his eyes flashing.

  "Yes, Your Majesty." Nur Jahan sought his hand and clasped it to her breast.

  "Wine." Jahangir murmured.

  Hakim Rukna prized past the jade chiffonier toward the chest where the gold flagon lay abandoned. He was the first and the only one to obey the emperor's command to fetch him a goblet of wine.

  "Nur, promise, you will never leave me. Forever, in Kashmir—" Jahangir was murmuring, his eyes closing shut.

  Hakim Rukna, with his hands trembling, was holding the goblet of wine to the emperor's lips. With one convulsion of a shudder, Jahangir's head was thrown back on the pillow, his body limp and listless. The wine spilled on his white robe was tracing a rivulet, ruby red as the blood freshly spilt.

  "The emperor is—" Hakim Rukna's voice was choked, but all present understood the stifled verdict.

  Nur Jahan's head drooped over the emperor's breast, soundlessly and hopelessly. Her cries of agony were silenced inside her, along with her unvoiced grief she could not ever express. Her own white sleeves were stained with ruby red blood in wine, as if she was wearing her heart on one of her sleeves.

  Mutamid Khan, stricken with grief, was reciting one delirious hemistich.

  The World-Seizer has left the world.

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