The Moghul

by Thomas Hoover

  *

  She watched the palanquin ease up the weathered, winding path leading to the fortress gate. The procession had moved slowly through the gate at the northeast corner of the city's walls and now the Rajputs were clustered around the palanquin and the lone rider. The night was still, awash in a wild desert fragrance, and the moon was curing slowly from white to a rarified gold. Her vantage, in a corner turret of the wall, was shadow-less and perfect. She examined the rider and smiled when she recognized the face.

  Nadir Sharif. You have kept your part of the bargain. All of it.

  As she studied him through the half light, she wondered why they were coming a day earlier than planned. Then the palanquin stopped and the other figure emerged. She hesitated before looking, at last forcing herself, willing her eyes to see.

  After a long moment she turned to the tall man standing next to her. His beard was white, as were his robes. His eyes saw what she saw, but he did not smile. He turned to her and nodded wordlessly. Then he tightened his white robe and moved easily down the stone staircase toward the courtyard below.

  Hawksworth had sensed the autumn light begin to fall rapidly as they approached the gates of the fortress-city. Already there was a pale moon, promising fullness. In size and grandeur the portals of the gate reminded Hawksworth of the Red Fort in Agra, only the walls themselves were considerably less formidable. The palace itself sat atop a wooded hill, and already the stones of the abandoned roadway leading up the hill were becoming overgrown. There was a small village at the bottom of the hill, where smoke from evening cooking fires had begun to rise, but from the fortress itself there was no smoke, no hint of life or habitation.

  He alighted from the palanquin at the bottom of a steep stairway leading to the palace gate and together with Nadir Sharif passed slowly up the abandoned steps. The Rajputs trailed behind them as they reached the top and passed under the shadow of a tulip-curved arch that framed the gateway. The dark surrounded them like an envelope, and the Rajput guards pushed forward, toward the black outline of two massive wooden doors at the back of the recess. They pushed open the doors, and before them lay a vast open courtyard, empty in the moonlight.

  "Is this place completely abandoned? I still don't understand why I'm here."

  Nadir Sharif smiled. "On the contrary, Ambassador. It's far from abandoned. But it appears so, does it not?"

  Then Hawksworth saw a figure approaching them, gliding noiselessly across the red sandstone pavement of the court. The figure carried an oil lamp, which illuminated a bearded face framed in a white shawl.

  "You are welcome in the name of Allah." The figure bowed a greeting. "What brings armed men to our door? It is too late now to pray. We long ago sounded the last azan."

  "His Majesty has sent a feringhi here, to be cared for by you for two days." Nadir Sharif stepped forward. "He was injured today during shikar."

  "Our hands are always open." The figure turned and moved across the plaza toward a building that looked, in the new moonlight, to be a mosque. When they reached the entrance, the man turned and spoke to the Rajputs in a language Hawksworth did not understand.

  "He says this is the house of God," Nadir Sharif translated. "He has commanded the Rajputs to leave their shoes and their weapons here if they wish to follow. I think they will refuse. Perhaps it would be best if we all left you now. You'll be well cared for. Day after tomorrow I'll send a horse for you."

  "What's going on? You mean I'm going to be here alone?" Hawksworth suddenly realized he was being abandoned, at an abandoned city. He whirled on Nadir Sharif. "You suggested this. You brought me here. What the hell is this for? I could have returned to Agra, or even stayed with the hunt."

  "You're a perceptive man, Ambassador." Nadir Sharif smiled and looked up at the moon. "But as far as I know, you're here entirely by coincidence. I cannot be responsible for anything that happens to you, or anyone you see. This is merely the hand of chance. Please try to understand."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I will see you in two days, Ambassador. Enjoy your rest."

  Nadir Sharif bowed, and in moments he and the Rajputs had melted into the moonlight.

  Hawksworth watched them leave with a mounting sense of disquiet. Then he turned and peered past the hooded figure, who stood waiting. The mosque looked empty, a cavern of flickering shadows against intricate plaster calligraphy. He unbuckled the sheath of his sword and passed it to the man as he kicked away his loose slippers. The man took the sword without a word, examined it for a moment as though evaluating its workmanship, then turned to lead the way.

  They moved silently across the polished stone floor, past enormous columns that disappeared into the darkness of the vaulted space above them. Hawksworth relished the coolness of the stones against his bare feet, then ducked barely in time to avoid a hanging lamp, extinguished now, its polished metalwork almost invisible against the gloom.

  Ahead a lamp flickered through the dark. They passed beneath it, then stopped at a closed door at the rear of the mosque. The man spoke a word Hawksworth did not understand and the door was swung open from the inside, revealing an illuminated passageway.

  Four men were waiting. As Hawksworth and his guide passed through, the door closed behind them and the men silently drew around.

  The passageway was long, freshly plastered, and floored in marble mosaic. It was cool, as though immune from the heat of the day, and scented faintly with rose incense that had been blended with the oil in the hanging lamps.

  At the end of the corridor was another stairway, again of white marble, and as they moved up its steps the man who had greeted Hawksworth extinguished his lamp with a brass cup he carried.

  Beyond the stair was another corridor, then another door that opened as they approached. Hawksworth realized they were in an upper story of a large building directly behind the mosque. They passed through the door and emerged into a room facing a balcony that overlooked the abandoned square below.

  In the center of the room was a raised dais, covered with a thick Persian carpet. The man who had been Hawksworth's guide moved to the dais, mounted it, and seated himself. With a flourish he dropped his white hood and the wrap that had been around him. Hawksworth realized with a shock that his long white hair streamed to his waist. He was naked save for a loincloth. He gestured for Hawksworth to sit, indicating a bolster.

  "Welcome, English." He waited until the surprise had registered in Hawksworth's face. "We've been expecting you, but not quite so soon."

  "Who are you?"

  "I was once a Persian." He smiled. "But I've almost forgotten my country's manners. First I should offer you some refreshment, and only then turn to affairs. Normally I would offer sharbat, but I understand you prefer wine?"

  Hawksworth stared at him speechless. No pious Muslim would drink wine. That much he knew.

  "Don't look so surprised. We Persian poets often drink wine. . . for divine inspiration." He laughed broadly. "At least that's our excuse. Perhaps Allah will forgive us. ‘A garden of flowers, a cup of wine, Mark the repose of a joyous mind.’"

  He signaled one of the men, and a chalice of wine appeared, seemingly from nowhere. "I once learned a Latin expression,'in vino Veritas.’ As a Christian you must know it. 'In wine there is truth.' Have some wine and we will search for truth together."

  "Let's start with some truth from you. How do you know so much about me? And you still haven't told me who you are."

  "Who am I? You know, that's the most important question you can ask any man. Let us say I am one who has forsworn everything the world would have . . . and thereby found the one thing most others have lost." He smiled easily. "Can you guess what that is?"

  "Tell me."

  "My own freedom. To make verse, to drink wine, to love. I have nothing now that can be taken away, so I live without fear. I am a Muslim reviled by the mullahs, a poet denounced by the Moghul’s court versifiers, a teacher rejected by those who no longer care to learn. I live here because t
here is no other place I can be. Perhaps I soon will be gone, but right here, right now, I am free. Because I bear nothing but love for those who would harm me." He stared out over the balcony for a moment in silence. "Show me the man who lives in fear of death, and I will show you one already dead in his soul. Show me the man who knows hate, and I will show you one who can never truly know love." He paused again and once more the room grew heavy with silence. "Love, English, love is the sweetness of desert honey. It is life itself. But you, I think, have yet to know its taste. Because you are a slave to your own striving. But until you give all else over, as I have done, you can never truly know love."

  "How do you think you know so much about me? I know nothing about you. Or about why I'm here."

  "But I think you've heard of me."

  Hawksworth stared at him for a moment, and suddenly everything came together. He could have shouted his realization.

  "You're Samad. The Sufi. . . ." He stopped, his heart racing. "Where is . . .?"

  "Yes, I'm a poet, and I'm called a Sufi because there is nothing else to call me."

  "You're not really a Sufi?"

  "Who knows what a Sufi is, my English friend? Not even a Sufi knows. Sufis do not teach beliefs. They merely ask that you know who you are."

  "I thought they're supposed to be mystics, like some of the Spanish Catholics."

  "Mystics yearn to merge with God. To find that part within us all that is God. Sufis teach methods for clearing away the clutter that obscures our knowledge of who we are So perhaps we're mystics. But we're not beloved by the mullahs."

  "Why not? Sufis are Muslims."

  "Because Sufis ignore them. The mullahs say we must guide our lives by the Laws of the Prophet, but Sufis know God can only be reached through love. A pure life counts for nothing if the heart is impure. Prayers five times a day are empty words if there is no love." Samad paused again, and then spoke slowly and quietly. "I am trying to decide if then is love about you, English."

  "You seem to think you know a lot about me. There's only one person who wanted me to meet you. And she was in Surat. Where is she now? Is she here?"

  "She's no longer in Surat. Be sure of that. But at this moment you are here with me. Why always seek after what you do not have? You see, I do know much about you. You're a pilgrim." He waved his hand absently. "But then we all are pilgrims. All searching for something. We call it different names—fulfillment, knowledge, beauty, God. But you still have not found what you seek, is that not true?' Samad watched Hawksworth in silence as he drank from his own wineglass. "Yes, it is given many names, but it is in fact only one thing. We are all searching, my English, for our own self. But the self is not easy to find, so we travel afar, hoping it lies elsewhere. Searching inward in a much more difficult journey."

  Hawksworth started to speak, but Samad silenced him with a wave of the hand. "Know that you will find the thing you most want only when you cease to search. Only then can you listen to the quiet of the heart, only then can you find true content." Samad drank again from his wine. "This last week you have found, so you think, your fortune. You have received worldly honors from the Moghul, you have news of imminent success for your English king. But these things will only bring you despair in the end."

  "I don't understand what you mean."

  Samad laughed and finished off his glass. "Then let me tell you a story about myself, English. I was born a Persian Jew, a merchant at my birth by historic family vocation. But my people have ignored the greatest Prophet of all, the Prophet Mohammed. His voice invites all, and I heard that voice. I became Muslim, but still I was a merchant. A Persian merchant. And, perhaps not unlike you, I traveled to India search of . . . not the greater Prophet, but the baser profit. And here, my English, I found the other thing I searched for. I found love. Pure love, consuming love. The kind of love few men are privileged to know. The love of a boy whose beauty and purity could only have come from God. But this love was mistaken by the world, was called impure, and he was hidden from me. So the only one left for me to love was God. Thus I cast away my garments, my worldliness, and gave myself to Him. And once more I was misunderstood."

  Samad paused and called for another glass of wine. Then he turned back to Hawksworth. "So I have told the world my story in verse. And now there are many who understand. Not the mullahs, but the people. I have given them words that could only come from a pure heart, words of joy that all men can share." Samad stopped and smiled. "You know we Persians are born poets. It's said we changed Sufism from mystic speculation to mystic art. All I know is the great poets of Persia found in Sufism a vehicle for their art that gave back to Islam almost more than it took. But then a poet's vocation must always be to give. I have given the people of India my heart, and they have loved me in return. Yet such love engenders envy in the minds of men who know it not. The Shi'ite mullahs would have condemned me for heresy long ago were it not for one man, a man who has understood and protected me. The only man in India who is not afraid of he Persian Shi'ites at court. And now he too is gone. With him went my life."

  "And who was that?"

  "Can you not guess? You have already met him." Samad smiled. "Prince Jadar."

  Hawksworth suddenly felt as though the world had closed about him.

  "Why did you contrive to get me here tonight?"

  "Because I wished to see you. And I can no longer walk abroad. It has been forbidden on pain of death. But death is something I am almost ready to welcome. One day soon I will walk the streets of Agra once more, for the last time.

  Hawksworth wondered if the claim was bravado, or truth.

  "But why did you want to see me?" Hawksworth studied Samad closely. Suddenly he decided to ask the question directly. "To ask me to help Jadar? You can tell him for me that I want no part of his politics. I'm here to get a trade agreement, a firman. That's my mission, why I was sent.

  Samad settled his wineglass on the carpet with a sigh of resignation. "You've heard nothing I have said. I am telling you it would be best for you to forget about your 'mission.’ Your destiny is no longer in your hands. But if you will open your heart, you will find it has riches to compensate you manyfold. Still, they can be yours only if you can know love. But now, I fear, the only love you know is self-love, ambition. You have not yet understood it is empty as mirror.

  "The world is but a waking dream,

  The eye of heart sees clear.

  The garden of this tempting world,

  Is wrought of sand and tear."

  Hawksworth shifted and stared about the room. It was darker now but several men had entered. Few of them seemed to understand Samad's Turki.

  "So what do I do now?"

  "Stay with us for a while. Learn to know yourself." Samad rose and stepped off the dais. "Perhaps then you will at last find what you want."

  He motioned for Hawksworth to walk with him to the balcony. Across the courtyard a single lamp burned in the turret of one of the buildings. "Tonight must be remembered as a dream, my English. And like a dream, it is to be recalled on waking as mere light and shadow." He turned and led Hawksworth to the door. The men stood aside for them. “And now I bid you farewell. Others will attend you."

  Hawksworth walked into the marble corridor. Standing in the half-light, her face warm in the glow of a lamp, was . . .

  Shirin.