The Moghul Hedonist

by Farzana Moon

  "Since you are in a mood to flatter the emperor, Nur, flatter him more with a goblet of wine." Jahangir's urge to drink was surfacing again.

  "Are you not drunk with the wine from my eyes yet, Your Majesty?" Nur Jahan eased herself up gracefully.

  "If I was, I would be uttering inanities. Or, was I?" Jahangir quipped brightly.

  "At times, inanities are much profound than the profundities, Your Majesty. The profundities, which fall like the pieces of a puzzle on untrained ears, or hitting one on the head who are not perceptive enough to catch subtleties in each word and gesture." Nur Jahan sailed away to fetch the most coveted flagon of wine.

  "My profound empress! You would be wise to serve the emperor quickly, before he claims your beauty to satisfy the hungers of his soul." Jahangir laughed to himself. Watching her disappear into the dressing-room.

  Jahangir was up on his feet with the alacrity of a young man, as soon as the empress had disappeared behind the sandalwood screen. He was feeling sprightful, delighted by the prospect of quenching his thirst for wine. Addicted as he was to wine and Nur Jahan, he couldn't stay away from both for long. His addictions could not be cured, his very own soul had attested to this truth which he could neither deny, nor defy. One more truth, to which his soul was shackled, was that it could not kill the memory of Anarkali. Though it had tried, inflicting the most excruciating of punishments upon itself and upon the body which held it prisoner. Even now, the same soul was pleading mercy from the beautiful dead, as Jahangir stood awaiting the nectar of oblivion. Rather surrendering to his need to receive the offering of wine and love from the hands of his living beloved. The living beloved was returning. She had filled two jeweled goblets, and was drifting toward the emperor like a wraith of light and purity.

  "Celebrating your health, Your Majesty, with the wine from my eyes and from my heart." Nur Jahan offered one goblet to the emperor. Facing him, she stood sipping her own daintily and merrily.

  "To your beauty, Love! And to your wit and youth. And to our anguished love." Jahangir drank thirstily.

  The emperor's joy was disrupted by the sound of the gold bell. Mehr Harwi, Nur Jahan's lady-in-waiting was not far behind to seek audience from the emperor and the empress. Jahangir was announcing his consent to receive her with a gesture so impatient that it could slice the thin air to smithereens.

  "Your Majesty. Padishah Begum." Mehr Harwi fell into two consecutive curtsies. "Prince Khusrau requests the honor of a brief visit."

  "He is welcome to join us." Jahangir boomed an impatient consent.

  Mehr Harwi retraced her steps, bowing and stumbling. Her satin gown, the color of citron, could be heard rustling behind the gilded portals. Nur Jahan was sinking back into her own chair, donning a mask of serenity and cheerfulness. Jahangir was standing with his back toward her. Contemplating his empty cup, as if reading his fortunes inside the chasms of emptiness. Prince Khusrau was making his appearance slowly and reluctantly. His young, handsome features were swathed in a cloak of despair, it seemed. He was dressed in all white, the pure silks accentuating his vow of misery and austerity. A green cummerbund and a matching turban were his only adornments. He curtsied gracefully, waiting for the emperor to speak.

  "Welcome, my Prince." Jahangir murmured, rather than greeted. "Are your Sanskrit studies faring well? I hear you have become quite a scholar?"

  "Not so well, Your Majesty. Not, since the death of Naqib Khan. He was my guru." Prince Khusrau appeared to protest, rather than respond.

  "Is not your ward, Rai Singh Dalan well versed in Sanskrit to tutor you further?" Jahangir's thoughts were diving into some pit of grief.

  "A little, Your Majesty. Devoted as he is to me, he is visited by melancholia these days. He thinks that soon I would be sent away somewhere, where he would not be permitted to see me." Prince Khusrau offered reluctantly.

  "Vile rumors, my besotted Prince!" Jahangir declared, flitting a glance at Nur Jahan.

  Nur Jahan was sitting there in a world of her own, her heart attentive, and her expression inscrutable. Her white profile was smooth and glistening against the flames of her red silks. Prince Khusrau also stole a glance at her, and she smiled. Jahangir had lost his chain of thoughts. He was only aware of the portrait of tragedy before him, his first-born son. His own beloved son, the victim of intrigue and rebellion. Jahangir was thinking. His own unfortunate son! Tormented by his own sufferings, and in return tormenting the emperor with his dejected looks and witless tenacity.

  "Such pallor! You are on the verge of emaciation." Jahangir began indulgently. "Do the royal cooks have dearth of delicacies to tempt the son of the emperor?" His very soul was grieving, as if he would never see his son again.

  "Confinement doesn't suit my health, Your Majesty." Prince Khusrau murmured.

  "Do you wish to ride and hunt, Khusrau Baba?" The very shadow of storm-clouds in Jahangir's thoughts had elicited this endearment, Khusrau Baba.

  "With your gracious permission, yes, Your Majesty." Prince Khusrau could barely conceal the disdain in his dull utterance.

  "With my permission, if you heed, my rebel Prince." Jahangir's ocean of love was gathering a tempest of rage and impatience. "And did you not reject the honor of marrying Princess Ladli?" He asked impatiently.

  "It is my earnest wish to save her from the unhappiness of marrying an unhappy and undeserving man." Prince Khusrau murmured wretchedly.

  "Unhappy! And why must you stay unhappy? The palace and the gardens at your disposal, and the music and the dancers!" Jahangir's rage was mounting. "And why must you dress like a minstrel? Wearing the mantle of mourning in your eyes and on your shoulders? Why can't you smile? Are the royal treasuries robbed of all the jewels that they can't lend you one small ruby or a tear-drop diamond?"

  "I covet only the jewels of wisdom, Your Majesty." Was Prince Khusrau's low response. "Against wisdom, jewels are nothing but pebbles. Glittering. Worthless.”

  "And where could you find wisdom, my prudent Scholar?" Jahangir asked.

  "Inside the hearts where love and forgiveness reside, Your Majesty." Prince Khusrau breathed low against the daggers of rage in the emperor's eyes.

  "And the emperor's heart is unloving and unforgiving!" Was Jahangir's incensed exclamation. "Begone! Begone, my unhappy, besotted Prince. The emperor can't endure the flood of misery and despair in your eyes and on your lips. You annoy the emperor. Your unhappiness is contagious." He waved dismissal impatiently.

  Prince Khusrau offered a stiff curtsy. Fleeing in haste. No word of plea or apology gracing his lips. He was vanished behind the portals like an avenging ghost.

  "The emperor is going to forbid him the privilege of such visits. The Prince is doleful and impertinent. He succeeds in plunging emperor into vilest of moods." Jahangir's fury was volcanic.

  "Prince Khusrau has been most unfortunate in choosing his friends, Your Majesty. They are the ones who tutor him in the art of rebellion. He deserves your pity, not harshness. Forgiveness too, yes." Nur Jahan pleaded, floating toward him like a beautiful dream. "And love and wisdom—" Her pleas and thoughts were silenced by an abrupt exclamation from the emperor.

  "Your royal inquisition once more, Nur? Does the emperor lack love and wisdom?" Jahangir's heart was throbbing to challenge its own rage and frenzy.

  "I didn't say that, Your Majesty!" The blue stars in Nur Jahan's eyes were twinkling protests. "Your love is bounteous and your wisdom boundless. If you were not wise, there would be no peace and justice in your empire. And if you were not loving, your wives would burn me alive on the pyre of their intrigues lit by the fires of envy and jealousy." Her wit alone was soothing the emperor’s grief and anger.

  "Your wit and beauty confound the emperor's sense of reason and justice, my Nur." Jahangir murmured with an attempt at buoyancy. "And your flattery and witchcraft." He began to laugh. "A fool in me knows, my Nur, that your wisdom and understanding alone is my talisman. And don't tell me, you are not striving to mount the rungs of enlightenment.
If you stumble in this noble quest, the emperor would not be far behind to fall into the pit of darkness."

  "No burdens of wisdom or understanding, I claim to carry on my weak shoulders, Your Majesty." Nur Jahan intoned profoundly. "Silence is wisdom, and I say too much. Nothingness is understanding and I surround myself with everything, holding on to illusion as reality. Not Knowing is the first step toward enlightenment, and I want to know the mysteries of the seven worlds—" Her thoughts were scattered by the intrusive chimes from the gold bell.

  Mehr Harwi was craving the royal couple's audience once again. This time, she was announcing the arrival of Prince Khurram. In contrast to his older brother, Prince Khurram's visit was marked by the breeze of joy and hope. He was greeted by both the emperor and the empress with cheers of welcome.

  Though bathed in the aura of warmth and sunshine, Prince Khurram sauntered into the room with the royal hauteur of a proud Assyrian. His firm nose with flared nostrils was accentuating the transparency of ivory in his features. He was wearing a jacket of brocade with jeweled flowers edged with round, smooth pearls. His eyes, the color of almonds, were liquid and bright, as if they were reflecting all the warmth of the jewels in their slanted cups. He was holding a large, glittering diamond on the palm of his hand, his fingers cupping this jewel most tenderly.

  "Ah, my handsome, fortunate son! What happy news reach out to the emperor from joy in your eyes?" Jahangir's eyes were spilling mirth.

  "A treasure of joys for you, Your Majesty, with tidings glad and comforting." Prince Khurram smiled. "But first, a rare treasure for the Empress. A gift of love from the shining abyss in my very soul." His poetic expression itself was uncurling his fingers to reveal the diamond.

  "My own treasure, my Prince Khurram! If only I could claim you, forever and forever, as my own son." Nur Jahan claimed the jewel most reverently.

  "A worthless pebble by the looks of it!" Jahangir teased. "A jeweler might cut and hone it to some semblance of perfection. Then and then only it could be worthy to grace the bosom of my empress." His eyes were kindling amusement.

  "It is perfect." Nur Jahan murmured to herself. "Love is blind to imperfections, and the gift of love is priceless."

  "Only a jeweler's skill can make it worth the prize for royalty. Otherwise, it is worthless." Jahangir intoned assiduously.

  "Even now, Your Majesty, as it is, it can fetch fifty thousand rupees, and claim its seat as worthy to be displayed before the kings." Prince Khurram laughed.

  "In fact, the emperor is jealous, Khurram Baba." Jahangir joined his son in his mirth. "Now dole out all the treasures of your glad tidings, and the emperor would try to sift jewels out of some sad-happy news which always happen to lurk in the distance."

  "May I sit, Your Majesty?" Prince Khurram drifted toward the empress' side, where she had seated herself in some daze of joy and admiration.

  "How dare you sit, my young, heedless charmer, before the emperor has not seated himself?" Jahangir sought his own gilt chair laughingly. "And leave out the perilous details out of your grand eloquence." His thoughts were melting in the poetry of joy and anticipation.

  "More so comical and pitiful, Your Majesty." Prince Khurram launched his missile of news with the élan of a happy general. "Ambar Malik, that ill-starred rebel as you remember him, Your Majesty, is totally routed and defeated. The battle was fought at Bahaman, as if the armies of light and darkness were confronting each other. Our Moghul troops were commanded by Ali Khan, Ray Chand, Beg Turkman, Bir Singh Deo, and they all displayed great valor, though the fighting was fierce. Against their might, the enemy was reduced to scattered heaps—the wounded and the dying. Ambar Malik, unable to maintain his stand at opposition, was the first one to flee to safety."

  "Ah, that black faced reptile with black fortunes following at his heels!” Jahangir exclaimed without waiting to hear more. "The emperor can picture that whole bloody scene with his mind's eye, Khurram Baba! How strange, my mind is spilling verses where blood has been spilt?

  With broken arms and loosened loins

  No strength in their feet, no sense in their heads."

  "There are hope and peace in the hearts of few, and misery and despair inside the hearts of many." Nur Jahan commented absently.

  "Padishah Begum!" One gentle protest fluttered on the lips of Prince Khurram.

  "Poetry doesn't mix with politics, that's the emperor's sad regret." Jahangir flashed her searching look. "What poetic thoughts and sadness' are stealing the sparkle from your eyes, my Nur?"

  "Not poetry, but philosophy, Your Majesty." Nur Jahan murmured under the weight of her mute profundities. "Though your couplet mingled well with war, if I may be as bold as to agree, or contradict, considering your assertion." She smiled. "I was thinking about Ambar Malik, your Abyssinian slave, Your Majesty. What irony, the emperor's own slave leading the army of darkness, if I presume right? Against the army of light, our own Moghul army, jubilant and victorious. I don't know what I am thinking, or saying?" She paused, flashing an abrupt query at Prince Khurram. "I don't like the idea of Ambar Malik's flight to safety, though. How did he escape?"

  "Padishah Begum, how can I best explain!" Prince Khurram's arms were shot up in one hopeless gesture. "If gloom and darkness had not lowered their banners at the cries of those black-fortuned ones, not one of them would have found any road to the valley of safety." His eyes now were lit up with the stars of poetry and sarcasm.

  "Oh, that poor wretch, and all those miserable fugitives!" Nur Jahan declared with mock sympathy.

  "How your sympathies split, my Empress, between the emperor and his inveterate rebels?" Jahangir mocked.

  "How can my sympathies be divided, Your Majesty, when the Prince and the Emperor, the two dearest ones to my heart, are right by my side?" Nur Jahan's sing-song voice trembled on a verge of mirth. "As for that ill-starred rebel, he reminds me of a crocodile, and my sympathies brand him as a traitor. Black as the night himself, his heart must be black too with a river of conflict so thick that it confounds his sight to discern which way his allegiance should flow?"

  "Might as well converse with the empress, Khurram Baba. Her wit and poetry in rapport with war and politics dig deep trenches inside her very veins to reach the channels of prudence and perception. All manner of intrigue or sedition crumble before the shafts of her wisdom." Jahangir suggested joyfully. "And yet, spill all your good news at once, before the emperor gets wearied of wars and rebellions."

  "Wars and conquests, Your Majesty, if that sounds more appealing." Prince Khurram obeyed with a smile most winsome. "And yet, more good news is to follow. I am saving such a one till the very end. But first, another seed of conquest. The province of Khokhar is won by the brilliant strategies of Ibrahim Khan. Darjan Sal is captured, its neighboring states succumbing and the diamond mines are in our possession."

  "So, that's from where this pebble was retrieved?" Jahangir laughed.

  "A gem of most exquisite beauty, Your Majesty, and worth many a kingdoms." Prince Khurram quipped warmly.

  "And now! Where is that gem of good news you have been saving for us as the last one?" Jahangir's tone was more of a command than an inquiry. "The emperor doesn't recall sending any more emissaries or contingents to quell the rebellions?"

  "None that I am aware of either, Your Majesty." Prince Khurram beamed. "Ah, the good news! My most beloved princess, my one and only Jahanara is now blessed with the company of a prince-brother." His features were transfigured with joy. "This very morning, Your Majesty, I held my son into my arms. The most comely prince I have not ever seen before." He could barely contain his joy.

  "Arjumand Banu, already the mother of two royal blooms." An ecstatic cry blossomed upon Nur Jahan's lips.

  "And you, my wicked Prince, what prompted you to make us suffer this delay in happiness?" Jahangir declared. "And what have you named your comely prince. Ah, my grandson, my grandson." He got to his feet, his eyes shining.

  "I am hoping for this honor from you,
Your Majesty." Was Prince Khurram's suave appeal.

  "What do you suggest, my Nur?" Jahangir sought Nur Jahan's attention.

  "I have always favored the name Dara for boys, as long as I can remember, Your Majesty." Nur Jahan offered quickly.

  "And the emperor wanted to name one of his sons, Shikoh." Jahangir reminisced.

  "Dara Shikoh, that's it! A propitious name, Your Majesty! Padishah Begum! We would name him Dara Shikoh." Prince Khurram chanted wistfully.

  "A beautiful name! Worthy of a royal prince, the son of my most beloved son." Jahangir's joy was deflated at the sound of the trumpets, blaring forth in anticipation of the court session over which he was to preside. "And if these embassies were not to pilfer the emperor's time and pleasure, he would have the grand pleasure of seeing his grandson right this minute." A mock lament escaped his lips. "Any blistering embassies, for which the emperor should be warned, Khurram Baba?" He inquired.

  "Only the ones presented by the priests, Your Majesty." Prince Khurram's expression was dry all of a sudden. "If I may suggest, Your Majesty, do not admit that maverick Englishman, Coryat, in your court. He has been acting demented lately. His eccentricities guide him to rant and blaspheme. Another one to watch, Your Majesty, is Thomas Roe. He reeks of pride, if not of bigotry." He added thoughtfully.

  "Fair warnings, fair Prince." Jahangir laughed. The next minute he was bowing before Nur Jahan, his eyes lit up with the stars of mockery and tenderness. "The prince and the emperor beg leave of the empress." With a gallant sweep of his arm he was turning away.

  "And the empress commands, Your Majesty, not to delay our royal pleasure in serving alms at the tomb of Muinuddin Chishti this evening." Nur Jahan eased herself up gracefully.

  "The prince too would offer alms at the tomb of that revered saint to celebrate the birth of his son, Padishah Begum! Whether she commands it or not." Was Prince Khurram's joyful confession.

  "Even the showers of gold and silver would not be enough to celebrate the birth of our grandson!" Jahangir's joy itself was beckoning Prince Khurram to follow him.