by Farzana Moon
"We are planning to march in that direction, Your Majesty, even before Prince Shah Jahan could think of stirring." Mahabat Khan was quick to inform.
"And does he?" Was Jahangir's explosive inquiry.
"Not for a long, long time, Your Majesty. He has made Golconda his home." Mahabat Khan murmured reluctantly. "A string of desertions are gnawing at the heart of Prince Shah Jahan, Your Majesty, and he will not stake the safety of Golconda till he has gathered enough alliances to challenge the imperialists."
"Then the emperor can journey to Kashmir without the fear of his kingdoms dissolving into the mists of wars." Jahangir's thoughts were straining to catch a beam of light which could lend him comfort, if not peace.
"We would guard your kingdoms with our lives, Your Majesty." Mahabat Khan vowed with a sudden burst of passion.
"With this sincere note of a promise, Mahabat, leave us." Jahangir waved dismissal. His gaze shifting to Asaf Khan. "Asaf, look to the preparations of our journey to Kashmir." His hand was reaching out for the flagon of wine.
"And who is to check the intrigues of Ambar Malik?" Nur Jahan shot this inquiry at no one in particular.
"Your forgetful brother, Padishah Begum." Asaf Khan murmured over his shoulders. He was leaving, followed by Mahabat Khan.
"Your Majesty, don't you think you have had enough wine for one day? What's the sense in drugging your senses?" Nur Jahan pleaded.
"You have another antidote for my sufferings, love." Jahangir sang painfully.
The emperor had filled his goblet to the brim, but his eyes were drinking pain from the pools of sorrow from the eyes of his beloved. He abandoned his goblet as if stung by the arrows of awareness. Nur Jahan’s heart was pounding, as if pleading with the emperor. Both were drifting toward each other under some spell of daze and anguish. Jahangir was kneeling before her, and kissing the hem of her dress. His lips leaving a trail of kisses on her pale silks as he heaved himself up slowly and deliriously. He was kissing her bosom, throat, lips, the tip of her nose and her hair.
"Your slave, my Pearl." Jahangir's very heart was murmuring endearments. "I love to kiss your face, your nose, each little strand of hair on your head." He folded her into one tender embrace. His barren soul searching for that loss of love, upon whose mercy its hungers could not be fed, but with the promises in dreams.
14
Glorious Kashmir on Canvas
The emperor's palace in Kashmir, on the hill of Hari Prabat, was shining like an unpolished jewel hewn out of the very bosom of the rocks. Its wooden structure was painted in hues dark and maroon, which were shimmering under the bright haze of the Sun. A myriad of windows with green awnings were almost kissing the tall cedars, as if feeling the very heart of nature with a wild abandon. Inside the palace were palatial halls, and the chambers furnished with Bokhara carpets to vie with the paintings in gilded frames. Jahangir, this afternoon, had chosen one large chamber with Persian carpets to indulge in the luxury of spending a few hours with his wives.
The emperor's health had improved since his visit to Kashmir, lending him much joy to admire the beauty of spring in his gardens. With the renewal of vigor and strength in his body and mind, he was nurturing his former tastes in being an artist and a naturalist. Happily and deliciously, forgetting about his son's schemes and rebellions, and luxuriating in the sense of hope and freedom. In fact, he was possessed by a need to arrest each grain of beauty in Kashmir on the shimmering canvases which he could carry along with him on all his journeys. Some sort of fanaticism had settled upon him to cultivate this need, since the moments of his peace in health were numbered few as compared to the onslaught of mental and physical sufferings.
Since the past two weeks, the emperor's need had become paramount in his actions and thoughts. He had commanded Mansur to paint flowers, valleys, and even the deepest of ravines with rugged terrains. Mansur had become a part of the royal household. Even this particular day, he was summoned by the emperor, to add finishing touches to a variety of his paintings under the close scrutiny of the emperor. A privilege, which Mansur himself so desired and cherished, Jahangir could tell by the intensity of his brushstrokes as the artist sat refining his masterworks. Jahangir was exceptionally buoyant this afternoon, attentive to the comments of his other wives, though Nur Jahan was still the cynosure of his attention. An astonishing sense of peace had visited him this time in Kashmir, as if Anarkali had come back to him, guiding his spirit toward joy and healing. Even leading him toward the path of love where Nur Jahan alone stood greeting him. He was drugged by the sweetness of this gentle presence. In return, bestowing this sweetness on Nur Jahan and on all his other wives.
In conformity with his mood, Jahangir was opulently dressed. A heron plume in his red turban was further enhanced by the clusters of rubies and diamonds. Rubies in his ears, and the ropes of pearls from his neck down to his waist, were adding a smooth glow to his features, which had sloughed off their bloating and swelling.
Nur Jahan too, infected by the vivacity of this spring day, was donned in red silks the color of the Himalayan tulips. Her oval face haloed by the sparkle of rubies and diamonds, appeared to glow with the luminescence of a white flame. A tiara of diamonds in her hair was shooting its own blue flames into her lovely eyes. Her wit too was shining along with her beauty this particular afternoon, as if infected by the buoyancy in nature with all its spring scents and colors. The large floral arrangements in jade and alabaster bowls had transported the glory of the garden into this royal chamber brimming with life and laughter. Nur Jahan was swooning with pleasure by the scented blooms all around her, barely aware of the scent of the Attar of Roses so munificently sprinkled on her silks. Nurunnisa, Khairunnisa, Salih Banu, Malika Jahan, Sahiba Jamali and Karamasi, among many more wives adorned with precious jewels, too, were drugged by the scented blooms of Kashmir, their spirits light and frolicking. They were luxuriating against gold and brocaded pillows, and enjoying their favorite game of cards, Chandal Mandal. Karamasi, with a subtle laughter brimming in her eyes, was watching Sahiba Jamali's concentration and reluctance in playing the next hand. But suddenly, her attention was turned to the emperor.
"Is Prince Shahryar coming to Kashmir, Your Majesty?" Karamasi Begum's light-brown eyes were sparkling like the agates.
"How can he, my love, when Baidaulat keeps testing his prowess at war." Was Jahangir's light-hearted response.
"Prince Perwiz alone can thwart the schemes of Prince Shah Jahan, Your Majesty, if you wish Prince Shahryar’s presence here in Kashmir." Sahiba Jamali murmured, her almond-shaped eyes glowing with pride at the mere thought of her valorous son.
"The Prince and the emperor then would think of nothing but of sport and hunting." Nur Jahan commented more to herself than to all the other wives so besottedly immersed in their game of cards. "Then, surely, the emperor's wives would be neglected and cast into the dungeons of silence and inactivity."
This great chamber was filled with the music of mirth from the lips of all ladies, who could not resist Nur Jahan's wit, though they could feel the fires of envy and jealousy rippling through their veins by the sheer power of her charm and beauty. Even Mansur could not restrain his smile, rather giggling to himself while adding finishing touches to the portrait of Jahangir in which the emperor was holding a glass of wine. Jahangir met the mischief in Nur Jahan's eyes, and exploded with mirth of his own.
"The emperor would rather keep company with rishis than with his own sons and wives!" Jahangir exclaimed. "Your wit shines less than your beauty, my Nur. It is quite dull as compared to the sparkle of mischief in your eyes."
The waves of mirth from the lips of the other wives were fading and dissolving. They were drawn into the enchanting circle of their own game and concentration. But Nur Jahan's mirth and mischief were settling into the luminous glow of her eyes.
"If you keep company with the rishis, Your Majesty, you might succumb to painful austerities! Hoping to attain the rank of a Brahman?" Nur Jahan quipped.
"Visvamitra, Your Majesty." Nur Jahan intoned happily. "He is the one who became the champion of Ramachandra. Sakuntala was his daughter by the nymph Meanka whom the gods, jealous of his increasing powers, sent to seduce him from his passionless life." She expounded with the passion of an avid scholar.
"You not only retain your youth and beauty, my Nur, but depths of knowledge which you gain and continue to explore." Jahangir’s eyes were shining with admiration. "By now, you must have concluded that knowledge and austerity purify the soul?"
"What of the body, Your Majesty, which hungers for food, defiling the altars of its soul with unsavory viands? Especially, with meat from the cows which are sacred to the Hindus?" Nur Jahan shot a challenge, as if anticipating an intellectual feast.
"That's why Moghuls don't eat beef." Was Jahangir's blithering response without the least hint of ideation. "Anything that is forbidden is either sanctified to be worshipped, or abhorred to be shunned as some evil plague." His blithe was gathering rags of profundity. "Before the time of Bharat, the meat of cows was permitted. And cows were even killed at certain sacrifices. The reason of their prohibition is ascribed to their unwholesomeness as food. In the hot climate of Hind, the inner parts of the cow’s body stay cold. The natural warmth is feeble, and the digestion weak. And cow's meat is unhealthy for anyone who lives in Hind. That's why the Indians invented pan filled with lime and betel-nut. A curious concoction as an appetizer, good for digestion. The betel leaf of pan inflames the body heat. The lime in the betel leaf dries up everything wet. And the betel-nut acts as an astringent on the gums, teeth and stomach."
"An emperor, who could have been a physician, Your Majesty?" Nur Jahan smiled sadly, catching the familiar look in the eyes of the emperor where Anarkali reigned supreme.
"A physician, who could never heal the ailments of his own body and soul." Jahangir smiled back. He too could not help noticing her sadness, and averted his gaze.
The emperor's heart was aflutter all of a sudden. Foundering inside some vacuums of loneliness and longings. His gaze, searching the faces and forms of his wives, and wandering aimlessly, was landing on Mansur.
"Show the emperor your great works of art, Mansur, and be rewarded if your pains are worth the prize." Was Jahangir's abrupt command.
"Your Majesty!" Was Mansur's startled response, his brushstrokes on the canvas obeying not his fingers. Abandoning his brush on the pallet, he snatched one canvas and straggled to his feet. "This one, Your Majesty, has been touched and retouched several times in a season, and needs no improvement, unless your aesthetic tastes detect some flaws?" He held out the canvas humbly.
"The glass of wine in there needs a ruby tint in its sparkling crystal." Jahangir elicited one snort of laughter.
He was holding the canvas before him with the intensity of a connoisseur, his look at once subtle and exploring. His own portrait was gazing back at him, revealing volumes of memories sweet and tormenting. The wine-glass on the canvas poised so lovingly in his hand could be seen spinning in his head like a time-clock, marking the hours of his death. But he could see no dark shadows looming against his thoughts, and he delivered this masterpiece into the hands of Nur Jahan.
"Look, Nur, isn't it a fine work of art, living and breathing? Do you think that the emperor's soul can be seen naked bleeding through these colors?" Jahangir murmured as if to himself.
"The shades in your robe, Your Majesty, match the red, red wounds in your heart, not the scars in your soul." Nur Jahan breathed intensely. "A true resemblance to your true self, no swollen eyes and no bloated features. The portrait of an emperor in good health with the stamp of regal stature and royal bearing. These ruby earrings pale before the color of your lips. This one I like better than the one with Zodiac signs in the background." Her attention was turning to Mansur, who stood there holding his breath, his gaze bright and smoldering. "An exquisite work of art, Mansur! You are a genius." She complimented profusely, returning the portrait to him.
"Show us some more, my genius artist." Jahangir commanded. "You will be rewarded with kingdoms if the emperor can yield to the wishes of the empress, which he can see brimming with gifts in her eyes." His gaze was following Mansur who was hurrying to claim and flaunt another canvas.
"It would be a blessed relief, Your Majesty, if the portraits with Christian themes in our palaces could be replaced with the portraits of the Moghuls?" Sahiba Jamali exclaimed with a sudden passion, shuffling the cards quite adroitly.
"You don't like those masterpieces, my Mistress of Beauty? Not even the ones in the palace halls at Lahore?" Jahangir asked with a tender indulgence.
"I rather prefer the one with Venus and Satyr, Your Majesty." Sahiba Jamali admitted reluctantly.
"My favorite is the one with the Countess of Somerset, where she is seated listlessly at her boudoir." Nurunnisa opined dreamily.
"Just because that lady in the portrait is connected with the murder of Sir Thomas Overbury?" Jahangir reminded her genially. "You sure are the mistress of mystery and intrigue, my love! Loving the faces of evil, and cultivating not the love for sanctity."
"She was interested, Your Majesty, only after you had told us that this same Countess was awaiting the trial of murder." Malika Jahan was laughing to herself.
"And that portrait of Shah Abbas, Your Majesty?" Khairunnisa could not restrain to parade her dislike for that portrait in this sea of criticism. "You sent Farrukh Beg, Your Majesty, all the way to Isfahan to draw and paint the face of that despotic Persian monarch. I still can't understand?"
"That face is classic, my love." Jahangir laughed. "Portrayed thus, so that the noble deceits of the Persian monarch could stay frozen in time." His gaze was returning to Mansur who was waiting for the emperor to applaud his next masterpiece.
"This one, Mansur, is the classic depiction of poetry in Art." Jahangir's gaze was lured to the painting like a magnet. "The lion is strong and ferocious. And the lamb, much too small, to dare taste the salt of mighty kingdoms." He was lost in watching his own version of the Mercator's map.
One lion was sprawled on the canvas, right across from Persia and Turkey. Pushing the poor Persian lamb into the Mediterranean.
"Another masterpiece, Nur. Should we take this one to Agra? Perhaps, to Lahore?" Jahangir was parting with this one reluctantly.
"If Thomas Roe was to see this version of the Mercator's map, Your Majesty, he would jump right past the Atlantic, hoping for the Red Sea to part and swallow him." Nur Jahan smiled. "We should hang it on the very walls of ether between sky and earth."
Jahangir was lost to the charms of the next canvas, and was not even listening. A collage of colors was glaring at him with the daggers of challenges in their eyes. This scene was depicting a large throne of the emperor. He himself was seated regally on this jeweled throne. Four holy men were seated next to him. The Sultan of Turkey had his own humble seat below this jeweled throne. James 1 of England was standing further down, quite insignificant in form and stature. The potentates of Spain and Portugal had no place on this canvas, as Jahangir had ordered, their murky forms replaced by graceful horses. He was awed, rather moved, how his orders were portrayed so beautifully with the loyalty of a soldier in the Artist. Sinewy, graceful steeds, more worthy than the kings and the sultans, Jahangir was thinking, not even aware of a thin smile parting his lips. This canvas too was relinquished to the approbation of the empress, while he himself was eager to explore the mysteries in the next one.
"A soft halo should grace the head of the emperor too." Nur Jahan was murmuring to herself, admiring the shade of each nimbus over the heads of the four holy men. Her low comment was unheard by Jahangir, whose attention could not be torn away from the next canvas.
This great painting was re
vealing the emperor's great foe, Ambar Malik, his eyes dark and profound. The Abyssinian slave was crouched, rather crushed under the weight of the globe, his eyes uplifted and his face ghastly. The scene overhead this pitiful figure was somewhat bizarre. A giant globe was resting on the back of an ox, and the ox was standing on a gold fish half the size of the globe.
"You will draw the portrait of the emperor standing on this globe, Mansur, in an act of shooting arrow at that cadaver of a foe." Jahangir sprang to his feet. His thoughts were lurching in the abyss of Deccan and falling on Baidaulat with the force of avalanches unpredictable. "A time to explore the garden in the very heart of Hari Prabat." He clapped his hands. His eyes were shining with anticipation, and his thoughts struggling to wrench themselves free from under the gliding avalanches.
"Your Majesty, Your Majesty, can't you wait? This game will be over—" Several protests were breaking forth on the lips of the emperor's wives. They did not wish to abandon their cherished game of Chandal Mandal.
"The emperor will have to wait till eternity, if he heeds the wishes of his wives." Jahangir turned to Nur Jahan, holding out his hands.
The ghost of Anarkali was present in this garden of Eden as the emperor and the empress promenaded side-by-side in utmost silence. The Dal Lake shimmering white in the distance, was fringed with saffron from shore to shore. The wooden palace in the background could be seen looming like a fortress of fire, since it was smitten red and gold by the flood of sunshine. Nur Jahan seemed to be inhaling the scent of life from each bloom and scene with a sense of wild abandon. But her senses were too keen not to notice the scent of the dead beloved throbbing so achingly within the heart of the emperor. This particular afternoon, her eyes were shining with the intensity of the blue, Peruvian nights.
Nur Jahan, though accustomed to sharing the presence of Anarkali with the emperor, had grown quite defensive and protective in her thoughts. Right now, in an effort to still her pain, she was courting the mists of illusions where her reveries could be seen crystallized. Her heart was lonesome, and the longings in there chilled, yet smoldering. She was a part of this world, yet not belonging to it. In a cosmic sense, she had begun to experience the serenity of the vast oceans inside the very bowers of her reveries. Absorbing the warmth and sunshine from without, and not knowing the turbulent depths from within. She was a part of this one great delusion, where her wit and gaiety were gifts of the subconscious, not the rewards of her labored intellect.