by Farzana Moon
"The most propitious news, Your Majesty." Asaf Khan balanced his weight on velvet seat with the delight of a favored courtier. "Under the grace of your favor, Your Majesty, the Dutch have established their first factory in Bengal in the town of Chinsura. A few miles away from the Portuguese settlement of Hugli. More trade with the Dutch will check the influence of the Portuguese, Your Majesty, and more revenues from Bengal." He concluded rather vaguely.
"The emperor's generosity was extended to the English, also. Granting them free trade throughout the Moghul Empire, including Bengal." Jahangir ruminated thoughtfully. "Not long ago, two years from hence, the English were granted free trade with Surat. They are everywhere, at the ports of Golga, Sind, Surat, Bengal and Cambaya. And our gains are less as compared to the cost of their meddling and scheming proclivities. Should we expect the same from the Dutch, Asaf, or should we hope for great revenues?" He asked cheerfully.
"Great revenues, for sure, Your Majesty, for the Dutch treaty subjects them to the needs and demands of your empire." Asaf Khan began unconvincingly. "The English were given free rein to import and export without any prohibition, resulting in less gains than anticipated. Besides, no limitations were set as to the quantity of the commodities imported or exported." His sense of buoyancy was fading as mysteriously as it had commenced.
"Then the treaties need to be improved or improvised." Jahangir helped himself to another goblet of wine from his gold flagon. "The empress knows about each treaty from its seed to its blossom, fair or cankerous." He turned toward Nur Jahan, capriciously. "What do the English covet the most in Hind, my empress?"
"Besides gold and jewels, Your Majesty, they seek the calicoes of Golconda." Was Nur Jahan's merry response. "If one could divine the secrets in their hearts, they might be longing for the empire itself?"
"And, the emperor is concerned only in protecting his empire from the disloyalties of Baidaulat?" Jahangir's gaze was returning to Mutamid Khan, and back to Asaf Khan. "I wish to dictate my letter to Prince Shah Jahan in your presence, Asaf, and you will be the messenger of our reconciliation." He murmured as if to himself.
"I am much favored by your kindness, Your Majesty, and would be honored to bear such tidings of peace to my son-in-law." Asaf Khan murmured back.
"Be quick, Mutamid Khan. The emperor doesn't wish to dwell on this subject much longer than need be." Jahangir fixed his attention to his royal scribe. Coaxing his thoughts with a draught of wine. "In response to Prince Shah Jahan's appeals, the emperor consents to forgive, depending upon his total obedience. He must never step foot in Agra, even with the intention of seeing the emperor, unless summoned. He is to surrender his claim on the forts of Asir and the Rhotas. He is commanded to send his sons, Prince Aurangzeb and Prince Dara Shikoh to our palace at Lahore. After all the conditions are met, he will receive final pardon, and will be allotted the government of Balaghat as his own kingdom to rule and protect." He paused, his gaze feverish.
As the pause lengthened, Hushiyar Khan ventured to announce Fadai Khan. Jahangir drained his cup once more, the ridges around his lips deepening under his pencil-sharp mustache. Nur Jahan watched the emperor with bated breath, her eyes bright and shining. She was elated by the concise missive of a Farman to Prince Shah Jahan. Asaf Khan was unhappy, barely concealing his misery against the mask of a thin smile. Fadai Khan was approaching the throne as if spurred by fate.
"Your Majesty." Fadai Khan offered a lengthy curtsy.
"What feat of bravado brings you to our court this early?" Jahangir's gaze was piercing. "You were not expected here till we were ready to leave for Kashmir?"
"As commanded by you, Your Majesty, I was to report the imprisonment of Mahabat Khan's son-in-law as soon as he was brought to Agra." Fadai Khan confessed quickly, his look pleading and befuddled.
"Then Khwaja Burkhudar, if that is the name of that wretched bridegroom, is he lashed and chastised as commanded?" Jahangir's gaze was sad and feverish.
"Yes, Your Majesty. His hands are tied behind his neck and he is taken to prison under the care of our royal guards." Fadai Khan murmured hastily.
"Is the emperor's Farman delivered into the hands of Mahabat Khan, stating that he is to leave for Bengal immediately?" Jahangir asked with the abruptness of an inquisition, as if he had seen the shadow of vile import in Fadai Khan's eyes.
"Yes, Your Majesty, he received your Farman." Fadai Khan gasped for breath. "Another reason, Your Majesty, why I came early. Mahabat Khan craves your audience before he—" His words were choked by the kindling of rage in the emperor’s eyes.
"That vile traitor! How dare he defy the emperor's orders? Was he not commanded explicitly to depart, and not to plead for an audience?" Jahangir's look was savage. "Has he quaffed the waters of immortality, that he dares cross the breach of etiquette, invoking the emperor's wrath? Is he not aware that he is charged with fraud and embezzlement during his campaigns against Prince Shah Jahan? Are the laurels of his victories not stained with greed and treachery? Is he not ashamed that he gave his daughter in marriage to Khwaja Burkhudar without the consent of the emperor?"
"He is, Your Majesty, he is." Fadai Khan murmured. The look in his eyes revealing more than he could voice.
"Then why, in God's name, Fadai Khan, he is seeking the emperor's audience at the peril of his own life?” Jahangir's anger was accosting the flames of impatience.
"He has the support, Your Majesty—another reason for such a request." Was Fadai Khan's flustered response. "Prince Perwiz does not wish to part with Mahabat Khan, Your Majesty."
"Another rebel Prince! Following in the footsteps of Baidaulat?" Jahangir's eyes were flashing fury and impatience. "Jahan Lodi is already on his way to replace Mahabat Khan. Tell my charlatan of a prince that he must gird the mantle of obedience, if he wishes not to share the fate of his rebellious brother." He commanded, dismissing all with a wave of his arm.
The emperor was getting to his feet, while this vast chamber was being vacated by all in a flurry of obedience. Jahangir was assisting Nur Jahan to her feet. His expression was changing from one of flashing anger to that of tenderness, as if no raging storm had ever alighted there to rule over his senses, gentle or capricious. Nur Jahan accustomed to such stormy moods of the emperor could not be mistaken that that rage was the child of his own anguished heart, and that this tenderness the bloom of his fantastic imagination fanned by the scent of a memory, greeting Anarkali. And for once, she was not sad to walk in the shadow of Anarkali. The dearest of her wishes were fulfilled by the emperor's Farmans and commands, and she was grateful. Prince Perwiz, lately swollen with pride, was to be brought to his senses by these recent commands of the emperor, and her heart was comforted. Prince Shah Jahan, the paragon of pride and arrogance, had become the rightful heir of emperor’s disfavor. Mahabat Khan would slough off his own load of ambition inside the jungles of Bengal. Prince Shahryar was the uncontested victor to reach the throne of Moghul legacy!
The emperor was slipping his arm around the waist of his empress with tenderness akin to reverence. Murmuring endearments and leading her toward the bedroom in rose and ivory, where no court intrigues could ever reach them. They were entering their Eden, half Eden, if it could be compared with the Eden in Kashmir.
"Our Eden, Nur. The scent of Kashmir is in your hair." Jahangir could barely breathe. He was leading Anarkali into the nuptial chamber of his lost paradise. "Your lips, your eyes, my desire—love! Must taste surfeit before this long, long journey to Kashmir. The cool, fragrant valley, your body, this scent of Kashmir, what witchcraft is seducing my heart—"
"I am wearing the Attar of Roses, Your Majesty. The only scent which I always wear." Nur Jahan was laughing. Painfully. Hysterically.
16
Farewell to Kashmir
The Attar of Roses floating in the bathtub like the limpid agates, was drugging Nur Jahan's senses to peace and oblivion. Her eyes were closed, smoothly and hermetically. She was immersed deep into the jade pool of a bathtub, luxur
iating in the sense of bliss and solitude. The scent of Kashmir was in her body and soul. It was seething deeper and deeper into her psyche in swift, quicksilver waves, charged with the currents of beautiful memories. With her practiced skill in loving, she had learned to arrest life's treasures where the emperor's nearness alone could dissolve her pains and fears into the bubbles of time.
Nur Jahan, though holding on to the strings of bubbles in her mind, was aware of the beauty and serenity of this great bath. This spacious bathroom on the fourth storey of this palace in Kashmir was her haven and her sanctuary. Here, she could feel rested and absolved. Resting from fatigue and weariness of the royal burdens and intrigues. And feeling absolved from all anxieties of the royal household, which could never fail to hound her wherever she went. Her eyes were opening slowly and dreamily. The marble floor with blue and turquoise tiles was expanding before her sight like a vast ocean. The small recesses with the inlay of mother-of-pearl were furnished with candles, absorbing colors from damasked walls and attaining the hues of sea-shells. The blue and gold canopy overhead was absorbing her attention, though her mind was still intent in watching the ebb and flow of the bubbles quaint and luminescent. She could see the bubbles bursting in her head, more following their lead in clear, floating mists.
Nur Jahan, in utmost repose of her body and mind, was letting go of all the bubbles. She has the body of a Nereid, her thoughts were murmuring compliments. With her flaxen hair hugging her breasts and a few gold strands tracing down her snow-valley, she seemed oblivious of her repose and beauty. Her one arm was poised on the curve of the jade tub, and the other languishing on her flat belly, artistically smooth and listless. She was foundering into the delicious deeps of the mad, mad hours spent with the emperor, where his passion knew no boundaries. He would not let go of her, the bubbles in her head were creating a riot, and swelling without bursting. She could feel the rapier of his maleness piercing her time after time, as if he was making up for the loss of love sublime and love unattainable after centuries of denial and suffering.
Indeed, I have learned to live in the shadow of Anarkali. The riot of bubbles in Nur Jahan's thoughts was seeking turbulent depths. Can death ever be sundered apart from life? No, it lives, again and forever. In us, in every cycle of life and death. The orgy of bubbles in her head was swollen and menacing. I am the beloved, and Anarkali, the unloved shadow. The emperor loves a shadow! Reaching out to her through me, and loving me instead. Can I kill this shadow? Mangle its beauty, sever its head from its pretty shoulders. Reduce it to a lump of deformity? Where is my shadow? Is someone out there yearning to love—my shadow? To embrace it, to annihilate— The bubbles in her thoughts were clashing with each other. Swollen and undying.
Nur Jahan was gliding her back up against the slippery jade, feeling the mists in reveries inside her very limbs and thoughts. The bubbles inside her head were an entire universe by itself, reflecting beams upon beams of light, yet touching only the heart of banality and insignificance. This afternoon rife with passionate bliss was the foremost bubble of reality in her head, perched right on top of the other bubbles of equal passion and tenacity. All were caught into the mist-frame of three months where Kashmir alone could welcome and entertain them with the breath of reality.
Since their arrival in Kashmir, Jahangir himself was caught into the mists of longings, lavishing all his time and energies in exploring the heart of the valleys. Whether hunting or visiting his gardens, he would not rest until forced by the intrusions of his own illness', unwelcome and unpredictable. His illnesses had been few and sporadic fortunately, during this whole span of one year, and even those could not deflate his ardor to hunt and explore. At times, he would venture out with only a handful of courtiers, and wander far and deep into the valleys rugged and dangerous. Then upon returning to the palace, he would entertain the ladies of his harem with anecdotes wild and astonishing.
Nur Jahan, while bathing, was not recalling those anecdotes, but the delightful afternoons sweetened with love and passion. She was sitting up in the bathtub, her thoughts floating upstream into the tunnel of her consciousness. Her very senses were tasting the wild abandon of more than a dozen afternoons under the canopy of three month sojourn in Kashmir, when the emperor's love were hers and hers alone. After his recovery from each illness, it had happened thus without fail, that Jahangir would retire to his own chamber and would sleep till late. Nur Jahan, of course, was his inseparable companion. In fact, both would wake up late in the afternoon with no fear of intrusion, for those were the emperor's strict orders before retiring to his chamber. Upon waking on such afternoons, the emperor in return, would obey only the commands of his own desire. Such terrible hungers would goad his desire then that he would not tire of making love, or noticing the shades of dusk welcoming another evening. Wanting more and more, till Nur Jahan's pleas and groans could whip him apart from his desire and implacability. She too could want more, clinging to this passion as much as he did, but always fearing for his health and sanity.
The bubbles in Nur Jahan's head were bursting now, and melting into the stream of her repose and awareness. They were lancing no wounds, and dissolving into nothingness. Prince Shah Jahan was in perpetual exile. Mahabat Khan was suffering disfavor and disgrace. Prince Perwiz was nursing his pride with the rivers of sweet-scented wines, and enjoying his drunkenness. Prince Shahryar was healthy and affable, and hoping to be the only heir to the throne of Hind. Ladli Begum, the joy of Nur Jahan's heart, Princess Arzani, her granddaughter, and of course, Prince Shahryar, all was in Kashmir. Sharing the bounties of the emperor's favors, and of her loving indulgences. An overpowering sense of fatigue was holding Nur Jahan’s thoughts into pincers of awareness all of a sudden. She was not the youthful goddess of ageless time, but a lonesome woman! Only one year away from half a century, and feeling frail and vulnerable. Tasting the soot of age and time. Utterly alone and forlorn. Totally and absolutely lonesome. The age unutterable! The time unfathomable.
Jahangir seated in his chamber adjoining this sumptuous bath, was feeling no such pangs of loneliness, which were visiting Nur Jahan. He was seated in his gilt chair, reading The Rose Garden by Saadi. Divinely content, and feeling a subtle presence inside the altar of his very soul, where no one could enter but Anarkali. More than half a century old himself, precisely six years over fifty, he was neither feeling the burden of those years, nor the weight of his illnesses. The mirror in his mind was reflecting only his youth, and his gluttony to pain and suffering. He was a young prince, in love! In love with the only woman he could possibly love and worship, Anarkali herself. Anarkali had never died? How could she when she lived inside him?
Some sort of bliss-madness was shining in Jahangir's eyes, as he kept reading the works of Saadi. His thoughts were holding not the words, but their cadences, deep and enigmatic. Slowly and thoughtfully, his sight was absorbing the words. One bold quatrain on the illumined page was arresting his attention.
Of what use a dish of roses to thee
Take a leaf from my rose garden
A flower endures but five or six days
But this Rose Garden is always delightful
This quatrain of Saadi was transporting Jahangir into his palace garden overlooking the Mansabal Lake.
Lalla Rookh's Garden, Dorogha Bagh! Why didn't I name it Nur Bagh, or Anar— Jahangir's thoughts were frolicking all of a sudden. A beautiful garden jutting out into the lake like some great high-decked galleon. His thoughts were envisioning this garden where his wives were planning a farewell feast this evening.
A night of feasting with song, music and dancing, more for the entertainment of the ladies themselves, than for the pleasure of the emperor. Jahangir’s thoughts were bidding another farewell to Kashmir. This time, not pressed by betrayals and rebellions of his family and friends, but by his need to visit Kabul, the land of his ancestors. Kabul, the home of the Moghuls! Jahangir's thoughts were mocking his own decision to visit Kabul. But he could not help making such a de
cision, anticipating the scent of homecoming, longing for the welcoming arms of Kabul. Kabul, the Jerusalem of Hind! Was it prudent to visit this Jerusalem of his ancestors, when that time could be spent in the Eden of his desire, Kashmir, Kashmir?
Kabul, Kashmir! Are both not the reflection of one paradise, born one after the other? And many more such paradises sprouting elsewhere in lands remote and unexplored? Jahangir's thoughts were peering into darkness.
He abandoned the book on his rosewood desk, and got to his feet involuntarily. In conformity with his mood and nostalgia, he was wearing the old crown of his late father, given to him as a token of peace, stability, happiness. This gold crown had twelve points, each point balancing a large diamond on its head. The base of this exquisite crown was studded with pearls and rubies in clusters of ten each to vie with the diamonds at twelve points. The large diamonds were sparkling vividly against the shafts of sunshine, as he stood demurring by the window. His features were gaunt with the transparency of silk, matching the pale silks on his royal person. He was turning slowly and thoughtfully to absorb the essence of this room as if he had not ever seen it before.
The paintings in gilt frames were large and alluring. The high bed with a canopy of lace and brocade was hiding its satiny comforts under the coverlets of chintz and velvet. The jade and crystal vases on the mantel were holding a medley of jafari and hyacinth blooms. Jahangir's feet were digging deep into the silk-wool rug as he began to pace slowly and thoughtfully. Age had not marred his youthful features with wrinkles, though sadness was etched deep into his eyes. Both he and the empress were blessed with the amrita of youth in their veins, it seemed, keeping them young forever and everlastingly. Only a few times within the past years when the ravages of age could be seen visiting him, were the times when his eyes were puffed and his face bloated by the affects of drunkenness. Not that he had stopped drinking, but the wine seemed to have lost its potency. He was drinking as usual, now and forever, more heavily at times, and restraining only under the siege of his illnesses. The wine was diluted of course, but he was wont to drain it quickly without savoring its taste. The ocean-thirst need inside him demanded goblets of wine, and he had yet not discovered that it was diluted.