Excerpts...

"Was any emperor in throes of life or death ever cursed with misfortunes so great?"  one terrible wail from Shah Jahan's lips had ripped open the curtain of silence. "Look, Princess, look!  How my Taj is washing the blood-soaked bodies of our murdered princes with her own tears?  My Beloved Forever!  Her own wounds opening like the buds of perfumed roses, bleeding, bleeding?  Oh, sadness and sadness!  Grief and tragedy have tainted my Marble Dream.  Such desecration!  My Taj.  My Beloved. And yet, did she not love all her sons? And daughters too?  And the emperor, the most?  Can you see, my sweet Princess?  Look!  My Taj, suffering inside the cage of her marble tomb?  And the emperor, buried alive inside the mud of his own body? The grave of my soul, can't see, can't see?  What is this reek?  The reek of pain, not death!  My soul still suffering...and longing.  Longing for death. Union with the Beloved!  My Taj.  My bride. Are you looking, my Princess? Keep looking, and you will see.  No zeal or cruelty of the Puritan can ever Tarnish the Love in Marble.  It will bloom and frolic inside the Valleys of Time. Expanding and embracing the very heavens.  Paradise itself, I know, I know. Why are the eyes of fate mocking?  Mocking our unfortunate child? The Puritan, unblessed.  Taj. Beloved.  My own, stay, come close.  Dry your tears.  Let me gather sweetness from your lips...eyes.  You love the emperor, I know, you do?  And your royal babes?  Curse not the Puritan. Embrace the sinner, me?  Forgive, forgive.  Taj. Love divine and love supreme.  My Marble Dream.  Oh, chaste Beloved.  My very own Taj.  Noble sweetness.  Forever Mine..."  Shah Jahan's eyes were closing. "Death itself not deadly be  As to soulless life compare  Sightless my eyes shudder to see  If marble tombs to blind seem fair."  

 . . .

"If you were to borrow the design from my head, Your Majesty, it sure would turn into a traveling palace, the way it soars and drifts like some noble dream?"  Mumtaz Mahal's eyes were lighting up with dreams sweet and passionate.  "Such a palace you have not ever seen in your entire life, Your Majesty!  All marble, pure and chaste, its facade smooth and slippery, like the moonbeams, and kissing the cold white stars up in the heavens, with large, bright chambers, admitting warmth and sunshine.  White, gleaming floors, catching the molten gold of seasons all.  Tall ceilings and walls encrusted with jewel-flowers, and domes and minarets too, all gold and silver.  A palace of pure marble, how it floats in my head, as if rising on the currents of water? So calm and lovely, the silvery mists at night, and dust-gold of the Sun in the mornings!  Can you build such a palace, Your Majesty, out of my dreams?" her heart was thundering in some applause of dream-elation she had not ever felt before.     "You will live in such a palace, my Taj, not dreaming, but living in the dream-world of reality,"  was Shah Jahan's prayer-like avowal, his own heart igniting some coals of premonition.  "And what is a palace without a garden, my Taj?  The emperor would fetch one from the Paradise itself, where the houris clothed in pure gems would dance before you, and fountains spilling pearls would serenade you day and night,"  the poetry of love in his eyes was spilling songs.     "The dream-garden in my dreams, Your Majesty, though not of the Paradise!"  Mumtaz Mahal's eyes were the shining mists in dreams.  "Have I ever told you, Your Majesty, how this dream-garden haunts me in all waking, sleeping hours?  A paradise of my own with lush, emerald lawns, and the heavenly scent from rose, kunda, chamba and jasmine.  Imagine, Your Majesty, a marble palace with the garden of my dreams, I would certainly be in heaven!  With no other wish or longing, but to be with you, always, Your Majesty," her cheeks were flushed and glowing.     "Our own sacred heaven, Taj, where the flowers of God's Grace would always bloom,"  Shah Jahan murmured under some spell of awe, his eyes worshipping the beloved face of his Beloved.  "Our own haven and heaven, all so holy and serene, where we could stroll together on the cool, balmy nights, away from the clamor of looming intrigues or campaigns,"  the passionate stars in his eyes were gathering more dreams, which he himself could not fathom.

. . .

He sat riffling through the pages, bemused and exultant. "Vision of God, Dara!  Do saints and prophets really behold the face of God?"  he asked, without lifting his eyes off the book.     "How can they not, Your Majesty, when they are one with God?" prince Dara Shikoh exclaimed happily. He sank deep into the cushioned chair beside the emperor, a beatific smile playing upon his lips.  "When Aisha, Your Majesty, the Prophet Muhammed's wife asked him:  'Didst thou behold thy Lord?'  Prophet Muhammed replied, 'It is the Light that I am beholding!'"     "How the emperor's memory plays juggling tricks on its own?  Was it not written like this? 'Didst thou behold thy Lord  It is Light that I am beholding  It is Light, how can I behold it.' Isn't this a contradiction itself?"     "Not a contadiction, Your Majesty, but a Perfect Vision through the immaculate Self!  The manifestation of the miracle of our Prophet,"  prince Dara Shikoh's own eyes were shining with the light of mysticism.  "When the Self disappears from the midst, the beheld and the beholder merge in one. Then sleep, wakefulness, and unconsciousness of the Self become one, as if the internal and external eyes are one unified Whole.  Such is the state of perfect Vision of God."     "Were you not writing about the mythical journey of our Prophet to the heaven, Dara? The so-called Faithful are still in doubt concerning its literal or metaphysical context, didn't we discuss that before?"  Shah Jahan began reminiscently.  "Have you touched upon that subject on Safinat?  Or, are you still striving to prove that journey actually did take place? In that literal sense, I mean? Though many wonder, rather vacillate between literal interpretation and metaphysical Understanding?"     "Where is the wonder, Your Majesty, when the soul is subtler than air?" prince Dara Shikoh declared happily.  "It's all explained in my Safinat. You will see, when time permits you to read it. Since soul is subtler than air, there is no wonder that the famous journey to the heaven made by the Prophet was in his physical body!  And no wonder, if Jesus still lives in the heaven in his physical body.  For our souls are bodies, and our bodies are souls! Is that not true, Your Majesty?" Sufic stars were shining in prince Dara Shikoh's eyes.     "My Prince!  Sufi and a saint?" Shah Jahan murmured thoughtfully. "The complete realization of the Universal Self after the annihilation of human will before the Will of God!  Is that the quest of man to reach some ultimate goal where Divine is human, and human Divine?"     "The communion with God is dependent upon the saints, Your Majesty, that too is expounded in Safinat,"  prince Dara Shikoh began with a mystic elan. "He who has not found the Path, has not found God.  He who has found the guide, has found the path which leads to God."     "Are many not abandoned by God on this Path, my Sufic prince, when they strive toward Perfection, saints and sinners alike?"  Shah Jahan asked.     "In truth, Your Majesty, true saints need not fear such a misfortune. And God never leaves His people without saints to guide them toward Him," prince Dara Shikoh responded affably.     "Ah, my saintly prince, we must leave these corridors of theology, and wait for Mulla Shah to enlighten us.  Right now, entertain the emperor with a quatrain or two, while the emperor peruses through this Safinat of yours. Your beautiful gift!"  Shah Jahan turned his attention to the voluminous book in his lap.     "The air filled the claypot from within and without      Sound and noise vibrated from within it      When the claypot gets broken, the sound becomes the Psychic sound      Like the bubble which bursts and becomes the very ocean."

 . . .

Abhu Chand, much like the scepter of enchantment, was floating toward the platform in daze and silence.  The naked sword was still poised before him, and his eyes were shooting bolts of lightning.  He appeared more like a phantom of the night than a man sleep-walking, as if sent by the very command of God to consummate the marriage of Love with Bliss.  His own face was white and radiant. Translucent like an angel, it seemed. His eyes were bright like the crystal goblets, brimming with pale, gold wine, so sweet and sparkling.  He was mounting the steps of the platform as if surfing over the waters of the calm oceans, the gentle waves behind him lapping prayerfully to hasten this fatal journey Home without further delay. Sarmad's own eyes were beacons of joy, pouring libations of love, and welcoming the Lord of Death.  The wine of love was oozing forth from each pore in his body, not the beads of sweat, but the dewdrops of pearly dawn so eager to embrace the Light of the Day.  He seemed drunk with ecstasy, kissing the naked sword and tasting the soma of his own self-annihilation with all the joy-agony of surrender and surcease. His lips and heart, both were bruised and bleeding. But before he could lay them at the feet of his Beloved God, his thoughts were uttering one last cry of joy and pain, longing to be silenced by the promise of peace in death. "I recognize Thee my Friend  Thou hast come In the form of a naked sword  To embrace me."  

© 2000 Farzana Moon
Published by America House Book Publishers and available
at bookstores and at the publishers’ website: www.publishamerica.com

Farzana Moon is a writer, teacher and a bibliophile.  She lives in Ohio with her husband and daughter, all born in Pakistan, now US citizens.  Her writings include plays, poetry, short stories and Moghul sagas.  Some of her plays have been published in Scene4. Two previously published sagas are: Babur:  1st Moghul of India, and, Divine Akbar and Holy India.

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Winter 2001