Reflections: Shadow Princess

To the uninitiated, Shadow Princess, is the third book in a series that fictionalizes some of the powerful, albeit, hidden personalities of the Mughal dynasty. The first two books - The Twentieth Wife, and The Feast of Roses, narrate the colorful life of one of the most influential and impressive women of the Mughal Empire - Jahangir’s twentieth, and most beloved wife - Nur Jahan (or Mehrunissa). In this third book, Shah-Jahan (Jahangir’s rebellious son) is the sovereign ruler of the Mughal lands, who is shattered at losing his dear wife, Mumtaz Mahal (Arjumand). He struggles to cope with his heartbreak, and diverts his sorrow to the construction of the most spectacular tomb for her - the Luminous Tomb (or the Taj Mahal). At his time of distress, he banks on his strong and clever daughter, Jahanara, an uncanny reminder of his wife. Shah Jahan’s dependence on Jahanara is so immense, that the pristine and loving bond between father and daughter gets besmirched due to treacherous rumors. Yet, the bond never wanes, and Jahanara resolutely stays by her father’s side, till his demise. Although Jahanara has receded into the shadows of history texts, this book pulls her out and spills out her story.

Although I read the first two books last year, I had no curiosity or interest in reading the third (and I think, final) book of the series. The deceit and greed of the Mughal time period tired me. I knew what to expect from this book - the repeat of events. Greedy Aurangazeb snatches the throne, imprisons his ill father and kills his brothers. History surely repeated in the Mughal dynasty. However, what re-piqued my interest was the last book I read - The Enchantress of Florence. Salman Rushdie’s descriptions of the Mughal era made me thirsty for more, and who else but Indu Sundaresan can deliver astounding descriptions of Mughal life.

And so, I grabbed this book. The writing quenched my thirst suitably - more than adequately. Almost beyond the point of satiation. I think Indu Sundaresan has mastered the art of writing about the Mughal era - her words are poetic, romantic, and extremely elegant and beautiful. Her florid writing seems to make any scene, even the most mundane, scintillating and interesting. This is partly due to the artistic and poetic touch she gives to every detail - be it a landscape, a person, a building, a tiny artifact. Particularly, her prose shines with the meticulous details she carefully and artfully uses to describe the Taj Mahal, and its construction. I am a person who usually never pays attention to details (well almost, never). I gather the big picture and then move on. But writers like her, kindle the romantic poet in the reader. The words make us skew our rigid (boring) perspectives just a little; to slant our eyes to see the cast of colors and shadows thrown by a plain oil-wicker lamp, or to squint at the afternoon sun lighting up a garden in a million different shades.

So yes, having dedicated a whole effusive paragraph to the writing, let me get to my quibbles. I hate that I’m starting to sound like a pompous, pretentious, know-it-all book critic, but I have to say that while the writing was impressive, it didn’t capture the characters or the story well. Jahanara was described almost identical to how Mehrunissa was. I find no difference between the characterizations of the two women - both were smart, strong-willed, beautiful, influential, and bold enough to go against tradition and create scandals. If at all someone clipped a section from one of the books and asked me to identify the woman being described, I would be at a loss. Almost all the characters had the same “voice” of the narrator - all their dialogues were erudite and poetic, and it was unrealistic to me. There was no distinct characterization, except probably for Aurangazeb; even Shah Jahan started resembling Jahangir.  This might partly be due to the domination of third-person narration in the book. This may have still not been problematic had the narration not focused excessively on the romantic details. The story itself was like a small fruit, sitting inside layers and layers of flowery, extravagant husk. For instance, the description of Jahanara walking down a corridor in the palace easily ran up to (and sometimes more) than two whole pages, while Aurangazeb’s final coup and displacement of Shah Jahan and his brothers, also comes to around two pages. Since there was so much narration and little dialogue or interactions in comparison, parts of the book sounded like a history text - a lyrical one, though.

Despite my quibbles, I surely appreciated reading about Aurangazeb and Jahanara. Until now, I hadn’t paid attention to the fact that Aurangazeb was a staunch Muslim, who went against the principles of tolerance and secularism that his predecessors had embraced. In stark contrast, Jahanara was ahead of her times, well read and balanced in her views. However, it is ironical that Aurangzeb, a man who was so steeped in social and religious propriety, committed categorically callous and amoral deeds by killing his own brothers and snatching the Empire from his ailing father.

Digested Thoughts: It was interesting to read about Princess Jahanara, and the construction of the Taj Mahal. Indu Sundaresan’s writing is always a treat, but I wish the lovely writing was wielded to give more depth and flair to her characters and the historical events. 

 

Reflections: The Enchantress of Florence

A man with cascading yellow-colored hair, donning a multicolored leather coat, strides confidently into the lavish court of the great Mughal emperor, Akbar. He calls himself by many ambiguous names, charms the emperor with his wit, his pleasing scent, and his mysteriously magical stories. At a time when the Emperor is longing for company, and for intellectual discussions on religion and life, the questions of which were stirring his soul, the yellow-haired man makes himself the Emperor’s listening board and confidante. He soon earns the name, “Mughal of Love”. Yet, Akbar’s mind is not at peace, for this strange man was slowly unwrapping a story about his grand-aunt, Babur’s bewitchingly beautiful sister, the supposedly banished princess, the enchantress, Qara-Koz. The implications of the story were profound - it meant that the strange man in multicolored clothes, bearing an Italian name, could be a half-Mughal. The weight rested on Akbar to cull the truth from the story.

The book is no doubt, alluring. It crafts an incredibly imaginative story, combining fact with fiction in a way nobody would have previously considered. The woman who was cast away from the Mughal lineage finds her way to Florence, Italy, after passing hands from the Shah of Persia, who had earlier captured her and her sister as conquests of war. This enchantress, Qara Koz, lights a flame within the hearts and minds of the people of the Mughal land. Merely through a story, whose truth nobody could ascertain, the persona of the enchantress creeps into people’s lives, making them curious, cautious, anxious, jealous, suspicious, and venomous. A mere wisp of a thought floating from a story, had the power to corrupt and fascinate. The Emperor is however, obsessed. He passionately adores his grand-aunt, completes missing gaps in her life and personality, and gives life to the figment of his imagination. To him, she soon started to exist in life, much like his other imaginary, but most beloved wife, Jodha.

This, in essence, is the main take-away from the book. Akbar’s imagination, and the will of his thoughts were so strong and vivid, that he could give life to a fragment of his thoughts. Reality blurred with illusion, the boundaries bled into each other and reversed roles. That which is real, fades away in the background, while the illusion, comes alive. It might seem silly and hallucinogenic, but that’s how most of us live our lives. We selectively snatch aspects of reality and ignore several others. We form a cohesive story out of the little bits of reality we piece together, extend and complete the missing pieces with a favorable, imaginative bent. Once the will of our imagination solidifies, we become blind to reality itself. This is how half-baked, rigid opinions are formed, and then stagnate, impervious to any form of rational intrusion. This is also how  most of our likes and dislikes of people are born.

Surely interesting. However, as an anticlimax, Rushdie’s words were not as layered or deep, and I didn’t  have to wait till the end of the book to glean this. The symbolism or message, so to speak, was obvious from the first few chapters of the book. I relished these initial chapters, and even thought so far as to consider this as one of the best books I would read. But, a huge but at that, I was disappointed. The story meandered far too much. It was convoluted and bizarre, but didn’t convey much, or so I think. There was plenty of potential in the initial part of the book - wonderful questions on God, Religion, reality and the Human Ego, that Akbar muses on. But sparing a few wise sentences, none of the questions were developed or integrated into the story.

The book also hints at the need for tolerance between cultures. The story highlights Akbar’s tolerance and openness (specifically, between the East and the West). Akbar viewed the integration of new ways of thinking and living to be paramount for the development of the human race. Rushdie fabulously portrays Akbar’s progressive attitude. His personality was sketched well, and the Mughal Empire was tantalizingly described and brought to life.

I never thought I would say this, but Rushdie’s prose was a delight to read. I finally understand why he is extolled for his word-plays. His sentences are simple, yet complex, sparse, yet lush. Although I lost interest in the story, I latched onto the book to read the prose. Of course, I also harbored some measure of curiosity to learn how the story ended, if at all Rushdie had a surprise waiting there. But there was none, or so I think. I can never be sure after reading Rushdie’s books.

Digested Thoughts: It is worth reading the first 100 pages of the book - for the clever writing, and the threads of wisdom and wit. Beyond that, I found the story stretched out and without much meaning. Qara-Koz’s tale was enigmatic, and incestuous. I don’t understand the need for, and the import of the latter part. So, in comparison to Rushdie’s other works, I would rate this book as surely not as interesting or deep. If you’ve read this book, please share your thoughts and educate me on the other aspects I’ve missed. 

 

Reflections: The Feast of Roses

The Feast of Roses is a sequel to The Twentieth Wife. Both books bring to life Empress Nur Jahan and the trials and tribulations of the Mughal dynasty. The Twentieth Wife told the story of the rise of Jahangir after Akbar's demise, of Mehrunissa (Nur Jahan), her long romance with Jahangir, and the culmination of her marriage to him as his twentieth wife. Its sequel narrates Empress Nur Jahan's swift rise to power against envy and hatred in a man's world, and her eventual fall from her pinnacle after Jahangir's death. History leaps off the pages and comes alive, entrapping the reader in a bygone era, where power and wealth blinded people, when a Mughal woman ruled a vast empire with an iron fist, where life everyday was a calculated game of revenge, manipulation and diplomacy, so much so, that even kinship was brutally disregarded for kingship. Despite the beautiful prose embellishing and romanticizing the events and the characters, the bitter taste of a callous dynasty lingers.

Indu Sundaresan has to be commended for her efforts at dusting the pages of History and polishing the multiple facets of Nur Jahan. Jahangir was enamored by her, loved her so much that he, a Mughal Emporer, trusted his Empire in her hands. Veiled and hidden behind a lattice screen, she intelligently ruled the Empire, squashing all her adversaries in shrewd battles of manipulation. So much manipulation startles me, and the meager exercise of reading about them fatigues me. But these are the men and women who have left their marks on history, immortal for centuries to come. It's a sad fact that Nur Jahan abused many of her powers, her pride and temper interfered and resulted in impulsive and bad decisions, that towards the end, it feels fit that she was brought down from her seat of arrogance. On the other hand, one can't completely blame her, for she was in the heart of a jungle, surrounded by treacherous people, all intent on somehow clambering towards the throne. She could trust no one, not even her own brother. The game of survival had to be played with equal measures of cruelty and tyranny. And it's impressive that Nur Jahan could play such an aggressive game, that too having not been trained in any way.

With Nur Jahan's fall came the ascent of Shah Jahan, as the Mughal Emperor to take over Jahangir's place. It's aggravating that history repeated itself over and over again in the Mughal dynasty. Every son hatching a plot to secure the throne at the expense of his brothers, cousins and own father, is appalling. Indu Sundaresan burnished the character of Prince Khurram (Shah Jahan) and made him valiant, compassionate and like-able in the beginning of the book, but no matter how craftily she weaved the story, he invariably soiled as a despicable Prince who mercilessly instigated so many murders within the family, to capture the crown. And I know that his son Aurangzeb, administered on his father and brothers, equally horrible treatments to grab the throne. Some karmic cycle, with each son trying to overthrow his father and murder and imprison his brothers to amass power. Despite the strict adherence to religion, where was the spiritual/moral grounding on all these princes?

The whole era was burgeoning with so much wealth and greed, attracting the British and Portuguese who acted like ants scrambling towards mounds of sugar. Jahangir managed to deflect the British requests for treaties, but we all know how things turned out later. It's frustrating that so much wealth was squandered and lost under profligate monarchs. Although it was a treat to read about the extravagance of that era, the cloying materialism gets to the reader; that even the Taj Mahal fails to impress me as a monument dedicated to love. Shah Jahan wanted to be immortal, to be known and be praised as an Emperor who built an exquisite and opulent tomb for his wife. If Shah Jahan really were such a sensitive person to recognize and appreciate love, he wouldn't have committed such heinous crimes against his own family. An Emperor needs to assert his mark in more than one way, and Shah Jahan did so.

Well, enough of me and my idealism. One cannot change history, but the book vividly plays out the events and gives dimensions to the important characters, while nurturing awe and bitterness.

Reflections: The Twentieth Wife

I belong to the fraternity that shirks History. If you were part of the generation of textbook-burdened-school-goers from India, you will (probably) share my sentiments of dreading a Social Science/History exam. The most stressful periods of my school life were rampantly dominated by such exams and quizzes. With an examination system that encouraged rote memorization of the book from cover to cover, I was left palpitating at the mere sight of a History textbook. I toiled to remember all the ridiculously long and confusing names of Kings, Queens, Princes, and Princess, the plethora of conquests, wars and revolutions, the huge arrays of dates associated with numerous occasions etc, while unfortunately I missed the big picture of the fascinating tales and their repercussions on our present generation. After a few days of cramming information, my memory would typically burst and ooze with facts, all of which I would furiously dump on my exam paper, and leave the hall with a light head. Needless to say, I am therefore pathetic with History, probably to an embarrassing extent. Until last week, if you had (cruelly) decided to wake me up in the middle of the night and ask me, "Name one son of Akbar's", I would have likely blinked at you a couple of times, tried to ascertain that you are no phantom and then mumbled, "Birbal?" Seriously.

So, when I was approached with a book based on Nur-Jahan, a historical-fiction revolving around the Mughal dynasty, all my bitter memories from school came flooding back and I steadfastly refused to give the book a try. But, after a lo-ot of reassurance and high praises for the book and the author, I was babied into eventually reading it, and even appreciating it. I now look forward to reading its sequel and if you shuffle me out of bed with the question, "How is Ali Quli and Ghias Beg related?", I would confidently prattle on. That should suffice to give one an idea about the book if it can cause such drastic changes in someone who only had a vague memory of who Jahangir was.

The Twentieth Wife is an engaging read on the life of Mehrunisa (Nur-Jahan), her long, intermittent, torrid yet unfulfilled romance with Salim (Jahangir), her inexplicable bewitchment over his passions for her, and her eventual rise to power as Jahangir's most favorite and powerful wife. Through Mehrunisa's story, Indu Sundaresan weaves in the revolutions that hacked the Mughal Empire, with sons callously clamoring for the throne, unmindful of battling their own father and brothers, of all the treachery and hankering for power, the politics, and the insidious ploys manipulating women as pawns in a merciless game. All the major events chronicled in the book are facts recorded by historians. The only fictional elements are the imaginative interpretations of the characters' day-to-day life, and the fabrication of how the romance between Mehrunisa and Jahangir bloomed and came into fruition.

The book transports us to the era of monarchy and opulence. The culture of the Mughals, their traditions, and practices adds a crucial dimension in understanding the various power-ploys. In a culture that granted immeasurable power to the Emperor and only to the Emperor, where everyone around him had no choice but to bend and dance to his whims, on some level we can empathize with all the characters' constant struggle to establish some freedom and identity. I could especially sympathize with the hundreds of women in the Royal harem, whose only goal in life was to please the Emperor, and secure a son through him to firmly establish themselves as someone to be respected. A woman hardly had any respect if she was not lucky enough to be the Emperor's favorite wife or concubine. In such a hostile place, where every woman carefully guarded her youth and beauty, where fathers shamefully displayed their daughters, vying for them to be a royal concubine to somehow enter the palace, and where the women hatched ploys and cunning tricks to keep themselves above the rest, Mehrunisa almost effortlessly grabbed the coveted position amidst all the numerous oppositions. The materialism, shallowness and the ruses of the jungles of the harem, are sickening, yet make for an absorbing read. Within this context, it is all the more fascinating to read about the life of this powerful woman, who practically ruled the heavily patriarchal dynasty. I am yet again thankful to be born in this era,  and living in a democratic society that supports female empowerment.

I had always seen Jahangir cast in a reproachable light. All I remembered from school was the cruelty he meted out to his own son and his father, all in greed for the throne. But Sundaresan presents the story from the perspectives of the characters, employing some literary license to soften the jagged edges of the unpalatable truth. Jahangir emerges as a valiant hero, who, despite his misgivings, is a kind-hearted virtuous man, pushed to perform cruel acts because of the confluence of ill-advisers and his passion to rule the Empire. Indu Sundaresan brings out the conflict of emotions that Akbar and Jahangir go through in the throes of the revolts - the mixture of love and frustration tainted with anger and wrath of betrayal; crushingly disappointing, and unbelievably infuriating. It raises interesting questions on whether it is unrealistic to expect a bond between fathers and sons when there was hardly any interaction between the two for a bond to form. In that era, Princes were raised by servants and queens, many times not even by their own mother.

Indu Sundaresan's writing serves as the most alluring component of the story. Her lyrical prose sets a captivating story flowing. I would highly recommend such books to young students who have a distaste for History. It has definitely piqued my interest to learn (or re-learn) Mughal history, this time being enthralled with the whole experience.