Princess Ladli Begam's

CHAPTER IX: LOVE AND KASHMIR

A Muslim and Hindu women's caravan is due to travel to Kashmir next week. Over the course of several winters, these women sought a non-threatening peace in the north. I have known that almost everyone in Shahdara village will also go to Kashmir every winter. Hindu temples will be chock-full of incense smoke, and Muslims will chastise the mosque with the recitation of the Qur’an His Majesty. I thought that in case I could join among them, maybe for just a vacation. The days in Shahdara are drab, and there is nothing to be found except old pleasures and boring routines.

I sent a letter to Jafar when he came back, trying to know if he would join this caravan and join me there. It's gonna be a kind of secret love escape, because neither Mom nor Nazeer Khan knows about this at all. Arzani will stay, of course, because I won't let him go outside Lahore for whatever reason. Shah Jahan has locked up our entire movement here, and I wonder how I will pass a pile of guards on the northern border into Kashmir. So I tried to ask one afternoon about this, telling Mom that this empty me needed a little consolation. And I promised him I would tell him all the gardens and sarai he had built along the crossroads of the sultanate. Because I've built so many properties, but I can't touch the results at all. The letter from Jafar came to me at about the same time I asked for Mother's blessing. He agreed, he said, and I would go with his entourage as an ordinary servant, covered by a thick veil and a coat of troughs with a heavy woolen ornament. Wazir Khan has sent him as a guide for all people in Shahdara to reach Kashmir safely, for we cannot guess what kind of thief could plunder our treasure from the saddle of a horse.

So we went on the weekend. Winter has come by parading inhospitable clouds into Lahore. The clouds are gray, thick on one day, black on another. We cannot guess whether the thunder that will shake or the snow that will hit the earth is like candy flour. I left at the first dawn to come with everyone who joined. I kissed Mom's cheeks, and I hugged Arzani as hard as I could, for he was sobbing, and how much I wanted to curse the sob, and how much I wanted to curse the sob, for he has brought a marvelous hue from my daughter far away somewhere. This caravan would extend for about a few kilometers, with a whole line of men and women and children who were completely irregular, because this line was completely ungrouped, guarded only by officers of the sultanate.

Jafar rode his horse on the right side of the party. He used a specially woven wool coat, a sparkling tunic, and a turban decorated with bird feathers******blue with a red ruby garnish the size of a quail egg. I was so fascinated by her looks, I almost forgot that she was Jafah Husein, not Shah Jahan. As he sauntered, I noticed that his attention to the entourage was completely distracted by his attention to me. Every now and then, as he chanted for the rest of the company to walk or be careful on the deep piles of snow, he would walk very slowly, deliberately, waiting for me to walk right behind him. He will whisper softly, asking carefully “how are you, my Beloved?” And I always answer that question with a sentence that is not at all worrying, although my own condition is like a dead man, because my legs are numb, he said, and I often couldn't hold back the snow that was piercing under the soles of my weak feet. Jafar always avoided vulnerable places of scouts, bandits, street bandits on the cross roads of the sultanate. We rarely spoke, but I knew that he was always watching me behind his rigid behavior.

We stopped at the border line, where a lot of questions for travelers stood firm. I looked at this whole sarai, whose entire architecture was depicted on paper boldly by my mother. I've seen all the gardens in Anantnag and Verinag, and I think everything's been fine since the last time I remember we were there. Sarai was built specifically for travelers and travelers, perfectly guarded by the sultanate officers who promised calm from the actions of the thieves because sarai will be closed at night and opened at dawn to invite the morning to crack.

Jafar's room is located in a special part of Sarai. He and all his servants were placed in different sections, with a bulkhead to separate the rooms from the equipment rooms that the servants and slaves would sleep in. I thought that I would be sent back to Shahdara when an officer forced all the veiled women to open their veils in front of the female officers. And fortunately, because they never saw my face, I was considered one of Jafar's servants. I was soaking my numb legs in a bucket of basin filled with warm water when Jafar came in. At that time, all the servants were looking for firewood, because we were afraid that nothing else could be brought into the furnace when the fire shrank and extinguished.

“You okay, Ladli?” He came touching my reddened feet.

“Yes. I've never walked on a pile of snow except to play.”

He took the wool I used to squeeze water from the basin. Slyly, his lovable muscles soaked the cloth, squeezed it, placed it over the palm of my hand. “Let me,” he said as he splashed a cup of water onto my stiff calf.

I noticed that he was, but he himself was stung by an unbearable cold. His feathers stiffened from the cold, and I could see a bunch of steam coming out of his mouth as he exhaled. “How about yourself?”

“I've gotten used to this in Qandahar.”

“Thank you, Jafar,” I said moodyly. He looked at me, but I ignored his honest gaze carefully. What have I done? Thought alone. He is not my husband, and I doubt if I love him properly, because Mother's words always play in my mind, that this desire is not necessarily for Jafar. He was just an outburst of undelivered love, and I had sinned terribly for treating him as worthless.

He smiled at me, a comfortable smile. “Love is weird, Ladli. It is the grace of God that you cannot understand by mere human logic, for love lies behind the logic of beings. You met me once, and so did I. But either you or I have had a bunch of unseemly courage that has taken us so far.” Then he laughed, and his voice sounded very melodious, accompanied by a puff of steam in the air. “Does Sultan Begam know?”

“No,” I replied quickly, like being chased, be careful on the response.

“What if he knows. Will he approve of this?”

“I found no guess about this, Jafar,” I replied. My heart grieves more and more for him, for I know that he has taken himself very seriously on this matter. What my heart is doing is just tossing between feelings and choices. At that time, I remembered the secret letter from Shah Jahan. Am I going to come to her by being a wife? And will I be the most beloved after Arjumand and his children? A lot of guesses, but I'm reluctant to guess, because what's the point for me. My niece, Jahanara, the eldest son of Arjumand, would not have agreed if I had taken her mother's position as Padshah Begam zenana sultanate. Although she was Begam Sahib, the Princess of all Princesses, her power had surpassed that of a Queen.

“Perhaps, I'll say it when I'm ready.”

I smiled, but it was very sour, but he did not realize it because it was too busy on my reddened feet. Every now and then, my eyes steal a glance at him, and I realize how vile I am to his honest, passionate self. I have loved her feelings and hopes, for I wonder if my love is whole or divided in two.

“I'm sorry,” I said while pulling his hand. “Can you leave me alone? I want to rest for a while. My head feels swirling, and I feel like I'm not well.”

“Sure, My dear.” He came forward to hug me, but I stopped that step by shaking his head and touching his body to get away. I felt his chest that was the plane in my palm, and then I goosebumps alone. He understood this, so he forced himself to leave even though I knew that he still wanted to stay longer.

Jafar walked away. I heard her footsteps ticking in rhythm on the floor, then shrinking and disappearing. When I was sure that he was gone, I pulled my knees up to chest level, and I hugged myself alone. The flames shrank bit by bit, leaving behind very little light, but too much fear. My tears seeped, replacing the warmth of the dying fire to extinguish. In the end, the firewood had become ashes, for the servants had not returned from their search. So I was in the dark. Thin curtains carried a cold wind through the window, gnawing at the fragile skin behind my tight blouse that had been covered in woolen cloth. I embrace myself when the cold becomes, and then I sob as a tormented person, but there is nothing more tormented than my feelings for those whom God has given. Love comes without warning, slowly, but the consequences are fatal. Like a deadly disease, he had consumed almost the entire soul to go on a delusional and wishful journey, not a pinch or a lump, making it seem as if one had gulped down three opium pills at once. But love goes like a curse. He had incised a wound, wounding without knowing when he would recover as he had. When he is lost, the lover will live in uncomfortable dreams, suffocating and not even knowing if he will regain consciousness at dawn tomorrow morning waiting to be stared at. And now, this is very painful for me, because my faith wants me to focus on Jafar alone.

***

We arrived in Srinagar, the capital of Kashmir five days later. For generations, the Mughal Sultans of India have shown their status through the architectural art of the city's buildings. As summer burned the Indo-Gangetic plains, Mughal Sultans would go to Srinagar, move the capital of the sultanate, make judgments, court daily hearings, lower punishments and blessings, and it'll be back a few months later when summer stops baking. Srinagar is likened to a pleasant vacation spot, because the atmosphere is very peaceful and not at all threatening. The people who lived there were the fewest number of people in the entire sultanate, because no one wants to live in a place that even transports sheep must spend hundreds of rupees.

Sultan Jahangir loves Kashmir more than anything. He had built so much of his personal property in Srinagar, on the shores of Dal Lake, where he was going on holiday with Mother twenty years ago. But now, without the blessing and mandate of Shah Jahan, Srinagar is just a city without purpose. We got there in the afternoon. When we first entered Kashmir, the smell of the air was completely different. The smoke of incense drifts and is laden in the air, because in winter, Hindus will celebrate the festival of diwali, or light, for five consecutive days. The festival concerns their beliefs about Sri Rama, his wife Sita, and his sister Ayodhya from a battlefield where Rama killed Ravana.

We split into two parts. Muslims and Hindus know where they are, so there is no need for sultanate officers to lead one by one of them to their respective destinations. I separated myself from the group of women, treading carefully with Jafar's staggered horse. He looked at me lovingly, without any lies in his sparkling eyes. The sun has poured out, leaving light before us, crashing bright orange. The shadows looked extremely long, then tilted, and went away carried a black hue of darkness. I walked while watching him, although he himself was very awkward at the look I had on him. His servants went to arrange a resting place, and I will spend the night with him.

Jafar reached out to me, smiling sweetly. I took his hand when he was sure to pull me on the horse. We galloped after the sun, limped yet surely, and in the end the Jafar horse led us to the shores of Dal lake. This place is more like a giant basin filled with water with hundreds of shikara, a canopied boat with a seat in it, as well as a floating lotus flower. Hindus walk side by side of the lake when dusk breaks, replaced by a night of wriggling with flickering stars. They waited for a moment, listening intently as the Hindu Monks recited prayers. At that time, almost at the same time, the Adhan was removed from the entire mosque. “Surely Allah and the angels are praying over the prophet.” And closed with the words “There is no God but Allah.”

Jafar snapped his harness, hinting at his horse to gallop forward downwards. We stopped on the edge, when the Hindus were busy with their rituals. I've never seen a diwali festival in my entire life, because Hindus have always had their own way of carrying out their religious teachings. So we had to wait, Jafar said, and we prayed together by the lake. When we finished praying to the indigo sky, rubbing the palm of the hand against the face while muttering “permit Yes Allah,” the Hindus turned on the lamp on top of a carved coconut shell, then release it into the lake. There was so much light shining on the water, and we enjoyed it like a night of romance.

The children distributed sweets and food to the whole audience. I took two sweet ladoos in tribute to the joy these cute boys had on us, though they might have known that we were not Hindus. I was also given a coconut shell with the decoration of a lighted candle.

“Make a wish, Miss. Then release the lamp into the lake,” the boy said, waiting for my reaction to move.

“I think there's no harm in trying, right?” my answer. Although this was never taught by the mullahs, and I doubt whether the Qur’an His Majesty and our lord Muhammad allow this, I advanced to the shores of the lake, making a wish, he said, then let go of the lamp to float.

The boy smiled at me, nodded and left. I watched as he ran small with several other children towards the crowd of Hindus. I sat hugging my knees with Jafar on the right side of his horse wagging its tail. Hindus believe that these lights have brought their hopes and dreams away to be granted, and though I still cannot explain them logically, I think they had their own happiness when this event was held. I don't know much about those Hindus, but the Diwali festival is pretty fun. Chinese Mercon-mercon explodes in the night sky. It's red, blue, light yellow, green toska, violet, white, then a blend of all those colors. Mercon fumes are laden in the air, entering the nostrils, causing unbearable tightness.

Jafar held my hand, very comfortable, and I felt all his love hardened in that behavior. “You like, Ladli?”

“Yes. Especially after this?”

He looked at me, and my eyes looked at his face that was covered in darkness, occasionally enlightened by the exploding color of the mercon. He kissed my lips so softly, so gently, that I enjoyed it. He let go and we were just one finger away. “We've gone too far. We can't keep running. There will be risks for this.”

“Did Sultan Begam disagree about this relationship?”

I'm shaking. “I don't know.”

“For the love of God, do you love me?”

“Sure. And why do you think I decided to run with you to Kashmir? I'm chasing the love in you. I never got that love from anyone, because my life was filled with neglect and desolation, no day without pain and delusion. I wish I had died in the past, but now I pray that I never die.” I held her smooth cheek. “Oh, Jafar. I've suffered too much, and I don't know when the last time happiness was in me. But you came to present it for me.” I was crying, sobbing in small increments. My hand was clung to him, and I embraced it with love. The warmth was on both of us, but my stuff exploded like a leaking dam.

“Be quiet, My Beloved. I promise I won't leave you.”

“Please promise me God's love for you or me, Jafar.”

“I promise, Ladli. Not even God can separate this holy love.”

I broke his embrace. He rattled me to stand, and then we galloped again with his horse to go. My silk skirt was waving as the wind cast aside her delicate books. I left the enchanting Dal Lake, and now Jafar took me to Shalimar Bagh, a garden Sultan Jahangir had built for my mother. I looked around, concerned at Shah Jahan's cruelty not to take care of this beautiful property, for almost all the vines, the trees were not laid out, the brown leaves were scattered in the open gardens, the flowers were almost withered, and the pavilion was dirty by a pile of dust. There is only one place untouched by damage, located at the end of the park, directly opposite the panorama of Dal lake. I could see hundreds of shikara floating around, and there were so many lights being washed away. Shalimar Bagh's ponds are filled with fountains, filled with joyous koi fish.

I was sitting in an open space covered in fur pillows and Persian carpets. All around me, Jafar turned on the oil lamp, giving rise to the comfort of its glowing light. He sat down to hug me. At that moment, I saw rose petals falling all around us, scattered yet beautiful. I wonder if Jafar has set this all up or is it just a coincidence. Her breath drove behind my hair, warm and soothing. Now he can see my whole face without a veil or veil, for I have stripped him not far from where he hugs me now. I heard him hum, and his voice was beyond doubt. I enjoyed the tight grip of his hands, his lovable muscles, and his wide chest. He took off his turban, placed it next to me carefully.

“You know what they say, Ladli. If there is a heaven in the world, here. This is where it is.”

I cringe. “Who said that?”

“A poet, Amir Khusrow.”

“Ah.” I'm nodding. I've heard of Amir Khusrow, a poet from the 13th century. His verses have told me many things. God, philosophy, love, and poetry about a successful or barren kingdom await destruction.

“Where is your paradise located, Ladli?” askinya.

“Here,” I point his chest that field. “There's to you.”

He laughed, very well. “Do you tease me, My love?”

“Of course not. Why should I tease you? I have faith that a woman's paradise lies with her man. And which woman is luckier than I am now, Jafar?”

“Will I be your husband, Ladli?”

“One day, maybe.”

He looked at me, our eyes met. He kissed my lips again, sweeter, softer, and more comfortable than ever. There was no doubt in the kiss, for he had spoken, in what he could not mention in the broken-up, that he wanted me most. My existence is important to him, and I cry for it. I sobbed as he kissed me. My breath was soiled by it, that it caused her to break the kiss for a moment.

“What's up, My lover?”

“How happy I am with you, Jafar. I teramat ... want ..” My sentence is broken by my fervent desire. My tongue spoke it. “I want to live with you.”

“You'll get it. You'll get myself in your bed every day, lying down and pecking at you lovingly in the morning tapping ourselves to open our eyes. You'll get me as your husband, as the father of your children. And I will oppose anything even though Sultan Shah Jahan does not approve of our marriage.”

I was surprised to hear that. “You know about that?”

“Ya.” He ducked, his heart somber then. “I know Widow Prince can never get married.”

In my heart, I condemn this terrible tradition. I don't know who invented it, but it's really unfair, because now I'm stuck between duty and love. Jafar knew, and he came to oppose it blatantly, though his Sultan wrath could have meant death. “Please promise that you will be with me for the rest of your life, Jafar.”

He's pecking my forehead. “Sure, Dear. By the love of God, by the love of God for you, Ladli. I will be with you until God has predestined me to go.”

“Where will God take you, dear Jafarku?”

“Ke in death, maybe.”

“Bring me with you in the arms of death, for I do not know if I can survive without you in this terrible world alone. Bring me in your love, and may God deliver us to eternity alone.”

“Yes. Yes.” He hugged me with love. When the last mercon clashed in the sky, it made a low boisterous sound in the shikara or the edge of the lake, when Hindus play their theater and music about love and heartache and the cruelty of the world to the innocent self, when their voices are laden in the air, and as the breeze of the night breezed between the two of us, God was the only witness on that beautiful night. The silvery rays of the moon rained down on us, pounding and promising. Like an eclipse, everything passes quickly, but gives rise to sweet memories insoluble by time. Because we make love as the night ages.[]