Princess Ladli Begam's

CHAPTER XIV: TWILIGHT

In the end, God has pulled me slowly from the life He has created. Even a strong banyan tree will collapse when the winds of the future throw the sari of its sturdy trunk to tidy up. Such is. It was 1657, and my age had reached fifty-two years. Like a grandmother. Old, old, stumbling when walking, sometimes very tired to have to sit for a few minutes before stepping back. Twelve years since the last time Jafar and Khusrow were in my arms. I never again remembered how their breaths went in rhythm in front of me, or their shins stepping malely on the ground. If I am not mistaken, may Allah still give me a keen memory, Khusrow is twenty-two. Perhaps he was married, had had a child, had gone home to battle to defeat the rebel rats. God gave countless blessings to the child. Sometimes, I feel my blood rustling, my heart beating in wrath, and I endlessly pray for Khusrow because I fear that he is facing death on the field of action.

Jafar, oh, my sweetheart. Where is he now? Many years have passed, but not even a newspaper or a newspaper of birds reaches the window of our house. I wonder if he is still alive? Or, has he lamented behind the ground alone, with death? I miss her so much, sometimes crying in the middle of the night mute. When I dreamed, God gave me a faint vision of the likeness of Jafar in the past. His eyes, his firm jawbone, his field chest, how I was bewitched by him. When I woke up, the rest was just pleasure in wishful thinking. I dream of us making love, of us hugging, of us sharing love, of us laughing, of us crying happily. In the end, until God draws time, we are still not together. But I am sure that God will unite us both in the next life. Will God be kind to me? I have sinned greatly because my relationship with Jafar was never holy and sacred. But both I and Jafar have considered this bond very sacred, which is not just pronounced from behind bars and prayers.

These twelve years are a time of waiting at an old age. In the end, Arzani married a man. He is not of noble descent. A traveler from Persia. At first, I didn't want them to be together, but I knew the pain I had if I forced my will on her love. They are also holy married. She has two children, and both are girls. Ah, the daughter. They are riddles. Fate has brought them fortune and mala. But girls grow up great to be knights behind the self of men . In this land, girls are nothing more than gambling and lotteries. They will marry with obligations, not choices. For years of marriage, they only met with strangers—husband themselves. And the only hope is their born children, whom they fully raise in the stranglehold of selfishness. Women have a life at stake, yet are brave enough to jump into a burning risk.

I reach for the air. My chest is filled with pain. This body is no longer as confident as before, not as strong as a young trunk. Slowly I let it out in silence. Arzani is standing on my right side. His hand held my hand. Her tears had expanded, then spilled without warning.

“I'm here,” whispered to me.

“I won't lose you, Arzani, right?” I smiled at him. He held our hands together, clinging to each other. I feel the pain of piercing his humanity, because this is how I felt all those years ago when he died. Now, we are partners. I could feel his aura around the couch, as if waving at me who was old. I saw Arzani. Every now and then he blurs, and then my sight is clear again. A series of coughs hurt me, and it was very painful, but not a single tear fell on my arm. The passing years had consumed so many tears, and perhaps he had grown tired of sliding off this frail me.

Arzani came to me, until his eyes seemed much bigger.

“Go to Persia. Leave Lahore. Leave Hindustant. You should run away with your husband from this place. Go, and come back once a year to visit my worn-out, rotting belly button. Leave me and your grandmother in this foreign land, so as to be a reminder to your grandchildren as well, that foreign Persian women have settled and ruled in the harsh land. Have been troubled in life, and the nelangsa half-dead in love. Go, Son. One day, you will tell your children that they are the wasted grandson of Prince Shahryar.”

She was crying in my hand. Her tears were warm, but the warmth was lost by the coldness of my own body. Gigil ruled, then my breath felt very fast. I felt my blood being pumped by magical power, as if to say that death was about to come to me. “Don't cry, Son. We women live in customs and traditions. And so, run from here. Leave Hindustant. Bring all the treasures that your grandmother inherited for you to live in Persia.”

“I won't leave Mom here,” lamented. His nose was red, his breathing was wet with tears. “I was born in Hindustant, then I will die in this place anyway.”

I shook my head, occasionally I wiped her soft cheeks. “No, Son. Your homeland is Persia. From the beginning, we were strangers. There is no place for strangers in this land. You must ...” my neck choked, then again subsided. “You should go, Arzani.”

He buried his face deeply in both of us. “I can't.”

“You must, Arzani. Bring my love into your body. No matter how far you go, wherever your soul wanders, I know my breath flows with your breath. For in you is my blood. I'm your mother, son. And I'll look at you in the tranquility of heaven there forever. God will be kind to a generous daughter. Remember that Arzani means the generous.”

He took a breath, kissed my sweaty forehead. “For God's love, don't say anything more. Please.” Her tears fell around my eyes, and how I was hurt by her pain. My departure, my very insignificant departure, is now mourned by my son.

Two small children were running around the corner of the room, thronged in their small steps. Then, the two climbed up the cot's legs and crawled to my side. Hamida and Ruqayya, my two great grandchildren. They have a pair of bright blue eyes, their father's legacy, a marker that they are of Persian descent. They listened to my breathing move, then looked at each other. Their innocent faces made me cry, because I wanted to keep longing even though death came to me. This story, this heartbreaking story, only God knows. I am very happy with this little family, who lives in love and all love for their neighbor.

“Is Grandma going?” ask Hamida. He was a wise boy.

“Ya, Baby. Are you guys gonna miss me?”

“Sure.” Ruqayya kissed my right cheek, and Hamida followed later. Their kisses were very warm, reminding me of Jafar's kiss in the past. Ah, Jafar, how I want you to kiss me, again, perhaps. Do you remember, Jafar, in the past, when you kissed my lips under a self-defeating candle? Then we make love until tired when the candle suddenly goes out of shame. It's fun when the memory comes back like a ghost.

Arzani lifted Ruqayya to his side. He kissed the boy, then said. “Hold a little longer, Mom. Wait until my husband returns.”

I shook my head while smiling thinly. In my heart, I thank God for giving a loving and kind man to my son. Al-Qur’an His Majesty said: “lelaki is good for women well.” But, am I a good woman, until God willing to meet me with an honest man like Jafar. Or, could I be a bad woman? For we cannot be united in a holy bond until my death has come.

People are so afraid of death. But I doubt that I am afraid. I have lived a life more deserving than death. The flow of life has led me to endure, even to flee from death itself. God made me survive. And now I realize that the love of God is very real. This despicable me has repented to Him. I wish that God would send me to heaven with Grandpa, Grandma, Father, Mother, and Arjumand. We will rejoice in the promised wine and honey of heaven.

“We will go in horse speed,” he said.

“Do you think Shah Jahan knew that I was going to die?”

He smiled, shook his head later. “I doubt.”

Now, Shah Jahan found the end of his life like a poor man. He has been imprisoned in the burj musamman, part of the Red Fort with his beloved daughter, Jahanara. Aurangzeb. He had answered Shah Jahan's karma as the third child to rebel against his father. There is irony in this, because Shah Jahan once rebelled as the third son of Jahangir. Aurangzeb rebelled against Shah Jahan as the third son. Shah Jahan had taken out all his brothers and cousins while ascending the throne, so Aurangzeb got a living example, that he could do as his Father did. Aurangzeb killed all his brothers. He had beheaded his brother, Dara, Crown Prince Shah Jahan, killing his other brother, Shah Shuja in Bengal, imprisoning his younger brother Murad in Fort Gwalior, then hanging him on a pole. His eldest brother, Jahanara, was imprisoned with Shah Jahan, while his other sister, Roshanara, ruled in Aurangzeb's zenana as Padshah Begam. His last sister, Gauhara, lived in isolation among them. During the end of Shah Jahan's reign, the sultanate was in its worst of times. For the princes had waged a civil war, and neither the Safavids nor the Deccans knew, and dabbled in the subjugation of the Mughal Sultanate of the Great.

I smiled at myself. Shah Jahan has left proof of love for Arjumand. He had finished his tomb four years ago. Made of white marble, diamond-studded, gem, diamond, jade, sapphire, lapislazuli, coral, agate, ruby, onyx, ruby, ruby, and all other glories. The tomb holds Arjumand alone there. It was made over twenty-two years, and took almost thousands of casualties at each point of development. Shah Jahan called it the Taj Mahal. And the Taj Mahal is a living proof that a Mughal Maharaja of India in the past, had a matchless love for his beloved Queen. Perhaps, although he will die poor, future generations will remember the Taj Mahal as the greatest achievement of Shah Jahan's time.

Arzani held my hand. “Mother, did you hear me?”

“Yes, Nak.”

“Where do I go?”

“God has pulled me slowly through delusion.”

He frowned, then tears spilled uncontrollably. “Pronounce the Name of Allah Most High. Maybe I feel pain.”

“Ya.” I try strong. “In the end, I did not see my beloved on this side of the cot to save me from death, though no one could resist death. Do I know what death means? Will my soul really die?”

Arzani sobbed for it, then it became more and more so as I groaned. “Mother's soul will be with me, forever.”

“Will you miss me, son?”

“Sure. For the love of God, surely.”

She's dyed me. At that moment, I felt something in my breath. The shape is white, but more like jasmine tendrils that reach the sun. My eyes blinked, and then the tightness came in my chest. My body stiffened, and my head seemed to be in chains following that groove. My eyes were sharp, then blurred. My ears were buzzing, giving rise to an indisputable loud voice. I couldn't hear the sound, not even the sight of Arzani and my two grandchildren without a shadow or silhouette. Where are they? Where the hell am I? I could see a whitish color, more like the silvery rays of the sun, but the light was pulsing in immeasurable quantities. I squealed, but my eyes wouldn't allow me to do it. I waited until the light arrived. As he grabbed me, I could recognize one face there.

“Jafar.”

In the end, I managed to say his name in my sleep, not the name of Shah Jahan. Because I love him more than anything. His love is in me, refusing to watch and fly in death. For I know, though I do not know whether he has died or not, his love is with me. Now, and forever. Perhaps God was kind enough to put us in heaven forever. In death, there is only eternity. God created eternity with love.

Then God took me away.[]