Taj by Murari Timeri N

Author:Murari, Timeri N.
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Lume Books
Published: 2019-04-25T00:00:00+00:00

My beloved returned each twilight disconsolate, I loved him, he barely noticed. I comforted him, he scarcely cared. He paced, restless, brooding, his eyes dark as night, as dangerous too. None could approach the prince, except I.

The household lay three kos from the fort. My tent was pitched by the side of a lake. Around us lay the ruins of an abandoned palace, the wails tumbled and broken like crones’ teeth. At night, as I lay in his arms, we heard the wild pigs, the nilgais and tigers come to drink, wary, alert. Later, up in the dark surrounding hills spotted with jungle, we could hear the sweet warning cry of the chitals, followed by the chatter of the langours and the short, harsh bark of the sambars. The tiger hunted. We heard his distant muted roar—even the earth trembled to it—and then the silence, the return of whispering activity in the jungle after danger had passed. The tiger had killed. At dawn, in the mists curling up from the water, we saw the sambars standing in the lake feeding on plants, and herds of nilgais taking water before the heat of the day gripped. The first gentle rays of sunlight gave the lake a feeling of holiness.

These sights and sounds, the orderly movements of nature, healed me. They gave me comfort and renewed my strength. I had bled for many days, weeping bitterly, for I knew the blood was not mine, but that of the innocent child. The hakim’s face was grave; he could not staunch the wasting life. I sweated, I burned, my skin turned to chalk, my body was a weight too great to carry. The army halted, silent and patient, and I felt my beloved hold my hand, kiss my face, whisper words of comfort and love.

Death had written a line on my face; it could never be erased. I felt old with grief. Turning my face to the wall of the rath I listened numbly to the squeak of the cartwheels and the thunder of the moving force. Had I grown too old to bear a child? Five squandered, barren, empty years—I raged at such waste, raged at my imperfection, my failure to carry a child.

‘It is gone,’ Shah Jahan whispered. ‘We will make another soon.’ He wiped the silent tears as they fell, kissed and tasted them. ‘If …’

No, don’t say it. You are not to blame. I held you to your promise. Even next time, it will be no different. I will come with you. We must never be apart.’

‘I should have known you would be stubborn.’

How else would we have married?’

He laughed and held me. Before, I had needed his comfort and strength; now he needed mine, but he was withdrawn, as I had been.

‘I hear Mehrunissa’s whispers,’ he said, ‘and begin to believe them.’

‘They cannot survive in there forever.’

‘I cannot live here forever. Even my own men mock me. I see their glances as I ride by, I hear their murmuring. They know I am beaten.

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