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story -The Lighter of the Royal Lamps
Posted Date: 22 Nov 2007 Resource Type: Articles/Knowledge Sharing Category: General
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Posted By: manish Member Level: Gold
Rating:  Points: 5
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Rainadil was the name of one who was incharge of the royal lamps in the harem of Shahenshah Shahjehan. She possessed both types of beauty – the style and rhythm and excelled all others. God had gifted her with a nightingale’s melody and she was nimble on her feet.
Throughout her short career as a dancing girl she had never flirted with any man although she was so lovely. Not only there wasn’t a slight shade of coquetry to be perceived in her, but also she was, conscience-stricken at her unquestionable and all-conquering beauty. She seemed to have the will but not the power to diminish the effect of her loveliness.
Every evening she would go through the labyrinths of the royal harem, like a living perfume, to see that the lights were properly lit. And where the servants were forbidden to enter, she herself lighted the lamps and chandeliers; such was her assignment. She would dance, for her own delight, though the passages, from room to room and from lamp to lamp, with the disturbing poetic mystery of the walking spring.
One evening Dil entered the royal apartment to perform her office when she found it flooded with cool, heavenly light. Curious, she went towards the window, which opened on to the gardens. The moon hung low and large. Dil felt a thrill run through her. Her little heart became so full of merriment that for no reason she executed a step dance of delight and ran into the gardens, forgetting her duty, her position and the punishment for such a daring act on the part of a servant.
Suddenly, she was startled from her dreams as someone addressed her from behind. “Banu! Dreams are dangerous things unless one has the courage to face the awakening, which is always ugly.”
She turned to see a young man; moonlight gleamed on his white clothing. Her heart beat so violently that she could scarcely breathe. How wonderful he was with his fine head set on that long, firm throat and how sweet the face when his beautiful mouth broke into smiles. He was handsome, mysterious and debonair – the like of which she had always seen in her dreams.
”Who are you, O beautiful unknown?” he enquired in a soft, pleasing tone. He, too, had never seen another girl like her.
She quickly gave him an enigmatic and questioning glance. For a moment he could do nothing except stand and stare into a pair of twinklers, wide and dark. They offered him a meaning, a promise, clearer than words. They promised him love that would never stale and tarnish, the understanding that would not fail.
They stood silent, speechless, conscious of nothing but each other. At last the young man broke the silence: “May I know who are you, beautiful lady?”
”I belong to the Shahenshah’s harem,” Dil replied with a stammer in her voice, “I’m the lighter of the royal lamps.”
”Lighter of lamps. Oh, how fitting an assignment! I admire the judgment of one who placed you on that job. You are really the queen of lamps – the moon!”
”Subhan Allah!” The exclamation of praise escaped the young man as his eyes feasted on the beauty of Dil’s perfect, round face. “The title of mah-khanum would fit you wonderfully well.”
The words frightened Dil. The complement was too big for her and if someone heard she would have to pay dearly for that. She said: “I must go now… If you were discovered here in the harem-gardens…”
”I could most certainly be transfixed by a spear,” he replied with carelessness that was innate in him. “And I wouldn’t make a pretty picture at all hanging on the wall.”
He laughed and his laughter made Dil tremble like a peepal leaf.
”It’s painful to learn, Mahru, that the most beautiful of the beautiful, who gives light to the royal harem, is cruelly careless not to know a person on whose head the taj is expected to shine one day. I’m Dara Shakoh, prince – heir-apparent.”
”Prince…oh!” Dil fluttered like a frightened dove. She appeared all the more beautiful, in her confusion. “I apologize for my misbehavious, Shehzada! I did not know…”
”How can the moon apologize to a humble star, Banu!” The prince drew a long sigh. “There is something providential in this meeting. Fate decreed that we should meet on a night as this."
Dil too felt that it was not a trival incident but something cataclysmic had happened. That evening she lit a lamp of love in the handsome heir-apparent’s heart and carried a flame in her bosom too.
The curiosity of youth impelled them to meet every evening. Love’s magnetism drew them close. The hour of sunset always found them under the cypress-grove as regular as twilight itself. These clandestine meetings continued for some time till of their two souls, love fashioned one and they could no more breathe without each other.
This secret love affair of the heir-apparent with a dancer of humble birth created a flutter in the dovecotes of the begums, who always mixed love with politics. Love was never regarded too seriously in the Mughal harems. It was worn lightly as a garland and when it had rendered its service, it was discarded with nonchalance.
Things were going well and yet Rainadil could not help sensing that something unpleasant was about to happen. Like a bird she had lifted her wings to the sunshine, but the gathering clouds menaced her.
Humble, broken by life, having received little joy from it and having asked less, she resigned to everything that was going to happen. Her only fear was for Dara who was for her a happiness she had never dared to hop for.
But Dara never bothered about anything, much less for the scandalous gossip of the harem concerning him and Dil. He looked upon life as an unbroken round of gaiety prepared for his amusements. He ascribed Dil’s fears to her excessive love for him but still he could see the trouble in her eyes and sometimes he could see that she had been weeping. He, therefore, wanted to make an end of it and he confessed his love for her and announced his firm determination to marry her according to the Holy Sharid.
Thunder falls when it wills and where it wills but there are peaks which attract it. Dara was unaware of the existence of an enemy in his second sister, Roshanara Begun, who was clever and capable of dissimulation. She never was at a loss for finding out matters of importance and of these she sent secret intelligence to her brother, Prince Aurangzeb, whose interest she attended to at court.
She informed Aurangzeb, at that time, who ruled in Deccan, about the violent love of Dara for a dancing girl and a reply reached her with inconceivable swiftness: “When the serpent is music-mad, it is wise to extract its death fangs.” Roshanara got the cue and she prepared herself for the mission her brother desired her to undertake.
It was the seventh night that Dil had not seen Dara. He had gone on a hunting expedition and was to return that evening. Dil hurriedly finished her work and sat in her room playing on the sitar, as usual. She implored the night to descend earlier that day only once, for her sake.
Huge clouds were collecting in the sky and distant flashes announced a storm. Soon, the sky became black; heavy, livid clouds overcast it. A whirling wind raised the dust, twisted the trees and lashed them furiously. A blinding, savage light flashed across the sky every second. Jamuna flowed screaming like a rampageous lady. Dil found consolation in seeing nature partake of the commotion in her own breast.
She sat there, her head resting on the sitar, knowing not for how long, when suddenly she opened her eyes. The candles in the chandelier and the wall-scones were guttered and there was complete darkness in the room. Dil sat motionless for a moment thinking that some noise had disturbed her dreams. It came again, now more clearly – a sharp, hurried tap at the door.
She placed aside her sitar and unlatched the door. It opened and by the light of a gleaming flash of lightning, she saw a strange woman standing outside covered in a shapeless dress. Her face alone was visible which was crisscrossed with wrinkles from which peered two shrewd eyes. She held an antique lamp in her hand, in which the flame burned, throwing long quivering shadow as it flickered in the draught of the open door.
”Who are you?” Dil quavered. She remembered having seen this woman on the first night of her entry in the harem, standing under an enormous chandelier in the hall, like a dead body enveloped in a shroud. She had heard her muttering in inaudible whispers something like: “Go back…leave the palace with all haste. There will be plenty of love but the end will be tragic…”
Dil remembered how her eyes had glittered with contemptuous pity as she had uttered these words. Afterwards, she had met the crone occasionally, watching her from a distance. Every time she saw her she had a feeling of eeriness. The same feeling possessed her then and she shrank back as the crone rushed in the room like a whirlwind.
”My name is Kamwari. Girls in the palace call me Jija. There is nothing on earth I can’t do. I create love in stony hearts. I create misunderstanding in loving hearts. I unite the separated and I separate the united…”
”What do you want?” Dil interrupted her, for she was terrified.
”I do the undone and I undo the done…” the crone went on muttering. Her eyes gleamed with contemptuous glee.
”Don’t frighten me please, Kamwari!” Dil cried.
”Tell me what you have got to do with me?”
The lady suddenly became serious and said: “The prince has returned tonight, mortally wounded by some wild animal. He wants to see you now, this moment.”
”Prince wounded!” Dil was shocked. “But where is he?” She floundered as she could not find words.
”I’ll take you where he is. Are you prepared to come?” Kamwari asked in her harsh tone.
Dil was overwhelmed. This news had robbed her of all the power of understanding. In her heart she heard her beloved calling her. Tears came in her eyes and with the quickness of lightning she covered herself with the mantle and was ready to follow Kamwari.
Kamwari led Dil through the labyrinthine passages and at last they came to a circular stairway, which went steeply down. Suddenly, Kamwari stopped. She extinguished the lamp and quickly hid it in her clothes.
”What’s the matter?” asked Dil, trembling like a willow tree in the raging wind.
”Silence. I hear feet,” whispered the crone.
”Are we discovered?” cried Dil.
They remain motionless and scarcely even venturing to breathe while two eunuchs, with naked swords, passed near them, talking in whispers. The nurmur of their voices became gradually weaker in the distance.
”Come,” said Kamwari and they descended, minding carefully, for the stairs were dark, being only lit by invisible loopholes in the heavy masonry. As they sank into the darkness, Dil felt a strange chill. At the bottom there was a subterranean passage through which came a sickly odour.
They proceeded along when suddenly Dil heard a whisper, as if from a distance: “I do the undone and undo the done…”
”Where are we, Kamwari?” Dil cried. She was chilled with fear. No answer came. Kamwari had gone. She was nowhere to be found. Dil screamed with horror like the wind outside which also appeared to be groaning in despair.
Suddenly, the wild and shrill sound of a pipe came from somewhere as if someone lured a deadly snake. The begums in the palace shivered in their beds for there was a note of death in that haunting music. Someone was destined to die that night by the bite of cobra de capello. Death whistled in the harem passages, sending shivers down the spine of those who heard it.
The Begum Mahal with its lofty domes lit with torches and architectural adornment of curious enamel work, stood on the bank of Jamuna opposite the imperial abode, bathed in the moonlight and dawn when even the fairies slumber on their flowery couches. At such ungodly hour, Begum Sahib, the young mistress of the mahal, was strolling in her gardens with her brother, Prince Dara. From the other end of the garden through the open window of a room in the mahal out of sight, were coming the sad notes of music.
They sat on the coping of a fountain, made of marble and jasper surrounded by royal blossoms – sosan, chameli and Banafshah, the fragrance of which scented the air.
”It’s a great affliction to see you in this plight, my dear brother!” the princess said with a deep sigh. “I know what true love is. It becomes stronger when it goes through suffering. I can feel the frightful sorrow of separation which is an intolerable torture of all loving hearts.”
”Sister!” Dara said, melancholy subduing his voice. “I have fallen in love a thousand times but I shall never find anyone so friendly, so true, so lovely as she. But…let us not talk about things that make us sad. Dil’s memory samoulders like a burning coal somewhere deep in my heart. After her death I feel nothing—neither hatred, nor rancour against anybody. I seem to have passed out of life altogether.”
They sat silent for a moment. Then Dara said: “Dear sister, you haven’t told me the purpose of the summons to this secret rendezvous. You wrote to say that you had certain important matters to discuss with me and you had also some happy news for me. What are they, Begum? Tell me.”
The princess cast an involuntary glance in the direction of the mahal and her hand which clutched the mantle tight around her neck, trembled.
”Dara, brother!” she whispered, “your withdrawal from life and perfect indifference for politics has given an opportunity to our enemies to rise. If you continue like this affliction, my dear brother, is everywhere. Even in my palace I notice a remarkable change. One can’t distinguish who is faithful and who is not.”
She went on after a brief pause, “As you know the Shahenshah, our father, is ailing dus to the infirmity of old age. He depends for the safety of his throne, his honour and his very existence on you, my dear brother! I saw him last evening and he complained to me that his vassals and nobles no longer obeyed him with the accustomed promptitude; this being a sign that he was getting near the end of his reign. What worried him more was your indifference. He was in tears when he said that you had not gone to see him and to enquire about his health while he longed to see you on his sick bed.”
”Begum, life holds no charm for me now that my Dil is gone. It is a pity that the Shahenshah, who demonstrates so much love for me, had acted on the counsel of some plotters and consented to take the life of an innocent soul. I’m a coward that I don’t avenge her death – which I don’t wreak vengeance on those who conspired to take my Dil from me. Oh, Allah, take my life—take me to my Dil now, this moment. I can’t bear this anguish. Oh, my Dil…dear Dil…”
The prince suddenly began to sob like a child. Begum cast a frightened glance towards the palace. Tears welled up in her eyes too and her lips trembled with emotion. She said: “Patience, my dear brother, you’ve not heard me completely. Dil is not dead. She is alive and she will be yours.”
”What?” Dara raised his head, his eyes full of tears in which gleamed a tinge of disbelief. “Dil alive? Oh, no! Dear sister, don’t play tricks on me any more.”
”I play no tricks, brother dear! I’ll tell you the whole story. It was Roshanara, that Satan’s grandmother, who used diplomacy to wean Dil from you. She strove thereby to hasten your death or, if you survived, to estrange you from father forever. She told spiteful lies to the Shahenshah that you were wasting your time and everything over an ambitious girl of obscure origin and that you wanted to marry her. Our father, you know, is emotional as a bag-pipe. He was carried by the magic of her tears and sobs. He agreed with her that Dil must die by the bite of cobra de capello.”
Begum paused, throwing once again a frightened glance towards her palace. Then she continued: “But she was not killed. On second thought the Emperor ordered that she be kept in the dungeon in such a way that no one should suspect that she was not dead. He wanted to see how you bear the sorrow. He thought the memory of Dil will fade away from your mind, the stream of time, one day following another, would cover it up and wash away all trace of it. But he was wrong and he has since realized it. He asked me last night to arrange for your marriage with Dil in my palace.”
Sudden joy leaped in Dara, kindled his bones, thrilled through his flesh and burst from his lips. “Alhamdulilah,” he cried and his excitement he embraced his sister to tightly that she cried: “Don’t mistake me for Dil, you mad boy!”
They talked in whispers for some time and then Begum said: “Dara, brother, you’ve not forgotten your promise about my…” She blushed as she said these words and looked at her brother through her lashes with the hint of coquetry.
”Promise? Oh… yes, my dear Begum. The day I wear the taj, the first thing I will do will be to break the age old convention and marry you to the man you love.”
Begum was filled with impetuous delight and she kissed Dara on the spot designated.
The happiness of the separated lovers reunited can better be imagined than described. It was as though the sun had shone after an eclipse. Their love came like a flood tide breaking all its dams. They found strength in their love and discovered healing balms. To crown their happiness they were married. But…
Fate is hidden from the human beings; such is the law of nature. News came that Aurangzeb and Murad Bakhsh had found an alliance and were fast marching towards Delhi on finding that the Emperor had delivered himself from all his authority and his army into the hands of Prince Dara.
Dara made ready with all imaginable energy to give battle and wreak vengeance upon his brothers for their temerity. But he was defeated and he fled for life with his family wandering from place to place, pursued by the spies of the conqueror. He was so confused, enfeebled and cast down, with his thoughts wandering and his mind full of tribulations that he became a prey to morbid dreams.
But the sight of Dil was enough to dispel the nightmare; and since she was living only that he might live, he would be happy in spite of himself. Dil’s thoughts too were distracted from her own sufferings and her one idea was to see her beloved happy, and her great, deep love filled him and plucked him back from the violent torment of his grief.
One night, assailed by dreadful thoughts, Dara sought relief in drinking wine from the hands of Dil. Her lovely face with its arching brows and liquid eyes, looked out unveiled from her frame of cloudy hair and drew the prince’s heart towards her.
”My Dil!” the prince said, watching her through the cup “What will become of you if I happen to die, for death is certain?”
”My lord!” replied Dil, with tears in her eyes. “Could I endure the deeper disgrace of becoming a concubine to that ferret? Allah does not delight in my such evil state. I’m always yours, Shehzada, from the tips of my fingers to the apple of my eyes. If you were to break my soul, my lord, there will be spark left to live and love you always.”
With tears in his eyes Dara said: “You promise…you promise that you will love me always?”
He tried to smile at her and she at him. They fell into each other’s embrace and sobbed quietly and made convulsive efforts to choke their sobs down. They kissed each other fondly as they had never done before and drank each other’s tears. They felt soul-rending sorrow as if they were going to be separated. And they did separate—forever. That very night Aurangzeb’s dogs seized Dara and his family.
Aurangzeb ordered his eunuchs and slave girl to bring Dil into his presence for he wished to take her as his wife, since the law thus directed that the wives of a vanquished brother belonged to the living one. On hearing that, Dil sent the eunuchs back to enquire about what was so special in her that enamoured him.
The Emperor sent word that he had an affection for her lovely face. But that chaste and silent heart in whose depths still burned, like a constant flame, the memory of the love, taking a knife, slashed her face all over and collecting the blood in a cloth, sent it to the Shahenshah, saying that if he sought the beauty of her face, it was undone and if her blood gratified him, he was welcome.
Encountering such resolution, Aurangzeb ceased his solicitations and gave her back the assignment of the lighter of the royal lamps.
Every evening she would go through the labyrinths of the harem passages, from room to room and from lamp to lamp, poor soul, so swathed about with sorrow and sad memories. Dressed in black, her head without those hair that used to hang on her head like the waves of tossing sea, with swollen eyes full of tears, gleaming with mournful light and with face dreadfully slashed, she made a ghost of the former Dil.
One evening, Dil happened to learn that Dara had been brutally beheaded. This was a blow too severe for her to bear, for the only thing that made her life was the thought that her lord lived somewhere. That very evening, while lighting the lamp, she caught fire and without uttering so much as a cry she was burnt to death just like a candle burns itself away in dumb anguish.
Thus, the lighter of lamps kept her promise and left the lamp of immortal love burning brighter than ever.
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