From Zafar Mahal

The frangipani tree is in full bloom, the herald of autumn. Soon Mehrauli would be bereft of the huge crowds who throng the mahal and the dargah during summers. And you, you shall go away with the crowds too. While I shall remain here, in the mahal, waiting for the Emperor’s entourage to visit the dargah, for you to ride along with him and stand under this same frangipani tree while the royal party offers their respects to the saint.

I have seen the future, beloved, the trees would go. The mahal itself would be in ruins. This same balcony that I stand on to sneak a peek at you, it would be too delicate that visitors would be cautioned not to stand on it. The halls where the dancing girls sway their wrists and hips to the music of the singers will be used by young lovers to clandestinely consummate their love. I see them, beloved, and think of you, how it is that I shall never be able to be like that with you- in the illusion of a solitude granted to us by the embarrassment of a society that would not want to see us love.

You stand there today, pulling their veil and the shawls tighter around you. The Emperor is still within the dargah, and I, seated on the balcony, look at you. You turn your face towards me, and the setting sun glints in your eyes. I wave for you to come into the mahal, so that perhaps this once I may see you in a place other than on the dusty street.

In the future, beloved, Mehrauli is crowded. Crooked buildings with windowless rooms jostle for space in a street that tries to make way for the throngs of people walking it. Between the cotton godown and the grocery store, one can find an occasional plaque, a reminder of the history of this place. Sometimes, when the garish pink paint peels off a wall, one sees the original colours of the first houses to be built here, the summer retreat of the Emperor.

 I send word with an attendant to bring you up to the zenana. In the heaps and tumbles of the royal family, I am just another woman, a forgotten relative. An old crone might one day tell me how I came to be related to the Emperor, or his brother, but till then, I shall only be one among many who linger in the mahal, weaving garlands of jasmine, or grinding the spices for dinner. When the royal party visits, there is music and poetry that impregnate the dusky skies. In the evenings, the smell of rose petals wafts from the dargah, when the sweeper makes piles of the day’s offerings. The saint is long gone, now in eternal rest, but the Emperor and his mother come here often, the spiritual beings that they are.

In the future, my moon, this saint is almost forgotten. Students of history walk around the locality, looking at the ruined mahal on the way to eat cheap kebabs near the dargah. The Minar is the chief attraction, and many pass through these streets, not knowing that within the jungles lie ruins that were once mosques and hunting lodges of families of power. They say this city is built on ruins, and that this is only one among the many stories that time has claimed as its toys in its grand game.

Nobody suspects a thing. In the din of the music and the dance, I seek your hand. The bangles on our hands touch, but nobody notices, and if they do, they don’t pay attention. You smile coyly, and I long to embrace you, to braid your hair and pin a string of jasmine on it. When you’re away on errands, I long for your return, for you to bring me a sweet, perhaps, or to tell me the sights of the bazaar that are hidden to me. You come with the smell of smoke in the folds of your shawls, and then, the world is just as you are to me- unattainable in spirit, but forever enthralling me by its intimacy and intrigues.

In the future, my love, the palace remains. Every year during the procession of the flower-sellers, they string chrysanthemums on the walls, and play loud music. In the entrance to the mahal, retired men with handlebar moustaches play cards. Dogs nap in crannies that lovers don’t claim. The tomb that Emperor wanted to be laid to rest in, it lies empty. He is laid to rest elsewhere, far away, his heart weeping for this city of his. The saint is not fully forgotten, but people pray and throng in other shrines. This city of ruins is built on ruins, they say. When the ephemerality of time takes such grandiose signs as hostages, what chance do we stand?

You smile at the moon. The laughter of the drinking guests are heard from below. The shell-shaped pendant on your throat catches the moonlight. It is almost autumn and the frangipani is in full bloom. Will it remain, you ask. If not this, another tree, I say.

And what about us?

If not us, another.

Zafar Mahal at sunset.
(Image from Wikimedia Commons)