Thomas Hoover - The Moghul

"To His Highness, the Maharana of Udaipur: whose line flows directly from the great Kusa, son of Rama, King of Ajodhya and the noble hero of the Ramayana. Descendant of the Royal House of the Sun, whose subjects will refuse their food if neither he nor his brother the Sun are present to show their face upon it and bless it."

The maharana's reply was equally effusive, describing Jadar as the greatest Moghul warrior in all of history, the equal of his Mongol forebears Genghis Khan and Tamerlane, a worthy descendant of the early Moghul conquerors Babur and Humayun, and finally, the one Moghul whose martial skills might actually approach those of the fighting Rajputs of Mewar-an oblique reference to the fact that Jadar had led the Moghul army that subdued Mewar a decade earlier and induced its Rajputs to finally acknowledge Moghul dominance over northwest India.

Immoderate praise of one another's armies followed next. Then the maharana said something else, and Jadar turned suddenly toward Hawksworth.

"Ambassador Hawksworth. His Highness has asked to speak with you."

Hawksworth rose from the carpet and moved forward. Around him the Udaipur Rajputs studied him with open curiosity. They had listened to lavish toasts for years, but none had ever before seen a feringhi in a doublet. The very concept of such a phenomenon exceeded their imagination.

"His Highness has asked permission to allow his court painters to make your portrait, so that he may remember your likeness. Dressed as you are tonight. Do you have any objection?"

"Please tell His Highness I would be honored." Hawksworth found himself startled, and unsure what reply was appropriate. "Please tell him that my own father was once a painter in England."

Jadar smiled through his teeth. "You mean I should tell him there are of course many skilled artists in your noble land of England. Your own father, as we both know, was a great khan in England, not a lowly craftsman."

As Hawksworth nodded dully, Jadar turned and translated this to the maharana. Karan Singh's eyes brightened as he replied to Jadar.

"He asks if your king's painters are expert in Ragamala?"

"I'm not entirely sure what His Highness refers to." Hawksworth examined Jadar with a puzzled expression.

Jadar translated and the Rajput looked surprised. He turned and quickly said something to one of the servants, who vanished and reappeared moments later with a leatherbound folio. The maharana spoke briefly to Jadar, then passed the book.

"The maharana politely suggests that possibly your English king's painters have not yet achieved the sophistication required for Ragamala. He asks me to show you one of his personal albums." Jadar opened the book and handed it to Hawksworth.

It was filled with vibrant miniature paintings, executed on heavy sheets of paper that had been treated with a white pigment of rice water and lavishly embellished with gold leaf. They showed round-eyed young women with firm breasts and slender wrists lounging in beautifully stylized gardens and courtyards, playing gilded instruments or sensuously embracing their lovers, many surrounded by doves, peacocks, tame deer, and tapestry-covered elephants. In some the blue-faced god Krishna played an instrument that looked something like a sitar, to the wistful gaze of longing doe-eyed women whose breasts swelled through their gauze wraps. The paintings imparted to Hawksworth a curious world of emotional intensity: a celebration of life, love, and devotion.

"Each Ragamala painting depicts the mood of a specific raga." Jadar pointed to one of a jeweled woman feeding a peacock which leaned down from a white marble rooftop, while her lover reached his arms to encircle her. "This is a raga named Hindol, a morning raga of love. The Ragamala paintings of Mewar are a perfect blend of music, poetry, and pure art." Jadar winked. "After the maharana has painted you in your native costume, perhaps he will have his artists paint you as the young god Krishna, enticing some milkmaids to your leafy bed."

The maharana spoke again to Jadar.

"He asks whether these are anything like the paintings your king's artists create for English ragas?"

"Tell him we don't have ragas in England. Our music is different."

Jadar tried to mask his discomfort. "Perhaps I should merely say your English ragas are in a different style from those we have in India. He will not be impressed to learn that English music is not yet advanced enough to have developed the raga."

Jadar's reply seemed to satisfy the maharana. He turned and said something to one of the men sitting near him.

"His Highness has ordered that you be given an album of Ragamala paintings to take back to your king, so the painters at his court may try to copy them and begin to learn greatness."

"His Majesty, King James, will be deeply honored by the rana's gift." Hawksworth bowed diplomatically, deciding not to inform the maharana that King James had no painters and little taste.

The maharana beamed in satisfaction and dismissed Hawksworth with a nod.

Then the exchange of gifts began. Jadar produced a gold cloak for the maharana, a jewel-encrusted sword, a jeweled saddle, and promised to deliver an elephant with a silver howdah. The maharana in turn gave Jadar an emerald the size of a large walnut, a gilded shield studded with jewels, and a brace of jeweled katars. Each thanked the other extravagantly and set the presents aside.

Then Jadar suddenly stood up and began removing his turban. The room fell silent at this unprecedented act.

"Tonight, in gratitude for his friendship, for his offer of an abode to one who no longer has any roof save a tent, I offer to His Highness, the Maharana of Udaipur, my own turban, that he may have a lasting token of my gratitude. That in the years ahead when, Allah willing, these dark days are past, we will neither of us forget my indebtedness on this night."

As Jadar stepped forward to present the turban, the maharana's eyes flooded with emotion. Before Jadar had moved more than a pace, Karan Singh was on his feet, ripping off his own turban. They met in the center of the room, each reverently placing his own turban on the other's head, then embracing.

Hawksworth looked around the room and saw Rajputs who would gut an enemy without a blink now near to tears. He leaned back toward Shirin.

"What's the significance of the turbans?"

"It's the rarest gift any man could present to another. I've never before heard of a Moghul or a Rajput giving his turban. The story of this will be told throughout Mewar. We have just seen the creation of a legend."

Then the maharana's voice rose. "Mewar, the abode of all that is beautiful in the world, is made even more beautiful by your presence. In years past we have stood shield to shield with you; tonight we embrace you in friendship. We wish you victory over those who would deny you your birthright, which you have earned both by blood and by deed. No other in India is more fit to reign, more just to govern, more honorable to his friends, more feared by his foes. Tonight we offer you our hand and our prayers that Lord Krishna will always stand with you."

Hawksworth turned to Shirin and whispered. "What's he saying?"

Her eyes were dark. "He's delaying his answer to the prince. Offering him prayers to Lord Krishna. Prince Jadar doesn't need prayers to Krishna. He needs Rajputs. Thousands of Rajputs. But perhaps in time the maharana can be convinced. Banquets are not the place for negotiation. They're the place for perfumed talk."

Jadar was smiling as though he had just been offered the whole of Rajputana. He managed to thank the maharana lavishly.

The maharana beamed and signaled for pan leaves again, signifying the evening was ended. The room emptied in moments.

"I think Jadar could be in serious trouble." Hawksworth turned to Shirin as they entered the hallway. "If he fails to get support here, what will he do?"