Rushdie on Jodhaa Akbar

02.27.08 | 10 Comments | Filed Under Commentary, Indian Politics, Islam Watch

Really, Salman Rushdie should stop butterflying among his numerous muses and write more such delightful prose. It’s an 8-part article. It is not without its faults though. Rushdie alternates between showing Akbar’s cruelty and his own fascination for the "secular" Akbar.

Ah! And he shows how Jodhaa was merely Akbar’s love-phantasm.

Presenting a few excerpts.

There was whispered poetry in the Emperor’s ear, and in the pachisi
courtyard on Thursdays there was much languid play, with slave girls
being used as living pieces on the checkerboard floor.

The queens lay together and moaned, and what they did to distract one
another, what entertainment they found in one another in their veiled
quarters, will not be described here.

A diversion into the Kathiawar Peninsula to quell the obstinate Rana of
Cooch Naheen, a young man with a big mouth and a bigger mustache (the
Emperor was vain about his own mustache, and took unkindly to
competitors), a feudal ruler absurdly fond of talking about freedom.
Freedom for whom, and from what, the Emperor harrumphed inwardly.
Freedom was a children’s fantasy, a game for women to play.

Often, instead of executing his vanquished opponents, the Emperor would
marry one of their daughters and give his defeated father-in-law a job:
better a new family member than a rotting corpse. This time, however,
he had irritably torn the insolent Rana’s mustache off his handsome
face, and chopped the weakling dreamer into garish pieces—had done so
personally, with his own sword, just as his grandfather would have, and
had then retreated to his quarters to tremble and mourn.

He did not want to be like his bloodthirsty ancestors, even though his ancestors were the greatest men in history.

He would keep his promise to the dead Kathiawari princeling. In the
heart of his victory city he would build a house of adoration, a place
of disputation where everything could be said to everyone by anyone on
any subject, including the nonexistence of God and the abolition of
kings.

Contrast this with Hindu kings who rarely killed a defeated and/or surrendered enemy.

Akbar the Great, the great great one, great in his greatness, doubly great, so great that the repetition in his title was not only appropriate but necessary in order to express the gloriousness of his glory—the Grand Mughal, the dusty, battle-weary, victorious, pensive, incipiently overweight, disenchanted, mustachioed, poetic, over-sexed, and absolute emperor, who seemed altogether too magnificent, too world-encompassing, and, in sum, too much to be a single human personage—this all-engulfing flood of a ruler, this swallower of worlds, this many-headed monster who referred to himself in the first-person plural—had begun to meditate, during his long, tedious journey home, on which he was accompanied by the heads of his defeated enemies bobbing in their sealed earthen pickle jars, about the disturbing possibilities of the first-person singular—the “I.”

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