those who did not ask. Tambula says that the court called it the Jahan-minar —the tower of the world—just to please him.
Since Basant never saw it, Tambula describes it to him: The emperor’s lingam is enormous—long, thick, but hideously misshapen; twisted, distorted, bulging, and in some places black.
Nevertheless, the emperor seemed delighted with the results. He only sees its size, says Tambula, not its deformity. Apparently he could make it function well enough, and that was the main thing.
He gave Kela jama robes of honor and a casket of jewels. And of course at that point Kela made his tearful goodbyes, and gave Tambula his apothecary box. Two days later he was dead. Shah Jahan could not bear that Kela might help another man achieve such a masterwork.
Shah Jahan’s wives and concubines quickly learned to bite back their horror at the emperor’s monstrosity: rather they learned to admire the results if they knew what was good for them.
As he listens to Tambula describe this lunacy, Basant wonders what Shah Jahan was like when Taj Mahal was alive. He has only seen him as he appears now: old, sneering, overwhelmed by wine, opium, and endless va-jikaranas . The brothers shake their heads when they speak of Shah Jahan.
Basant asks Tambula about it. Tambula confirms the stories. Yes, Shah Jahan had congress twenty-two times in one night. Three or four times an hour! Think of it! Recently he collapsed on his eleventh partner and couldn’t be roused, even with her screaming in his ear and the brothers rubbing ice on his hands and feet.
“Why do you think I am so honored by the emperor? He knows that no one can match my skill in vajikarana, ” Tambula says ruefully. “Without my help, he’d have a stalk like a limp radish.”
Tambula speculates that all these drugs must be having an effect: He thinks that Shah Jahan’s strength is being squeezed from his limbs and out through his lingam, leaving his organs shriveled and dry like dates. He and his apprentice like to guess about which woman will squeeze the last drop from Shah Jahan and toss his brittle husk aside.
And yet, Shah Jahan still rules the empire. Though he may be dying slowly, he rules, and wisely, and well, Basant thinks. The empire thrives, its people are happy. The beauty of Agra, of Lahore, of Shahjahanabad; these reflect a sensibility and intelligence rarely seen in a king. Taxes are fair, he has been told, and collected with only minimal violence; justice is meted out with reason and charity—with only enough tortures and executions each week to make consequences apparent and memorable.
Basant likes to show a sophisticated interest in politics. But before he can consider matters further, as often happens, reality intrudes. The girls are dressed and ready, and showing no ill effects. Tambula places his long fingers first on the neck of one, then of the other, and pulls down their lower eyelids without a word. Appearing much relieved, he settles the vials in his apothecary case and slings it over his shoulder. “I’ve done enough damage here,” he says. “Get them to a man fast or they’ll attack each other. And pray to God he can stay hard for a month.”
Turning to Basant as he leaves, he says, “You were right, brother—it wasn’t her menses. I wonder if she even is a woman. Don’t say I said so—though I imagine she’d take it as a compliment. Be careful, brother.”
Basant soon finds himself walking the corridors of the harem with Breakfast and Lunch.
At last they enter the purdah room. The girls’ eyes are unfocused, glazed, but burning with fierce, purposeful desire. They glide across the room arm in arm, heads close, whispering secrets to each other.
In the dim light that filters through the jali their heavy pearl necklaces slide across their perfect, perfumed breasts perfectly visible through blouses of silk mesh. A heat rises from them; they glow like hot coals; eyes dark and wild that both mock and
Since Basant never saw it, Tambula describes it to him: The emperor’s lingam is enormous—long, thick, but hideously misshapen; twisted, distorted, bulging, and in some places black.
Nevertheless, the emperor seemed delighted with the results. He only sees its size, says Tambula, not its deformity. Apparently he could make it function well enough, and that was the main thing.
He gave Kela jama robes of honor and a casket of jewels. And of course at that point Kela made his tearful goodbyes, and gave Tambula his apothecary box. Two days later he was dead. Shah Jahan could not bear that Kela might help another man achieve such a masterwork.
Shah Jahan’s wives and concubines quickly learned to bite back their horror at the emperor’s monstrosity: rather they learned to admire the results if they knew what was good for them.
As he listens to Tambula describe this lunacy, Basant wonders what Shah Jahan was like when Taj Mahal was alive. He has only seen him as he appears now: old, sneering, overwhelmed by wine, opium, and endless va-jikaranas . The brothers shake their heads when they speak of Shah Jahan.
Basant asks Tambula about it. Tambula confirms the stories. Yes, Shah Jahan had congress twenty-two times in one night. Three or four times an hour! Think of it! Recently he collapsed on his eleventh partner and couldn’t be roused, even with her screaming in his ear and the brothers rubbing ice on his hands and feet.
“Why do you think I am so honored by the emperor? He knows that no one can match my skill in vajikarana, ” Tambula says ruefully. “Without my help, he’d have a stalk like a limp radish.”
Tambula speculates that all these drugs must be having an effect: He thinks that Shah Jahan’s strength is being squeezed from his limbs and out through his lingam, leaving his organs shriveled and dry like dates. He and his apprentice like to guess about which woman will squeeze the last drop from Shah Jahan and toss his brittle husk aside.
And yet, Shah Jahan still rules the empire. Though he may be dying slowly, he rules, and wisely, and well, Basant thinks. The empire thrives, its people are happy. The beauty of Agra, of Lahore, of Shahjahanabad; these reflect a sensibility and intelligence rarely seen in a king. Taxes are fair, he has been told, and collected with only minimal violence; justice is meted out with reason and charity—with only enough tortures and executions each week to make consequences apparent and memorable.
Basant likes to show a sophisticated interest in politics. But before he can consider matters further, as often happens, reality intrudes. The girls are dressed and ready, and showing no ill effects. Tambula places his long fingers first on the neck of one, then of the other, and pulls down their lower eyelids without a word. Appearing much relieved, he settles the vials in his apothecary case and slings it over his shoulder. “I’ve done enough damage here,” he says. “Get them to a man fast or they’ll attack each other. And pray to God he can stay hard for a month.”
Turning to Basant as he leaves, he says, “You were right, brother—it wasn’t her menses. I wonder if she even is a woman. Don’t say I said so—though I imagine she’d take it as a compliment. Be careful, brother.”
Basant soon finds himself walking the corridors of the harem with Breakfast and Lunch.
At last they enter the purdah room. The girls’ eyes are unfocused, glazed, but burning with fierce, purposeful desire. They glide across the room arm in arm, heads close, whispering secrets to each other.
In the dim light that filters through the jali their heavy pearl necklaces slide across their perfect, perfumed breasts perfectly visible through blouses of silk mesh. A heat rises from them; they glow like hot coals; eyes dark and wild that both mock and
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