The Legend of Shalimar

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The almighty Padeshah adored a mistress who became the major and beloved of his wives. He settled her in a palace beyond mundane vanity amidst the lush gardens of Shalimar. To see her, Shah Jahan had to cross the arid prairie surrounded by the blue mountains. Closing his eyes, he imagined her a lovely odalisque. He saw the precious silk veils, embroidered cushions, maids throwing armfuls of flowers in her bath. He saw her golden locks, and himself caressing the soft skin and breathing the scent of her essence. She was with him far and wide, like a wraith. Her bosom. Her knees. Curve of the neck. The earlobe, the shoulder, the mouth - certainly. Faster, faster, he pulled the reins, just to be with her again. 

And here in the clear air they blow the horns, drowning raucous cries of peacocks. He got to where he sought - in the Gardens of Shalimar. Goddess of goddesses goes out to him  through the fiery trees. At first he heard the melodious tinkling of her bracelets. Rustle of the gold embroidered sari on her graceful whippy body. Finally she turned her face towards him, and with delight and shame he looked away. Silently she stood in front of him. His gaze slowly slid along the pearl necklace, and explored the graceful curve of her neck to feel it’s wonderful odor. Their love was an eternal feast, a frozen instant of passion. Shah Jahan wished to remember this moment forever. Taking her hand, he leaded her to the lake. 

Herons descended to the shore, clear water was still. She stepped into the light shallop. And then the universe allegedly held its breath. In front of them the lake parted, and the four tower peaks raised. Spilling the waterfalls, they grew higher and higher, turning into white buds of minarets at the corners of the huge flawless marble dome. Open façades in a marble lace, flyovers and graceful arcades of chambers, balustrades lined with rare stones - a magnificent palace rose from the water. 

Masterpiece for all time - the Taj Mahal became one of the wonders of the world.

P.S. written by me for ScentBird

About the author


Honest Journalist. Born and raised in Sochi, Russia. Graduated from the Moscow State University, Department of Journalism.
Live in Brooklyn.
California dreamin'.

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