Short Story When they killed my husband, it was the spirit of undaunted daring and unfailing love that was murdered. You romanticise the love that Shahjahan bore for Mumtaz because he erected that mausoleum called Taj Mahal in memory of his supposedly unfailing love for Mumtaz. But Mumtaz was just one among the many wives and concubines on whose bosoms Shah Jahan expended his lust night after night. Your historians will romanticise the heroism of many a ruler just because they went far and wide marauding and massacring. My husband may find no place in such histories. But he was a genuine hero and romantic lover, a rare combination. He fought the battles of life more bravely than any conqueror. He loved me passionately, more than any Mughal emperor loved any of his women. Yet the universe conspired against him just as mediocrity conspires against the genius. He was subjected to so many deaths. Deaths in life. Khusru, my beloved, was also the beloved of the greates
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