It is an enchanting afternoon that spring of 1203.
Princess Tiara sits in an alcove of the Nasrid gardens near her palace. At the
entrance to the garden, there are rows of majestic pines and hedges. These
gardens are adorned with Myrtles and myriads of Roses in yellow, pink and red;
the white Tiger Lilies, the unfathomable bushes of lavender Lilacs, the
Carnations and the Scarlet Geraniums are some among the foliage. The most
prominent are the Roses, however, flanked alongside and around the fountains of
varied shapes and sizes; a posy of Roses, overlooking either the circular or
the elongated basins, while the hedges at the entrance rise above everything
else, setting boundaries between the several passageways.
The meandering mountain
paths lead to the palaces of the great Moorish Emirates. Decked with luxurious
charms, the scenery is largely beset with numerous homes built on the hilly
slopes of the voluptuous mountains; visible also are the snowy peaks of Sierra
Nevada, or the snowy range in Spanish, whose snows of spring still melt over
the horizon. Quite severe for not being garnished with that many groves and
forests perhaps, nevertheless, owing to the precipices, there is an inescapable
look of sublimity to the landscape.
The air this afternoon is
heavy with the seductive aromas of diverse oriental flowers, as the princess
steps into the Jannat-al-Arif, the
architect’s garden. She stands on its edge and takes a few moments, inhaling
the fragrant air. Infused with the tranquil sound of cascading waterfall, the
atmosphere is sensuous with perfumed flowers; the pregnant orchard is laden
with oranges, lemons and pomegranates. Indeed the chirrup of a lonely dove is
nothing but an expression of idyllic milieu, short of an oriental paradise.
Wandering through these gardens and the many orchards, princess Tiara suddenly
hears whispers. They ask her to walk straight ahead. The princess goes into a
trance almost immediately. She stares. Her opal shaped eyes shut but wide open,
looking more enchanting than ever before. That a Nasrid prince could fall in
love with; her green swaying dress sweeping across as she walks by the leafy
vines over the lofty, old Moorish walls. Beyond Torre de Comares, the highest tower, which houses the
throne room against a backdrop of the court of the Myrtles, she plods heavily
to make her way towards them. She walks with the full view of the hilltop of Assabica
belonging to the rulers of the North African Nasrid dynasty, of the Middle-Ages
Mohammad 1st.
However, today she
drifts in a dream away from the King’s palace, through the Puerta del Vino, the
wine gate towards Alcazaba, not too far from the gate of the wine, the old
fortress of the Moors. The whispers stop. She comes back to her senses on her
track and notices that she is in front of the Palacio de los Leones, the Court
of the Lions near the royal apartments. She enters her rooms majestically. It
has the sheer magnificence of decorations on its walls and the ceiling as
though it is a work not of human hand but divine craftsmanship. She sits calmly
at a corner of one of her rooms … the hall of Abencerrajes. Again, the very
impressive ceiling is decked with a dome and a central star theme made of
muqarnas prisms. The motif continues, and gradually merges into the square
shaped grounds under the hanging muqarnas spandrels. As though bejewelled,
these rooms literally shimmer down to the floor, speckled with pearls, pink
rubies, white sapphires and sparkling diamonds in gilded silhouettes in an unrivalled
beauty of an oriental fairy tale.
But the princess is not
happy. To cheer her up, her palace maids organise a Flamingo near the fountain
of the Twelve Lions. The palace comes to life. It becomes animated, with the
tinkling of the princess’ laughter, in unison with the gentle water gushing out
of the mouths of the Twelve Lions; this
renowned fountain, mingled with the magical melody of the doves and the dances
of the gypsies. In the midst of it, the
ghosts of the past returns. She feels their sigh encircled around the cold
marbles of the pillars, within the Arabic inscriptions on the walls and over
the intriguing mosaic of the halls; a sigh that is imbued in history.
TO BE CONTINUED....
STAY TUNED
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