by Shazia Omar
Costa cocked an eyebrow, ‘Your blood father?’
Madeline nodded.
‘Never met a sailor’s gal who pretends to be above her station.’
Irritation flared at Madeline’s finger tips but she faked an angelic smile. ‘200,000 rupees is a most generous offer.’
‘You will need a cabin and constant supervision,’ said Costa.
‘Supervision? I am not a child!’
‘Can you hold your ground against a man?’
‘Indeed, I can fence,’ Madeline retorted. ‘I trained as a child.’
‘Can you hold your ground against twenty men?’ asked Costa.
Madeline hesitated. ‘Should I disguise myself as a man?’
‘You’ve been reading too many adventure books ... Hush!’
‘Excuse me?’ she said, annoyed.
The captain pressed his finger to her lips.
Then Madeline heard it too. The sound of footsteps: boots rushing in their direction. She hid her face under the hood of her cloak and whispered, ‘I’ll pay double upfront!’
In streamed a dozen policemen armed with batons.
‘Where is she?’ demanded the chief of party.
‘She?’ said Captain Costa, knocking over the oil lamp. It crashed on the floor leaving the room in near darkness.
‘Scoundrel! Why did you do that?’ yelled the policeman.
‘Accident, Sir. Beg your pardon.’
‘Have you seen her?’ asked the constable.
‘Who?’ asked Costa.
‘Madeline du Champs, the criminal?’ said the constable.
Madeline held her breath, her heart was a racing stallion.
‘She stole the Duchess of Bourbon’s emeralds,’ said the constable.
‘Just me and my men here,’ said the captain. ‘Care for some grog?’
‘Search the place,’ shouted the constable to his men.
Madeline tried to control her trembling body. French police were known for burning women at the stake under false accusations of witch craft. Sick with fright, she longed to be home with Minaloushe curled in her lap.
‘Go on. Get outta here. We don’t want trouble,’ barked the doorman at the police.
Madeline felt a rush of gratitude. He could have turned her in.
Frustrated with their search, the police were about to depart when the constable noticed Madeline’s purse on the table. ‘Fetch a lantern!’ he ordered. He walked to the chair where Madeline had been sitting and lifted the purse to examine it.
He was so close, Madeline could smell his breath. He had only to turn his shoulder to discover her trembling behind him. Alarmed, she grabbed a pitcher and brought it smashing onto his head.
He screamed, clutched his head and turned to face her in fury. Two shots exploded.
For an instant, Madeline thought she was dead then the constable fell to the ground before her. Behind him stood Costa, a flintlock pistol in each hand, smoke streaming out of the nozzles.
What ensued was too rapid for Madeline to process. Only later did she piece it together. In a blur of action, Costa shot the constable and whistled for his crew. They swarmed in swinging cutlasses and massacred the police men to rescue her.
‘Let’s go!’ shouted Costa. ‘GO! GO! GO!’
Madeline stood stunned, sick to her stomach at the sight of the culling. She might have fainted but Costa grabbed her by the waist and ran, dragging her out of the tavern with him. He hoisted her onto a saddled horse and raced like the wind.
‘Where are we going?’ Madeline screamed.
The captain hollered back, ‘To the wilds of Bengal!’
DACCA 1685
CHAPTER 3
C
hampa knocked on the door, a cage full of mice in her hand.
‘Enter,’ called her grandfather. The door opened itself.
Champa stepped into the darkness. Pir Baba, holy mystic by qualification, healer by hobby, her grandfather by bloodline, chose to dwell without light. It suited his weak eyes.
‘How are you Dada?’ Champa asked. From his silhouette she could tell he was on a doeskin rug counting prayer beads. ‘Have you eaten?’
He shook his head.
‘Are you cold?’ she asked. The windows were shut and a damp chill had settled in. ‘The room smells musty.’
He sniffed the air and waved a hand. A fresh mist of rosewater permeated the room.
Careful not to knock over his artefacts, Champa placed the cage upon the floor. The mice scuffled, whiskers twitching in the air.
‘Light?’ her grandfather offered.
Champa nodded and lit a wax candle. The flame danced upwards, illuminating stacks of books, leather-bound tomes opened to yellowed pages, some folded back, some marked with indecipherable symbols. A titanic magnifying lens suspended from a tripod scattered prisms across the aged leather.
With a majestic spread of wings, the falcon flew off its perch and alighted on a beaker of ink. Its talons clutched too tight and the beaker shattered, sending the bird into an agitated frenzy. The mice ran amok, distraught and crashing into one another.
Blowing kisses on his shoulders, Pir Baba concluded his prayers and rose to calm his pet. He donned a leather glove and held out his hand. The bird flew to his glove.
‘There, there Hafez,’ cooed the pir. ‘You mustn’t let trivial matters ruffle your feathers.’
The bird cocked his head to one side.
‘One might mistake you for a craven raven,’ said Dada. ‘Such behaviour is not becoming of a thorough-bred falcon from Isfahan.’
Though Dada had let her name the falcon after the poet her father used to love before he became orthodox, Champa had never grown fond of the creature. Its mood was foul, its talons sharp and the scar upon her left cheek served as a souvenir of its ferocity. The bird was loyal to her grandfather and no one else.
‘Come child,’ said Dada. ‘What news has Hafez brought from the Ruby Monkeys?’
Champa was hardly a child at 25 except to her Dada who was an octogenarian. She loved him dearly but she was growing weary of his obsessive hunt for the mysterious diamond that distracted him from the ordinary demands of the day such as eating and sleeping.
Begrudgingly she removed the bamboo carrier tied to Hafez’s leg and retrieved the scroll from within. She unrolled it and secured its four corners with books. Dada had taught her to read and write and ever since his eyes had grown weak, he had relied on her to do both.
She held a candle to the scroll and examined it. It was written in blue ink with carefully curled letters, small as ants. Squinting, she read.
‘Kalinoor was last seen in Golconda
50 years ago
before the Mughal invasion.’
‘And...?’
‘That’s it, Dada.’
‘Confound it!’ shouted the pir, his face clouded with rage. ‘We know that!!!’
Everyone knew the dark diamond was stolen from Golconda in the 1630s by conquering Mughals under the command of Prince Aurangzeb but nobody knew where it had gone since. Not even the best sources could track it.
Dada had been hunting for this diamond since she was a child. Back then her father was his assistant. Champa recalled one time Dada had travelled to Taj Mahal acting on a tip that suggested the diamond was hidden there. Like many other clues, it turned out to be a red herring.
Then two years ago, Dada heard rumours that the diamond was close by, within the borders of Bengal. He redoubled his efforts to find it, this time with Champa as his reluctant assistant.
‘There is also this lemon,’ said Champa, reaching inside the bamboo. ‘It must be a gift for you.’
The pir’s face cleared. ‘Ah, a coded message.’
Champa raised an eyebrow.
‘Slice the lemon,’ the pir instructed. ‘Squeeze it on the scroll.’
Champa did as she was told, licking the tart juice off her fingers. Sure enough, as the juice splashed upon the scroll, new letters emerged. Champa read,
‘Kalinoor is with the Subedar of Bengal.
Winds of Change will carry it
far from the land of the Red Tiger
in the New Year.’
The pir stroked his beard, a faint smile on his lips. ‘It is closer than I thought.’
‘Wonderful!’ exclaimed Champa, unable to control her joy. At long last his search was yielding results.
‘Silly girl. The diamond is not a trifle meant to delight,’ he admonished.
She drew her face back to the lifeless canvas he preferred.
‘Kalinoor will help me channel God’s power to preserve Bengal.’
With age came eccentricities. Champa nodded politely though she didn’t understand what her grandfather meant. ‘How will you get it from the Subedar?’ she asked.
‘I am willing to pay amply for it,’ he mused. ‘But how to persuade a Mughal to part with his treasure?’ His eyes drifted in thought.
Champa nodded. Subedar Khan was only the most powerful man in the Empire. Since she was a child, she had both revered and feared him. He was as vicious as he was handsome, as brutal as he was just, as likely to execute a Muslim as a Hindu, and execute he did aplenty.
She had seen him once from a distance at the Janmashtami parade where elephants carried wildly coloured canvases 40 feet long and miniature shrines of Hindu gods with musicians, dhol wallahs and dancers trailing in festivities stretched over a mile in length. Her father had forbidden her from going but she went anyway and there she discovered dance.
The dancing girls with sculpted bodies saw her mesmerized eyes and befriended her, inviting her to practice with them in secret. Her father would have been dismayed if he came to know. His disdain for the material world prevented him from seeing the body as a temple but Champa believed the mind without the body could never connect to the spirit. The experience of living, breathing, dancing were holy to her. Besides, dancing was fun.
‘Perhaps I can help you retrieve the diamond?’ Champa suggested. She would do anything for her grandfather.
The pir barely hid his contempt. ‘You? How?’
Champa drew her brows together, desperate to find a way to help. If only ... Her brows snapped up.
‘Cousin Faruk tells me his friend owns a tent in Chowk Bazaar which the Subedar frequently visits. It’s called Jannat, have you heard of it?’ She knew he hadn’t. He never left the house.
‘The Subedar would NOT take Kalinoor to a tea tent!’ he exclaimed, as if she had insulted the very treasure he had dedicated his life to.
Champa smiled, stitching up a strategy in her head. Her grandfather would never agree to it but if she disguised herself as a dancer and enticed the Subedar to follow her home, she knew Dada would be pleased.
‘Dada, I’m late,’ she said. ‘My students are waiting.’
‘I have cosmic knowledge and the mantras of Vedic sages to teach you and you run off to waste your time with orphan girls? Why, like your baba, are you turning your back on ancient wisdom?’
‘Those girls need me!’
‘If you’re so dedicated to the material world, you might as well be married by now,’ snapped her grandfather. ‘Have some children of your own.’
‘Now you sound like Baba,’ said Champa. ‘If I were married, who would read and write for you?’ She knew she had struck his weak spot.
The pir grunted.
Champa softened. She did not want to leave him feeling irritable. She owed him everything. ‘Besides, I teach both: the old knowledge and the new. Shall I feed Hafez or will you?’
Dada knelt to the floor and with his ungloved hand, unlatched the cage. He caught a rodent by its pink tail and brought it out, hanging upside down, wriggling for dear life. It had toffee fur, a pink nose and white whiskers.
Dada let it loose upon the floor. Hafez observed it, eager to attack. The mouse scurried around in confusion looking for a place to hide. Its desperation made Champa cringe.
Dada snapped his finger. Hafez swooped down upon the rodent and began yanking out its intestines with his talons, toying with it, careful not to put it out of misery. Its paws scratched the floor as it tried to escape. Hafez looked at Dada as if for affirmation, pink flesh hanging from his mouth. Ruby patches of blood stained the sides of his beak, painting a diabolical smile.
‘Do you know why I released the rodent before I let Hafez devour it?’ said Dada, when at last the feast was over.
‘To test Hafez’s obedience?’ she guessed.
‘Hafez would not defy me. I am the hand that feeds him.’
Usually it was she who fed him but she replied, ‘Then why, Dada?’
‘Freedom tastes better than fear. Fear tightens muscles and makes meat stringy. One minute of freedom lulls the rodent into a false security. It dares to hope. Its blood flows, its muscles relax, its meat becomes tender and tasty.’ Pir Baba gave an unhinged smile. ‘Go now, child. I have work to do. Bengal is in grave danger.’
Champa eyed the mouse cage. She wanted to take it with her but her grandfather’s gaze warned her not to. There was more feasting to come. She turned to leave. The door swung open to let her out.
CHAPTER 4
O
n the banks of the Buriganga in the heart of Chowk Bazaar was a tent known as Jannat, Paradise. Under its crimson canopy lounged sinister mercenaries waiting to catch whiff of a golden opportunity. Here merchants could sell stallions from Arabia, camels from Egypt, gems from the coast of Masulipatam, dark secrets, pink lies, promises and primroses by the dozens. Here one could trade in silver, copper, counterfeit coins and scabbards bejewelled in rubies of cherry red. Here one could hire cutthroats to execute with words or swords any brutality for a reasonable price.
In the midspring sun, the tent was sticky. Wafting scents of cinnamon and cloves from the neighbouring spice souk did little to mask the stench of greed. Above the rowdy din of voices floated the melodious duet of a sitar and tabla. A dozen voluptuous dancers strayed from the uthaan to mingle with the chequered crowd. A lanky waiter served almond sherbet and liquor.
Subedar Shayista Khan entered the tent incognito, the hood of his fustian cloak low over his brows. He had eluded his bodyguards and was keen to protect his rare privacy. Only in disguise could he enjoy such freedom. Passing the bulging figure of Sheikh Obaidullah, he slipped him a coin. The inn keeper recognized the Subedar and nodded to assure him discretion.
With a disdainful glance, Shayista took cognition of every person in the tent then sat on a cushion positioning his back to a stack of crates to protect it from hungry blades.
To his right, Ottoman Turks discussed the aesthetics of Mughal architecture and Bengali women. They were trained assassins, he could tell by the way they sat with their palms against their hips, hiding sheathed khanjars, ears alert.
To his left, slaves with peacock feather pankahs cooled the gluttonous flesh of their aged master, Nawab Arifullah, a regional governor known for his penchant for rape. Pudding-faced and drenched in pearls, he looked like a royal oyster with a blond slave boy massaging his feet.
Shayista had prohibited slavery in Bengal to protect people from their own greed. He considered reprimanding the nawab but did not want to draw attention to himself. He was at Jannat to meet his European spymaster. He would send Dhand later to rescue the boy.
The nawab drooled over a dancer, one Shayista had not seen before. She tapped a tambourine against her thigh. Bony and dark, she was not what one would expect. Her face was an expression of crystalline contempt. Her nose was crooked, her eyes unsymmetrical, a purple scar snaked along her left cheek. The nawab seemed helplessly under her spell.
Shayista had not lusted over a woman in twenty years. He tried to tell himself it was his age though he knew the truth was that the only woman he had ever loved was taken from him in a moment of weakness. His wounded hand served as a constant reminder of his fatal mistake.
A waiter placed a hookah encrusted with topaz before Shayista. The Subedar drew in a deep breath of saffron-flavour
ed smoke. It coated his tongue. His muscles relaxed. He watched the dancer. She was not performing for money. She was a devotee whirling to the rhythm of the cosmos. He admired her dharana. Only with singular focus could one achieve such finesse. They were not so different, she and him.
A dancer danced to the rhythm of song, a warrior to the pulse of enemies. Alas that was where their similarities ended. While art was elegant, dismantling false heroes and upholding the Empire’s sovereignty was rather odious. Yet this task fell to him as there was no one else to take on the burden.
Shayista gulped smoke from his hookah and tried to formulate battle strategies in his head but the dancing girl was a distraction. The bells on her choli jingled. He saw the outline of her rose apple breasts, the undulating curve of her hips. The more she danced, the lighter he felt, nearer to peace, closer to freedom.
A waiter served him a glass of sharab. He let its coolness soothe his throat. From the corner of his eye, he saw two ruffians enter the tent. Dark, brooding men with thick beards, blood caked on their narrow scabbards. White shalwars, orange turbans, cummerbunds glistening gold, they looked like Marathas.
Shayista’s hamstrings tightened. It had been twenty years since he last fought Maratha guerrillas. He glanced at his left hand: pinkie, index, middle finger gone, chopped off at the second knuckle.
The Marathas puffed their chests and flanked the nawab. The larger one spoke. ‘Is this the fierce Subedar Khan? The one who burns Hindus at the stake? Ha! He looks like a bowl of jelly.’
Shayista’s ears perked up. Even if they had gotten hold of the wrong man, even if they had mistaken his political stance (he had vehemently opposed jiziya and the destruction of Hindu temples proposed by Aurangzeb), the most pressing issue at the moment was: how on earth did they know he was in the tent? He ran his fingers over his stubble. Had someone betrayed him?
The fanning servants quailed but the nawab displayed an irreverent disregard for danger, the kind that’s only possible when alarmingly inebriated. ‘Do you know whooo-oo-oo I am?’ he said with such force that he knocked himself over. Regaining balance, he slurred, ‘I’ll have you flog-g-g-ged.’
