by Shazia Omar
As they walked, Champa could not help but reflect upon the Subedar’s contributions to the subha and his heroic commitment during the plague. He personally paid for doctors and medicine and levied a tax on rat-infested European ships to prevent a relapse. He had gone beyond the call of duty, though it had not been enough to save her mother.
When the plague took Champa’s mother, she was only ten. Devastated, her father wanted to marry her off so he could renounce his responsibilities and drown in his only solace, the Quran. It was Dada who intervened and raised her while her father’s bitterness congealed around the fragments of rituals on which he hung his heart. Now Dada was all the family she had. She hoped the diamond would bring him closer to unlocking the mysteries of the universe as he hoped.
Champa noticed the Subedar was staring at the emerald bajuband on her arm. She examined his face. He had fair skin burnt from hours under the sun and deep gashes that ran across his cheek, above his chin, through his eye brow. His broad jaw was covered with inch-long stubble and his hair was a dishevelled tangle of black but apart from that, he was delectable. He was tall, perhaps 6 feet tall, muscular as a maiden’s fantasy. His lips were red as radishes, his eyes brown like soil. His age was indiscernible. She noticed his expression change. He looked petrified.
‘What’s the matter?’ Champa asked.
‘I hate cats,’ the Subedar mumbled.
Champa noticed anew. Cats everywhere. Lean, scruffy, rheumy eyed cats with patches of fur clawed off. She was surprised to see a brave warrior afraid of felines but somehow his vulnerability made him human.
Suddenly he lunged at one of the cats, chopping off its head with his sword. It let out an eerie howl then died shuddering. He lifted his sword to kill another. The remaining cats scrambled to escape.
‘STOP!’ screamed Champa, grabbing his arm. ‘What are you doing?’
‘It was rabid,’ explained the Subedar. ‘Cats carry diseases.’
‘Rats carry diseases too,’ she countered. ‘Haven’t you heard of the plague? The best solution for rats is cats.’ She was unable to comprehend how one could be so cruel. Not all problems could be solved with a sword!
The Subedar looked taken aback.
‘Here we are,’ she said before he could kill another cat. ‘Home sweet home.’
CHAPTER 6
T
he roots of a primeval banyan tree crawled towards them. An eerie community had formed around its gnarled architecture. Suspended on one limb was a barber’s cracked mirror, on another, a cobbler’s decrepit stand. Fakir tents hung off its branches, on its bough, a murder of ravens. The temperature was cool there and thick with the smell of decay. Behind the tree, a half-hidden house, still and desolate as a coffin.
Shayista’s chest tightened. A vampire bat flew over his head. Banyan roots uncoiled like arms of the buried dead, twisting and writhing to and fro, grabbing at his ankles. Feeling uneasy, he followed Champa down a path to a mildewed gate that groaned as she opened it. A black cat slipped out. Its tail curled around his ankle, making him cringe. The mossy walls seemed to watch him. There was something deviant about the place, something dismal and haunted.
Champa led him down a stairwell with a marble banister to an underground chamber with no windows.
A silver-bearded holy man sat crossed legged on a wooden charpoi, a single candle on the table. He wore black garbs and a slick black turban held together with a sapphire broach. He was counting prayer beads. His quivering lips concealed sinister secrets. By his side, a masked falcon fidgeted.
‘I have been expecting you, Subedar Khan,’ said Pir Zulfiqar.
‘You have?’ said Shayista, betraying the surprise in his voice.
‘Sit down,’ commanded the pir. The Subedar obeyed.
‘Lion-hearted, you are,’ said the pir. His eyes were a metallic green. ‘Do you believe in Allah?’
Shayista nodded, though lately He had been obscured by clouds.
‘If you believe in Allah then you must also believe in black magic.’
As a child, Shayista was trained by Huzur, a mystic of the highest order, so of course he believed in white magic. He had personally seen Huzur perform astonishing miracles with the power of his mind. It was black magic that Shayista was sceptical of. Ghosts, demons and djinn he had never seen but he did not care to argue with the holy man so he nodded.
The pir frowned.
‘Would you like some water?’ offered Champa, her demeanour altered.
Shayista nodded gratefully, welcoming any excuse to stray from the probe. He scanned the room. There were lines of shelves: moth-eaten books, a telescope, an oil lamp, a silver-hilted rapier. No human effigies, pickled snakes or overt signs of sorcery.
Zulfiqar frowned. ‘You have suffered.’
‘Suffering is the fate of mankind,’ said Shayista. A cold blast of wind with no apparent source caressed the nape of his neck.
‘There is an artefact in your possession called Kalinoor.’ The pir spoke with hypnotic cadence. ‘Bring it to me.’
‘How do you know about Kalinoor?’ asked Shayista. Why was everyone suddenly after his diamond? He had kept it hidden for so long. Now it seemed his secret was out.
‘Kalinoor is cursed,’ said the pir.
‘Curses are for fairytales,’ said Shayista.
‘Whosoever possesses the dark diamond shall suffer. All that you cherish shall perish!’ He grabbed Shayista’s wrists and stood up. ‘Bagh Khan, beware. Thrice you have been struck.’
Champa placed a tumbler by Shayista. ‘Dada, you’re frightening him.’ Her eyes conveyed concern for her grandfather’s safety. One mustn’t offend the Subedar.
The pir let go of Shayista’s wrists and sat down. He brought his fingers to a steeple. ‘Bring me the diamond and I will undo the curse.’
Shayista grinned. The audacity of the pir amused him. ‘How does one undo a curse?’ he asked, sarcastically.
‘I will consult the djinn,’ said the sorcerer.
Shayista nearly snorted and stood up to leave.
The pir noted his reaction. ‘One cannot divine Truth without conferring with the other world. Our knowledge of the universe is too shallow.’
‘I suppose for these metaphysical services I must pay you materially?’ said Shayista.
‘What good is your money?’ said the pir with contempt. ‘Will it save Bengal?’
‘Save Bengal?’ said the Subedar. The pir had his attention.
‘The stone will use YOU as its weapon of destruction.’ The pir’s voice rose in volume, disturbing the falcon. It unfolded its wings and beat the air. ‘YOU will destroy Bengal.’
Shayista had heard enough. His mouth closed to a hard line.
‘Mark my words, Subedar. Bring me the diamond before the Emperor arrives or else Bengal is doomed.’
Shayista bid the pir salaam and exited the antechamber. He climbed up the stairs and wondered how the pir knew the Emperor was coming. There had been no public announcement.
Champa came chasing after him. ‘Dada’s not an imposter,’ she said.
‘Is that so?’
‘He is respected in this community. Ask anybody. No one provides better cures or exorcisms.’
‘I don’t need either,’ said the Subedar. ‘And by the way, how did he know who I am?’
‘He knows many things,’ said Champa. ‘Can I see your hand?’
Shayista raised his brow. Such impudence on the threshold of his departure, she was asking to hold his hand? She reached for it. He yanked it away a bit too abruptly, hurting her feelings. A pout sprang to her lips. He softened, passing her his other hand, the undamaged one. She cupped it in her dainty fingers and pressed the mound on his palm. He felt a bolt of lightning shoot through his arm.
Her brows furrowed as she peered at his palm. ‘Like the moon, you have a light and a dark side but you wrestle with the two. You forget, we do not stand in the light or the shade but in the twilight in between.’
She traced a line wi
th her finger. ‘Yours is the gift of eternal youth.’
Shayista frowned. Did she know he was really 84 years old, not 42 as he appeared? When he was born, as per tradition, his father took him for a blessing to Sheikh Chishti, the spiritual leader of the royal family, direct disciple of Khwaja Moinuddin Chishti himself. Sheikh Chishti poured an elixir down Shayista’s baby lips, a mixture of zamzam water from Mecca and a prayer.
Years later when Shayista reached manhood, he found his aging process seemed slower than natural. He believed it was the effect of the tonic. When he thanked Sheikh Chishti, the saint said it wasn’t he who had performed any miracles, it was Allah. This information Shayista hadn’t shared with anyone.
Champa poked at his palm. ‘As a child, you learned of battle.’
A forgotten memory flashed before Shayista. He was at Agra Palace with his sister Arjumand watching elephants fight in a ring. Jahangir’s elephant was pitted against Shah Jahan’s elephant, father against son. The terrified creatures had to kill or be killed. Inexplicably, the memory seemed to spring not from his mind but from the tip of Champa’s finger. As she lifted her finger, the memory cleared.
Champa pointed to another line etched on his hand. ‘You have known your Destiny since before it was sealed.’
A second memory appeared before him. It was June 3, 1611, the wedding of his aunt, Mehrunnisa, to Emperor Jahangir. Shayista was ten years old and known as Mirza Abu Talib. He had travelled with his family for 40 days from Lahore to Agra for the celebrations. He was miserable, drained from the marathon journey and heart-broken having had to part with his ducks. Forced to wear silk turbans that restricted blood flow to his brain, he had a continuous headache and double vision. To add insult to injury, his mother had dragged him to the public baths twice in preparation for the wedding. Twice too often.
The wedding was lavish. Scarlet shamianas fringed with gold brocade covered acres of gardens, princely pavilions as far as the eye could see. Layers of thick lamb wool padded their feet and rows of potted jasmines fragranced the air. Elaborate feasts were laid out. Ten thousand people were fed and another ten thousand received gold coins and goats. Three hundred musicians had rehearsed for five months to perform a spectacular recital of song and dance.
Emperor Jahangir spared no costs. On the day of the auspicious union, Mehr sat on a ceremonial divan plated with gold and studded with emeralds. Covered by a golden veil and decked in diamonds, she glowed, befitting the title bestowed upon her: Nur Jahan, Light of the World.
Talib grumbled as he was pushed on to the dais to bow to the Emperor and his aunt.
Lifting her golden veil to kiss him, Nur Jahan whispered in his ear, ‘Everyone is here for a reason. Why are you here?’
Talib tried to wriggle free.
‘What’s your purpose in life, beta?’
Talib was accustomed to adults disseminating unsolicited advice but this was really too much. He had been uprooted from his home, travelled 440 miles, bathed TWICE, and now he was being asked personal questions at the party when all he wanted to do was play with his friends.
Emperor Jahangir leaned into the conversation, the ruby broach on his turban glittering, eyes aglow with uxorious euphoria. ‘His purpose, your purpose, my purpose, everybody’s purpose is to LOVE!’ he offered gleefully.
Nur Jahan blushed. ‘No, my Jahapana, everyone has a unique destiny. See how he moves, how he observes you, measuring your vulnerabilities. He has the eyes of a warrior, so serious for a little boy. His dharma is to fight battles and kill men. He will serve you well but he will never find happiness. Such men never find happiness.’
Champa lifted her finger and the memory dissipated.
Shayista had not thought of his aunt’s wistful prophecy in many years. Was it true, was he destined to destroy? Would happiness elude him?
Champa pointed to a third line on his palm and said, ‘You have made a choice that you regret.’
Shayista pulled his hand away before the memory sprang.
Champa nodded as though she had understood something of him. ‘Your regrets haunt you?’ she asked. ‘I can undo regrets.’
Undo regrets? Shayista was curious but the dancer already knew too much. He bid her farewell and hurried back to the bazaar.
Despite the noisy banter of urban bustle, Shayista heard the pleasant poo-poo-poo of a hoopoe and the chah-chah cough of a blue roller. He spotted a drongo whistling, hopping from rooftop to rooftop in search of a ripe papaya, its glossy blue plumage glistening. An Indian cuckoo sang carefree, bou-kota-kou, bou-kota-kou, bou-kota-kou.
The natural beauty of Bengal comforted Shayista briefly till he passed Jannat and remembered his troubles. He had to tell the Emperor about the Company designs. Could it be that Aurangzeb already knew? He needed a drink and some opium.
‘There you are, Sire,’ said Amir Dhand, Commander of Shayista’s cavalry, slapping a titanic hand on his back. ‘Wandering without your bodyguards again? How many times must I tell you it isn’t safe? There are forces conspiring.’
‘My death is written in the stars. Nothing we do can change it,’ Shayista replied.
Dhand was not impressed with this line of reasoning. ‘At least allow me to accompany you on these excursions,’ he insisted, falling into stride with his commander.
More ogre than man, Dhand was seven inches taller than Shayista, placing him at a giant 6’9’. He was a fierce fighter, muscles bulging on his arms, legs and neck. His head was shaven to deny enemies the advantage of yanking his hair in close combat. Tucked into his belt was his weapon of choice: a Zaghnol, Crow’s Beak axe, with two cutting edges. This axe had never known defeat but it was not for his martial skills that Shayista made him Amir-i-Akhur, Commander of the Cavalry. It was his stalwart loyalty Shayista valued most.
‘Look at the splendour around us,’ said Shayista. ‘I have built roads, ports, mosques. One rupee purchases eight maunds of rice, I feed the Empire. Cotton, silk, muslin, I clothe the world. For what? So a covetous company can invade my province and pillage its wealth? I won’t allow it!’
‘Sure, Sire,’ Dhand mumbled through the corner of his full mouth.
‘What’s that you’re eating?’ asked Shayista.
‘Shutki,’ said Dhand, through clenched jaw.
‘Dried fish?’ said Shayista, averting his nose from the stink.
‘You want some?’ Dhand stuffed his massive hand into his pocket and pulled out a few brown crumbs.
What Dhand had in brawn he lacked in brain. ‘Even after all these years, I haven’t been able to make a gentleman of you,’ said Shayista.
Amir Dhand wasn’t listening. He had spotted a fish monger and was replenishing his stock of his favorite snack.
A bevy of cats moped about, judging Shayista with piercing gazes. He couldn’t help but feel perhaps Dhand was right. Perhaps forces were conspiring against him.
CHAPTER 7
H
er Highness Nasim Banu, the Subedar’s wife, held the incriminating dupatta a careful distance from her rosewater-bathed body as she stormed across the menagerie to the zenana, silk ghagra clinging to her hips, eunuch following close behind. She was already plagued by pernicious worries: Shayista never once visited the mosque on the west side of the fort and drank himself to oblivion regularly, Emperor Aurangzeb was due to arrive within a few weeks, she was aging fast, and now this ... this dupatta?
Shayista was a considerate husband though he had no passionate attachment to her. Still, insecurity was an emotion she had not experienced, not since the death of his slutty mistress, the Hindu princess who died in the attack of 1664. Apart from that one unfortunate indiscretion, Shayista was not an amorous philanderer.
Most Mughal lords had harems full of courtesans but not Shayista. Their zenana housed only qualified kenchens, professional singers and nautch dancers. Shayista never consorted with them. His only obsession was his Imperial Duty for which he would willingly sacrifice his arms and legs.
Nasim did not care so m
uch for the Emperor. She found him guileful and scheming, not a true supporter of his uncle Shayista. The problem with fanatics was that they got fixated on other people’s purity. Who asked him to be the meddlesome vigilante of human imperfections? Religion was a private affair.
Still, he was the Emperor so he had to be kept satisfied. Shayista’s epicurean habits offended him and it was up to her to keep the peace. She arranged Pari’s marriage to the Emperor’s son to bring their families closer together but alas the plan went horribly awry.
Prince Azam turned out to be an intolerable imbecile, disrespectful and profligate. To make matters worse, Pari died. It wouldn’t have been all in vain if Shayista had managed to secure decent positions for their lazy sons but instead he had become preoccupied with the so-called ‘Enemies of the Empire’ and was verging on the brink of paranoia. This was clouding his judgement.
That morning, Nasim was appalled to discover just how badly his obsession had distorted his decision-making ability when she found the dupatta under the bed. It was made of fine white muslin with roses embroidered in golden thread. Never had she seen anything so exquisite.
At first, she assumed black magic. Genghis Khan was a necromancer. He conducted regular animal sacrifices and ate herbs to sire 8000 sons. Babar saved Humayan’s life, circling his sickbed to lure away Death, sacrificing himself so his son would live. Djinn could be hired for all sorts of misdeeds. Dark pacts with Death and the Devil were known to all. Any amateur conjurer could command a spirit to drop a dupatta under her bed with a spell wrapped within it.
On further examination however the cloth seemed less an act of occult assault and more an act of seduction. It occurred to Nasim that her faithless husband had not only abandoned God but also his lawfully wedded wife. This made her furious rather than sad. She suspected it must have been one of the brazen dancing girls and proceeded directly to the zenana to find the slut who dared threaten her position in the Empire and in bed.
