Dark Diamond

by Shazia Omar

  She dismissed her eunuch and entered the zenana. Rays of sun streamed in through latticed walls casting stars upon the ground. Nasim had commissioned this pattern herself from the renowned Ustad Ahmad Lahauri who had built Taj Mahal.

  Not only was Ustad Lahauri talented with brick and mortar but also he was strikingly handsome despite his age. Still she hadn’t flirted with him not even with an accidental slip of her veil because she valued the vows of marriage. Shayista it appeared was less meticulous with his lust. Of course, princes were permitted to be promiscuous but that didn’t mean she had to sit idle and allow it.

  Emperor Jahangir had proposed her marriage to Shayista 39 years ago. Shayista was forced to accept it just as he had accepted his position as a political leader of the Empire though that too he had never wanted. He believed his Imperial Duty was ordained by God so he relented. He married her with the same resignation.

  She was fifteen years old then and fair as the moon. He was older and climbing the ranks at a dizzying speed. Just how much older, she would never know, for his family never kept record of his birth. After their marriage, she kept aging, as one does. Shayista distressingly did not. He remained a chiselled young man, despite his heavy drinking, while she started looking more like his mother than wife. This troubled her because her position in society was entirely and precariously dependent on her relationship with him.

  Nasim had already relinquished youth and good looks. She could not bear to surrender power and wealth too. She had seen Nur Jahan displace Jahangir’s first 19 wives and Shayista’s coquettish sister, Arjumand Mumtaz, memorialized for eternity in the Taj while Shah Jahan’s first wife lay forgotten forever. She was desperate not to suffer the same fate.

  Nasim passed through the latticed corridor into a room full of kenchens. Their feathery cholis left little to the imagination. She considered ordering Amir Dhand to have them all flogged but drastic measures would draw Shayista’s attention. She was not one for domestic conflict. No, she must be cunning.

  The dancing girls were huddled together pleating ribbons in one another’s hair. She envied their sorority. She had no close friends. She suspected everyone was out to cheat or con her. In the centre of the nauseating nautch circle was heavy-set Didi Ma, reclined on a silk cushion. A lithe young beauty massaged coconut oil into her thinning hair.

  Didi Ma produced a smile as insincere as a whore’s orgasm. ‘To what can we attribute this gracious visit, your Highness?’ She lumbered to her feat like a cow that had toppled over, waddled to Nasim’s side and bowed in taslim.

  ‘Salaam. How lovely it is to see you,’ Nasim said. ‘I have come to inquire about the nautch girls. Are they well?’

  ‘Your most graciousness,’ said the instructor, her tone suitably subservient. ‘Your generous patronage keeps us in the peak of summer throughout the year.’

  Nasim frowned.

  Didi Ma bowed even deeper.

  Nasim scanned the girls. The singers, comely faces, buxom buttocks, thighs like overripe squash, were dressed in silk, not muslin. The dancers sat on the far side of the room, applying henna to their hands and feet, wearing gaudy coloured chiffon. No one was wearing a virgin white muslin choli that matched the incriminating dupatta. She needed another clue.

  Perhaps if she saw Shayista watching a performance, she would know from his face which of the dancers he fancied. She decided to test her theory. ‘Didi Ma, on the eve of the full moon, the dancers will perform the Dance of Seven Veils.’

  ‘Next week?’ Didi Ma wrung her hands. ‘Your Excellency, allow us more time to prepare?’

  ‘You will have to manage,’ said Nasim curtly. She liked to make the lazy cow squirm. With that, she excused herself from the zenana.

  Shayista was so concerned with running the Empire that he barely gave a thought to the future of his family. He had five living sons to look out for but all he worried about were the enemies. She would not be his victim. Didn’t she deserve some security in her evening years? With Shayista gambling fast and loose with their fortune, she felt nervous to say the least.

  They had almost lost it all last time Shayista failed the Emperor, twenty years ago. Luckily the Emperor was lenient and only reassigned him to the backwaters of Bengal. It could have been worse. They were able to recover. She had turned Lal Bagh fort into a symbol of Mughal taste, while he had turned Bengal into the richest province in the Empire. Now, if Shayista kept up with his shenanigans, they might really lose it all, the treasury, the fort, the province, everything.

  She had to trap the harlot and silence her so the subha’s prestige, and her own, remained intact. The Emperor was scheduled to arrive in time for the Nauraz and she wanted everything to be perfect.

  CHAPTER 8

  A

  board the ship, there were two challenges Madeline faced first. Rats. Fat, ebony rodents that darted about the ship, fell under boots, screeched and scurried to death. Rats under beds, over ceilings, inside closets, on her clothes. Then there were the waves. The endless rocking motion of the ship was not easy to adjust to. Much of the first day was spent teetering about until Madeline finally succumbed to a rebellion of her stomach and a bout of torturous retching that lasted a week.

  Next Madeline was beset by fear. Her travel companions were a band of runaway sociopaths. The ship was named Belo Diabo and its sails were blood red. Its flag was black with the face of an angry red tiger on it. The crew of about 200, from Portugal, Spain, Italy, Germany, Belgium, Greece and England, were all men. Everywhere she went, lecherous eyes followed her. She mentioned her concern to Costa but he paid little heed to her complaint.

  Across her bosom Madeline wrapped a cotton shawl, a gift from the old kitchen hand, Abdul, who had an unnaturally red beard and could cook the tastiest sea turtle. He was a Firingi-dosha, a bastard son of a Portuguese pirate and a Bengali peasant woman. He had been a cook aboard Costa’s ship for some twenty years and could speak French fluently. He quickly became Madeline’s best friend aboard the Diabo.

  Of the sailors, the grisliest were two beasts by the name of Um Olho and Perna de Pau. Um Ohlo, which meant One Eye, was Costa’s first mate. He treated Costa with utmost respect but at Madeline he cast devouring glances with his one roving eye. Perna de Pau, thus named for his wooden leg, looked at her in the same way, and additionally, was misogynistic, a trait she noticed common among the sailors. Consequently, Madeline stole a robust kitchen boti, one used for scaling man-sized fish, and hid it under her pillow. Costa gave her the room next to his so he could keep an eye on her and mostly, she kept to herself.

  They had only been sailing three weeks and a day when they anchored by a quiet coastal town. The captain had some business and Madeline took the opportunity to purchase new vestments and accessories so she could present herself in full resplendence when they arrived in Bengal.

  When they set sail again, the crew was giddy. Costa had by some unprincipled means secured a valuable treasure map. He promptly arranged to sell it for a hefty sum to another ship captain who would be arriving soon.

  ‘You might want to stay in your room?’ suggested Costa. ‘Our guests are a slippery lot.’ He had laid out the lambskin map on his table and was copying its contents somewhat carelessly onto a papyrus canvas.

  ‘Mais pourquoi?’ replied Madeline, peeking over his shoulder with disguised curiosity. Her father had taught her to read maps before she learned to write. This was a French map of Bengal.

  ‘Unscrupulous pirates. Sea scavengers!’ said Costa over his shoulder as he burnt the edges of the map he had drawn to make it look older. He rolled up the original lambskin map and tucked it into his coat.

  Madeline bit her lip. She had heard of seafaring thieves who would rape, pillage and plunder anyone in their path, for a few coins of gold. Though she knew she should be afraid of men with shallow morals, but they were coming to buy a map from Captain Costa and the most common currency at sea was diamond.

  ‘I may be of help. I am a student of mineralogy,’ sa
id Madeline.

  ‘Suit yourself,’ said Captain Costa.

  At midday, the ship was a speck of dust in the spy-glass. By afternoon it was the size of a duck. By night, it anchored some hundred yards away from their vessel. A party of four approached in a skiff, rowing with broad strokes. Costa’s men were on deck, singing, cheering, watching as fortune approached.

  ‘Throw them a rope,’ shouted Costa. ‘Reel them in.’

  As a child, Madeline inherited her father’s love of adventure, accompanying him on all his excursions till the fateful night when she was nine and her mother died of a heart attack. Soon after, her father lost two of his ships to storms off the coast of Africa and retired to his room with a bottle. Her upbringing was left to her very strict and very deaf maternal grandmother.

  Madeline occupied her loneliness with books. Voraciously she devoured the travelogues, nautical manuals and atlases in her father’s library. She then moved on to books of astronomy, biology and the flora and fauna of diverse climates. Her keen interest in the natural philosophies soon found its focus in the study of earth minerals and precious metals, especially those that glittered.

  Over time, her obsession distilled into a detailed study on the material properties of diamonds: classifying, categorizing and chronicling specimens by colour, cut and cost. Her research paper was published and heralded by nobility as the first inquiry of its calibre. Increasingly enamoured by diamonds, particularly polished ones, the elite called upon her to value their purchases and paid her generously for her services.

  Madeline wondered if Costa’s guests would be trading in diamonds. She pushed through the crowd to obtain a view. The men who alighted were dressed in so similar a fashion as their own crew, the same skull tattoos on their arms and letch expression in their eyes that a realization dawned belatedly on Madeline: Captain Costa’s men were probably pirates too. Panic struck in her head but was drowned out by the ensuing events.

  Perna de Pau led the four visiting pirates to the captain’s cabin. Um Olho and Madeline followed them in, the rest of the crew waited by the door. The visitors took seats around Costa’s table, sharing stories in Portuguese. Their black-bearded captain introduced himself as Silveria. With a crooked nose and greasy head of curls, he offered Madeline a lascivious smile. From his pocket, he retrieved a pouch of velvet and emptied its contents onto the table: two dazzling, egg-sized diamonds.

  Um Olho lifted the artefacts to his good eye. A silent excitement rippled through the air. Costa’s face flushed but he refrained from an obvious display of thrill.

  Silveria asked to see the map of the hidden treasure. Costa passed him the papyrus replica. Silveria unrolled it with utmost tenderness. His eyes shimmered as he drank in the details.

  Silveria and Captain Costa exchanged a few words in hushed tones. Madeline heard the mention of an Emerald Tablet. She wondered what it was, a Mughal treasure? Silveria thanked Costa and rerolled the map, placing it in his satchel. They embraced and slapped each other’s backs heartily. Both parties seemed satisfied with the trade.

  Costa passed around a bottle of flip, a concoction of rum, beer and sugar. They took noisy sips and smacked their lips. The smell was so strong it made Madeline nauseous. She lifted one of the diamonds to the light of the lantern to examine. It was luminescent but something was not right ...

  The bulk of France’s diamond supply came from English networks. East India Company was a large supplier and had tried to establish a monopoly over the lucrative trade but independent merchants such as Thomas Pitt and Jean-Baptiste Tavernier were often more ready in supply. Madeline rubbed the diamond in her hands. It felt cool, not drawing heat from her as a diamond was meant to do.

  The captains shook hands, about to part, when suddenly Madeline announced, ‘These are fake.’

  The merriment froze.

  ‘Now just a minute, wench, are ye suggestin I’m a cheater?’ fumed Silveria, his eyes bulbously enraged.

  Um Olho glowered and unsheathed his cutlass.

  ‘Will you believe this rumour mongering slander?’ demanded Silveria. ‘By the honour of Alfonso, I swear these diamonds are ...'’

  Madeline threw the egg-shaped diamond to the floor. It shattered into fragments of glass.

  ‘Do you take me for a chuckle-headed fool?’ yelled Costa.

  Um Olho grabbed Silveria’s collar and lifted him clear off the ground.

  Costa whistled and a dozen men stormed in, armed with pikes, arquebuses and spears. They dragged the prisoners to the plank.

  Costa pressed his blade against Silveria’s throat. ‘Have you bilge rats no Code of Honour? You come to my ship as my guest and you try to cheat me? I will feed you to sharks!’

  Madeline squeezed her eyes shut, unable to stand the sight of a man being killed. Instead of a scream she heard a splash. She opened her eyes to see Captain Costa had merely sliced off Silveria’s nose and pushed him overboard. Silveria’s men were also made noseless and thrown into the water. Costa’s crew lobbed bottles at them as they swam back to their ship.

  That evening the mood aboard Belo Diabo was one of felicity. They had not been hoodwinked thanks to Madeline. She was hailed as hero of the hour. What had been lust and hostility in their eyes transformed into admiration and gratitude.

  The drunken wastrels continued their revelry late into the night with off-key violins and tambourines. At one point, Costa thanked her and for a moment, she thought he was quite cute, even charming, with his carefree ways and his love for life. It wasn’t till he passed out several hours later that finally the noise subsided and Madeline had a chance to reflect on her experience.

  More often than not, women in 1685 accepted their fate without a fight. Not Madeline. She was determined to design her own destiny. She had raised the finances for an epic odessy. She had convinced a captain to ferry her across the world. She had held her ground against pirates. She had tolerated months at sea without salons or stylists, without friends or admirers, without even her cat. Now if she could just pull off the final stunt, she could secure for herself a position in the upper echelons of Parisian society.

  CHAPTER 9

  T

  he next day, Shayista was in no mood for domestic or administrative duties. He would much rather be outside, armed incognito, hunting down enemies but there was no easy way to slip out of the fortress without being seen. He was trapped between Charybdis and Scylla: across the latticed fountains was his wife’s zenana window, beside the pebbled pathway was the Diwan-i-am, Durbar Hall.

  The Diwan-i-am was a classic piece of Mughal architecture: serene, spacious and splendid from the outside. Inside was a hornet’s nest of hassles for Shayista to deal with. Citizens from across the province came to the daily darshan to seek his assistance. The hall could contain an assembly of two hundred people and during public hours, it was always filled to capacity. From a plinth covered with Persian rugs, Shayista dictated his verdicts to his Diwan-i-ala, Chief Revenue Officer, Bhopal Singh.

  Bhopal was a capable man, practical and reliable. He had served Shayista’s father till he died and then he served Shayista with the same ferocious loyalty. A dwarf by birth, taunted and bullied in youth, he took distinct pleasure in his position of power, upholding equality and protecting the underdogs. Bhopal would gladly die for the royal family but despite all this, Shayista wanted to avoid him. He had too much on his mind.

  The Subedar grounded his gaze and crunched his body low, moving in the shadows of bushes to escape the Diwan’s punctilious surveillance. He made it past the entrance and the orchard of mango trees but as he crossed the central water channel, the ghu-ghu-ghuk of a collared dove interrupted his concentrated escape. He glanced at the bird, then back at the durbar, and saw Bhopal at the doorway gazing at him imploringly. Bhopal’s face lit up when their eyes met. Shayista could not in good conscience ignore him. He sulked back to make an expedient appearance at court.

  Just then, Nasim Banu glided out of her zenana. She saw her Lord husband and blus
hed, hiding something behind her back.

  ‘I see your Highness received the gift from Zamindar Singh?’ said Bhopal, trying to recover the moment from awkwardness. ‘It is from his karkhana in Midnapur.’

  Shayista scowled. The bushy-browed aristocrat was a trained warrior known for his ruthlessness both on and off the battle field. What did he want from Nasim?

  Nasim Banu seemed flustered. ‘This ... this is a gift for me?’

  Bhopal nodded.

  ‘Please convey my gratitude,’ said Nasim, wrapping the scarf around her neck. She bowed and retired to her room.

  Shayista followed Bhopal to the durbar.

  ‘The Amir ul-Umra, Mughal Viceroy of Emperor Aurangzeb, Governor of Bengal, Subedar Shayista Khan cometh,’ announced Bhopal, his voice booming out of his small body despite his age.

  Citizens and guards fell to their knees, heads bowed in respect. Subedar Khan entered the hall. He despised talking about taxes. Nothing could be more tedious.

  ‘Arise,’ said the Subedar, taking position on the plinth.

  Ceremoniously Bhopal brought forth Akbar’s sapphire encrusted khanda, holding it upright in a velvet wrapping, laying it on the pillow next to Shayista. The broad-bladed straight sword was heavy and as tall as Bhopal himself, still he insisted on its presence as an emblem of sovereignty during darshans.

  The first supplicant was a shy peasant. Bhopal led him to the stand.

  The citizen, crisply dressed in his best kurta, cleared his throat but before he could muster his feeble plea, a voice from behind interrupted, ‘Your Excellency, the Zamindar awaits your counsel.’

  Shayista saw him then. Not only were his brows as bushy as before, his mustachio stretched to a curl on his cheeks. With a vainglorious swagger, Shobha approached the stand. His sense of entitlement was irritating. He expected preferential treatment.

  ‘Wait your turn,’ said Shayista.