by Shazia Omar
‘Subedar Khan is a master warrior,’ began Abdul. ‘He is adept with most forms of martial arts but predominantly he fights with a sword called Azdahar which means Dragon. It was a gift. It belonged to Emperor Akbar.’
‘Akbar’s sword?’ Madeline was awestruck. ‘But how did he get Akbar’s sword?’
‘The Subedar is no country bumpkin. He is of high pedigree. His father was Shah Jahan’s vizier. His grandfather was Jahangir’s vizier. Aurangzeb is his nephew.’
‘Is it true he was trained by a Sufi?’
Abdul nodded. ‘I met a man, a chowkidar from Agra palace, who told me a wondrous tale of the Subedar when he was a boy. Would you like to hear it?’
Madeline nodded.
‘As a child, the Subedar was known as Talib. He was a reserved and serious boy. His father was a political strategist who threw lavish parties and had a cold demeanour. His mother was occupied with her younger children. Talib was raised mostly by a Kashmiri aseel whom he loved dearly.
‘One afternoon, his father berated the aseel and Talib, though merely a boy of six, drew a dagger to defend her honour. He was given a thrashing and sent to bed without dinner but in the morning he did not relent and eventually his father apologized to the maid.
‘After his aunt married Emperor Jahangir, Talib found himself free to explore the wonderland of Agra. He drifted around the palace, among stable keepers and guards, in and out of school with a handful of friends, mostly princes. There were endless games of hide and seek to play in the intriguing passageways of the fort and delightfully vulgar stories to eavesdrop on in the tents of burly soldiers drunk on sharab.
‘Warriors from around the Empire travelled to the Mughal court to teach the princes their skills in exchange for rewards. Among them were wrestlers from Panjab, yogis from Bundelkhand, slingers from Gujarat, archers from Assam and stone-throwers from Bihar. Talib was trained alongside Dara and Aurangzeb, under the guidance of the Emperor’s personal tutor, Huzur Seif Khan.
‘Huzur was a Sufi of the highest order and a formidable warrior, honoured with the title Seif Khan, Sword Master, for his valiant service in the Mughal army. He taught Talib mathematics, Arabic, Persian and self-defence. He read passages by Jalal ad-Din Rumi off exquisite manuscripts from Tabriz. He explained to Talib: the purpose of life is to love and the truest lover is God.
‘At first Master Huzur was impatient with Talib who, though athletic and adept with weaponry, was more interested in horses and elephants than studies. Huzur would say, ‘Your father, the Itiqad al-Daula, your grandfather, the Intimad al-Daula, and you? The Idiot al-Daula?’
‘Then something happened that made the Sufi scholar realize the potential of his new protégé. It was along the course of a routine training. Huzur had taken Talib, Dara and Aurangzeb to a moss-covered boulder in a forest nearby. He asked the boys to hit the rock with their bare hands’ knife edge while chanting ‘Al-Haq’ which meant ‘Truth’.
‘‘Perform each strike with perfect precision one thousand times and Universal Truth shall be revealed to you. Allah is al-Haq,’ he said, then went to the mosque to pray.
‘The moment he disappeared, Dara stopped his practice. He had no interest in fighting and while the pursuit of Universal Truth tickled his fancy, he was distracted by a gazelle. Nimble and quick, he scampered off behind it in search of a water hole.
‘Aurangzeb looked to see if his young uncle would follow but Talib had the ethos of a warrior and continued industriously. Soon Aurangzeb grew bored. ‘I already know the Truth,’ he said. ‘The Truth is that we shall never fight with our hands when we have canons and steel.’ He pulled a Damascan katara out from under his kurta and held it before Talib. Together they admired the ripples of folded metal that ran along the length of the short blade.
‘Aurangzeb brought the dagger hurtling down on the rock. The impact left no injuries on the blade or the rock, only a ringing pain in his shoulder. ‘One cannot use Truth to rule, one must use deception.’ With that, Aurangzeb ran into the thicket to play too.
‘Hands bruised and pulpy like an overripe plum, Talib persevered not because he was afraid of Huzur’s wrath but because he wanted to see Allah. Minutes rolled into hours. Sun set and with darkness a fresh horde of challenges. Night expanded and contracted in waves. Talib lost count as he slipped in and out of sleep. In the midst of the delirium, between crickets, frogs, foxes and owls, Talib heard a tune. It was a melancholic melody coming from no discernible direction, everywhere all at once. At that moment, Talib’s hand sliced through the rock as if it were made of wet mud.’
‘Splitting the rock in two?’ asked Madeline.
Abdul nodded. ‘When Master Huzur returned to the glade the next morning, he found Talib asleep on the grass, hands bloody, rock split in two. Talib could not recall how he had done it, only that at one stage he had heard Bageshri, the raga of Dawn. Huzur said it was possible because Talib had experienced Truth in his heart.’
‘He sliced through the rock?’ asked Madeline, incredulous.
‘With meditation, anything is possible,’ replied Abdul. ‘Wizards can rearrange the very structure of matter. From then on Huzur treated the boy not as a disciple but a prodigy, initiated him into the realm of the metaphysical, primed him to one day protect the Empire from its enemies.’
‘The Subedar is a wizard?’ asked Madeline.
‘Some say that is how he amassed his vast wealth and influence. Alas, he gave up his mysticism to become a warrior when he took on the title Amir-ul-Umra Shayista Khan.’
Madeline marvelled, a man with wealth, power and magic! She wondered if the Subedar could be of help to her. If only she could find a way to win his favour. She leafed through her book of spells in search of ideas.
CHAPTER 12
N
asim Banu climbed out of the steamed hammam and lay naked upon a cool marble slab as her chambermaid lathered coconut oil onto her skin. They massaged the curves under her breasts and tops of her shoulders where she was most sensitive then rolled her onto her stomach to rub her back. If there was one thing Nasim loved most in life, it was the hammamkhana. Shayista built
it with a room below for heating water. There was something
about being pampered in steam that melted away her aches and worries.
She was lucky to live in the plush cocoon of Lal Bagh but this luck was hazardously poised on the whims of the Emperor. If his distaste for Shayista grew, he could easily relieve him of his duties and then what would become of them?
Nasim donned a silk robe and while maids brushed her hair with golden combs, she planned the final details of the Nauraz. It was only weeks away and she was determined to host the most memorable party of the year. Shayista was still cheerless since the death of his baseborn daughter a year earlier. A celebration with music was just what he needed. Softened by the tunes, he was more likely to do as she asked. The Emperor would be visiting and she wanted Shayista to request a promotion for their son. Fortunately the scarf was not a sign of Shayista’s infidelity but still she needed to secure a safety net.
Iradat was not much to brag about but what choice did she have? Buzurg had married below them, a grisly woman who would treat her as a chambermaid if she were to depend on them. Aqidat shirked all responsibilities. Jafar and Abu Nasr were indolent whiners. Alas, if only Abul Fateh were alive.
The maids plucked her grey hairs then combed in traces of amloke berries to create a shine. She sucked in her cheeks as they brushed crushed rubies onto her high cheek bones.
The kajol around her eyes she applied herself. She liked to draw the ends out elaborately. In her jewelled looking glass, she noticed on her forehead, a fresh wrinkle. If she was going to rule the Empire she couldn’t look like an aging goose. This would not do.
She chose a muslin choli, an elegant strand of diamonds and an Arabian attar to dab onto her décolletage. While men with money and power were respected and obeyed, women needed beauty to command. In her youth, she was accustomed to havin
g things just as she liked, her stunning features ensured that. She envied women who were unattractive to begin with. They would never suffer the pain of fading beauty. O, how she yearned for youth.
Nasim met a witchdoctor once who claimed he could slow the aging process but for this he required the blood of a virgin. She would happily have sacrificed one of the dancing girls but they were far from virginal so Nasim gave up on that venture.
Recently Nasim came to know of a pir in Lal Bagh whose elixirs were highly recommended by her friends. Perhaps she would visit him, see what he could offer. Nasim suspected Shayista dabbled in the dark arts. How else could he stay perpetually youthful? Occupied with such thoughts, she stepped out of her chamber to find Eunuch Khajah Ambar waiting.
‘Good morning, your Highness,’ he said, bowing low.
‘Ambar, there you are. The distribution of golap jamuns may begin today,’ she instructed. ‘The full moon is twenty one days away. We mustn’t offend the djinn.’
A wide and fiendish grin spread across Ambar’s face. ‘Have I ever failed you, your Highness?’
‘No, that you haven’t Khajah. Not in the twenty years you’ve been with me,’ she replied sincerely. He came just when she’d needed him most, in the aftermath of losing Abul Fateh, a wound that she seemed to carry alone.
She blamed Shayista for failing to save their son. If Abul Fateh were still alive she would not have to worry about her future. He would have taken care of her. He was the best of her six boys, her youngest, her most cherished.
Nasim dismissed her eunuch and made her way to the durbar hall. She found Shayista there, the public hearing had just finished. He was frowning, frothing at the mouth, dictating instructions vehemently to the Diwan.
Nasim waited at the doors and when he finally stepped out, she greeted him formally. ‘Your Highness, salaam.’
‘Nasim, how are you?’ he asked, his mind elsewhere.
‘Preparations for the Emperor are underway,’ she said.
‘Fine, take what you need from Bhopal. How are our sons?’
‘Aqidat sent a messenger dove: his wife is expecting. Buzurg has fever but he assures me it is not too bad. Jafar and Abu Nasr are fine. Sire, I worry about Iradat. Is it not time to give him responsibilities, perhaps a subha of his own?’
‘He has the brain of a banana bat,’ said Shayista, not disguising his disinterest. ‘He cannot manage his own room. How will he manage a subha?’ His eyes wandered to the immaculately tended rose bush by the edge of his garden.
Nasim jumped to another topic, one more likely to keep him engaged. ‘Pari’s mausoleum is progressing but the stone cutters have asked for a lakh! A hefty fee, don’t you think?’
‘So cancel it,’ said Shayista dismissively. ‘I must exercise.’ With that he took leave.
People were forbidden to interrupt him when he was exercising in his garden. This was his way of ending their conversation with nothing resolved. Nasim sighed. If only Abul Fateh were alive.
‘Your Highness looks distressed,’ remarked Ambar as she returned to her quarters.
‘I don’t know why I put in all this effort: stone carvers, calligraphers, carpenters, for what? Shayista doesn’t even appreciate it.’ She vented her emotions though it was unbecoming of a noble lady.
‘The height of Mughal pretension, these mausoleums and never before have I seen one built for a bastard. When I worked for the mighty Emperor Aurangzeb, I learned the beauty of austerity. One ought not waste.’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Nasim, irritated by his insolence. ‘And you ought not preach.’
What Nasim did not need was a lecture from her eunuch. What she did need was a spell that would make Shayista susceptible to her charms so he would do as she requested when the Emperor arrived. Perhaps the pir could help her. It was worth a try. With the Nauraz almost upon them, she needed a prompt solution.
CHAPTER 13
A
spring breeze carried cool air from the fountains and water ways to the rest of the garden. Vines climbed brick walls and within them nested singing yellow napes, cuckoos and koels. Ashy wood swallows flirted under the canopy of mango trees while squirrels and chipmunks played hide and seek.
Shayista hurried to his ‘exercise place’. Cloistered behind the high hedges of his charbagh, he felt safe. Here, no one could disturb him. Between three bougainvilleas, was a floral tile, upon which he rested his forehead in prostration. The bougainvilleas he had planted, one for Ellora, one for Miri, and the smallest one, most recently, for Pari. The tile, an intricately designed marble slab, was where he offered his penitence.
Shayista closed his eyes to meditate as Huzur had taught him but mental silence proved elusive. The blasted joint stock company gnawed at his skull. Why would Aurangzeb support the Company? How could Aurangzeb be so different from Arjumand and Dara? The beauty of the Mughal Empire lay in its harmonious plurality of faith and culture. Aurangzeb was compromising the syncretic Empire which Akbar worked so hard to build, the essence of which was liberty.
If only Shayista had acted in time to secure the throne for Dara. The mutinous thought startled him. He had successfully repressed it for years. After Dara was killed, he swore to uphold the interest of the Emperor and the Empire as one and the same. Divisive politics would lead to trouble. It was better that he stand by Aurangzeb. Wasn’t it?
A peacock strolled past. Shayista had not thought of Dara in a while but the words of the palm reader tore open old wounds. He could not dislodge her promise. She said she could undo his regrets. Then perhaps he could set things right.
CHAPTER 14
C
hampa poured water onto her wrists, ears, neck, scalp, arms, elbows and feet to activate the energy meridians. Ablution was a perfect prescription to awaken the astral plane of the body for meditation. She was grateful to Dada for teaching her the deeper purpose of these rituals. Her father had chosen a narrow interpretation of religion. To him, ablution was merely a process of hygiene.
‘Look carefully,’ Dada said to her when she was a girl. He bought a piece of ice from a burly ice seller who chiselled it off a huge block, tick-ting, tick-ting, tick-ting. Vah! A sparkling diamond, freezing cold. She popped it into her mouth. It trickled down her throat, melting horizons, cooling her inside out. He splashed a chunk of ice into a glass of water. ‘One tenth of it is visible. The rest we cannot see but it is there,’ he said.
He taught her that the Quran was a book with many layers. Readers could access stratums of meaning based on their own depth of understanding, which in most cases was fairly shallow. The deeper meanings of the Quran lay submerged within the text and at its core was a hidden secret. If you could discern this secret, all your wishes would come true.
While Champa’s father was satisfied with the literal meaning of the holy book, Dada yearned for the wish-fulfilling secret. This clash between literal and esoteric was not only a philosophical debate, it bled into her real life.
Dada encouraged Champa to pursue education through reading and observation rather than rote learning. He taught her English, Persian, Bengali and Arabic and also how to listen to flowers and gaze at clouds to understand the Divine.
Her father, obsessed with her purity, did not care about her education, only her chastity. He tried to arrange her marriage before she reached puberty and insisted this was for her own good. Champa refused to marry and her grandfather sided with her. Her father moved out to join the mullahs and she became Dada’s new assistant in the hunt for the diamond. Since then, she and her father very rarely met.
Champa climbed down the stairwell with a broom and entered the antechamber. She lit a candle. The flame illuminated a spider on its web by the window. She held the candle close to admire the craftsmanship of the spider. The web was delicate yet strong, woven with admirable skill. The masterful spider, black with a white stripe, rested nearby. God’s creatures were born to be creative. Nothing could be godlier and yet the mullahs pursued destruction.
Champa ro
lled out a Persian rug and lit three sticks of frankincense, chanting the glorious names of Allah. She drew her legs into a lotus and tried to meditate. The image of Kukur Mia’s fleshy pulp invaded her serenity. She abandoned the mission and instead got to work. She stacked the firewood, washed the black cauldron and swept the room, then went to call her grandfather.
Trailing her hand on the marble banister, she climbed the stairwell and wondered what would happen to her once her grandfather found the diamond. He would probably discontinue his practice and then he would no longer need her services. What then, would he pressure her to get married?
The empowerment of women was doomed by the institution of marriage. Wedlock was a form of imprisonment. She would much rather teach girls and be the apprentice of a spiritual master than cook and clean for a lazy husband but such choices did not fit the conservative framework of patriarchy. It was only her maverick grandfather who allowed her the space to be independent, that too because she helped him with his hunt and his practice.
Dada’s practice was thriving. He treated patients all morning, prescribing ointments, unguents and spells which she helped him prepare. People came from across the city and waited for hours to see him. Very rarely did anyone leave disappointed. Champa respected her grandfather’s work though she did not always agree with his methodology.
She put away the broom and walked to Dada’s audience chamber. A pregnant lady stood outside waiting to meet him. Champa wondered what he would prescribe: a prayer written upon a piece of paper folded a thousand times and pushed into a metallic amulet to be worn around her waist for nine months or a grain of rice dipped in holy water to be consumed with breakfast on the night of a full moon. Both methods would ensure safe birthing.
Dada was no conventional grandfather. He believed if he could remove the seven veils of his ego, he would discover the secret to divine alignment. Enlightenment was of course of universal benefit and she did not want to hold him back, it was just that his pace of pursuit was objectionable. Neglecting both health and domestic duties, he chased knowledge with such fevered urgency, one could mistake him for an addict.
