by Shazia Omar
Champa poked her head inside the chamber. Dada motioned her to enter. Though he was a wizard of the highest order, a Master of Celestial Energy, an Astral Alchemist, he still made time to treat patients. Champa was convinced it was not the money that drove him but the wellbeing of his community.
The patient inside was a farmer. His hands were rough, his face burned from toil in the sun. ‘Pir Baba, I lent my land to my brother for a season,’ he was saying. ‘The season is over. He will not return my land nor will he pay me for it. My wife is pregnant.’
‘What do you want?’ prompted the pir.
‘Pir Baba, I ask for justice,’ replied the farmer.
‘Did you bring the chilli peppers?’ said the pir.
The farmer produced two red chilli peppers from his pocket.
‘Once I burn these, the spell cannot be reversed,’ warned the pir.
The farmer grinned with a hint of malice.
Dada whispered a prayer upon the peppers then closed his fist around them. The aroma of spice and sin floated out of his fist into the room. The chilli peppers cackled in his palms as if on a flame.
‘You will be at his funeral within three weeks,’ said the pir.
Champa could not believe the wicked farmer was plotting to kill his own brother and her Dada was actually helping him but she bit her tongue. She knew better than to interrupt his consultation.
Dada dropped the burnt pepper seeds into the man’s hand. ‘Place these under his pillow.’
‘Thank you, Pir Baba,’ said the farmer, bowing deep, seeds burning his clenched fist.
‘That will be thirty rupees,’ said the pir.
The farmer stammered. ‘Thir-thir-thirty rupees?’
Dada nodded.
The price of rice was eight mounds a rupee. Thirty rupees was enough to feed a family for fifteen years! Champa wondered how her grandfather could ask for such an outrageous sum.
‘O, gracious Pir Baba, I cannot pay so much even if I sell the recovered land along with everything else I own!’
‘Be warned,’ said the pir. ‘If you fail to pay within three weeks, you may find yourself suffering the same symptoms as your brother.’
The farmer nodded, terror stricken, and exited the room.
‘Dismiss the patients,’ commanded the pir. ‘I am done for today.’
Champa conveyed the message to the dismayed patients waiting in the corridor. As the last of the patients departed, she turned to face her grandfather. Back against the door, hands on hips, she challenged, ‘Dada, was that right, what you did?’
‘What child?’ he asked, kindly.
‘The death spell you embedded in those seeds. Isn’t that an ... evil use of power?’
‘There is no good or evil. Just one less nuisance to worry about.’
Champa puzzled over his words. Did the ends justify the means?
‘Have you prepared the room?’ asked Pir Zulfiqar.
Champa nodded. ‘Yes Dada. The room is ready for the séance.’ She wondered what secrets they would discover.
CHAPTER 15
T
wo days had passed since his meeting with the clairvoyant dancer but Shayista could not shake the idea of undoing his regrets. He donned his cloak, slipped past Dhand and galloped out on his stallion in search of Champa to see if she could alter history.
Shayista dismounted his warhorse, Bageshri, tousled his mane and offered him a handful of amloke. The horse nuzzled his muzzle into Shayista’s shoulder. Shayista handed the reins to a stable urchin at the Imperial post by the gates and entered the Chowk.
Children dressed in colourful weaves loitered on the streets. A beggar girl with two braids sat on a withered stump, tattered clothes, something precious cupped in her hand.
‘What’s that?’ Shayista asked her.
She held it up, chest swollen with pride: a dead butterfly with delicate iridescent wings. Her eyes shimmered with awe.
Shayista longed for child-eyes and youth unencumbered by ego. He wanted to experience life afresh, without the burden of regrets. The sky was awash in weeping blues and watery greys. He handed the butterfly girl a gold coin, grateful for the fresh perspective.
Misunderstanding his intentions, she shouted, ‘Not for sale!’ She clutched the dead butterfly to her heart and ran off.
An essential wretchedness spread over Shayista. No matter how hard he worked, there were always more enemies conspiring, more hungry children to feed. He felt responsible for the little girl and guilty.
A flitting memory of his sister materialized. Fifty five years ago when he was still Talib, he had led a troop of fifty thousand men into a stormy battle. It was 1630¸the monarch’s third Deccan campaign, and he was a young but hardened man of 29. Their mandate was simple: abolish the rebel Khan-Jahan who threatened to usher in an age of darkness if he took over.
Shayista’s army grossly outnumbered the rebels but they were fighting for their homeland with a ferocious disregard for their own lives. What followed was an epic clash.
Granite clouds blitzed a furious deluge of torrential rain. His soldiers slogged through slippery mud and charged as best they could. Heads flew off necks, bodies slipped off mountains, lives were blown asunder. The air trembled in grief. The river was stained crimson.
Talib obliterated the enemy and confiscated their treasury of spectacular jewels but lost half his men in the battle. It was grief he felt, not pride. Harrowed by months of fighting, the conquering hero travelled to Agra to recover in the comfort of kin, reading poetry with Dara, playing with his sister’s children. He presented to his sister one of the jewels he had acquired, a dark diamond of extraordinary brilliance.
Arjumand had thirteen children, all of whom he doted on. A demanding and opinionated lot, they forced him to endure endless rounds of questions and games, and called upon him to whistle. Arjumand herself had grown into the role of mother and knew how to shower affection like healing rain. She was heavily pregnant and happy to hand off children and chores to Talib who savoured every minute of it but these domestic joys did not last long.
Three days after Shayista arrived, Arjumand was in bed giving birth to her fourteenth child when something went terribly wrong. Physicians, scholarly doctors, nurses and maids stood terrified on one side of her bed. Charm-writers and holy men with sacred books stood on the other, calling upon spirits for help. Emperor Shah Jahan sat gripped in misery by her side.
‘Talib,’ said Arjumand, gazing at the dark diamond. ‘Give this gift to a woman who loves you as much as I do. And whenever you see it, remember my love for you. Love is everything.’ She had scarcely finished saying this when they heard the wail of the baby in her womb, a sign they recognised all too well.
‘Promise me, bhaiya,’ she said, her face tense with pain. ‘Promise you will nurture peace in our family. Promise?’ Behind her words loomed the gruesome shadow of their fratricidal history. ‘So we do part.’ With her last breath, she bid farewell to Talib and died in the Emperor’s arms.
The hurt of losing his sister was eclipsed by dark political clouds and the question of succession. Talib tried to remain neutral to prolong peace but Sa’di was right:
‘Ten dervishes can sleep on one rug,
but two princes cannot rest in one climate’.
As Emperor Shah Jahan fell ill with grief and dedicated his time to building a mausoleum worthy of his beloved wife, his sons each eyed the throne. To Talib, the writing was clear: it would come down to a tussle between Dara, the heir apparent, and Aurangzeb, the ambitious. No two contestants could have been more different. Aurangzeb was a disciplined soldier and cunning statesman. Dara was a poet and philosopher who loved knowledge.
When the dreaded infighting began, it was a polarization of liberal and conservative forces. It fell upon Talib to choose between the princes just as it had fallen upon his father to choose between Talib’s cousins, Khurram and Khosru, when Emperor Jahangir died. It was his father chosen to protect Arjumand’s interest and promoted he
r husband, Khurram.
For Khosru, the decision was fatal. Talib was infuriated but his father simply said, ‘Kill or be killed.’ The irony of Fate weighed upon Talib as the Empire waited for his decision.
Then one day Dara called upon him. ‘Uncle, Aurangzeb is ambitious and cunning. He will not stop at anything. You have always given good counsel. Tell me, should I step aside, join a monastery, let Aurangzeb rule Hindustan?’
Talib was touched by Dara’s genuine love for his family and Empire. ‘Stay on and rule with Truth in your heart, with the help of trusted advisors and our Huzur. Let the Empire be expansive with light, not narrow with dogma.’
Dara said wistfully. ‘I fear for Murad and Shah Shuja. These are dark times.’ He handed his uncle a gift wrapped in muslin.
Talib immediately recognized it as the jewel he had presented to Arjumand on her deathbed. He had not expected Dara to return it. Something so valuable could easily have assured him political success. It was enough to make a pauper a king, and it certainly would have secured an eldest son an Empire.
‘It was on Ma when she died,’ Dara explained. ‘Such a gift could only come from someone who loved her so purely.’
But these words were exchanged in private and Talib did not act.
Within months, through a series of treacherous manoeuvres, Aurangzeb seized the throne. He used the Deccan campaign as evidence of Talib’s loyalty to him and tricked the key counsel into believing that he had his uncle’s blessings to slaughter his father’s advisors and their revered Huzur.
He convinced Murad to help him capture and kill Dara and served his severed head upon a silver platter to their father. He prodded the head with his sword and demanded, ‘What choice did you leave me? Kill or be killed.’ He imprisoned his father in Agra Fort where the once celebrated Emperor spent the rest of his days shuffling through corridors alone.
Aurangzeb then went for Murad. He bribed a courtesan to inebriate him and relieved him of his sword during their love making, then incarcerated him and had him executed. He would have killed Shah Shuja too but the latter escaped to Bengal, where he met a bloody end a few months later at the hands of the Maghs of Arakan.
For his victory, Shah Jahan bitterly presented him a sword called ‘World-Seizer’ Alamgir.
Aurangzeb in turn awarded Talib with the honoured title, Amir ul-Umra, Chief of the Nobles, Shayista Khan. He showered him with gifts: a khilat of four brocaded cloaks, a Damascan sword and gold katara that belonged to Akbar, two Andulisian horses with jewelled saddles, a Mansabdar of 10,000 horsemen and huge portions of land. He even requested Talib to beat the drums at his coronation ceremony, as his father and grandfather had done for the emperors preceding him.
Talib saw that ruling with emotions led to disaster. Love did not conquer all. Decisive brutality did. If he did not act with tyranny, the people he cared about died. From that day on, Talib swore he would never make another decision with his heart. Only with totalitarian authority could loved ones be protected. He had to rule with cruelty to protect the innocent.
The advisors and Huzur were dead and Shah Jahan removed. There was no one else left to guide his nephew. Talib put aside his personal convictions and swore to assist Aurangzeb for the sake of the Empire. With a cold appreciation for violence, he would rule for the rest of his days. So Talib became the ruthless warrior Aurangzeb wanted, Amir-ul-Umra Shayista Khan.
Being an Emperor’s warlord comes with certain burdens. Aurangzeb could not afford to wear the shame of Dara’s dirty murder. His subjects would hate him and revolt. Instead, the crime was pinned on Shayista. He became the Beast, the object of fear and hatred among enemies and citizens alike. With Aurangzeb’s ascent began Shayista’s descent.
Shayista hid Kalinoor for thirty five years, never once suspecting it had played a role in his downward spiral which began with Arjumand’s death. Now he wondered if her death was the dark diamond’s doing, the first of its three strikes? Was he its improbable champion, its vehicle of destruction, its means to an end? With doubt creeping in, Shayista found himself standing in front of a ghastly banyan tree at the doorsteps of the dancer’s house.
CHAPTER 16
C
hampa entered the antechamber and was surprised to find Dada pacing the room.
‘Couldn’t sleep?’ she asked.
‘The usual aches and pains. Nothing to worry about.’
‘Dehydrated, Dada?’ cooed Champa. She poured him some water.
He drank it gratefully.
‘Would you like anything else?’ she offered.
‘Nothing, thank you my child.’ He was lost in thought.
She needed his full attention. She offered him some honeyed words. ‘You are so wise, Dada, your knowledge knows no bounds.’
‘The knowledge is within you too,’ he replied. ‘Tap into it.’
‘Show me the way!’ She saw her opening. ‘You raised me to be a seeker. You helped me reject rote learning and the conditioning of society which anchors us in worldly desires. You encouraged me to keep the lamp burning through self-inquiry and books. There is only one thing you haven’t taught me yet.’
‘What’s that?’
‘It’s something I would love to learn.’
‘Tell me, my child, what is it?’
‘Could you please teach me how to summon the djinn?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Dada rebuked. ‘Summoning is not for the uninitiated.’
‘The ulema want to destroy our madrasa. Please help me use the Dark Arts to stop them!’
‘The ulema are insignificant imbeciles. Their archaic vestiges of ignorance will never cast a shadow on Enlightenment, have no fear. Can a man snuff out the moon? Child, we will NOT waste our time on such trivial matters.’
‘Then at least lend me some money to fix the well?’
‘Allah can only be experienced through expanded awareness. The only school you need is here with me, nurturing the omnipotent force of Allah through intuitive comprehension. I cannot give you money—money procured from clients in the name of Allah—for your inferior pursuits.’ He closed his eyes to indicate the end of the discussion.
Champa clenched her teeth. He was as stubborn as her father.
‘Hush child, we have some important work,’ he said. ‘I need that diamond to save Bengal. Without further ado, let us begin ... Bismillah-irahman-irahim.’
Champa paid close attention.
He pir chanted Allah-Hu and Al-Haq three times to awaken his kundalini and then he raised the energy up his spine to his heart using his breath. He recited Sura Noor three times in reverse and blew a prayer upon each shoulder. He rubbed his palms together to create heat which he washed over his face before settling into a meditative trance.
Champa followed. She was careful to keep her tongue rolled back: a necessary precaution when communing with spirits. Not adhering to these simple rules could result in consequences of unfathomable magnitude. She certainly did not want to spend eternity trapped in a parallel dimension.
Zulfiqar began performing the powerful cat breath from the depths of his gut. He sounded like a howling feline on opium. No sooner had he started, the cats in the alley began baying in chorus. They meowed, moaned and hissed, creating a vortex of negative energy.
Champa had seen her Dada summon the djinn only a few times before. Every time, it gave her the chills.
‘Arise Shopno,’ called Zulfiqar in a sonorous voice. He whispered something under his breath and a sulphurous gust of wind drifted in. The windows rattled. The falcon fidgeted. ‘Show us the diamond,’ said the pir.
Tele-transportation and telepathy were easy for djinn who existed in a dimension where time and space had no meaning. Djinn could travel to any part of the world and hypnotically project what it saw upon the minds of those engaged with it in séance.
Champa closed her eyes and prepared for the ride. Before an image could form, a knock at the gate disturbed her concentration. She scrambled to her feet. Up the stairs she c
limbed, wondering what Dada muttered under his breath to open the porthole to summon the djinn.
At the gate she was astonished to find the Subedar, cloaked in rough cloth. He looked as if he had seen a ghost.
‘I have come for what you offered to do. Undo my regrets,’ he said. ‘That is, if you really can.’
‘Of course I can,’ said Champa defensively.
His piercing brown eyes begged for salvation. His desperation resonated with her. She caught herself feeling sorry for him till she remembered he was the richest, most powerful man in the world, and yet, not willing to help their madrasa. The last thing he deserved was her sympathy. Rather, perhaps he could be useful to her. She needed to raise money to fix the well. Why not charge him for her services? He could be her first client. She was not technically allowed to treat patients but it was for a noble cause and anyway, she was angry at Dada.
‘It will cost you thirty rupees,’ she said professionally. It was a steep price but his face expressed no concern.
He tossed her his coin purse. ‘Keep it all. I don’t care.’
‘Follow me,’ she said, leading him to the back garden rather than the antechamber where her grandfather was rollicking with djinn.
There was a sheet laid out where she liked to meditate. She seated the Subedar upon it, and she across from him. She bowed, touching her third eye to the ground and began to concentrate.
‘Breathe,’ she instructed. Perhaps she could not summon the djinn but there were other things she could do. She started her séance with chants.
Allah-Hu. Allah-Hu. Allah-Hu.
Al-Haq. Al-Haq. Al-Haq.
When the energy in her body was sufficiently activated, she recited Sura Noor backwards, then closed her eyes and steadied her mind for meditation.
Soon she was in a labyrinth where only the conscience exists. She had followed Dada into this zone before but she had never done it alone. Separate from her mind and body, separate from her ego, she merged with the energy around her client. She began to synchronize her breath with his. Magic tingled inside her arms and legs, especially at her joints and under her navel, tickling her like a rush of cool water.
