Dark Diamond

by Shazia Omar

  ‘Did you like the gift?’ said Shobha.

  ‘Indeed, the scarf was exquisite. How can I thank you?’

  He bowed again and offered Nasim Banu another dupatta. This one was lilac, even softer than the last.

  Nasim rubbed the delicate cloth. It floated off her fingers like a butterfly. ‘My, my. This is lovely.’

  ‘A humble show of gratitude. There is more where it came from, unless I am forced to shut down my karkhana.’ He hung his head.

  ‘Heavens no, don’t close your factory,’ exclaimed Nasim. ‘Muslin trade is booming.’

  Shobha looked hurt. ‘Alas, your Highness, just yesterday the Subedar ordered an embargo on trade with the English. Now I can’t sell my muslin or my saltpetre!’

  ‘There must be some mistake. The Subedar is an ardent supporter of trade and commerce. Why half of Europe’s imports come from Bengal,’ said Nasim.

  Shobha Singh lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘Merchants in Hooghly requested a firman exempting the Company from custom duties. The Emperor will not be pleased to learn that Subedar Khan has opposed this firman and thrown the English officer out of his court.’

  ‘Now, now. No need to go tattling on the Subedar,’ said Nasim, quick to defend her husband. ‘We have been friends for many years, have we not? Before you disturb the peace, why not have another word with the Subedar? Clear the misunderstanding?’

  Shobha looked uncertain. Khajah Ambar whispered something in Nasim’s ears.

  ‘Please join us on the eve of the full moon for dinner and a dance,’ she said. ‘You can speak to my husband then.’

  Shobha accepted the invitation and bowed deep, leaving respectfully without turning his back.

  What would Shayista do without her? Endlessly she crusaded for him without any gratitude or acknowledgement. Still it would be well worth it if she could impress the Emperor and secure a promotion for Iradat. From her latticed window, she watched the sun set into the Buriganga, the sky a shade of murky pink.

  CHAPTER 24

  A

  s they galloped along the banks of the Buriganga, Shayista recalled the last time he’d seen the gold katara. It was the night of Vikram’s son’s wedding, the night he was betrayed. The twins were barely two months old. He remembered it clearly though it seemed like another lifetime, back when he was a different man.

  Servants scurried across the lawn of Lal Mahal Fort preparing for the wedding. Shayista had been in occupation of the fort for over a year and his staff were familiar with the routine of hosting elaborate parties. A crimson shamiana draped over a lattice of gold-plated bamboo created a majestic pavilion on the lawn of the fortress. Diyas lit the walkways. Musicians tuned instruments. The tantalizing scent of kebabs made his mouth water.

  ‘Vikram, I hope the decor is to your liking?’ Shayista had said, slapping his friend on the back.

  ‘Subedar, you have been too kind. Flowers from Islamabad? They must have cost a fortune,’ replied the zamindar. A hundred bouquets dotted the periphery. Each had a dozen white irises in full bloom.

  ‘No expense is too extravagant for you my dear friend,’ said Shayista. ‘I was thrilled you asked to use my lawn for your son’s wedding. At last I have the opportunity to show you my gratitude.’ He placed his arm around his friend.

  ‘No, no, I have done nothing,’ said Vikram.

  ‘If it weren’t for you, Pune, Kalyan, North Konkan might all be Maratha strangleholds. I could never have annexed those states without your support.’

  Vikram’s mouth twitched. ‘It was you, your Excellency. All you.’

  ‘No need to be modest, Vikram,’ said Shayista. ‘Of course, it was I who threw out the Mountain Rat but without you there would have been an uprising. The Hindu peasants would not have agreed to my terms. You saved a great many lives.’

  ‘I abhor blood, your Excellency.’

  They gazed out at the immense lawn of the castle. Nasim Banu was approaching, dressed in a satin choli with a dupatta carefully placed to reveal a cascade of emeralds around her neck. Her nose pin was a scintillating diamond the size of a grape. ‘My Lord, the priest has not arrived,’ she said to Shayista.

  ‘The Mir-e-Tuzuk is perfectly capable of orchestrating the event,’ said Shayista. ‘Everything will be fine.’ He paid their master-of-ceremonies handsomely. The man had organized at least seven hundred galas of this nature.

  ‘I fear that overzealous Amir Jaswant may give our guests a hard time at the gates,’ she said, her alabaster skin rouged with exertion.

  ‘I will look into it, my Lady.’ Shayista waited till Nasim left before resuming his conversation with Vikram. ‘Is marriage not a strange institution? It is driven from fear not love, fear constricts while love frees. You see, marriage is from the mind, love from the heart. Surely there can be nothing unholy about loving more than one person intimately?’

  Vikram nodded, sweating profusely.

  ‘Vikram, where is your wife?’

  ‘She is ill at home. I have asked her to rest.’

  ‘And miss her youngest son’s wedding?’

  ‘I insisted,’ replied Vikram.

  ‘My friend, you have better command over your ladyship than I have over mine. Nasim would never have consented to miss the wedding of our youngest son. I believe he is her favourite.’

  Vikram looked away and forced a fake laugh.

  ‘Come now, Vikram. What’s the matter?’ said Shayista. ‘The father of the groom is nervous? Let us hope for the maiden’s sake that your son is not of the same temperament tonight. I have married off five of my six and not once was I this nervous. Have a drink and please excuse me as I have a word with Amir Singh.’

  Shayista left his friend and headed up to the watchtower mulling over the nature of relationships. Marriage corrupts love by removing mystery and gratitude, he thought, replacing it with duty and expectation. Nasim was raised to be a prince’s wife yet for all the convenience their marriage offered the Empire, it offered Shayista no warmth. For years he tried to light the spark but eventually resigned himself to a dull conjugal existence. Then he met Ellora.

  The sentries fell to taslim as he entered the watchtower.

  ‘Report,’ Shaiysta commanded.

  Amir Jaswant replied, ‘Sire, sentinels at the North Gate sent word of brigands. Three caravans were waylaid and several villages near Kalyan were raided. Casualties are high. The brigands came armed with swords and spears. Some had battle axes I am told. We tried to arrest them but they retreated to underground hideouts.’

  ‘You were to obliterate the base camp last week!’ said Shayista.

  ‘Subedar, I do not agree with your annexation tactics,’ Jaswant stated. His left eye drooped, a lazy eye he had since birth. ‘These are rebels, not petty thieves. We must negotiate.’

  Shayista could not believe his impertinence. Concealing the disgust curdling within him, he said, ‘Guards, leave us.’

  The guards exited the room in haste.

  ‘Amir Jaswant, don’t EVER contradict me in front of others,’ Shayista warned.

  ‘Forgive me, Sire.’

  ‘I will not tolerate rape and plunder by anti-Imperial forces. We will have peace at all cost! Tomorrow you will assemble a team to kill them. Depopulate the entire town if you have to. Burn them out of their hovels. Wipe out those rogues. AND their sons! If a few innocent lives are lost, so be it.’

  ‘Yes, Sire.’

  ‘The wedding party will be here soon. Raise the drawbridge at the South Gate.’

  ‘No need for that,’ said Jaswant, pointing down.

  Distant torches showed the wedding procession making its way up the hill with drummers and musicians leading the way. Shayista could see about 400 people on foot, thirty horses and three elephants with decorated howdahs.

  ‘Maintain strict vigilance,’ said Shayista. ‘We don’t want miscreants disturbing the wedding. There will be women and children.’

  ‘Yes, Sire.’

  Shayista’s
eyes tunnelled into him.

  ‘It shall be as my Subedar commands,’ he said, bowing.

  Under ordinary circumstances Shayista might have reprimanded the commander but tonight he had Ellora on his mind. He knew Nasim would be busy with the wedding and he wanted to spend some time with Ellora and the girls whom he had given a room in the Southern part of the fortress. He had finally found the love that poets wrote about and he wanted to celebrate every moment. He remembered the words of Hafez...

  ‘I have no use for divine patience -

  My lips are now burning and everywhere.

  I am running from every corner of this earth and sky

  Wanting to kiss you.’

  Distant dhols and kettle drums pounded, announcing the wedding party. Oblivious to the agitated night life, the howling owl, the uneasy bull frogs, Shayista hurried to Ellora’s quarters. He found Dhand guarding the door.

  ‘Nasim is concerned about the priest. Please see to it?’ asked Shayista.

  ‘Hookum, Sire!’ Dhand lumbered off.

  Shayista entered the palatial room. It was lit with a chandelier of candles and scented with rose water.

  Waiting on their four-poster bed, draped in a dazzling white choli, was the love of his life. Ellora, love-bitten and yearning. Ellora, tender for their reunion.

  Shayista had the dark diamond in his pocket, the one Arjumand had asked him to give to a woman he loved. He had hidden it for thirty five years never thinking he would have to dig it up. Life was kinder than he had expected. Shayista paused a moment to lap up the euphoria.

  Ellora’s cheeks were aglow, candlelight wove in her hair. Shayista lifted her in his arms and buried his head in her bosom. She pulled his face to her lips and kissed him. ‘Not here,’ she said in a lusty whisper, though she was the one kissing. ‘The girls might wake up.’

  Shayista said, ‘Let them.’ He glanced fondly at the twin bassinets by the side of the bed. In one was Pari Bibi, sweet tempered and plump. In the other was Miri Bibi, feisty and stubborn. He blew a silent kiss to each of his beauties.

  He grabbed Ellora with the full ardour of love. She didn’t resist. He licked her shoulder and kissed her neck. She melted in his arms. His hand went to her blouse, tearing open the hooks so her breasts spilled free. He pinched her nipple between his fingers.

  She drew his finger to her lips. The cosmos circled on the pink tip of her tongue, a microcosm of the universe upon his wet finger. His soul broke free and cascaded out of his flesh, connecting with hers, in a plunge of sweetness.

  He knelt on one knee and said, ‘Ellora, never before have I felt so certain of my purpose.’

  ‘Your purpose?’ she asked, batting eye lashes.

  ‘My purpose is to love you! You are a perfect expression of Allah’s divinity.’

  ‘You are too kind.’ Ellora blushed.

  He began to unwrap the ghagra from her slender chocolate brown waist, slowly, bit by bit. She moaned in anticipation. When she was naked before him, he placed on her neck the dark diamond. It hung from her like an icy anchor. He noticed goose bumps on her chiselled collarbone. From the valley between her breasts, the diamond beckoned.

  Ellora’s eyes sparkled in awe. Without a word, she dropped to her knees and began to lick Shayista loins. She had prepared a pair of potent aphrodisiac ointments which she rubbed on both his manhood and his nipples. It created a tingling sensation of cold above and hot below, sharp and gentle, Krishna, Radha, black, white, good, evil. When he felt he would be torn asunder by the contrast of pain and pleasure, she led him to ecstasy. It was the closest he ever came to bliss but the jealous night stole away the moment.

  She had only replaced the first wrap of her ghagra when shouts rang through the night. Distraught screams announced chaos in the distance. Then suddenly blaring musical instruments drowned out the shouts, a grating cacophony that made it difficult to ascertain the real danger.

  Shayista fumbled with his pyjamas, shaking off the droopy stupor of love. There was a ramming of wood against their door. Shayista had stationed 10,000 soldiers around the boundary walls with Commander Jawant in charge at the watchtower. Where was Jaswant? What was this music?

  He hadn’t time to register the nature of the trouble. The door began to splinter. Ellora wrapped herself in a bed sheet. Shayista pushed her behind him for protection.

  In leapt a ferocious brigand with two of his men. It was Shivaji the Mountain Rat. The Maratha King had terrorized the Mughal army with guerrilla warfare for years. Only a year earlier, Shayista defeated him and drove him out of his home.

  ‘This time I will finish YOU!’ Shivaji shouted. ‘Jai Hind!’ He was an immense figure with a callous sneer smeared across his gaunt face. The Maratha leapt furiously slashing a double-edged talwar at Shayista’s face.

  Unarmed, Shayista ducked, missing the powerful blow by a whisper. He reached under the bed for his trusted katara but it was not there where he had left it. In the confused moment, Shivaji took advantage and swung his talwar. Shayista leapt aside and retaliated with a cobra coiled kick to Shivaji’s shoulder.

  Shivaji staggered and roared in pain. He launched a counter-attack: swinging his shield at Shayista’s head but the kick to his shoulder weakened the force of his blow.

  Shayista stumbled off balance but survived. He cursed himself for sending Dhand on a stupid errand.

  Ellora jumped in front of him, her arms spread wide to protect him. ‘Pitaji, you can’t kill my husband,’ she cried.

  For an instant, time stood still. Both Shayista and Shivaji were stunned.

  ‘Ellora?’ said Shivaji at last. ‘What are you doing here?’

  It dawned on Shayista that he was in love with the daughter of his mortal enemy.

  ‘You are alive?’ Shivaji’s voice choked with emotion. ‘And you are ...’ His grief was replaced by a berserk anger. ‘Step aside, Ellora!’ Shivaji yelled. ‘I will kill the swine who dishonoured you.’

  ‘Pitaji, I am his wife,’ said Ellora. The bed sheet fell from her shoulder revealing her nipple. She quickly pulled it back up.

  Shayista jumped to the side of the bed where he had dumped his clothes and as he dressed, Ellora pleaded with her father.

  ‘The Mughal weasel kidnapped you. I’ll kill him!’ Shivaji raged. He pushed Ellora aside and leapt across the room, talwar drawn, knocking over the chandelier. Flames engulfed the curtains and tapestries. The twins wailed.

  Shayista made the fatal mistake of glancing at Ellora as the chandelier fell almost upon her. He saw the Maratha king’s talwar swing at him and raised his hand in reflex. Searing pain shot through him as Shivaji’s sword severed three of his fingers. The force of the thrust threw him off balance. He fell to the ground.

  ‘Jai Bhavani!’ Shivaji shouted, raising his lethal weapon.

  With the strength born of desperation, Shayista twisted sideways and thrust a round-house kick at the Rat, despite the agonising pain in his hand.

  Shivaji fell back then somersaulted in mid-air and landed with a kick to Shayista’s temple. He brought his blade whistling towards Shayista’s head for a killing strike.

  In the concluding moment of his life, Shayista shut his eyes. Burning cinders assaulted his face. The room smelt of ash. The smoke made it difficult to breathe. He prayed and braced himself but the anticipated death blow never struck.

  ‘Allahuakbar!’ shouted Abul Fateh, Shayista’s youngest son, charging into the room. He valourously thrust his sword into the Mountain Rat’s thigh.

  Shivaji recoiled like a nimble panther and snarled at the boy. He swung his talwar at the boy’s left leg then his right, smashing his knees.

  Pain didn’t deter Abul. He put forth a valiant but short-lived effort. He was no match for the seasoned guerrilla warrior.

  Shayista crawled towards his son, his hand throbbing.

  Ellora was next to him, eyes wide with fright. ‘He will kill you!’

  ‘Baba!’ A scream of despair from the far side of the room.

  Sh
ivaji had plunged his sword into the boy’s ribs. They heard the sound of skin tearing as he pulled his blade out and then the crashing sound of Abul Fateh Khan falling to the ground.

  Shayista screamed. His body failed to move and time slowed down. His heart shattered into infinite fragments as he stared at his blood-drenched son. Reality disintegrated into a series of surreal events unfolding before him but he couldn’t make sense of it. He heard the babies howling. He saw Ellora pushing him frantically. ‘Run. You cannot fight him in this condition.’ Her words seemed distant. ‘Run. Run!’

  He stared dazed as Shivaji lunged forward. Suddenly Ellora flung herself upon him. He felt her body slam into his. Her lips touched his cheek. She shuddered as the heavy sword withdrew from her pierced back. He heard Shivaji’s anguished caterwaul, ‘O Bhagavan, what have I done?’

  A rush of footsteps and Maratha soldiers barged in. Behind them, Dhand and some of his own men, armed with spears and lanterns. Smouldering curtains caught onto the rugs. Fire and smoke engulfed them. The sheet wrapped around Ellora was soaked in hibiscus red. The world went dark as Shayista lost consciousness.

  When he awoke two days later he found his world altered. The Mountain Rat had escaped. Dhand had managed to save him and Pari. Kalinoor was found tucked in her bassinette where Ellora must have slipped it. Miri, Abul and Ellora, were dead.

  Vikram’s son’s wedding had been a farce. The marriage procession consisted of 400 Maratha warriors in full armour hidden under wedding finery. Shivaji himself walked in as a drummer. He led the party into Lal Mahal and strangled the servants before they could ring the alarms. He forced the palace musicians to play merry tunes as loud as possible to add to the chaos and drown out warning calls. He stormed into the fortress to claim what was his. Amir Jaswant Singh was in on the plan. It was treachery of the highest order. Not even the English would be so dishonourable as to turn on their host.

  Shayista could not forgive himself. He had missed the signs and failed to protect his family. The Emperor was the first to offer condolences but this was followed by an urgent request, or rather, an order. He needed Shayista to quell a Magh uprising. No one else could do the job. Shayista moved to the rebellious state of Bengal and there doused his burning heart with battle blood.