Dark Diamond

by Shazia Omar

  Shayista could not be sure if he was awake or dreaming.

  She wrapped her arms around his neck, her thighs around his body. The warmth of her breath revived long abandoned feelings. Her ankle chains jingled. ‘Deny me not,’ she commanded, tearing away his clothes.

  Inflamed to vagary, deny he did not! In their naked glory, he dove into her valley and scaled her mountains, licked up her sorrows and drowned in her seas. She was full and soft. Their bodies merged. She moaned and meowed, once a purring kitten, once a growling tigress. He galloped on her like a thunderstorm. With salt and star dust on his lips, he was conquered by her lust. He pushed her against the bed, threw her onto the floor, banged her against the wall.

  Then a knock at the door.

  ‘You wrestling a croc in there?’ asked Costa.

  Champa warned Shayista not to mention her appearance.

  ‘I’m fine, just doing some yoga,’ said Shayista.

  The captain went away and now Shayista was sure that Champa was real. With savage devotion, he plunged his tongue deep into her ravenous depths. Her juices ran down his cheeks and elbows and collected in puddles on the floor. She was the Buriganga pouring into his mouth, love and destruction smashing through the embankments drowning the firmament. She was the choir in the cathedral, the bird in flight, the parting rain clouds. It was a night of transformations and rapture, a night of unadulterated passion and unbearable lightness. He held her to him tenderly and felt their hearts beat in sync, in rhythm with the universe.

  ‘I love you despite your disappointments, your scars, your flaws. I love you,’ said Champa.

  There was something aching and noble in her. Shayista realized he loved her too but it was not love he dwelt on for long. Love made him think of loss. A vision of Pari’s cold corpse drifted through his mind. Poor Pari, poor little Pari Bibi, wrapped in a daffon cloth of white.

  ‘My Lord, where is the diamond of Bengal?’ said Champa.

  Pari, his most precious treasure, lay beneath the gaudy mausoleum. The loss was so raw. He could not come to terms with his grief. He could not accept Pari’s death.

  ‘Where is the diamond?’

  ‘In the Lal Bagh mausoleum, there my diamond is buried,’ he mumbled.

  Suddenly Champa vanished. Shayista rubbed his eyes, dazed. Did that just happen? In the moonlight through the cabin window he saw Madeline returning to the ship in a rowboat with the kitchen hand and a portly sailor.

  CHAPTER 46

  N

  asim greeted the pir in the private audience chamber of her fort. Dressed as usual in black garbs with a tight black turban, his eyes only were different, lit with fervour. She had received a message from him earlier that day. He claimed to know where the Kalinoor was hidden and he wanted to help her unearth it quite immediately. Now here he was, seated before her.

  ‘We must use the cannon,’ said Pir Zulfiqar. His rapacious demands were startling.

  ‘What ever for?’ asked Nasim Banu.

  ‘I had a vision. Kalinoor is hidden well below the earth. We will need the cannon.’

  ‘I beg your parden, Pir Baba, we cannot blast the cannon at will. It is only for battle.’

  ‘Nevertheless, your Highness,’ said the pir.

  She could tell from his posture, he was bent on having his way. Ultimately, how much damage would it cause apart from provoking her husband? ‘Alright,’ she said at last. ‘We shall fire ONE cannon ball. Not more.’

  ‘Fine. Point it at the mausoleum.’

  ‘Mausoleum?’ Nasim repeated. ‘Pari Bibi’s mausoleum?’

  ‘Yes!’ barked the pir. ‘That’s where he hid it!’

  Nasim pondered the plausibility of this claim. Could Shayista have chosen such a macabre location to hide his jewel? Of all places, a sepulchre? Why not behind a false wall or in a hidden vault?

  ‘Ready your guards,’ barked the pir.

  ‘Wait,’ said Nasim. ‘I spent two lakh rupees building that mausoleum. Can’t we excavate the diamond with a shovel? I would hate to ruin the expensive craftsmanship.’ Besides, what would Shayista say if he found out she had fired the cannon at his daughter’s tomb?

  ‘It must be done!’ said Pir Zulfiqar.

  ‘Shall I call the Amir-i-akhur?’ Ambar offered.

  ‘Can this wait till after the Emperor’s visit?’ said Nasim.

  ‘There is no time to waste,’ said the holy man.

  Nasim nodded, feeling faint. The mausoleum was her masterpiece. She had brought in black basalt from Rajmahal for the walls, sandalwood from China for the trimmings, fretted marble screens for the windows.

  Amir Dhand was summoned.

  ‘Your Highness?’ he said, bowing low.

  ‘Amir, ready the cannon,’ she said, concealing her misgivings.

  ‘Pardon?’ he said, taken aback. He eyed the holy man.

  ‘Ready the cannon, I need to blast it.’

  ‘Your Highness, at whom?’ he asked. He shot a dirty look at the pir, ready to grind him to a pulp if her Highness requested. ‘If this man is bothering you...’

  ‘No, not at all! Dear me, no!’ said Nasim, glanced apologetically at the revered holy man. ‘Please point the canon at Pari mausoleum!’

  This time Dhand gave her a bemused look. ‘At that goliath you have been building for over a year?’ The irony of her capricious whim was not lost upon him.

  ‘Yes,’ said Nasim, burning with humiliation.

  ‘As you wish,’ said the Amir.

  He stepped out of the garden with Nasim Banu, Ambar Khajah and the pir following him. Two elephants dragged the cannon onto the lawn and pointed it towards the spectacular crypt, a cannon ball in its mouth.

  The heat sweltered. Beads of sweat trickled down Nasim’s back. She mopped her forehead with her dupatta and asked the artists to dismantle their work and preserve as much as possible. They wept when they heard she was going to destroy the tomb.

  A crate with black powder was carried forth. ‘What is it?’ Nasim asked Dhand.

  ‘Saltpetre,’ he explained, brimming with pride. ‘The world’s largest supply is ours.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I heard,’ said Nasim, impatiently. ‘Zamindar Shobha mentioned trade was booming. The English are a peculiar race. They seem to prefer saltpetre to muslin!’

  ‘Zamindar Shobha Singh?’ repeated the Amir.

  ‘Oh, I know, I know. I have heard of the zamindar’s spat with my Lord husband but really, Amir Dhand, he has been such a staunch supporter of the Empire, I feel Shayista is being too harsh.’

  Amir Dhand’s face showed no reaction to her words so Nasim quickly dismissed the subject and moved on to the task at hand.

  The cannon was ready. Nasim nodded her assent. The Amir advised her to plug her ears.

  ‘On my command,’ said the Amir. ‘Ready, aim, FIRE!’

  The shot burst through the air. Never had Nasim Banu heard anything so loud. It sounded like the trumpet of Judgment Day, shaking her intestines, stopping her heart. In seconds, the magnificent mausoleum came crumbling to the ground, smashed to pieces. Fragments of rock, stone, marble, brick lay strewn across the lawn.

  Nasim ordered her servants to turn up the earth and search for a silver jewellery box. They did as they were told but three hours later, with no rock left unturned, there was still no diamond to be found.

  On the verge of tears, Nasim dismissed the Amir, the soldiers and the servants, and retired to her private audience chamber with her eunuch and the pir. Given that he was wrong about his prediction, Nasim felt she should be the angry one but to her surprise, it was the pir who was incensed.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ he thundered. ‘The diamond of Bengal is buried with Pari. He said it loud and clear. I WANT that diamond!’

  Sensing the pir’s escalating fury, Ambar intervened. ‘Pir Baba, once we commune with Abul Fateh, it is our duty to return the diamond to its rightful owner.’

  ‘Rightful owner?’ asked Nasim.

  ‘Why the Emperor, of course!’ sai
d Ambar. ‘Such a valuable Deccan jewel, it belongs to the Emperor not the Subedar of Bengal, and definitely not some provincial holy man.’

  Pir Zulfiqar glared at Ambar. His eyes took on an inhuman glow. ‘How dare you speak to me like that?’

  Nasim Banu shrank with an erstwhile unknown fear. ‘Pir Baba, my eunuch meant no offence...’ she stammered.

  ‘He is a SPY!’ bellowed the pir. ‘Planted by the Emperor.’

  ‘Maybe I am!’ Ambar shouted back, to Nasim’s surprise.

  ‘Khajah, what are you saying?’ she said, horrified.

  ‘Yes, it was the Emperor who sent me here to find out where Kalinoor is hidden but not out of ill will to you or the Subedar. Only for the good of the Empire...’

  Suddenly he gagged as though choking. He scratched at his neck to pry open the constricting grip that was not there. The pir’s shadow loomed collosal behind him, asphyxiating him.

  Nasim wanted to help him but then again, he had betrayed her. Perhaps he deserved a moderate punishment.

  Ambar’s body was thrown onto the wall by the mysterious force. He fell to the floor and was lifted up again, as if by magic, his feet dangling off the ground.

  A diabolical grin spread on the pir’s face. He poked his finger into the air. Ambar yelled and brought his hands to his eye, as if he had felt it there.

  To Nasim’s shock, his punctured eye oozed with blood. ‘Stop!’ she screamed, unable to tolerate the gore.

  Pir Baba ignored her and poked his finger into the air again. Ambar howled in pain, cupping his hands over his other eye.

  ‘Noooo!’ she screamed.

  Gone were his eyes. A few more blows against the floor, and finally, he fell silent.

  Nasim froze in terror. The pir left without a word. When he was a safe distance away, she rushed to the limp body of her eunuch. To her surprise the blood was gone, there were no signs of harm on his eyes or body but he was dead.

  CHAPTER 47

  U

  nable to swallow her grief, Champa sat with her grandfather in the antechamber, watching as he groomed his falcon. Dada had been in a foul mood since he returned from an errand. Champa wondered when he would regain his calm. She needed to ask him for help.

  ‘Why are we such an unkind species?’ she began.

  She had spent the morning cleaning the madrasa. The girls had been temporarily shifted to a house provided by the Subedar while the premise was repaired. Only a few books were left unburnt, one was a book of verses by Hafez. The poet had been her father’s favourite. Champa wondered if it was he who had saved the book. Perhaps there was still a trace of goodness in him.

  ‘Humanity is lost,’ said the pir. ‘We will die of greed.’

  ‘There must be a solution, Dada?’

  ‘Beggars and kings, the wise and the foolish, they are all the same. God gives us resources in abundance but we spit in His eye. We pollute, we deplete, we destroy. But there is hope.’

  ‘What hope?’

  ‘Kalinoor can absorb solar energy and focus it into a single point of clarity hot enough to burn a porthole through the fabric of illusion. Through this gateway, I shall summon the most powerful djinn in the universe.’

  ‘And what will you command it to do, Dada?’

  ‘Eliminate mankind through floods. The time has come for forty days of torrential rain to cleanse the world once again. The land will belong to flora and fauna! Tigers, cobras, cheetahs, chimps. Mother Nature shall flourish as God intended.’

  ‘Dada, that sounds a bit destructive. Surely there must be some other way?’

  ‘There is no other way.’

  Champa mulled over her grandfather’s words. He and the Subedar were not so different. Both were delusional and violent and neither would stop at anything. Men! What would become of Bengal?

  CHAPTER 48

  A

  s the pirate ship pulled into Dacca’s harbour, Shayista wondered how he would get rid of the curse. Adamantine was indestructible but perhaps if he threw Kalinoor into the Buriganga, water would drown out its power. Or would the stone continue to damn him from the bottom of the river?

  He bid his friends farewell, having elicited from them a promise to join him for supper, and made his way back to the fortress on horseback. He was puzzling over his dilemma when he detected a sound. He pressed his ear to the ground and ascertained ten horses bearing soldiers in armour, fast approaching.

  Swooooooooosh. An arrow cut across the sky. It whizzed by his ear. He was not in the mood to take on enemies alone. He had the diamond to worry about. His mind raced to the Chowk Bazaar gates, the closest Imperial guard post. His adrenal reflexes catapulted him into action.

  Shayista leapt with his horse over shanties, scaled the walls and darted through busy avenues, upheaving carts, knocking over pack horses, frightening children, scattering goats. Ducks and chicken flapped out of his way. Passersby gathered to watch. Soon the assassins were in sight: orange-turbaned Marathas.

  A few more leaps and Shayista reached the Imperial post where soldiers were stationed. ‘Under attack!’ he shouted.

  Imperial officers sprang into action, mounting steeds and drawing weapons. Plumes of dust, sweat and battle cries rang through the air. Musketeers took aim.

  ‘It’s too dangerous,’ shouted Shayista, stopping them. ‘Too many people around. We must fight close combat.’

  The Marathas were not prepared for the ambush. They pulled back to regroup.

  Shayista drew Azdahar and charged after them. Another arrow whistled past and impaled one of his soldiers. Then another and another.

  Shayista looked up to see a most glorious form silhouetted before the moon: Arjun drawing a bowstring from the rooftop of the Bazaar. He was mounted on a white horse and he had on a black scarf over his face. A leather godhu protected his arm from the bow string on its return. His quiver, red velvet and embroidered in gold, was larger than he was. He gripped the bow in a classic Changal-i-baz, Hawk’s Claw, holding the arrow still, his advanced foot forward for balance. His aim was precise. It was evident he was a master.

  The faultlessly executed arrow sailed towards Shayista who watched it, mesmerized. It traced a perfect path towards him and lodged in his turban. Soldiers shot at the archer but he eluded them, only to reappear and resume his projectile assault a few yards away.

  ‘Cover me,’ Shayista shouted to his guards. Swords and spears clashed above his head as he charged.

  When near enough, he stood upon his saddle and leapt onto the roof. The archer saw him and tried to withdraw. Shayista threw a rock at him, knocking him off his steed. The archer fell to the ground. Shayista lunged at him with his sword.

  The archer jerked back avoiding the blade which snagged on his scarf and tore part of it off, revealing an astonishing sight: a head full of hair. This Maratha marauder was a woman.

  In a moment of confusion, Shayista lost his advantage. The Maratha parried Shayista’s blade with a shield and drew an arrow from her quiver.

  ‘Give me the Kalinoor and you can ride away with your life,’ she said, her bow taut, arrow aimed at his Adam’s apple.

  Shayista didn’t want to hurt her. She sounded young. He whistled, diverted her attention and knocked the bow out of her hand with his steel forearm guard. She grimaced and yelled. He grabbed her wrist and drew her into a gentle bind.

  ‘The dark diamond is cursed,’he said.

  ‘Unhand me, you barbarian!’ she demanded.

  ‘Why do you want Kalinoor?’ he asked.

  ‘It belongs to me.’

  ‘Didn’t you hear me?’ said Shayista. ‘It is cursed.’

  ‘As if I’d believe you, you liar. You killed my mother and now I will kill you!’ She struggled to escape his hold. In the tussle, her scarf fell, revealing her face. It was a conglomeration of loveliness.

  Shayista reeled, dumbfound. She was the spitting image of Pari. His knees buckled, he released his grip.

  ‘Do not pity me because I am a woman. I am as powerful a
s any man. I am the granddaughter of Shivaji Chattapatri of the Bhonsle clan. You have something that belongs to me. You stole it from my mother. I want it back.’

  Shayista could find no words to respond. Could this possibly be his long-lost daughter Miri? Alive? He wanted to hold her in his arms and tell her many things but she jumped onto a horse and escaped. He stared after her in wonder.

  CHAPTER 49

  B

  elow deck in the Belo Diabo, Madeline was waiting for the pirates to disembark so she could lead Tavernier off the ship without being seen. She was grateful that Abdul had not informed Captain Costa of their stowaway, the strange foreigner she had picked up in Chatgaon and kept hidden in her cabin for the week. He must have assumed the elderly man was her lover and even if he could not understand her taste, at least he honoured her secret.

  Madeline struggled to come to terms with her failure. How could her own father have betrayed her? After all she was doing for him? Even if she managed to map the Kollur Mines and get hold of Kalinoor, would they let her back into high society? And what would she do about Tavernier?

  She decided to test one of the potions in her spell book. The effect of this tonic was apparently to loosen one’s tongue. Perhaps she could gather some information about the Kollur mines. It was worth a try.

  She offered Tavernier the drink and wondered if he would smell the danger, as the Subedar had once done. To her surprise, he swallowed the whole mug in one gulp. The spell had warned of overdose but she had doubled the quantity nonetheless. Now she feared perhaps she had overdone it. Inquisitively she watched as her experiment unfolded.

  At first Tavernier stared at her, eyes spinning. She could see his dizziness. He wobbled off balance then sat heavily into a chair and began talking. ‘Like you, I was born with my head wrapped in maps,’ he said. ‘Son of a cartographer, my dreams were of faraway kingdoms. At sixteen, I embarked on my first expedition, an errand boy on an uncle’s ship. By the time I was twenty, I had seen Italy, Switzerland, Germany, Poland and Hungary. I spoke the principal languages of these places well enough to buy a meal or woo a lady.’