Salim, the only other eunuch in Hassan’s household, had served the Arab’s father. When very young, Salim had been castrated in a rather crude method. Desert sand was considered to help healing and newly castrated boys were often buried up to their necks in sand until they healed. Many boys who had undergone the treatment died of the shock and Salim was one of the lucky few who survived.
Without doubt, the old eunuch ran the household. Any impudence on the part of the others, except the wives of his master, received a slap as an answer.
Salim waited for the master’s instructions. The Arab stroked his grey beard reflectively. ‘Call him Malik, Malik Hazar Dinari,’ he instructed Salim, who smiled at the whim of his master – a slave was being called a master.
Salim led him into the harem through a passage open to the sky but with latticed walls on either side. Any harem was a restricted section where only eunuchs, wives, concubines, and their female and pre-pubescent male offspring were allowed. Harems were no longer the exclusive privilege of kings, and even wealthy people now owned one.
The arrival of a new eunuch sparked much interest within the harem too. News travelled fast and the entire harem knew the details of the transaction. The very fact that the slave’s price was more than their total value put together added to their curiosity. Two things struck them: he was not bloated like the other eunuchs they had seen all their lives – the result of an early castration was a lack of body hair, a falsetto, flabbiness and obesity. The new slave looked like any other man. That spurred more interest. All their lives they had heard of men masquerading as eunuchs to gain entry into harems. Perhaps he, too, was one. The second issue brought a smile to many lac-painted lips – the eunuch was definitely not worth what their master had paid for him. The infallible businessman had committed a folly.
As soon as he entered the compound, he knew it was a haven. Nobody would harass him within this place. The building’s façade was typically Muslim in that those on the inside could see everything outside without being seen. Everything was ostentatious, reminding him of the wealth of his new master. The first thought that struck him was whether the trader was richer than the Rana.
*
Ram, now called Malik by everyone, started forging a new life within Hassan’s walls. He was a good learner, and the old eunuch Salim Baba was not a harsh man either. He had shaken his head in displeasure when he had heard of the price Hassan paid; his master had made a mistake but he would not say so. The eunuch detailed the work that Malik had to do. Since no men were allowed inside the harem, the two of them had to manage the entire complex. The Arab would not trust women with money so Salim was responsible for the finances. The two also guarded the chastity of the women as male guards could not enter the harem.
Malik was given a long list of instructions. ‘If you are not useful, you will be sent back,’ the aging eunuch added and those words hit home. An image conjured itself in his mind: his head hung in humiliation while his master and several men haggled over the price to be paid for him. He had found succour in this place and wanted to think of it as enduring, not transient.
Scarcely resting, Malik Hazar Dinari committed himself fully to his work. After a few weeks, he had fitted the slot so ideally that even the old eunuch Salim smiled. He was taught the hierarchy within the harem: the Arab’s four wives in order of their seniority were the most important women, and utmost respect had to be given to them. The current favourite amongst the other girls would also have to be treated with deference.
Hassan had married all four of his wives over a span of four years. He had fond memories of them and would not divorce any. Since a devout Muslim was permitted only four wives, he started adding concubines. They came in all shapes, sizes and complexions. The master never saw a woman wearing the same dress more than once. Clothing was elaborate and beautiful, often made of satin, velvet and silk, and adorned with gold and silver brocade as well as the choicest of jewels. On the rare occasion that the women went outside the harem, they wore drab tunics from shoulder to feet, concealing their bodies, and, of course, a veil that fully covered the face except for the eyes. Other than the women, the harem contained as many as twenty children – Hassan’s offspring from the wives and concubines. Regardless of their parentage, they were all brats.
The old eunuch taught Malik all the regulations of the harem: ‘Women will want to worm their way into the affections of the Arab. You should be polite and yet maintain order. A woman scorned is a dangerous enemy.’ The old man would continue dictating as if he was going to retire the next day. ‘You and I have some powers, while we lack others. More men have wasted their substance in the pursuit of sexual gratification than all other vices put together. Hindus believe that if sexual powers can be harnessed, much can be accomplished. You would have noted by now that our senses of hearing and sight are heightened. They will continue to do so. We will possess the clarity in thought that men lack. The women whisper secrets when they think I’m far away, but I can hear them as I see their lips move.’
Now Malik understood the extra-sensory ability he had recently discovered.
‘You will also be able to detect things they hide in their bodies. You will be able to smell their fear when they are planning to betray our lord. We will use these newfound abilities in the service of our master. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Malik replied quietly.
Life in the harem was one of luxury and ease, especially for the girls. The women did no work, for the harem was staffed by odalisque servant-girls and the two eunuchs. It was a place devoted to the unabashed revelry of the body. To titillate a fading libido, many sex partners were resorted to and sex was accorded the status of a fine art. The first time Malik witnessed his master making love to a concubine, he felt an inexplicable shock. People without arms claim to feel pain in their absent limbs, and likewise, he felt a phantom lust.
The eunuch’s job then felt like a paradox. He had to watch over an activity that he could not emulate. It was like watching somebody eat when you did not possess a tongue, or somebody prancing around when you were lame. It had its psychological impact. The thought of the Rana lying over Chaula flashed in his mind every time he saw his master make love. He shivered and his repressed anger became an unburned fuel for revenge. Every night he longed to retreat to the safety of sleep, and the elder eunuch always gave him a concoction that led to a dreamless slumber.
Most girls got only a chance or two to share the bed with his master every month, and they made the most of it. Hassan usually woke up as if he had been mauled by a tigress in bed. During hot and humid nights, Malik would wave a fan while his master made love. The girl would scream in pleasure or sometimes fake it. When his master would begin snoring, the girl would return to the harem and it was Malik’s duty to escort her back.
To the girls, Malik was the nearest to a man they would get, except for the Arab. He still looked like a man, having been castrated so late in life. As a consequence, when he passed by the girls, they often stroked him suggestively. Once, when a wind blew out a flickering lamp, he had to endure a kiss from a velvety mouth as the girl seized Malik and the opportunity together.
After the months of torment, the harem was paradise for Malik. As long as a slave did his work, nobody said anything – especially if a thousand dinars had been paid for him. No one mistreated him here. His salvation was to serve and die. He got to eat everything he wanted from the kitchen, for there were no restrictions that bound him. He just had to tell Salim when he would return and the guards would not stop him leaving the palace. He found himself free to explore the city, where he enjoyed the fevered hustle and bustle of daily life. But he avoided the slave market, for they carried too many painful memories.
Malik was not like other strong, hard, coarse slaves of the household. The others would cower before their master. His life, he realized, was much better than the palanquin bearer or the slave who slogged in the kitchen. Even his rooms were better and he was glad indeed for
the luxury. But even the most menial of slaves looked down upon him although he was a trusted aide of their master and dressed in finer clothes. How can somebody so low on the rung of life’s ladder look down on somebody above them in status? he wondered. But then, as Salim explained to him, it was because he was genderless. The eunuch would continue to be lower than the lowliest slave in the land.
Sometimes, when his master was away, he would sit down by a window and watch what the Arabs called ‘forfeited spirits’ – birds that were always on the wing, flying low, just skimming the waves of the Mahe. They seemed to be searching for something, and reminded Malik of himself. His brow wrinkled as fragments of his own memories came together. What would have happened if he had never made the mistake of running away with Chaula? If only he had lived that day differently. The screams of the past still echoed through his ears and memories of his pain reverberated through his mind, causing him to shiver.
Once, lost in his thoughts, Malik felt a hand on his shoulder. Salim’s touch startled him. ‘You almost scared me witless,’ he said, as his mind returned to the present.
The elderly eunuch’s voice interrupted his reverie. ‘We all have our pasts to forget and futures to forecast. You are not alone in this. You must live for today,’ Salim advised him. Malik stood up and sighed.
‘Take what comes your way – that is all you are going to get. Just pray that this peace you live in now should last forever,’ Salim warned.
A eunuch who was trusted by his master was the lord of the harem. The Arab had given Malik a free hand to enforce strict discipline. Eunuchs had to instil fear in the girls’ minds, a fear of their whips. It fell to a eunuch to kiss a new girl when she first entered the harem, just to see whether or not she had bad breath. To report any oddities to the master, he was empowered to touch and examine the girls’ bodies whenever he wished, but he got no sexual pleasure out of it.
Some of the girls who were added to the harem were amazingly beautiful. Even Chaula seemed plain compared to the wondrous women he saw. A feathery touch from their painted fingers would make even a celibate person respond. They left his master panting and barely able to breathe. And to heighten the pleasure, they would turn to Salim, who in half a century of managing a harem had mastered the art of making sex potions. He drew heavily from the Indian text of the Kamasutra; the Arab potions could not be made for lack of ingredients. The old eunuch had handed Malik the recipes for many an aphrodisiac.
One night, the Arab returned from work and flopped down on his bed, tired. The girl who had been chosen to serve him that night was surprised. Malik noticed a glint of disappointment in her lusty eyes. The girls were chosen once or twice a month and though the purpose was physical enjoyment, it was also the time they could worm their way into their master’s liking, ask for favours and even complain about their rivals. She looked up at Malik beseechingly. Her eyes pleaded, Do something.
Malik walked out of the harem straight to the kitchen. He had the ingredients ready and prepared a concoction. He brought it to the Arab and offered it to him. When the Arab sipped it, he winced at the bitterness. ‘What is this?’
‘Just a drink, healthier than the wine you drink,’ Malik said. The results were almost instantaneous. The Arab’s libido returned in full force, resulting in a carnal act that was pleasurable to him and profitable to the girl, who got all her favours granted. Malik had won the undying gratefulness of the girl and the rest of them began queuing up for the potion he made.
As they aged, eunuchs invariably became thin and as wrinkled as old women. Salim had aged similarly. He had all but retired. Slowly Malik took over all his duties, from purchases to bedroom management. The other servants and slaves were terrified of him. He ordered whippings for thievery and his proximity to the Arab made them bear the punishments in silence. Of late he had begun to whip any offender himself. At first he was surprised at the streak of cruelty in himself, but he assumed it was only as a reaction to the irresponsibility of the slaves and hired help.
The Arab went to the mosque every Friday noon. Prayers were said at dawn, noon, mid-afternoon, sunset and nightfall, and determined the rhythm of the entire day. Although it was preferable to worship in a mosque, a Muslim could pray wherever he was when he heard the muezzin’s call. Malik had observed men kneeling on the pavement if they could not get to the mosque.
One Friday, just after Hassan returned from the mosque, as Malik stood patiently holding the reins of his horses, the Arab asked him, ‘Why don’t you adopt the Muslim faith, Malik?’
‘Master, I have ceased to believe in God. If there was a God I wouldn’t be a slave. I would be a free and wealthy man with my own family,’ he replied. The sorrow in his voice was noticeable. If they discover a eunuch God, though, I will become a fervent believer, he thought, ironically.
‘No, Malik,’ said Hassan, ‘there is a God. That is why you are here helping me. But I don’t intend to gain one more convert to my faith. It is just that if you converted, you would be more acceptable in my circles. You could come to Mecca with me; you could come to the mosque with me.’
To Malik it made no difference; if it pleased his master, he would convert. ‘How do I become a Muslim?’ he inquired.
‘I will ask the Imam to perform the ceremony.’
Soon Malik became a Muslim and like those around him, turned his face towards Mecca at prayer time. It made no difference to him personally, but in the process he got a new name. People started calling him Malik Kaffir – ‘kaffir’ was derived from the Arabic word ‘kafir’, an infidel. Soon everybody, including his master, called him Malik Kafur. Malik did not mind the change in name either, as his earlier title reminded him of the dreaded slave market.
*
The Arab found Malik to be extremely perceptive, with a zest for learning. He would listen wide-eyed to accounts of his travels and offer the most logical of solutions or inferences. Hassan admired his nimbleness of wit. Malik intrigued him at first. He had survived the vicissitudes of life and retained his sanity. Yet, he looked so incredibly sad. There was never as much as a smile on his face and there was something else in his eyes that reflected a past that just would not go away. Hassan recognized the scarred soul within an impaired body.
When the rains came, Hassan would stop conducting his business, for he loved the downpour, the cool breeze, the burgeoning green all around. The Arabs called it ‘mausam’, the season. The peacocks would be the first to signal the arrival of the rains by their strident cries. Then boulder-like thunderclouds would loom low on the horizon. The skies would darken and it would be a rare sight to see the sun for weeks. Walls were perpetually damp and the air would be laden with moisture. Winds howled over the river. Lamps would flicker and shadows would dance on the walls.
Hassan spent the rainy season at home. Few ships could survive the monsoon squalls, and his business practically came to a halt during the rains. He had his nights tightly scheduled. But spending his days was a tough task. The girls could giggle and flirt, but on an intellectual level, it was difficult to even have a conversation with them.
‘Malik,’ Hassan beckoned him one such day. ‘Have you ever played chess, the game Hindus call chaturang?’ The Arab possessed one such board of sixty-four alternating black and white squares. Malik had heard of the game in happier days.
Hassan told him how the game originated. ‘There was once a sage in Sindh. One night, he invented this wonderful game and took it to the king, who marvelled at it and asked what reward he wanted in exchange. The sage merely requested that one grain of wheat be placed on the first square of the board, two on the second, four on the third, eight on the fourth, and so on, until all sixty-four squares had been filled. The king readily agreed to this request. Do you know what happened?’ asked Hassan, almost like a child putting forth a riddle.
‘If the sage had not agreed to go back on his word, he would have ended up with all the grain in the world.’
‘You work fast, don’t you?’ asked Hass
an, rather disappointed that he could not deliver the punch. The Arab began placing ivory-carved coins on the black and white squares.
‘Where is the dice, master?’ Malik queried. Early versions of the chessboard were quadripartite, divided into four parts and involving four participants.
‘This is a different version, where you don’t depend on chance but skill,’ said Hassan. The Arab taught Malik about each piece, and said, ‘Those who cannot wield the sword should fight battles on this board.’
Hassan helped Malik play the pieces right in the first game. And then he guffawed as he won one game after another. It was obvious why one player was a slave and another the richest merchant in town. ‘If you have a winning chance, use it,’ Hassan encouraged. ‘There is no master and no slave in this game.’
Malik did not have to wait very long to see a change in his fortunes. He made a master move in a game. Hassan remained still, his position hardly altered. Though perhaps instinctive, Malik’s move was an experienced one that would leave the Arab’s king paralysed and had left him stupefied. As he pondered over the next move, realizing he did not have any, Hassan looked up from the board where his king lay surely immobilized.
‘Are you sure you have never played this before?’ he asked Malik.
The girls watching did not know the rules, but the outcome was clear from their master’s ashen face. They raised their manicured fingers to their pouting lips to stifle their giggles. The game continued, the Arab taking all his defeats rather sportingly, but still longing for one more victory. At the end, he remarked, ‘You should have been on the warfield, Malik. We could have converted the entire world to Islam.’
Gods, Kings & Slaves: The Siege of Madurai Page 12
