Manan had the shame not to offer any reply. Our table was strewn with bits of rice left behind by previous patrons. Two couples occupied the other two tables who, judging by the stony silence in which they concentrated on their plates, were not on talking terms with each other. As is my ignoble habit, I stared at their food, trying without success to determine what they’d been served. Simple eaters, I concluded as we took our seats. Age, probably, I thought in a burst of mental sympathy.
An elderly server approached with plates.
“And what’s there to eat today?” Manan asked in Hindi. Evidently this chap didn’t have the Kashmiri nose.
“If you could just give me a minute,” the man said, setting a plate before each of us. “I just have to finish serving the other tables.”
“While you’re at it, maybe you could clean this one?” I said.
“Of course,” he said, pursing his lips. He whipped out a rag and proceeded to carefully steer the rice bits over the edge of the table, after which it would undoubtedly be someone else’s problem.
“That’s extra spit in our food, thanks to you,” Atishay said under his breath and we had to suppress our laughter, not least because we were worried that the unhappy couples at the other tables might faint at the slightest sound. The entire place had a slightly depressing vibe. I wondered who came to eat here in the usual course, and why.
“I hope they have kabargah, and not tabakh maaz,” said Manan with the air of a true connoisseur. Of course, we were none the wiser.
“What’s the difference?” Atishay said, having no barb to offer for once.
“Well, both are lamb ribs. But tabakh maaz is a Muslim preparation. More spice. Kabargah is a Kashmiri Pandit dish. Less spice, but more ghee. People tend to confuse the two, of course, but they’re really very different.”
My stomach rumbled. I hoped the cook knew how to make at least one of the two.
Presently, our server reappeared, and we could have sworn that he had aged a couple years from the last time we’d seen him. Perhaps we shouldn’t have asked him to clean our table after all. Manan repeated his query.
“And will we get kabargah?”
“Ah, Sir,” the man said, with a sly, triumphant grin. “It’s Tuesday, there’s no meat today.”
We stared at each other in horror.
“It’s all right,” said Atishay, recovering first. “We’re prepared to wait another…seventeen years?” He shot an accusing glance at Manan.
We burst out laughing, and the sound shattered the silence of the depressing little room tucked away in the bosom of this splendid building, rang across our disapproving neighbours, past the ornate corridors and into the balmy night.
***
Author's Note: This story originally appeared in Spark Magazine.
ZENANA
The eunuch stiffened as he heard his mistress stir. Twilight was setting in, casting a pale orange glow in the ornate bed-chamber. It was hardly a time to rise, but her sleep had been fitful at best for weeks now. The gossip had begun, of course – that she was addicted to wine and opium, that she had taken a lover, or even the most incredulous: that her beauty had faded. He was loath to admit it, but his loins – what was left of them – often stirred when he saw her lithe, slim body that had only acquired an enviable grace as she had aged. He had served in the zenana for 17 years now – he had seen indulgence peel away at beauty, fat turn cheekbones into jowls and pleasing countenances turn harsh and grotesque. Not his mistress, though, never. The rumours were all the more ludicrous because her abstinence had acquired legendary status in the zenana from the day she had stepped in, he thought with satisfaction, taking vicarious pleasure in her spartan ways.
“Hoshiyar.”
Snapping out of his reverie, he hurried to the four-poster bed, taking care to grab a bowl of rosewater from a low post on his way.
“Hukam,” he said to mark his presence next to her, and waited in silence. Sure enough, the pale arm parted the curtains, as it did every day, and stretched out in his direction, palm facing upwards. He placed the bowl on her palm, bowing in reverence as he did so, even though he knew that she could not see him.
He stood still, head bowed, and followed her routine for the umpteenth time. Like clockwork, he first heard her murmur a prayer, then cocked his ears for the muted sounds of her morning ritual. The scene was vivid in his mind’s eye – the elegant fingers dipping into the delicately scented water, then reaching up to her eyes to rub the sleep, or rather, fatigue, away. Then another dip of the fingers, this time to run over her forehead and cheeks. Then the fingers would be held over the bowl until the last droplets of water had trickled off. He had witnessed the ritual on very few occasions – an illness, perhaps, or a royal hunt– but had memorized every moment. He smiled as she cleared her throat at the very moment he had expected her to, and her palm parted the curtains again, this time to receive one of the many soft cotton napkins that he always kept handy while waiting on her.
As he waited for her to emerge for the day – the evening, rather – her patrician features flooded his mind: the aristocratic nose, pert chin, high cheekbones. He remembered when the sparkle of her eyes had matched the rest of her proud features, several years ago. Things had been different then. The Padishah had had eyes only for her. She’d been a proud queen, the undisputed ruler of the zenana, making and breaking the fortunes of the obsequious zenana ladies with a bored flick of the wrist or a well-placed word. But alas, her fortunes had plummeted with those of the Empire. Rebellion had broken out in the provinces and the Padishah had ridden out post-haste, only to return a year later with the rebels quelled and two new wives at his side. The Empire’s fortunes had revived but hers had not.
The malicious whispers had begun soon after the arrival of her rivals: the zenana did not forgive. She was scorned as a spent force, destined to spend the rest of her days pining for her lord. Hoshiyar had watched her from close quarters from around this time, having been promoted to the head of her staff when the eunuch before him had been killed in an unfortunate accident. He’d seen her fight to maintain her poise even as she languished in her apartments week after week, forgotten by the one she loved and jeered at by the rest. He’d watched, distressed, as she listened for the Padishah’s footsteps outside her door each night, only to bear the crushing weight of rejection each time. Yet, she had endured, Hoshiyar thought, his chest swelling with pride. A lesser woman would have fallen to the wayside months ago. Every woman entered the zenana with lofty ambitions of appropriating royal attention and favour; most were destined to receive but a few moments of careless passion, some, none at all. He had witnessed several women give themselves up to the oblivion of intoxication, driven insane by the realization that they were royal discards with a purposeless existence. But not his mistress. She yet braved the fickle tide of zenana fortune with a dignity befitting her stature. Initially, she had ignored the prying eyes and wagging tongues, and gone about her ordinary business, but the constant presence and new found imperium of her co-wives had finally driven her to her own apartments. She had stayed here for the past few months, with only him for company, taking her meals alone, her sleep spasmodic and her waking hours brief. Down, but not defeated, Hoshiyar thought, pursing his lips as he contemplated the spate of indignity she had suffered. But surely it was only a matter of time before the tide turned, he mused, his hand unconsciously drifting to the parchment secreted away in his cummerbund.
He lowered his eyes as she emerged from the bed, tracing the henna patterns on her feet with his eyes as he always did. As she stood up and stretched with a weary sigh, he stepped back and readied himself to speak.
“A few of the zenana ladies had come again, Hukam,” he said.
“Well, we both know the purpose of that visit, Hoshiyar,” she said with a wry smile. “So, if that was all, then perhaps you should run a bath for me… But to what end,” she said, staring out at the fading light with lifeless eyes, as if she had forgotten his presence
.
“Well, Hukam… There was one more visitor,” Hoshiyar said.
“What?” she took her time to focus her attention on him, having turned away while he was speaking.
“It was a messenger, Hukam,” Hoshiyar said, barely able to contain his excitement. “From the Padishah.”
She said nothing, but stared at him, her eyes bright. Hoshiyar was horrified. He had never seen her lose her composure, no matter what the provocation. But the moment passed, and without a word, she held her hand out to him for the third time that evening.
Hoshiyar reached for the note he had stuffed into his cummerbund. The royal seal, proud and true, flashed dull red in the dim light as he handed it over and stepped back.
Her eyes turned bright again as she sat down on a divan, broke the seal with care and opened the tiny piece of paper. Hoshiyar was not privy to its contents, of course, but he allowed himself the indulgence of gauging her reaction. He watched as she read and re-read the note, her breathing turning ragged and heavy.
To his chagrin, he did not detect any immediate joy in her countenance: her face was grim, then thoughtful. She seemed miles away, as if pondering the contents deeply.
“But should they be allowed to do this?” she said under her breath, the words catching in her throat. “And how many times...”
Hoshiyar waited with bated breath, unsure of how the evening was going to turn out. The messenger – the ignorant fool – had promised him that it was good news, but he could see nothing but pain in his mistress’s eyes as she gazed out of the latticed window.
“Very well, then, Your Majesty,” she whispered at last with a deep sigh.
“Hoshiyar.”
“Hukam?”
“Perhaps you should run that bath after all,” she said with a wan smile.
***
An hour later, Hoshiyar hurried to the elaborate dresser, clutching velvet boxes of various sizes, shapes and colours. Although he was alone in the chamber, there was a palpable shift in the mood. The gloom had dissipated: his quick and harried movements – the very fact that there was movement – lent the chamber a long forgotten cheer. He had run the most elaborate bath in months, taking care to use the best oils and scrubs and ensuring that the water was just the right temperature. Surely it would have pleased her, he thought to himself as he laid the jewellery boxes on the dresser, their lids open to reveal the priceless drops of gold and silver they kept concealed within. They’d gathered dust for a few weeks now, Hoshiyar noticed with reproach. As he made a mental note to see to their cleaning, his mistress swept in. He turned and bowed in a single motion, but not before he had stolen a look. She looked radiant. The scarlet sari was elegant, yet accentuated the gentle curves of her body. It gladdened his heart to see her cheeks flushed, as if she were a new bride.
He straightened up and stepped behind the high stool set before the dresser, feeling his skin tingle in anticipation as she sat down. It had been ages since they’d carried out the little game that was to follow. It was a common tradition amongst noblewomen and their chosen personal attendants, and Hoshiyar particularly enjoyed his role in it. He caught her eye in the mirror as she settled in, and she nodded to signal that she was ready to begin. He stood to attention and stared into the mirror as she reached for the velvet box closest to her, containing a thin gold necklace studded with pearls and rubies. No sooner had she picked it up than he coughed, and when she met his eye in the mirror, he shook his head almost imperceptibly.
She laughed with delight and, replacing it on the dresser, said, “You’re right, it was too much.”
Hoshiyar acknowledged her comment with a slight tilt of his chin, and resumed his impassive gaze into the mirror, waiting to be called on to render his opinion about the next piece of jewellery. They played this delicate game over and over, each enjoying the wordless back and forth that completed her toilette. Half an hour passed as Hoshiyar rejected most of her suggestions, nodding his approval at but a tiny fraction of the numerous pieces he had brought out.
Once she was satisfied, she stood up and surveyed herself with a critical eye. An exquisite emerald pendant glittered at her throat, the turquoise hue presenting a striking contrast to her fair skin. Twin diamonds shone from her ears and gold bangles adorned her wrists, complementing the silver anklets that tinkled below. Hoshiyar’s choices had been simple but elegant.
“Not too bad, is it?” she asked with a jovial smile, the vain little question signalling the conclusion of their game.
“You look stunning, hukam,” he replied in a low voice, making her raise her eyebrows.
“Extravagant praise indeed, Hoshiyar!”
It was true. Tradition demanded that he make a muted, almost teasing reply so as to not appear to be indulging in flattery, but he meant to convey to her that he shared the hope that was beginning to flicker in her eyes.
“More candles, perhaps?” she suggested, gesturing around the dimly lit room.
“Of course, hukam,” Hoshiyar said. “And some refreshment?”
“Ah, yes. I hope you have not forgotten what titillates the royal palate,” she said. “God knows I might have,” she murmured.
“Dates, fruit, sweetmeats, and wine with just...”
“...a bit of opium. Very good, Hoshiyar,” she said with a smile.
Hoshiyar bowed and hurried out of the chamber, calling a dozing servant-girl to attention.
“You...Rukhsar, is it?”
“Yes, janaab.”
“Find a companion and fetch the following items from the kitchens...”
***
“10 o’ clock and all is well,” came the sonorous voice of the watchman from the fort walls below. An hour had passed. Hoshiyar had resumed his position at the entrance to the bedchamber. The night was still, the sluggish breeze unable to provide relief from the sultry weather. Beads of sweat lined Hoshiyar’s forehead as he gazed at the corridor for signs of movement. His mistress had retired to the bed to wait, the constant rustle of the sheets signalling her anxiety. The food he had sent for sat on gleaming golden plates on a low table near the divan, a tall silver jug of chilled wine beside them. He would have to replace the wine in a while, he mused as he swatted at a fly. He cocked his head as he heard voices nearby, but sighed when he realized that they belonged to gossiping zenana ladies. Surely...
“Hoshiyar.”
He turned towards the bed, and was shocked to find his mistress standing before him.
“Hukam, you should remain inside, the Padishah...”
“...do you really believe that he will come, Hoshiyar?” she asked.
He avoided her eye, abashed.
“But this is the lot of women, is it not?” she continued, her voice bitter, as she began to pace the chamber, her steps slow and languid, as if she were lost.
“Perhaps he has been held up with matters of state.”
She said nothing, but continued to walk, running her fingers over the furniture she passed. The anklets clinked as she walked, filling the empty chamber with their clear, ringing sound.
“Why should we...why should I? Is this all I am worth?” she said, her voice breaking. Hoshiyar stared at her, his misgivings writ large on his face. He had never witnessed her emote in this manner. The disappointment had always remained shuttered away, presumably never to surface. He had unconsciously taken a few steps in her direction, and stood near the centre of the room, feeling utterly helpless, as she continued to circle it.
“Am I not beautiful, Hoshiyar?” she asked as she came to a stop near the veranda.
“Hukam...”
“Or perhaps I am just not desirable any longer,” she said with an edge to her voice that he had never heard before. “My skin sags, after all...”
He gazed at her as she turned away and looked out into the black night. Her sari fluttered as the breeze picked up, accentuating her lissom figure. He wanted to cry out, to lessen her anguish, to soothe her pain, but the shackles of propriety demanded that he remain silent an
d steadfast, protecting her equilibrium when she herself could not.
A few candles flickered and went out, and Hoshiyar immediately busied himself with them, glad at the distraction. When all the candles were lit and he could tarry no longer, he turned back towards the veranda. She had stepped back into the room, and was standing tall, her eyes flashing.
“Clear the refreshment, Hoshiyar,” she said in ringing tones. “There will be no visitors here today. And blow out the candles. I am going to retire for the night.”
She turned back towards the bed, her steps confident this time, as Hoshiyar made for the platters. His heart ached for her, but he was relieved that she appeared to have regained her equanimity. Even as he reached for the first one, thick, heavy footsteps sounded in the corridor. There was no mistaking it this time, it was a man. A loud guffaw confirmed his suspicions, making his heart beat faster. Frozen in the act of picking up the plates, he saw that his mistress, too, had turned, and was staring at the doorway with hungry eyes, her bosom heaving with the sheer anticipation of the moment.
Hoshiyar rushed to the door, the plates forgotten, as the footsteps neared. He heard a dry cough as the man came into view.
“Oh, Hoshiyar, that’s you, isn’t it?”
Shahid Khan drew himself up to his full height. “I’ve been sent by His Majesty himself – no less! He,” he scrunched his face up in concentration, “...regrets that he will not be able to visit Her Majesty tonight as he has been unavoidably detained in Meher Begum’s chambers, where he took the evening meal,” he rattled off in a rush. “He sends this necklace as a gift in lieu of his presence,” he added, thrusting a gold chain into Hoshiyar’s hands, “and bids Her Majesty a good night.”
His little speech at end, Shahid looked around, his eyes wide. It was his first and would possibly be his only visit to the zenana.
Hoshiyar coughed. “Will that be all?”
Razor-Sharp: 13 Short Stories Page 5
