by Shazia Omar
Shayista rubbed the ruby hilt of his shamsher. He didn’t trust a drunkard to resolve conflict without violence. He had seen too many boys raised on golden milk, swinging from fornication to altercation, reckless and wild.
Royal history was replete with alcoholics: his father, his uncle, his cousin Daniyal whose funeral he had attended. The clammy feel of the prince’s swollen cheek was forever imprinted in his memory. Blue lips, icy hands, stiff fingers.
A piercing scream ripped through the tent. The larger Maratha had yanked the slave boy by his curly hair and with one definitive swipe, severed the boy’s head. Blood spilled out of the boy’s neck and onto the Maratha’s kurta. The child body splattered upon the Persian carpet.
‘We have come for Kalinoor!’ the warrior shouted. He waved the head for onlookers to see: horror frozen on the disembodied boy face, eyes bulged, tongue lolling.
Grabbing the tambourine dancer, the smaller warrior pulled out a double-bladed bichua from his cummerband. ‘Give us Kalinoor or she dies,’ he said to the nawab.
The wavy scorpion dagger hovered volatile below her chin. The girl shrieked. No one dared to move. Stunned, they waited for the lymphatic nawab to act.
‘Kill her,’ said the nawab. ‘What do I care? She’s only a...’
The dancer sunk her teeth into her captor’s arm. He howled and recoiled. She leapt away only to be caught by the larger Maratha. He grabbed her hair and pulled her face to the boy’s bodyless head, eye to dead eye. She screamed.
The smaller Maratha was livid. ‘You whore of Kali!’ he shouted, rubbing his bruise, eyes bloodshot. He raised the bichua to kill her.
Shayista swore under his breath. When he travelled incognito he did not wear chainmail, only his forearm guard. Neither could he carry his Damascan seif. A sword of that magnificence drew too much attention. He had only his shamsher for close combat but the dancer was across the tent.
With a volcanic battle cry, Shayista emptied his glass upon the hookah. A brilliant explosion of blue lit up the room. Shayista hurled the flaming hookah at the Maratha. Before the warrior could comprehend the danger, Shayista leapt to his side and thrust his shamsher into his heart.
The second Maratha was frightened. Never before had he seen a demon emerge from an explosion and kill a man.
Shayista turned to him. ‘You have murdered an innocent boy. Your atonement can only be through your life for his.’
‘Who are you?’ the Maratha asked.
Before the man could receive an answer, the Subedar delivered his imperious judgement, plunging the shamsher into his throat. The man fell to the ground dead. Shayista cleaned his blade on the Maratha’s turban and sheathed his shamsher. The dancer added a few kicks at the dead body for good measure.
‘Y’Allah! What happened!’ shouted Sheikh Obaidullah, panting and sweating from the exertion of running in, pavilion guards close behind him.
Shayista grabbed him by his kurta and drew him near. ‘How did they know I was in here?’ he hissed.
‘Sire, I beg your pardon, I did not see them,’ Obaidullah said, looking darkly suspicious. He fell to his knees and kissed Shayista’s hand with his fat, wet lips. ‘The troublemakers must have recognized your stallion tethered outside?’
Shayista pulled his hand away and wiped it in disgust. The inn keeper was lying. He had come without his horse. But he’d had enough killing for one day. ‘If you ever betray me, I will pluck your eyes out one by one and feed you to my wolves. Now move the bodies out of my sight. And Obaidullah, the music please?’
The obliging host ordered servants to remove the bodies and instructed performers to resume the show. He then led a dazed nawab out of Jannat.
Shayista returned to his seat. A grey mongoose scurried across the carpet and slipped out from under the tent. The crowd resumed its banter but now all eyes riveted on him. The dancer had not returned. The temperature had gone up. His pipe was empty, his glass drained. He contemplated leaving when finally his secret agent arrived, looking sorely foreign despite his shalwar and chapals.
Vroomen Van Diemen’s shiny bald head was white and no matter how locally he dressed, he looked like a flamboyant firingi. Timidly he scanned the room and grinned as he spotted the Subedar. He bowed in a theatrical taslim. His waist coat stretched tight across his belly, the button securing it threatened to pop.
‘What’s the commotion? A tussle on the way?’ he asked, easing onto a cushion next to Shayista. He craned his neck to watch the dancers.
‘No,’ said Shayista. He motioned for a fresh hookah.
‘Bengali women are the finest in the world,’ said Van Diemen. He imitated a dancer’s moves trying to get her attention.
‘Are you drunk?’ asked Shayista.
A waiter relit the hookah and served them a mixture of cashews, almonds, pine nuts, pistachios and raisins on a silver platter, followed by glasses of sharab.
Van Diemen nodded sheepishly. ‘You will be pleased, Subedar,’ he said, reaching for a handful of nuts. ‘I have much to report.’
‘Let’s see if you can keep your facts straight. Really Van Diemen, you must learn to handle your alcohol. You’re a disgrace to the Dutch.’
Unperturbed by the censure, Van Diemen took a sip and began. ‘King Charles is dead. King James is the new king of England. Charles’ bastard son was executed at Tower Hill by London’s worst executioner. It took eight strikes to sever his head.’
‘Were they beheading him with a butter knife? What do I care of English politics? The uncivilised lot don’t even bathe. They have a long way to go.’
‘There’s more, dear Governor,’ said Van Diemen, pausing dramatically. He clapped and whistled at a dancer shimmying by his side. Henna tattoos snaked up her slender back.
Shayista pulled on the hookah. Obaidullah had kindly laced it with opium to redress the damage done. Shayista allowed his body to relax as he released lazy smoke rings. Intimidated by his indifference, the dancer drifted to another group.
Vroomen sighed. ‘Germany, Sweden and Spain are aligning against King Louis. In America, they have chartered a city called Albany.’
Shayista picked out a cashew. It was fresh, come perhaps from the southern part of the province where he had set up an orchard after Costa presented him with saplings from Portugal, cashews and pinapples.
Every variety of delicacy was available in Dacca thanks to the channels of trade he had established, channels his enemies wanted to exploit. Enemies he would crush.
‘What of the farcical Company cullion in Hindustan?’ he said, popping the cashew into his mouth.
‘Lord James is gone. He married a Muslim noblewoman, did the full circumcision and conversion ceremony, then deserted the Company for a holy pilgrimage to Mecca.’
‘If only outer excursions could promote inner evolution,’ said the Subedar.
‘Sir Josiah Child is the new Company Governor. Our lady spy stole this from his pocket. It is addressed to Mr. Charnock in Madras, a Company man.’ Van Diemen handed him a scroll.
‘A lady agent of espionage?’
‘These days there’s nothing a woman can’t do.’
Subedar Khan scrutinized the royal insignia. ‘It says it is their duty ‘to lay the foundations of an English dominion in Hindustan, to acquire possession by force ... come what may.’’
‘Your foolish Emperor doesn’t mind,’ said Van Diemen.
Shayista thrust his shamsher menacingly close to the Dutchman’s neck. ‘Never speak of the Emperor with disrespect,’ he growled.
‘Alright, alright, take it easy,’ said Van Diemen, sobering.
‘The Emperor does not understand the implications,’ explained Subedar Khan. He tucked the parchment into his cloak. Aurangzeb was making a critical mistake.
‘It gets worse,’ warned Van Diemen. ‘Sir Child has appointed Mr. William Hedges as Chief Officer of trade in Bengal. A handsome man, I hear. A virtuouso with the women. O, I am scarce able to recount the unsavory practices of these Englishmen. T
hey petitioned the Emperor for a spot of soil in Hooghly upon which to build a factory house. No sooner was it granted, they constructed a fort, surrounded it with a ditch and mounted a great number of guns upon its walls. How is that in return for hospitality?’
‘English soldiers on Bengali soil? This cannot be true.’ Subedar Khan laughed.
‘The Company’s Secret Committee has requested King James for permission to seize Bengal.’
‘Seize Bengal? What audacity!’ The Subedar laughed even harder. Bengal from Bihar to Orissa, from Assam to Arakan, was his and he had hundreds of thousands of mansabdars protecting it. ‘Like mosquitoes plotting to attack an elephant.’
Van Diemen chewed thoughtfully on a handful of raisins. ‘It is, isn’t it? A tiny Company wants to take on the Gunpowder Empire.’
Most of the world’s saltpetre was produced in Bihar, over one hundred and twenty maunds annually. Saline earth collected off mud heaps and waste grounds where saltpeter developed into thin white effervescence resembling frost was dissolved and filtered through bamboo grass mats and the remaining liquor was evaporated to a crystallizing state in earthen pots. The refined saltpetre, better known as gunpowder, was his. Though it was close to the river Ganga and could easily be transported to Hooghly, Shayista had prohibited its trade. One had to be possessive of strategic resources.
‘I will warn the Emperor,’ said Shayista. Aurangzeb was scheduled to arrive in Dacca within a month. If they had their way, the English would not need to engage in armoured warfare. They would simply suck out their blood through unfair trade. That could not be permitted.
‘Perhaps the Emperor is already aware of the English advances but has not seen it fit to inform you as yet?’
Shayista peered into his eyes. Was Van Diemen holding something back? ‘Company designs on Hindustan are a joke,’ he said in disgust.
‘Everyone has designs on Hindustan,’ said Van Diemen. ‘Just as the Mughals did when Hindustan belonged to others. Sire, you must admit the Empire is imperialism at its zenith!’
The Subedar arched an eyebrow with scorn. ‘Mughals are natural leaders. The expansion of our power is a sign of our benevolence to humanity. We protect Bengali peasantry from the dominion of Afghans and Arakans. We encourage commerce and culture, education and growth. Poetry, music and art are our bastions. We nurture our people. Our sole purpose is not to loot resources.’
‘Who can blame the English really?’ said Vrooman. ‘You’ve turned Bengal into the richest kingdom in the world. You’re an alchemist! Now Bengal glitters like diamonds on the Peacock throne.’
Shayista frowned.
‘Speaking of which,’ continued Vroomen. ‘Everyone knows King Louis wears a Deccani diamond as blue as the ocean. Now King James wants to wear one too.’
‘Kohinoor is not for sale,’ replied Shayista dryly. If he knew anything about the diamonds of Golconda, he wasn’t about to reveal the details to his spy.
‘There is another diamond...’ Van Diemen leaned in to whisper. ‘It is as black as a moonless midnight and as large as a lion’s heart. Merchants say it has mysterious powers...’
Shayista was stunned. Twice in one day? He replied, ‘Why would the Emperor sell such a diamond if it exists?’
Candid from his drink, Van Diemen replied, ‘He doesn’t have it. We hope he can find it. All European sources have failed so far. He is the last hope. Unless you happen to know something about it?’
Shayista narrowed his eyes to scrutinize Vroomen. Was he really as clueless as he seemed? ‘I am not in the diamond business.’
‘The Company offered Emperor Aurangzeb twenty lakh rupees to procure this diamond...’ Van Diemen’s words trailed. A dancer approached.
‘You saved my life,’ she said to Shayista, her head bowed. The margins of her nether lip quivered.
Shayista shrugged. ‘Think nothing of it.’
‘You might have died,’ she insisted.
‘I welcome death,’ Shayista replied, releasing a chain of smoke rings that meandered into the shape of corpses. He noticed a spot of blood on her choli. A sapphire pendant hung between her breasts.
‘I prefer dancing over death,’ said Van Diemen. ‘Want to see?’ He fell back to his gawky moves.
The girl ignored him and studied Shayista’s face. ‘You are not well,’ she said. ‘You need help.’ Her voice was soft, her eyes sharp.
Shayista was startled. This slip of a girl was intrepid. She spoke to him directly, looked him in the eye. She told him to seek help, something even his trusted Chief Commander Dhand would not have dared to do. He glanced again at her sapphire. It had a hypnotic glow.
‘My grandfather can help you,’ she said. ‘Come with me.’
‘I don’t need help,’ mumbled Shayista, trying to tear his eyes away from the pendant.
‘You can help me,’ suggested Van Diemen.
‘Why do men always mask their weaknesses?’ said the dancer. ‘Even if a man is distraught with loneliness, wrecked by despair and tormented by guilt, he’ll tell you he’s alright. It is apparent from your posture, you are morose! Dada is an awliya, a direct disciple of Hazrat Shah Jalal. Let him help you.’
Shayista sat upright, intrigued. A direct disciple?
‘My name is Khadija Fatima Ali but people call me Champa. I am the only grandchild of Pir Zulfiqar Ali,’ she said. There was a pleading in her eyes that could not be disappointed. ‘I owe you my life. Allow me to repay the debt?’
Hardly could he resist her. Shayista was ready to go with her wherever she wanted to go.
‘Wait, we’re not through,’ said Van Diemen, acutely aware of the Subedar’s intention to leave before paying him. ‘The Japanese want more opium.’
Bengal’s intra-Asian trade was mostly opium and its major source was Bihar. The young fruits of opium poppies were incised and their thick juices dried out and cut into cakes. The quality of the resulting opium could be ascertained by its colour. The best grade was brown and the worst nearly red. Bihar’s annual output of opium was 8700 maunds, all of it brown. Shayista sold half and kept the rest.
‘Holland wants to increase its order of tanna-banna silk to 6000 bales,’ continued Van Diemen, trying to engage the Subedar’s interest.
In addition to raw silk, opium and saltpeter, Bengal was a major supplier of cotton and silk. Bengal provided more textiles to European companies than the rest of Asia put together. Some of it was sold in Asia—Japan, Persia, Ceylon—but the bulk was for Europe where the textiles were used for clothing, bed furnishings, table covers, curtains and wall hangings, but these weren’t things he felt like discussing. ‘Come by the fort later,’ mumbled Shayista.
Exiting the tent with Champa, he passed the double-crosser Obaidullah. Shayista knew he should probably kill him right then and there but he didn’t like to spill blood before Zohr prayers.
CHAPTER 5
C
hampa led the Subedar down the winding streets of Indur Goli, Rat’s Alley, to meet her grandfather.
‘Who were those men?’ she asked. And why were they after Kalinoor?
The Subedar shrugged. He seemed quite cavalier.
Champa could not shake it off so easily. Never had a boy been decapitated before her very eyes. She chose the route least likely to be crowded though all paths were narrow and bustling with vendors. She tried not to think of the slave boy and instead thanked her stars that the turbaned warriors had attacked her. Had they not, she would not have recognized the Subedar cloaked incognito.
‘People travel for days to visit Dada,’ she said. ‘He will help you.’ She didn’t like lying to the Subedar after he had saved her life but she couldn’t tell him the truth. What would he say if he knew she had gone to Jannat to ensnare him for her grandfather who, like those warriors, was also after Kalinoor? One lie led to another and in the end she convinced herself she was doing the Subedar a favour.
She hurried him past stubborn men swatting flies with the ends of battle axes and women hardened under
the weight of one hundred deaths, past snake charmers and butchers and beggars and goats, ducks, dogs, camels and elephants, taking care not to step on the colossal droppings of shit on the path.
‘Puffed rice for the princess?’ A moori wallah called out. ‘Put some flesh on that chikna ass.’
Champa wasn’t prepared for the Subedar’s instantaneous reaction: a single hard punch to the vendor’s face. She heard his nose crack. The vendor fell to the ground and whimpered in a puddle of blood.
Embarrassed, Champa hurried the Subedar on, wrapping a veil around her dancing dress. Once they were out of ear shot of those who had witnessed his behaviour, she hissed, ‘Why did you do that?’
‘Indecent behaviour towards women cannot be tolerated,’ he said.
Champa wanted to say, ‘address ignorance through education not punishment’ but instead she chewed her lips. Unrestrained anger was unseemly for someone of the upper strata. Such uncouthness was generally associated with lower castes. Still she was secretly intrigued. It was in favour of women that he had lashed out. Did his ends justify the means?
A pack-horse laden with muslin trundled past. A rooster squawked out of its way and flew directly into Champa’s path. She leapt back to avoid collision and found herself in the Subedar’s strong arms. He was walking very close to her. He smelt of attar and smoke, an intoxicating combination.
‘If you ever need to buy anything in Chowk Bazaar, let me know. I can bring any price down to one eighth. It’s my unique talent,’ she said, then cursed herself silently for offering her bargaining skills to the richest man in the Empire. She dropped a paisa into a street urchin’s cup.
The boy thanked her.
The Subedar followed her lead and dropped a coin into his cup too. From the boy’s ecstatic whoops she guessed the Subedar had been generous. Perhaps it was a coin of silver.
A paan wallah called to them. Champa feared for his safety and hurried the Subedar on. Rat’s Alley had sprouted around the periphery of Chowk Bazaar and Lal Bagh fort, both of which the Subedar had built. He had also constructed Boro Katra and Choto Katra nearby to accommodate travelling merchants who came from far corners of the Empire to participate in Bengal’s trade.