by Shazia Omar
The zamindar’s nostrils flared, blood rushed to his face. Never in his buttermilk life had he been subject to such humiliation.
Unable to contain his glee, a grin burst upon Bhopal’s face.
The zamindar would have drawn his sirohi and minced the midget to a thousand pieces if it weren’t for the Subedar’s stern gaze. He twisted the tip of his moustache into a sharp self-aggrandized point.
‘Subedar Khan, Salaam. How are you?’ he said with false intimacy. ‘You have not recognized me. I am your humble servant Zamindar Shobha Singh. I have come to ...’
‘Wait your turn.’ Shayista cut him off.
Shobha smouldered. His left eye twitched. His moustache quivered. ‘Do you mean to say ... Could you be ...’ Seeing no change in Shayista’s apathy, he ended with, ‘Subedar Khan, you will regret this.’ Without taslim, he stormed out.
Shayista signalled for the peasant to speak.
Distressed, the peasant uttered, ‘I weave in a karkhana but we haven’t been paid in months. When we ask for our dues, he threatens to chop off our thumbs.’
‘Who?’ asked Shayista.
‘Zamindar Singh,’ he whispered.
Shayista was not surprised. The muslin weavers of the North were the finest in the world. Fashionable men and women in Europe wanted to wear nothing else but Shobha’s enterprise was based on unfair trade not sustainable local economy. He was selling muslin to the East India Company who then rolled it in hollow bamboos and shipped it to Europe for vast profits without paying tax.
Shayista called Bhopal to the plinth. ‘Execute the zamindar,’ he ordered.
‘Sire, I hate to contradict you but as your Diwan-i-ala, it is my duty to advise against this,’ Bhopal cautioned. ‘Hindus will revolt.’
Only Bhopal who had known him since he was a child would dare counsel him thus. Shayista gnashed his teeth and slammed his fist into the dais. He had to protect the Empire. He would have to find another way to curb the zamindar. Perhaps he could strike Shobha and the Company together. He had banned the trade of saltpetre, why not take that one step further?
‘Ban trade with the English,’ he said. ‘They are a company of foul dealers.’
‘Muslin trade?’ asked Bhopal.
‘Yes.’
‘Indigo?’
‘Yes.’
‘Cotton?’
‘ALL trade!’ said Shayista.
‘Are you sure, Sire?’ said Bhopal.
‘Yes,’ said Shayista. The Emperor would not approve of this but Shayista had to prioritise the wellbeing of his people.
‘Free merchants or company wallas?’ asked Bhopal.
‘Both.’
‘Hookum.’
Shayista noticed the weaver looking lost in the stand, despair etched on his brows.
‘You ... Do you make fine cloth?’ Shayista asked the weaver.
‘Yes Sire, I believe I do.’
‘I want my army outfitted in local textiles. You are hereby commissioned to produce the cloth needed to dress my army for the next ten years!’
‘Your Highness, that’s impossible …’
‘Quiet! I will pay double the market. Fail to deliver and I will have your head!’
The weaver’s eyes flashed as he tried to grasp the possibilities. After a moment of bedazzlement, he bowed and left.
In an aside, Bhopal said to Shayista, ‘Sire, that’s impossible, unless ...’ A new understanding washed over his face. ‘Ah, you want him to set up a karkhana and take on apprentices so that the art is not lost?’
Shayista said only, ‘See to it that he faces no obstacles.’
‘Consider it done, Sire,’ said Bhopal, beaming.
‘Now Bhopal, I leave the darshan in your capable hands. I have other matters to tend to,’ he concluded.
‘Hookum,’ said the dwarf. ‘And the Nauraz, Sire. We will have ten thousand soldiers here to greet the Emperor.’
Shayista thanked him and stepped out. In the garden, a grey-capped woodpecker called tit-tirr, tit-tirr, tit-tirr ... like a mechanical clock. Shayista recalled the pir’s eerie warning. Was Bengal running out of time?
CHAPTER 10
T
he madrasa premise was delineated by a masterpiece of botany, a garden elegantly laid out to fulfil the needs of the children living there. Coconut trees stretched up to the sky heavy with milk, jackfruit provided shade against wind, cilantro protected from pests. On one side of the property was a pond of delightfully edible fish. By the gates, a pair of mango trees with wooden swings and a nest of flying squirrels. A banana grove with a thin pathway running through it demarcated the classrooms from the hostel.
Champa pushed her finger into the soil bed of a hasna hena to check the moisture. The flowers had blossomed. At night, their scent would fill the air. She would water them then and feed the fish. It was almost time to harvest the tilapia. How quickly one year had gone by.
The first day she met Guru Ma, she was singing under her breath at the spice bazaar, a song she had learned from the dancers. Guru Ma heard her and invited her back to the madrasa to teach the girls. One song led to another and Champa found herself falling in love with the girls. Saraswati, or Guru Ma as she was called, needed assistance to run the madrasa since Pari Bibi, her principal supporter, had just died. The death had blown a hole in the heart of the madrasa, a hole Champa tried to fill with light.
Champa strolled towards the sound of children, pausing for a gaggle of goslings crossing her path. One gosling strayed to inspect a yellow butterfly.
‘Champa Miss!’ shouted Rezina. ‘Come inside quickly!’ Her voice was pitched with panic.
Inside, a dismal scene: the girls were huddled around Guru Ma, crying.
‘What happened?’ exclaimed Champa.
Guru Ma’s silvery hair framed her angular face, dark kajol outlined her sad eyes. She had no words, only tear-streaked cheeks. In her palms she cradled their puppy, Kukur Mia, mangled and bloody.
Champa couldn’t believe her eyes. ‘Is he ... is he ..?’
Guru Ma nodded. Wooden beads hung from her neck. Though she was sixty, she carried herself with the style and grace of a vivacious young woman, except when she was worried. Then the lines showed on her face.
‘Who did this?’ Champa asked. It was hard to see Guru Ma pained and the girls upset.
‘The mullahs,’ Rezina whimpered. ‘I had just finished my fazr prayers when I saw two men call Kukur Mia to the gate. He went to them, wagging his little tail. They caught him, killed him with a boti. Threw his body back in.’
Champa shuddered. What beasts dwelt in the guise of men? Her mind flashed to the Subedar killing cats that morning. Tears of rage burned in her eyes but she subdued her feelings for the sake of the girls, assuming a calm and purposeful demeanour.
Tenderly she lifted the puppy from Guru Ma’s hands. ‘Girls, let’s clean him before we bury him,’ she said. ‘Rezina, a bucket of water. Alina, my white orna. Popi and Parvin, a grave by the mango trees. Little ones, how about some flowers? We will bury him properly.’
‘Is there a heaven for dogs?’ asked Marium.
Champa nodded, though she wasn’t sure. Sweet Kukur Mia’s fur was caked in blood. He was warm still but stiff. Champa had found him a week earlier, yelping by the roadside, less than a week old, separated from his mother. She brought him to the madrasa and fed him. The girls loved him. Coming from Muslim families, they had never played with a puppy. Quickly he became the central joy of their days. And now this.
Champa began the sombre ritual of cleansing the pup. He was barely larger than her two fists. She had washed many dead bodies. Dada performed funeral rites for the folks in their community and she sometimes helped with the ablutions and bath before the burial, if the deceased was a woman. There was something about washing a corpse that was very grounding. It helped her accept the inevitability of death. But senseless violence and premature endings were not part of the natural order.
Once his fur was clean, Champa wrapped
him in her orna. Outside, a grave the size of a jackfruit was ready and the girls had gathered around.
‘Allahu Akbar,’ began Champa. ‘Dear God, we return to you your beloved creation. Thank you for sharing him with us, though only for a brief while. He brought us much happiness and he will shine on in our hearts. Ameen.’
‘Ameen,’ the girls repeated.
Champa placed the puppy in the grave and filled it with earth. When the ceremony was over, she asked the girls to write a poem to commemorate Kukur Mia. The kagaji walla had delivered sheets of paper the day before and by dipping their quills in grief and sharing it with one another, Champa hoped they would find some comfort. She and Guru Ma retired to their office.
‘What happened?’ said Champa. ‘Was it the ulema?’
Guru Ma nodded faintly and laid her head upon the desk.
Champa’s blood churned. ‘Why are they obsessed with doctrines of hatred?’
Guru Ma sighed. ‘They’re looking for an excuse to fight us.’
‘Should we fight back?’
Guru Ma said feebly, ‘We must survive. The girls need us.’
Champa hugged her frail shoulders then walked to the library to reflect. Though their school facility was meagre, their library was a treasure trove. A gift from the Subedar, it was a collection of masterpieces. Calligraphy from the Safavids, miniaturist illustrations from the Ottomans, manuscripts from Mongolia, volumes from Venice, portraiture from Portugal, epistles from England and astronomy charts from Arabia competed for space on the shelves with books by Ibn Arabi, Ibn Sina and Ibn Battuta.
A few girls were quietly reading in the library when Champa arrived. Marium, hair in braids, was absorbed in an illustrated copy of The Travels of Ibn Battuta. Champa cleared her throat.
‘Miss, there you are! Will you tell us more about the world today?’ said Marium.
‘Darling one, may you grow up to be a wanderer! But there are other topics we must also explore,’ said Champa. ‘Laws of motion and universal gravitation. The dichotomy of mind and body. The theory of tides.’
‘Planets?’ said Rezina, who was sitting not far. ‘Chachu didn’t believe me when I told him that there are stars as large as our world!’ She handed Champa a leather bound book titled The Compendium of Stars. The humidity had caused the leather to grow musty but the pages were still intact.
‘ Ah yes, al-Farghani,’ said Champa. She opened the book and was about to begin reading when the sound of muffled voices drew her attention.
She glanced out the window. A crowd of bearded men in white robes and prayer caps had gathered by the gate. She recognized one face in the crowd and turned red.
‘It’s the mullahs again,’ said Guru Ma, rushing into the library. ‘Stay inside with the girls.’ Drawing an orna over her, she stepped out.
Champa ushered all the girls into a classroom and gave them a writing assignment to keep them occupied. Only snippets from the conversation outside were audible. Guru Ma was asking the mullahs why they were on the madrasa premises.
‘Madrasas are for boys,’ said a gangly mullah with an unkempt beard.
‘What’s happening?’ asked Marium, tugging at Champa’s sleeve.
‘Hush, little one,’ said Champa, straining to hear Guru Ma speak.
‘Heed our warning,’ said another mullah. ‘Or Allah will destroy your madrasa.’
‘They want to destroy our madrasa?’ wailed Marium.
‘You think I’d let that happen?’ said Champa.
‘This orphanage was established for girls under the auspices of Princess Pari,’ she heard Guru Ma say. ‘The Subedar will not allow you to shut it down.’
‘Bagh Khan is busy with his monopolies. He doesn’t care about the girls. Only we have their interest at heart. Close the school. Send them to the mosque.’
‘God is not confined within a mosque. God is everywhere! God is within us,’ said Guru Ma.
‘Blasphemy!’ yelled the cleric.
Marium started crying. ‘First they killed our puppy, now they will kill us!’
‘No one’s going to kill you,’ said Champa, dragging herself away from the window to comfort the child.
‘What do they want?’ asked Rezina.
‘Men want to oppress women,’ explained Champa. ‘But we won’t let them!’
Marium nodded but she did not look entirely convinced.
‘My uncle says it’s because you teach music,’ said Rezina. ‘He says music is the instrument of the Devil.’
Champa frowned. Creative expression was the purest way to connect with the Divine.
Champa believed there were as many shades of worship as there were colours in a rainbow. Her grandfather searching for mystic truth, her father following the five pillar routine, she dancing, it was all for the love of God. What did it matter how one chose to express love? Why put rules around that?
Misguided ideologies were infiltrating the collective conscience and impinging upon the liberty of thought and being. Furious, unable to hold back any longer, Champa grabbed her orna and ran outside. The mullahs were already leaving. ‘Don’t come back!’ she yelled.
A particularly spiteful mullah grabbed a goose by its neck on his way out. The creature squawked and flapped frantically, feathers flew in all directions. With one menacing swipe, the mullah cut off its head and chucked its bleeding body into the well, contaminating their water source.
When they were gone, Guru Ma and Champa peered into the well. A swarm of flies buzzed about the goose. It had not been easy to raise the money to build the well. Now the girls would have no drinking water. The goose’s mate wept by the side of the well.
‘O Princess Pari, what will happen to your school?’ cried Guru Ma.
‘What about the Subedar?’ said Champa. ‘Will he help us?’
Guru Ma shook her head sadly. ‘He was never pleased with Pari’s involvement here. He felt it was risky and did not encourage it.’
‘Monster,’ Champa muttered, remembering the Subedar striking the cat. Were all men boorish? ‘Then we must sort this out ourselves.’
She wouldn’t sit idle while insidious dogma penetrated the public psyche. Women had been sorting out girls’ schooling for centuries without men. Emperor Humayun’s wife founded a college near her husband’s tomb. Emperor Akbar’s foster mother established a madarasa in Delhi. Jahanara Begum founded a madrasa in Agra.
The madrasa was only minutes from Champa's home but she chose the slightly longer route by Lal Bagh fort. She skirted the walls of the fortress, past the Chowk Bazaar and a congregation of stray cats by a fish monger’s stall. After her father abandoned her for his faith, all she had left was the orphanage. Now the mullahs wanted to destroy it too. She would have to be clever and resourceful. She would not let the mullahs discourage her. She would find a way to raise money to fix the well herself.
CHAPTER 11
D
ressed in a lavender silk frock with a peach stomacher and petticoat, Madeline studied the books she purchased at the Port of Masulipatam. Costa, it turned out, was a metropolitan merchant whose strange intelligence allowed him to make money wherever he went. He sailed from port to port, trading goods: weapons, nautical equipment, jewels and other random booty. He conducted the exchanges in so swift and exact a manner, Madeline marvelled that he could have been a true bred merchant if he had not become a pirate. His interest gave her ample opportunity to delve into research for her mission.
The first book she picked up was about diamonds. It contained fascinating facts about the colour of diamonds and the light they refracted. Black diamonds absorbed the most light and pink diamonds the least, while blue and yellow were somewhere in between. The illustrations were of sensational diamonds set in the Peacock Throne.
The throne of the Mughal Emperor was made of rubies and emeralds and Kohinoor, the brightest diamond in the world. The canopy above it was fringed with pearls and above that was a golden peacock with a tail of blue sapphires and a ruby breast. Madeline dipped her
quill in ink and drew the throne in her moleskin diary, replicating the exquisite details as best she could. She wondered what sort of people the bejewelled Mughals were, with their lavish lifestyles and their dazzling gems. She imagined how it would feel to wear a strand of first water diamonds from the coveted Kollur mines.
The second book she purchased was a collection of recipes of concoctions that could make a man forget a night, confess a secret, fall out of love, sedate or even kill him. Such potions might prove useful so she copied them into her notebook and hoped for a chance to test them.
Armed with a spy-glass she had assembled herself, she gazed at the distant shoreline of Bengal. Orchards, water wheels, prosperous villages and manicured gardens dotted the riverside. Brown-bodied children splashed in the water. Beyond the banks, lush jungle foliage spread out like an emerald carpet. A seagull flew overhead. The sky was a brilliant sapphire, unlike the grey canvas suspended perpetually over Versailles. The aquatic voyage had fatigued her both physically and psychologically but with the end in sight, an inexplicable hope sprouted in her heart.
‘Can you see it?’ asked Abdul. His voice conveyed the eagerness of homecoming. ‘The Emperor’s Paradise?’
Madeline passed Abdul her spy-glass and helped him adjust it to his eye. From his squeals of delight, she knew when it came into focus.
‘There it is!’ said Abdul. ‘Lal Bagh Fortress.’
‘What does Lal Bagh mean?’ asked Madeline.
‘Lal is red,’ explained Abdul. ‘And Bagh means garden but it also means tiger.’
‘So ... the fortress is full of flowers?’
‘Indeed it is brimming with impeccable gardens. The Subedar relishes his roses but he is as ferocious as a beast. Bagh Khan is what the simple folk call him. Tiger Khan, Subedar of Bengal.’
Madeline had grown fond of Abdul’s apocryphal stories. Many afternoons she spent by his side, learning about the countries he had visited: their histories, politics, cultures and beliefs. He seemed to know something about everything though she suspected he embellished the truth and sometimes indulged in outright confabulation.
‘Tell me more about the Subedar,’ she asked. ‘What sort of weapon does he wield?’