by Shazia Omar
When finally the Subedar became psychically open to her, his aura was not what she had expected. He was not an arrogant despot. He was a tortured soul ... and tortured souls were the best conduits of the Dark Arts.
‘Inhale,’ she instructed. ‘Exhale.’
As he exhaled, she captured his breath in her cupped hands. She held it to her ear. What she heard surprised her again. ‘The source of your regret is not what you think,’ she said.
He growled. ‘Are you saying I don’t know the source of my regret?’
‘Grief and regret are not the same,’ she remarked. ‘I can show you the source of your regret, if you like.’
She opened her fingers and in her hand, his breath had transformed into a joba petal. The Subedar gasped in disbelief. She placed the dainty petal in his large, calloused hand. Choked up with emotion, he thanked her and left hastily.
Champa could not help but notice he was very strong, both physically and spiritually. Perhaps Guru Ma was wrong. Perhaps he would help her if she asked. His troubled expression engraved itself in her mind. She wondered what the joba meant to him.
CHAPTER 17
A
s Belo Diabo sailed towards Bengal, Madeline sat on a stool in the kitchen. A ship’s kitchen is not a place of pleasant odours or posh company nor is it suitable for haute couture silk taffeta gowns of mauve like the one she was wearing, but alas, there were no other places to go or people to meet. Madeline wore her gown with dignity to keep it from growing mouldy in her trunk as she grilled Abdul for clues.
‘Tell me about Chatgaon?’ she asked. A manufactured dispassion rested on her lips concealing her true machinations.
Abdul was peeling potatoes. ‘Chatgaon is uninhabitable jungle,’ he replied. ‘Home of the Maghs.’
‘The Maghs?’ asked Madeline.
‘Ferocious slave traders,’ said Abdul.
This was alarming.
‘Not to worry,’ said Abdul chuckling. ‘Subedar Khan cleaned up Chatgaon twenty years ago. It was his first assignment in Bengal. In one year, he did what Shah Shuja failed to do in a lifetime. He liberated the island of Sandip from Magh warriors, stopped the Portuguese pirates from plundering the rivers of Bengal and established complete order and peace.’
Abdul paused to select a potato, stalling long enough to elicit a prompt from Madeline.
‘How?’ she asked.
Abdul wiped his brow with the chequered cloth slung around his neck. His eyes took on the special glow reserved for storytelling.
‘It was 1665. The Subedar arrived as Mughal Viceroy to Bengal and began building a covert fleet of 200 ships in the dock yards of Tanti Bazaar. He won the support of the Dutch and with his own wealth, he armed his men.’
‘His own wealth?’ Madeline asked. ‘Is he very wealthy?’
Abdul snorted. ‘Only the wealthiest man in Hindustan. Perhaps the world?’
‘How much wealth exactly is that?’ asked Madeline, notebook ready.
‘He lives an ostentatious life, dresses in grandeur, throws fantastical parties, and the rest. And why not? He has a monopoly over all trade,’ explained Abdul. ‘They say, his daily income is 2 lakh rupees of which he spends half and distributes half to the needy.’
‘Sacred bleu!’ exclaimed Madeline, scribbling furiously. ‘Is he a philanthropist?’
Abdul laughed, bearing his discoloured teeth. ‘I don’t think anyone has ever referred to him as that. His temper is as fierce as a monsoon. Those who enter his durbar know not if they will leave dead or alive. He is a skilled statesman, a cunning warlord and a shrewd entrepreneur. He can anticipate the enemy’s next move before it has been conceived. How else did we win Chatgaon?’
‘How?’
‘Strategic acumen,’ said Abdul. ‘He sent his son, Aqidat, with a flotilla of ships along Karnafuli river, and his other son, Buzurg Umid, with an expedition of 6,500 foot soldiers through the steamy jungles of the coastal corridor. They hacked with axes through the desolate wilderness from Feni to the Chatgaon hinterlands, braving tigers and rain!’
‘Tigers?’ A shiver ran down Madeline’s spine.
Abdul yanked on his red beard. ‘The Subedar’s mansabdars were old men, not fearsome savages like the Maghs. The night before the battle, the Subedar made them dye their white beards with henna and this little trick worked. The flaming red beards frightened the Maghs. From a distance, they thought demons with fire on their chins were attacking them. I’ve been dyeing ever since.’
Madeline jotted the peculiar fact into her notebook. Perhaps the women in France would like this style. She would talk to the Compagnie des Indes Orientales. Perhaps she could supply them with henna for a profit.
‘Did you meet the Subedar?’ she asked.
Abdul nodded. ‘My father was a Portuguese pirate. I have lived my whole life on a ship. The Portuguese historically hated Mughals but a month before the battle of Sandip, in an astounding reversal of fate, the Subedar won the friendship of a gun-toting Portuguese sea captain and changed the course of history!’
‘Captain Costa?’
‘Indeed!’ Abdul wet his lips and the story spilled out. ‘The Portuguese were a menace: sailing up the Ganges raiding Jessore, Hooghly and Bhushna, sailing down Brahmaputra, raping and pillaging Bikrampur, Sonargaon and Dacca, buying kidnapped people from Maghs to sell as slaves in Europe.
‘Captain Costa was one of them, the terror of Bengal Bay. He preyed on merchant ships sailing in or out. One such ship belonged to the East India Company, laden with treasures for Europe. Captain Costa smelt the opportunity and navigated an ambush. He moved in close and launched three cannon balls onto the stern.
‘He did not know that the ship was protected. An English Man-of-War armed with 24 canons suddenly rounded a bend in the river and blasted canons at him. One struck the deck and his crew were left bailing out buckets to keep from sinking. Just when they thought it was over, Subedar Khan came to their rescue with a 48 cannon Man-of-War.
‘On the prowl to rid his waters of thieves, he had been tracking the English warship unbeknownst to them. The English found themselves outmanoeuvred. In hours, their warship was sunk and the merchant vessel captured. Imperial soldiers and pirates fought side by side, killing English sailors, confiscating the booty: diamonds, pearls, spices and silks. The Subedar split the spoils with the pirates, sealing a solid friendship. Nothing brings two men closer together than a common enemy.
‘Weeks later, when the Subedar attacked Sandip, Captain Costa joined the battle, leading the fight from the Bay. In three days, the Arakanese Maghs were massacred and the citadel was conquered. Chatgaon was declared a Mughal sarkar and the Subedar released thousands of Bengali peasants who had been enslaved.’
‘What happened to the Maghs?’
‘He decapitated them. Impaled their heads on bamboo. You could smell it for miles, an unbroken coastline dotted with thousands of crucified Maghs rotting in the sun. Boys and men alike. I remember it as though it were yesterday.’ He shuddered.
The Subedar sounded as barbaric as the Maghs. ‘And Captain Costa?’ she asked, quaking.
‘He became the most pampered pirate in the Empire. The Subedar had navy ships escort him in and out of the Bay, even fought off other pirates from Arabia and Africa on his behalf! Captain Costa traded with Bengal for a full ten years before he grew bored of the merchant life and went back to hunting for treasure around the world. He has sixteen ships, you know?’
Madeline rotated the quill in her fingers, amused. So Costa was not only a firebrand thief but also an affluent merchant and his friend, the Subedar, was not only a cruel warlord but also a millionaire. This presented new opportunities. Perhaps she could seduce one of them, or at least get introduced to one of their friends, a minor Raja of some small subha. How nice that would be? Wealthy people were never lonely.
CHAPTER 18
S
hayista left the palmist’s house feeling more alone than ever. It was as if Champa with eyes as deep as Ganga
had peered into his soul and seen his cracks. Disguised in his fustian cloak, Shayista walked through the bazaar not stopping till he reached the elephant haat.
The pungent stench of wet fodder and dung soothed him. There were a dozen studs in the haat and one heavily pregnant female. Her mahut, a scrawny boy with a hint of fuzz on his chin, ogled women passersby while shooing flies with a branch of neem. He was so engrossed in his view that he didn’t notice Shayista approach.
Shayista stroked the pregnant elephant, assessing her age and health. She would deliver within a week. As a young man, Shayista had been a prodigious breeder of war elephants. He would pay handsomely for breeder bulls and had a fleet of six hundred trained to fight with swords and javelins in their trunks. It wasn’t for naught that the lake north of Lal Bagh was named Hatir Jheel, Elephant Lake. Every day mahuts would guide hundreds of elephants to the lake to bathe.
Drawing his hood low over his brows, altering his posh accent, Shayista asked, ‘Where is this elephant from?’
‘Be off,’ replied the mahut. ‘You’re scaring my clients with your stench, fakir. They’ll think this place is haunted by djinn.’
The hierarchies of the bazaar amused Shayista. There were no ‘clients’ around but still the mahut had to assert his superiority.
Shayista patted the elephant. ‘What do djinn smell like?’ he asked.
When the mahut was sure there were no witnesses to catch him cavorting with a baseborn beggar, he replied, ‘Like rotten eggs of course, goat-wit.’
Shayista had heard many tales about djinn. They were taller than humans and had hairy faces. Their feet were attached backwards to their ankles so when tracking them it was best to trace their footsteps in reverse. Best of all, they had a sweet tooth so if ever attacked by djinn, one could offer a sugary chom chom or gooey golap jamun to negotiate a truce. But rotten eggs he had not heard before.
As a man of faith, Shayista was compelled to accept the existence of djinn. The Quran stated that God made humans out of earth and djinn out of fire but with no first hand evidence, Shayista found it difficult to believe. He preferred to consider ‘djinn’ a metaphor for one’s inner demons: representations of darkness, depression and separation: the wisps of smoke that lurk in the wilderness of one’s mind, beasts to battle along the spiritual journey of life.
‘There is a mango tree beside my house,’ said the mahut, lowering his voice. ‘One night my father made love to the washerwoman under that tree. Their dalliance disturbed a djinn in slumber. Oh boy oh boy, take it from me fakir, an angry djinn is a horrific ordeal.’
‘What did it do?’ probed Shayista.
‘It slipped into the washerwoman’s ear and possessed her, shook her like a banana leaf in a cyclone. She screamed like a banshee.’ The mahut paused to twiddle his tooth. ‘Really, what was she thinking, traipsing under the moon during menstruation? Everyone knows djinn only enter ladies during their impure days. Baba had to invoke the name of you-know-who to scare the djinn away.’
‘Who?’
‘You don’t know? You good-for-nothing fakir. Why don’t you educate yourself once in a while? Let me tell you a few important things. There are many saints in Bengal but the most powerful of all, the only one who can punish djinn when they misbehave, is Pir Saheb ...’ The mahut lowered his voice in veneration or fear. ‘Abdul Quader Jilani,’ he said. He touched his fingertips to his forehead then his lips then the floor in an elaborate taslim.
‘Abdul Qua ...’
‘Shhh!’ said the mahut, pressing his finger against the beggar’s lips. ‘You must never say his name without the utmost of reverence.’
‘What happened to the washerwoman?’ asked Shayista.
‘She went mad,’ said the mahut. ‘Now be gone. I have animals to care for.’
‘I hear the Subedar is a fan of elephants. Perhaps he will be interested in this one?’ said Shayista.
‘The Subedar, eh?’ said the mahut, eyes narrowing. ‘That man is a wizard not an elephant farmer!’
‘Wizard?’ asked Shayista, intrigued.
‘Do you know nothing? He has powers. Super sensory powers. He can hear thoughts. He can smell fear. He can…’ A pair of merchants approached.
‘Hati? Hati for sale!’ the mahut offered. They walked off, taking no notice of him. ‘Go on then,’ he said to Shayista, irritated. ‘I am losing customers. Shoo!’
Shayista gave the elephant a pat on her bristled forehead and looked deep into her watery eyes. The beast wrapped her trunk around his arm. He would send Bhopal to purchase the beauty.
At the Imperial post by the gates, Shayista unfettered his stallion. As he rode home, he mulled over the mahut’s story. While it was amusing, it did not prove anything. The washerwoman perhaps suffered from a nutrient deficiency which caused her convulsions and damaged her brain. Let others blame improbable events on superstition, djinn and curses, enabling pirs to make happy profits off their naivety. Shayista hadn’t time for such skulduggery.
The sentries at the Lal Bagh fort gate were slouched over a game of shatranji.
‘White triumphs over black,’ jeered a bald guard. With his white knight he flicked the black queen off the board. It ricocheted off the side onto the cobbled road. He cracked his knuckles, stretched his interlaced hands above his head, cleared his throat and spat at the wall.
‘Not so fast,’ said his adversary, a hirsute guard shouldering a musket. ‘Without darkness, we could not know light!’ His black bishop knocked off the white horse.
Brows knit, the bald guard scratched his head and peered at the board.
‘Upon this chequerboard of nights and days, the two governing forces are fear and love,’ said Shayista uncloaking himself. ‘But is it safer to be loved or feared?’ His royal colours brought the guards snapping to attention, knocking over the chess board. They fell to taslim, quaking in his presence.
‘At ease,’ said Shayista.
Beneath his rough spun cloak he was dressed like Mughal aristocracy. He wore a silk kurta and white pyjamas, a relic from the days of Genghis Khan. He had pearls around his neck and a tight white turban, tied with a band of brocaded gold. Though it cost a fortune, his attire did not conceal the disarray of his inner world. He neglected to groom his royal stubble which was now a beard. His hair was an unkempt nest of tangles. Dark circles outlined his sunken eyes.
Shayista moved unhurriedly through the cobbled passageway under the mosaic arched gate, letting the melancholy in his heart surface. He crossed the mosque and the stables and the field where the Imperial Tir-Andaz were practicing with bows and arrows. He entered the menagerie and seated upon a cushion of velvet, he summoned his attendants to fetch some sharab and opium.
For the second instance that day, he slipped into reminiscence, this time triggered by the joba petal. His mind freed by the charash revealed in lucid detail a vision of Ellora atop a howdah twenty two years ago.
CHAPTER 19
D
ark clouds heckled the fair moon and warring winds stirred up restlessness in Ellora’s heart. She longed to see the world, to have adventures that would thrill and exalt her, to meet a tall man, with muscles and a sword, who would sweep her off her feet and win her heart with chivalry and kindness but then, she sighed, dreams and desires were just that, dreams and desires.
She leaned upon a silk cushion with a joba flower tucked behind her ear and tried to obstruct intruding odours with her dupatta. Her howdah was ornately decorated and fringed with muslin curtains so plush that one could almost forget one was atop an elephant but for the smells: the stink of dung, the wafts of soldier sweat and worst of all, the oppressive stench of her despicable husband, inching closer by the minute.
It was a political union. Her father, having just lost all his territory to a Mughal invasion, made the match without once asking her how she felt about it. The entire town was fed spiced mutton and musicians were paid to perform for weeks. Everyone seemed to be celebrating, except her.
Ellora was raise
d to be fiercely independent so the prospect of marrying an unattractive bore was intolerable for her. She begged her father to take pity but years of warfare had left him detached and insensitive to her emotions. She could not oblige him to call off the wedding.
With a small retinue of thirty soldiers and a dozen horses and elephants, her husband carried her and her hand maids off from her father’s home towards his small kingdom in Maharastra. Two trumpeters accompanied them, waving the Mondol dynasty banner over their heads. Behind them followed baggage camels and wagons of food.
From a howdah atop an elephant, Ellora drank in the beauty of the land and nurtured her melancholy. Was this to be her destiny, a loveless marriage to an asinine man? By the second day of their voyage, she lost interest in her broken heart and abandoned herself to an intense appreciation of life around her.
The unfamiliar landscape danced outside her window: moist Mother Earth succulent with fruits blooming in shades of pistachio, olive and parakeet green. Sun-kissed fields ripe with spring. Ruby-faced gibbons and saffron foxes. She realized there was much of Hindustan she had never seen and at least marrying Mondol Raja had won her a journey beyond the walls of her father’s
fortress.
On the third day, they reached the gaping mouth of a ghostly forest where the road was so narrow that foot soldiers had to clear space so the elephants could enter without knocking the howdahs off. A thick fog enveloped them, obscuring all visibility. It became apparent they would not make it to the next village by nightfall. Owls howled, cicadas lamented and bullfrogs wailed. They skulked forward invoking the Gods. ‘Ram nam satya hai,’ sounded from a hundred throats. Their skittish steeds were difficult to rein.