by Shazia Omar
‘No need to worry, your Highness. I have taken care of it.’
Thank God for her trusted Ambar. It was Shayista’s fault that she was out on the streets in the first place, sneaking off to meet the pir. Nasim wondered if the holy man was genuine. The youth serum had worked but could he really call upon her son? It was too good to be true. She prayed to God for a miracle.
CHAPTER 21
C
hampa walked to the madrasa feeling jubilant, jingling coins in her purse. She couldn’t wait to see Guru Ma’s face light up. She had a new song to teach the girls. She felt light as a kite. As she neared the premise, Champa heard shouting.
The mullahs had returned. ‘Are you dancing in the madrasa?’ she heard one of them yell. Why were they poking their prayer caps in her business?
‘We teach dance, science, philosophy, art,’ she heard Guru Ma reply.
‘Idol-worshipper, your head shall be dancing its way off your body if you do not desist,’ yelled a mullah.
Champa could not believe her ears. This is what the mullahs were shouting about? Her dance class?
‘These books,’ bellowed a mullah, pointing to the library. ‘Will fill their minds with rubbish! You need only the Holy Quran!’
They were condemning books? Words were what separated man from beast. The social experience of reality was possible only because of words. To destroy books was akin to an attack on the collective conscience, a war on knowledge, an impingement on progress. What sort of nation could they be without poets to nurture the expanse of the imagination and philosophers to challenge the borderlines of thought? Champa shuddered.
‘Women must be veiled,’ said a mullah. ‘So they do not tempt men.’
‘Why don’t you wear a patch on your eyes if you find the sight of women so irresistible?’ Guru Ma retorted.
The mullah slapped Guru Ma across the cheek with his sandal. The blow was so forceful it knocked her to the ground. Another mullah followed up with a kick to her stomach. Yet another man grabbed her by a fistful of hair and yanked out a chunk.
Champa pushed through the crowd. ‘Stop!’ she shouted. ‘Stop, you monsters!’
The mullahs turned to face her.
‘Baba, I teach at this school!’ she yelled, addressing the leader.
Alim Al-Ali fidgeted uncomfortably with his walking stick. The mullahs stared at him in undisguised shock, waiting for an explanation.
‘You are leading the girls astray,’ he said, his voice stern and nasal.
‘By educating them?’
‘Women should stay home.’ Alim scowled. A film of sweat gathered on his brow. His kurta was stained with gravy.
‘Will you not discipline your own daughter?’ demanded his associate.
Pressured to take a stand, Alim cleared his throat. ‘What pagan idols do you worship? Have you lost all sense of propriety? I forbid you from teaching here!’
‘Why should I listen to you?’ said Champa.
‘Because I am your father!’ he thundered.
‘So? You abandoned your father!’ she yelled.
Alim looked hurt. ‘I had to leave, Champa. Your Dada was obsessed with his search for Kalinoor. His mission lured him away from the only Black Stone that matters, the Kabaa of Mecca. Kalinoor is a symbol of the flawed human condition: the lust for Duniya! How could I stay with him after that?’
‘You abandoned me too,’ she said softly.
‘You were under his wing. I had no choice. Join me now. I will find you a husband. God is merciful. Renounce this blasphemous sin.’
‘No,’ said Champa.
‘Close your madrasa,’ he urged. ‘Don’t pollute the minds of innocent girls with the dirt of worldly knowledge. The public sphere is a man’s space. I’m only trying to protect you. Women are emotional, easily perturbed, weak of constitution. This is how Allah made us. Accept it.’
‘No!’ shouted Champa. ‘Your boundaries are not for me!’
Alim Al-Ali raised his hand to hit her but she saw it coming. She grabbed his wrist and brought it down with sufficient pressure to cause his eyes to bulge out.
Bewildered, he began to scream. ‘Stop it! Stop it right now!’
Champa stood tall and strong, dishevelled hair, eyes enraged.
A dust tornado blew at the mullahs, knocking off their prayer caps. They shouted, running to catch their caps, rubbing their sand attacked eyes. Suddenly the geese and crows were incensed, flapping their wings, swooping vengeance down upon the mullahs with their beaks. The bearded men scattered, afraid now of Champa. Only Alim held his ground, swatting at the birds with his walking stick.
‘I have learned a lot from Dada,’ said Champa. ‘Should I show you my powers?’
Alim’s eyes were wide with fright. He turned to make a hasty retreat but called over his shoulder, ‘This is not over, Champa. Power corrupts. You have invited the wrath of Allah into your life.’
Champa watched as the billowing robes of the ulema flapped around their skinny ankles as they ran. She allowed a triumphant smile to spread across her face. They would think twice before calling a woman weak again.
CHAPTER 22
W
hen the keen edge of watered steel meets your skin, there is no mistaking its lethal potential. This particular blade, Shayista noted, was beautifully crafted and possibly from Damascas.
A seasoned warrior, despite being high, Shayista’s mind instinctively raced through a checklist of things he could do to overpower his opponent. He could apply Huzur’s technique: move with the assailant’s energy, draw him forward and off-balance, roll with him and turn his blade to his throat. It was no wonder Huzur was called Seif Khan, Sword Master. Or he could emit a deafening yogic battle whistle followed by a garudasana to the groin. Or he could strike a sharp jab to the lower gut followed by a swipe to the jugular.
The choices danced before him but Shayista decided not to execute any. A lethargic melancholia had settled upon him and he wanted everything to be over with. He had broken his promise to his dying sister. He had failed to save Ellora, Abul Fateh and Miri. All that he cherished had perished. He closed his eyes and prayed not for redemption but a swift end.
‘Kill me,’ he said, relieved not angry. ‘I am ready to meet my Maker.’
The blade shifted. Its razor-sharp edge pressed up against the swell in Shayista’s throat ... then slipped away. The attacker burst into a peal of hilarity.
‘Costa? Is that you?’ asked Shayista, turning to face his erstwhile enemy.
The man doubled over in laughter. ‘You shudda heard your voice shiver!’
‘Costa, it is you!’ Shayista shouted in glee. ‘You scoundrel. I might have killed you.’
‘You can’t kill a kitty when you’re in your mellow mood.’
‘You know me too well.’
‘Fearless as ever, Subedar, and you never seem to age!’ Costa wiped a felicitous tear from the corner of his eye.
‘How did you sneak in?’ asked Shayista.
‘Ha ha! I’m a pirate, remember?’ Costa’s triangular hat tilted over his long hair. He hadn’t changed much apart from a handful of grey whiskers and some wrinkles by the sides of his ocean blue eyes.
Shayista embraced his friend. ‘Where have you been so long? It’s been ten years!’
‘Has it?’ said Costa with a gap-toothed grin. ‘Then that is how long it takes to circumnavigate the world.’
Costa was a true adventurer, thirsty for experiences, not wealth, not titles. Shayista wondered how it would feel to renounce his responsibilities and join his friend. ‘What did you see?’
‘I saw the loveliest of lands,’ said Costa.
‘Mecca?’ asked Shayista.
‘No! America!’ said Costa.
‘What have they there?’
‘A city called Albany where shamans have an herb of knowledge that connects your mind to Mother Earth and reveals to you your inner purpose.’
‘And what did you discover is your purpose, dear friend?’
‘I had a vision. I saw myself as my spirit animal, a rugged bear three times the size of ol’ Dhand, claws bigger than this cutlass.’
Shayista raised a brow. ‘Spirit animal?’
‘I was in a dream-like trance, wrapped in violet smoke. I dipped my paws in golden honey and licked it up. I could taste the sticky sweet on my tongue. Then it all made sense. I just love gold.’ Costa grinned, his golden tooth iridescent. ‘My purpose is to hunt for treasure.’
‘Ha! You didn’t need a herb to tell you that,’ teased Shayista.
‘But wait, as I was licking up the honey, a realization washed over me. The honey did not represent gold in the literal sense but nectar ... the nectar of immortality! Mother Earth was telling me, what good is gold when you’re OLD?’
‘What?’
‘Yes, that’s what she said. And Jesu, it turned my head around. I got to thinking: here I am wasting time chasing material wealth when nothing is more precious than time itself! So I’ve refined my hunt.’
‘You’re searching for the Fountain of Youth?’ suggested Shayista.
‘Or the Holy Grail,’ said Costa
‘Or the Emerald Tablet?’ asked Shayista.
‘There’s a map I want to show you,’ said Costa. ‘You have time? I’ll get it.’
‘I’ll go with you,’ said Shayista, eager to distract himself from the joba petal and his regrets. He noticed the blade in Costa’s hand, the one he had held beneath his chin. His smile fell. ‘Where did you get that?’
Costa swelled with pride. ‘You recognized it! I hoped you would. I got it off a scurvy dreg. ‘Lucky katara of the Subedar,’ he said, ‘brings tiger strength to he who wields it.’ Well, if it really were yours, I knew you’d never sell it. I knew it was pinched so I filched it back.’
‘You stole it? How unlike you,’ said Shayista sarcastically.
‘To return it to its rightful owner,’ said Costa, handing it over.
It was a push dagger. The handle had two parallel bars with a cross-piece to grip onto. It fit Shayista’s mutilated hand like a glove.
‘Tavernier will never set foot in my ship again,’ chuckled Costa.
‘Tavernier?’ said Shayista. ‘You stole it from him? Where did he find it?’
‘Claims he bought it from an amir in your army,’ said Costa.
‘Amir Jaswant Singh,’ growled Shayista, recalling the traitor with the lazy eye. O how he hoped he would someday have the chance to kill him brutally.
Shayista ran his fingers over the horizontal hand grip. It was made of gold, inlaid with floral koftgari designs. He admired the watered steel. Only select sword smiths in Damascas knew the ancient technique of mixing metals. These blades were impure but more difficult to break than the purer, brittle counterparts from Toledo or Japan. Others tried to copy the wavy patterns through a process of heating and folding metal but none achieved the flexibility or stability of the true Damascan steel. It was a rare weapon, a gift from Aurangzeb on his coronation.
The gold katara could have made all the difference if it had been where he had left it, when he needed it. He suspected it was removed by none other than Amir Jaswant.
Donning his fustian cloak, Shayista led Costa past the mosque to his stables, hoping to slip out unnoticed. His plan was thwarted by Dhand who rested nearby.
‘Salaam, Sire,’ Dhand mumbled, his mouth full. ‘I thought you might try to sneak out again. Is that you, Captain? Hello, Captain Costa!’ He embraced the pirate, lifting him off the ground as though he were a ragdoll.
Costa chuckled and straightened his coat. ‘Good to see you, you big scallywag. You are even bigger than before!’
Dhand laughed. ‘God has been kind.’ He turned to Shayista. ‘Diwan Bhopal is looking for you. It is a matter of urgency.’
‘Alas, the Captain has invited me to his floating fortress,’ said Shayista. ‘I leave the matter in your fairly capable hands.’
‘May I accompany you, Sire?’ said Dhand. ‘I have news.’
‘Dhand, is it bad news? It’s always bad news. Am I cursed?’
‘Cursed? Not a chance, Sire,’ said Dhand. ‘Her Excellency has stationed a Quran-reciting maulana in each corner of the fortress to ward off evil. They pray eight hours a day. Nothing can penetrate this force field. Inside the fortress, we’re safe.’
‘Then we must go outside!’ said Shayista with a wink. ‘But try to be discreet. I don’t want an entourage trailing me like the tail of a peacock.’
‘I don’t approve of your covert missions,’ complained Dhand. ‘It is not fitting for a Governor to travel without guards.’
Ignoring the advice, Shayista commanded his stable hands to prepare the horses. Three superior stallions with caparisons of green lace were brought forth. His scientist, Adl Fahad, had raised these experimental thoroughbreds on a regimen of vitamins that made them prodigious. They stood seven feet tall and could outrun cheetahs. Fitted with jewelled saddles and vermillion face masks bearing the Mughal insignia, they were an impressive sight.
Shayista mounted his stallion, Bageshri, and galloped to the gates. The gold katara was so familiar to him it felt like a limb. It had a chiselled medallion at the top of the blade with the inscription: Godspeed. He held the crossbar clenched in his fist. Even without three fingers, he could hold it steady, though it would take months of practice before he would be able to fight with it again.
Shayista swiped the blade at a low-hanging branch and cut off a bunch of amloke berries. He offered them to his friends. Dhand shook his head.
‘They’re good for your gums.’ Shayista took a bite into the green fruit and winced. Piquant juice jolted his senses like a shot of whiskey.
Dhand looked like he had seen a ghost. ‘Where did you get that?’ he asked, pointing to the katara.
Shayista replied, ‘Costa picked it up in Europe.’
Dhand’s face reflected that he understood what Shayista must be feeling, even as Costa bubbled happily in front of them. No words needed to be spoken.
As they approached the southern parapet of the fortress, they saw the Buriganga. The monsoons hadn’t arrived yet so the water was low. From their vantage point, the river looked tranquil, its madness hidden.
Anchored along the dock were rows of vessels: sea ships, noukas and dinghies. On the banks, crowds of people: hawkers, merchants, sailors, pirates and artisans. They looked like ants swarming around the sweets of the sea. A kingfisher flew overhead. Its bright colours drew Shayista’s attention.
Bageshri slowed his gait, ears pricked, and resisted Shayista’s signal to move forth. He stomped his hooves on the ground. Shayista knew he should pay heed. Bageshri’s intuition was never wrong but whatever it was out there, he had to face it. He patted the stallion on its rump and urged him on.
The guards at the watchtower saluted as Shayista passed.
‘What’s the news, Dhand?’ said Shayista.
‘There is a traitor among us,’ said Dhand. ‘We intercepted a carrier dove not far from the fortress with a message addressed to the Emperor.’
‘What did it say?’
‘It said Kalinoor resides in Lal Bagh fort,’ said Dhand.
‘Did it say where?’ asked Shayista. Only he and Dhand knew where it was hidden.
‘No.’
‘Why all this talk of the diamond?’ asked Shayista.
‘There must be a plan to steal it,’ said Dhand.
Shayista recalled how Shah Jahan dealt with turncoats: sewed them into the freshly flayed skin of slaughtered livestock. The carcasses dried up in the summer heat, suffocating the men within. Jahangir threw apostates into a ring with lions. He too ought to administer a few memorable executions to drive fear into the hearts of extremists.
The gates of the fortress were thick, studded with iron spikes to prevent elephants from battering them down. The guards unlatched the heavy bolts of the southern gate.
Shayista eyed them with paranoid distrust, wondering who among them would stab him in the bac
k. Every one of them looked like conspirators now.
The cobbled road beyond the gates was sloped down to the riverbank, another strategic design to prevent enemies from ramming in. Such care he had taken to obstruct intruders but what of the enemies within? He would have to deal with them severely before the Emperor arrived. Shayista dug his heels into Bageshri and raced towards Costa’s treasure ship.
CHAPTER 23
N
asim Banu stepped out of her zenana later that day and was greeted by her eunuch.
‘The zamindar awaits you,’ he announced.
Nasim had heard from her sources that the Emperor was not pleased with Shayista and sought to undermine his enterprise. This was unfortunate. She knew how sincere Shayista was. He could not help it that he was an avatar of freedom while Aurangzeb was a radical puritan. They were bound to clash ideologically and it was up to her to keep things civil. The future of her sons, and herself, depended on it. And now others were starting to complain.
‘Bring him in,’ she commanded. As she marched to the private guest chamber, bangles jangling on her arms.
Zamindar Shobha Singh had come with a dozen armed men who waited outside. ‘Greetings your Highness,’ he said with utmost politeness, bowing. His muscles bulged with power.
‘Greetings zamindar, how do you do?’ she asked, without removing her veil.
‘What a vision of beauty you are, your Highness!’ he said, effortlessly slipping into insincerity. He was a kingly display of vanity, sporting all the trappings of royalty: a fine kurta draped with pearls, a turban of white silk striped with gold, a shoulder strap embroidered with gems, around his waist a tasselled silk sash with a bejewelled scimitar, upon his lips, the complacent smile of easy aristocracy. He even wore red chamars, pointed leather shoes.
‘You are generous,’ said Nasim, accepting the compliment. Shobha was considered one of the fiercest warriors in the province, some said maybe even be fiercer than Shayista. She had last seen him sixteen years ago when Shayista granted him governance of his ancestral home in Midnapore, maintaining equal opportunities for Hindus though this had gone out of fashion.