by Shazia Omar
‘There shall be no discussion,’ snapped the Subedar. ‘The Emperor has ordered us to respect the ulema.’
The Imperial guards edged towards her. Unable to touch a woman, they hovered by the stand, bewildered.
‘But you hate the Emperor!’ Champa said just loud enough for the Subedar to hear. She had seen his memories. She had seen the puffed-up Emperor presenting to his father a head on a platter. She had sensed the Subedar’s deep despair. It didn’t make sense.
‘Enough!’ thundered Subedar Khan.
Champa looked around the room. The grand durbar, the Persian rugs, the golden chandeliers, the guards in jewelled uniform. The Subedar concealed his beliefs and lied to the Emperor for this position of power. He was dishonest and weak. He would not help her. No one would. She would have to help herself.
CHAPTER 34
S
hayista felt a pang in his heart as he watched Champa leave. So she was the new teacher in Pari’s madrasa? He had thought she was just a quirky witch who danced occasionally at Jannat. Instead, she was a fiery young lady fighting for the empowerment of women. He regretted that her spark was directed towards him in anger. Was it true what she said? Did he hate his Emperor?
After sitting through a few more petitions, Shayista asked Bhopal to dismiss the court for the day. Hidden under his cloak despite the sun, he made his way to the stables.
He wanted to help Champa but to do so openly would jeopardize the school even further. There was Aurangzeb’s spy among them and the ulema and the curse. He couldn’t let others know that he cared about this school. All that he cherished perished. Did Kalinoor know about the madrasa already? Was that the next target?
Bageshri was happy to see him. Shayista patted his steed and mounted the jewelled saddle. He realized he was delirious, cogitating the consciousness of an inanimate object. Of course Kalinoor did not know about the madrasa. Of course there was no curse. There were only greedy men who wanted to establish oppressive power structures.
Shayista galloped out towards the madrasa and wondered how it had changed over the year since Pari had died.
Waves crashed along the banks of the Buriganga. Energy was eternal and connected but mortality felt finite and isolated. Beyond his duties, there was nothing he lived for. He was struck by the emptiness of his existence.
Pari had loved the madrasa. To protect her from danger outside the fort, he had tried to discourage her from getting too involved but she was born to love. No cage could hold her in. Finding him unsupportive, she had asked her tutor for help and sold her jewellery for funds. When he saw the strength of her resolution, he relented and financed the establishment. He gave her 1,000 gold coins and five boxes of books for the school library.
Shayista slowed his stallion to a canter as he approached the madrasa. It was apparent the premises had been vandalized. The doors were smashed in, trees hacked, swings torn. Surveying the ruins, his heart broke once again. For all the sophistication of Bengal, there were still so many fools.
Voices in the garden drew his attention. Concealing Bageshri behind bushes, he approached in stealth.
Champa was sitting with a group of girls under the boughs of a krishnachura tree. ‘I have a treat for you,’ she said. ‘Look what I purchased from a hakim at the bazaar today.’ She retrieved an object wrapped in silk and passed it to the girls.
‘What is it?’ asked Marium.
‘A magnifying glass,’ she said.
‘Will we be able to see stars?’ asked Rezina.
‘It is not a stargazer,’ explained Champa. ‘It’s a magnifying glass. It makes things appear larger than they really are. Look.’
Champa held the magnifying glass over a pile of dried leaves and caught a ray of sunlight. The glass concentrated the light to a pinpoint so fine, it burned a hole through parchment. The girls clapped in delight.
Shayista marvelled at Champa’s teaching style. She was confident and bold. He could see the girls adored her. Mullahs with their misplaced understanding of Islam wanted to stop this? They dreamt of virginal houris in the cool pavilions of Paradise and for that reward they would blindly follow their leader without any questions. How could he explain to them that houris were not incarnations of heavenly sluts but symbols of unconditional love? How could he show them that the vilest sin of all was disrespecting life?
Shayista shuddered to think of Bengal under the leadership of men without hearts or imagination. These viruses needed to be exterminated one by one but who would do it? Was it his Destiny to destroy enemies ad infinitum? This was one responsibility he did not want but whom could he hand it over to? Pari was dead. Prince Azam was a deboshed fool. That Ibrahim fellow had the brain of a barn swallow. Shayista’s own sons were already deployed in rural regions, not capable of handling voluminous responsibilities. No competent leader had emerged to take the mantle of command off his shoulders.
Lost in thought, Shayista didn’t realize Champa had caught sight of his shadow. Suddenly she was standing before him with a jade-hilted paper knife, coming out to protect her girls from the lurking stranger that she saw him as.
Shayista gently disarmed her with a crouching tiger strike that sent the paper knife hurtling across the garden without hurting her. He lowered his hood. Champa’s jaw dropped as she recognized him. She fell to taslim.
‘I need to talk to you,’ he said.
She nodded and instructed the girls to take a recess. She led Shayista to the inner room where the headmistress was sitting at her desk, deep in study.
‘Guru Ma, we have a distinguished guest,’ said Champa. ‘The Subedar of Bengal. Subedar Khan, this is Saraswathi Rai.’
Guru Ma bowed in taslim, astonished to see him. He bowed back in respect. They greeted each other as old friends, a relationship Champa had forgotten about.
‘Why are you here?’ Champa asked. ‘You already denied us your help. What else could you possibly have to say? Or have you come to shut us down?’
Shayista’s face was pained. ‘I could not openly support the madrasa. That would make it a target. Your grandfather was right. Everything I cherish perishes.’
Champa’s eyes showed that she understood what he said. ‘What will you do?’
‘I don’t know yet. How does one destroy a curse? Perhaps it would be safest to close the madrasa for a while? I fear for your safety.’
‘Champa Miss!’ called a voice from outside. ‘What is this word, come see?’
Called back to task, Champa walked out to assist the girl.
‘Closing the school is not what Pari would have wanted,’ said Guru Ma, carrying on the conversation.
‘The mullahs have been indoctrinated,’ said Shayista. ‘How do I dissolve their delusions?’
‘Your daughter knew the answer.’ Guru Ma poured a glass of water for Shayista. ‘Princess Pari was passionate about this orphanage.’
‘It is dangerous to pursue certain paths,’ said Shayista.
‘History is shaped by the brave. The brave must take risks. To remain silent is to make space for the militancy of intolerance. One must uphold freedom.’
‘As Pari did,’ said Shayista, ruefully.
Guru Ma nodded. ‘What a brave one she was. When you refused to fund the madrasa, she made arrangements to sell her own jewellery. The invaluable diamond, the ...’ She stopped herself short.
‘Sell what?’ Shayista probed.
‘Nothing,’ said Guru Ma.
‘Kalinoor?’ he asked.
Guru Ma nodded.
‘She told you about Kalinoor?’
Guru Ma sighed. ‘She showed it to me once. She said it was hers to sell if she wanted.’
Shayista was not surprised that Pari didn’t think for a moment to sell anything else from the palace, only her own jewels. ‘Does anyone else knows about Kalinoor?’ he asked.
Swati nodded. ‘Only the gem merchant from whom Pari got a quote.’
Suddenly Shayista understood why Kalinoor had become the centre of attention.
Word had gotten out. Pari had unintentionally let the secret slip. ‘Merchant?’
‘A French gentleman.’
Shayista let the bad news sank in. He asked Guru Ma not to tell anyone. For Pari’s sake she promised. He left before Champa returned. He had been so careful about the diamond just so this wouldn’t happen. Now greed was on the loose.
CHAPTER 35
L
ater that evening Champa prepared the antechamber for a séance. Dada wanted to summon the djinn to decipher where in Lal Bagh Fort the diamond was hidden. She hadn’t told him about her meetings with the Subedar. She didn’t like keeping secrets from him but securing help to save her madrasa was not something Dada would approve of. She lit the candles and incense when a frantic knock at the door interrupted her.
‘Miss Champa! Come quick!’ called a girl.
Champa ran up the stairs to find Marium crying.
‘They are burning our books,’ she sobbed. ‘Guru Ma sent me to get you.’
Champa wrapped herself in a shawl and ran. ‘Stay here, Marium!’ she called over her shoulder. ‘You’ll be safe here!’
Champa’s feet were moving faster than her mind, taking her somewhere ... she realized she was running to the fortress. She was going to the Subedar. He had said he was on their side, right?
She arrived at the gates of the fort out of breath. She informed the sentry that she needed to speak to the Subedar at once. The sentry asked her to wait but she couldn’t stand still while the school was burning. She turned and ran towards the orphanage.
Before she knew it, she heard horses’ hooves behind her and felt strong arms sweep her up in one fluid motion. She found herself on a horse, powerful arms around her, galloping at full speed towards the madrasa. She knew it was the Subedar when she saw the hand holding the reins and recognized his scent: attar and smoke. He wore chain mail under his cloak and had slung cold, hard swords and axes to his body.
Champa felt a tightening in her heart. ‘Don’t hurt them,’ she said to the Subedar. ‘They are misguided.’
The Subedar growled. His eyes were crazed. They saw the flames leaping into the sky well before they reached the madrasa. The Subedar urged his masked horse to accelerate.
‘Promise me?’ she said.
‘No one will destroy Bengal!’ he shouted.
She dared not think what would happen next.
As they drew closer, they saw three dozen bearded clerics wreaking havoc. Thick smoke filled the air and the temperature was sharply warmer. In the epicenter of the chaos, was an elephant-sized pile of books consumed in flames, a luminous beacon of hatred.
The Subedar dropped Champa off a safe distance away, telling her to wait there. His soldiers huddled around him as he gave instructions. Champa could not hear him but she was surprised to see a leather-bound Quran in the Subedar’s hand.
CHAPTER 36
S
hayista stopped his horse at the gates of the school. The night was dry and the flames danced high into the sky. He opened the Quran to the first page and began reading.
‘Iqra.
Read in the name of thy Lord,
Who has created man from a clot,
Read! Thy Lord is Most Generous,
He has taught by the pen,
that which man knew not.’
His words rang through the still night with penetrating force.
‘Who goes there?’ a mullah called out.
Shayista repeated. ‘Read! In the name of thy Lord who has created man.’
‘Are you a soldier?’ another mullah shouted.
Shayista repeated, ‘Iqra. Read in the name of thy Lord.’
There was something eerie about a cloaked stranger reading the Quran by candle light upon a massive steed. The mullahs approached to get a closer look.
Shayista repeated. ‘Iqra. Read in the name of thy Lord.’
‘What form of demon are you?’ cried a mullah.
‘Iqra. Read in the name of thy Lord who has created man.’
The mullahs formed a cirle around the batty fakir, for that was what they hoped he was.
‘Iqra. Read in the name of thy Lord who has created man.’ Shayista held his ground.
Bageshri stamped his feet at the ground as the mullahs closed in on them with flaming torches. Still Shayista waited.
‘Iqra. Read in the name of thy Lord.’ Shayista read as though the mullahs did not exist.
One mullah grabbed the horse’s reins and started drawing him in.
When the mullahs were close enough that he could smell their fear, Shayista shouted, ‘IQRA!’
Suddenly, from behind a grove of trees beyond the gate, battle cries erupted, ‘IQRA! IQRA! IQRA!’ It was as if the forest came to life as Imperial guards swooped out of the foliage and upon the unsuspecting mullahs, tearing at them with swords, spears and axes. Taken by surprise, the mullahs were not able to defend themselves.
Swinging a wicked Shashbur, Lung-Tearer, Shayista bludgeoned the two mullahs closest to him. His spiked, sphere-ended mace struck each with such power, it brought their skulls caving down into their ribcages.
An uncontrollable fury rose within Shayista. Overcome by bloodlust, he butchered the unarmed men, yelling his battle cry: ‘IQRA!’
Alternating between the shashbur and Azdahar, he decapitated or smashed the heads of mullahs, cracking them open like eggs, spilling their brains on the ground.
Over his shoulder, he saw a juggernaut plowing through. It was Dhand. He rammed his massive body into a group and flattened three mullahs at one go. Dhand’s zaghnol came hurtling down on a fourth mullah, hacking off his torso.
Champa screamed. She had defied Shayista’s order to wait outside and was now hemmed up against the burning pyre, attacked from two sides. One mullah was trying to fondle her. The other grabbed her choli and yanked it. Her breasts came tumbling out. Crossing her arms over her chest, she hollered for help.
Shayista spurred his steed forward and with two swift blows killed the mullahs who had cornered her.
The battle was over soon after it started. The remaining mullahs turned to run but Dhand closed in on them.
Champa grabbed a shawl from a dead mullah and ran into the school, hands clutched over her mouth. Guru Ma lay on the ground, a bloody cleaver lodged in her back. Champa tried to revive her. Alim cowered behind a table by her side.
Champa turned to him, livid. ‘You killed her!’
Alim yelled back, ‘It was her fault. She got in the way.’ He had a knife in his hand. Before he could fling it at Champa, Shayista jumped to her rescue, bringing his shashbur smashing down on Alim’s head.
Alim’s body fell shuddering to the ground, the left side of his face obliterated. Champa kneeled by his side.
With difficulty, he said, ‘Champa?’ choking on his words, ‘Am I dying?’
‘No! No Baba, please don’t die,’ she sobbed.
Shayista reeled in surprise. The cleric commander was Champa’s father? He thought of Ellora and Shivaji. Was history repeating itself? Was Bengal destined to suffer the same fate over and over again?
Champa tried to prop up Alim’s body but he was too heavy for her. He collapsed, body convulsing, dead. Next to him, Champa fainted.
Flames billowed into the air. Swirling eddies of smoke rose to the sky. Shayista ran to the inferno. He retrieved a manuscript of Saadi Shirazi just as flames licked at its precious edges. He leaped to rescue a classic by Jalāl ad-Dīn Rūmī. His cheeks glowed. He was being cooked alive in an oven of books. He managed to rescue an illustrated rendition of Ibn Battuta’s travels then noticed a manuscript by Omar Qayyam in the pile. He reached for it but could not grab it, unable to tolerate the scorching heat of its burning embers.
Dhand dragged Shayista away from the blaze. Grievous tears streamed down Shayista’s face, his treasures consigned to flames. These were books that he and Pari and Dara had cherished, books that contained the finest thoughts of humanity. Dhand sat behind him silently.
Shay
ista turned to face the carnage. Three dozen mullahs lay dead in pools of blood, their white robes crimson, heads and limbs ripped off. Champa’s words rang in his ears, ‘Don’t hurt them. They are misguided.’
Shayista wanted to cry. It was his duty as Amir -ul- Umra to put his emotions aside and be objective. He had to protect his people. Still, slaughtering fanatics left a bitter aftertaste.
Shayista stretched his hands out to the mound and shouted, ‘O you who died trying to undo knots, you were born in union but you died in isolation. You went to sleep parched on the lip of an ocean. You died indigent on top of a treasure. If only you could see!’
He hated them. He hated their narrow dogmas. He hated their oppressive intentions. He hated their brutal violence. And he hated himself for stooping to their level to fight them. Was there no other way? His head was spinning. His soul was cracking. He wanted to vomit or die.
Then he saw Dhand. When the ground had dissolved into mud below him, when his base was fractured and worms had gnawed through the thin thread of Faith that had anchored him to sanity, when he was unmoored and lost between sorrows and memories, he found himself gently brought down to the humble ground, by his friend. When true love was convoluted, when Death beat its wings above him, when he had to slaughter men to save men and had lived beyond the years of his daughters, one thing could be counted on for sure. That was his friendship with Dhand. Dhand, standing there chewing dried fish, humming some song about love, out of tune. He was real.
The muscles in Shayista’s arms and legs hurt. The weight of his chain mail tortured his back but this was nothing compared to the throbbing discomfort in his heart. He lifted Champa’s limp body onto his horse and galloped to the fort.
CHAPTER 37
M
adeline wore a double-flounced pagoda sleeved gown when she returned to the atelier the next evening. As promised, he had brought his son to meet her. Only a few years older than Madeline, he was a nervous gentleman, shy and bespectacled, nothing like his grinning father. He introduced himself as Mumin.