Dark Diamond

by Shazia Omar

  CHAPTER 41

  G

  loomy clouds wrapped dawn in a shroud of grey. The galleon pulled into the harbour of Chatgaon. Shayista gnashed his teeth, expecting to see a row of spiked heads and a chorus of mourners. What he saw instead was worse. There were the usual galleys, cargo ships, noukas and merchant vessels but dwarfing them was a massive English Man-of-War, cannons glaring from its sterns.

  ‘Porto Grande. Here we are! Lower the anchor. Secure the topsails,’ Costa ordered.

  ‘How many men aboard that ship?’ glowered Shayista.

  ‘Three to four hundred soldiers,’ Costa said, sliding out a spy-glass for closer inspection. ‘It’s a 48-canon warship. What’s going on?’

  Van Diemen nodded. ‘Have I ever given you faulty news, Sire? You can rely on me.’

  Shayista cocked an eye brow. ‘Can I?’

  ‘Should we send word of your arrival?’ asked Costa.

  ‘No,’ replied Shayista. ‘First let’s investigate.’

  ‘I know just the place,’ said Van Dieman.

  The three men rowed to shore and hired steeds. Reins loose in hand, they galloped into Chatgaon, Van Diemen in the lead. Soon they arrived at a dingy tavern at the edge of town. It was not the only one on the street but the busiest of the lot. They tethered their horses at the gate and walked in, cloaked.

  Within the walls of the seedy establishment were intoxicated merchants: Maghs mostly, mingling merrily with pretty whores. The peeling paint and threadbare cushions seemed to have no effect upon the clientele. It was clear from the bustle that the inn keeper did not need to worry about the finer details to secure his business.

  A bar girl greeted them. ‘Vroomen! Back so soon? Where have you come from?’ she asked. She was broad shouldered, rouged lipped, flamboyant, wearing a showy blouse and a gaudy yellow ghagra choli. She was almost as tall as him.

  ‘Here and there,’ replied Van Diemen.

  The bar girl laughed. It was then that Shayista saw she was actually a he, a hijra cross-dresser. Shayista had heard of the transvestites of Chatgaon but he had not met one before. Many had been captured and forced into slavery by the Portugese but a small community continued to exist.

  ‘Tasty wench, get us some wine,’ said Van Diemen to her. She strut forth to serve them.

  In her absence Vroomen explained that she was a collector of secrets. Shayista realized she was probably the lady spy Van Dieman mentioned earlier in Jannat.

  When she returned, she poured for Costa first, leaning in suggestively. ‘O Ma, you’re a nice one. Muscle-muscle,’ she grabbed his biceps. ‘Are you a hatman too?’

  ‘Hatman?’ asked Costa.

  ‘That’s what they call the English,’ explained Van Dieman.

  ‘Like the soldier over there.’ She pointed to a brawny man with a pink face and freckles. He was sprawled in the far corner of the room, naked. His arms were draped over two whores and his red hat covered his privates.

  ‘Who’s that?’ asked Shayista.

  ‘I’ll tell you but it’ll cost you,’ said the hijra.

  Shayista passed her a coin.

  ‘The Hatman is going to sign a treaty with the Maghs,’ said the hijra, slipping the coin into her choli.

  ‘A treaty for what?’ asked Shayista.

  ‘I’ll tell you but it’ll cost you,’ said the hijra.

  Shayista slipped her another coin.

  ‘For permission to dock in Chatgaon. From there they will amass their forces to invade Dacca.’

  ‘I don’t know who to kill first!’ said Shayista. ‘Dhama Raja or the pesky Company men?’

  ‘Dhama Raja, if you ask me,’ offered the hijra, though no one had asked her. ‘The English have offered him a diamond and for this he risks the safety of our people.’

  ‘Diamond?’ said Costa. ‘What diamond?’

  ‘I’ll tell you but it will cost you.’

  Costa grabbed the hijra’s choli and flashed his cutlass.

  Van Dieman gasped.

  ‘I believe you’ve paid enough,’ said the hijra, slipping out of his hold. With exaggerated gesticulation, the story was told.

  ‘The noble Candasu Dhama Raja died last year and so ended the golden age of the Arakan court. He was a humble Buddhist and fair to Hindus but he was betrayed by a powerful lord of Laung Krak who had an intimate relationship with his Queen. Together they used black magic to evict him from the throne. When he died, his eldest son, Uggabala, entered monkhood to avoid being killed. The kingdom was without a king till Wara Dhama Raja, opportunist that he is, used his muscles to take the throne.’

  Shayista recalled Dara’s noble offer to enter monkhood.

  ‘Wara Dhama Raja is neither Buddhist nor Hindu. He is a faithless man who values only money. The English have promised him a jewel from the Subedar’s treasury, an ancient diamond that the Tripura Kings believe holds Goddess Kali within it. The Tripura Kings have offered Dhama Raja his weight in gold in exchange for the diamond. For gold, he will sacrifice the glorious kingdom of Arakan! What will happen to us when the nefarious, iniquitous, depraved Bagh Khan finds out?’ The hijra looked sincerely frightened.

  ‘Do you have it?’ Costa whispered to Shayista.

  Shayista groaned. Once a pirate, always a pirate.

  ‘Another drink,’ said Van Diemen. The hijra scurried off.

  ‘Sorry she called you nefarious,’ said Van Diemen, shifting uncomfortably.

  ‘I’ll let it pass,’ grumbled Shayista.

  ‘And iniquitous.’

  ‘Hmmm.’

  ‘And de ...’

  ‘Enough!’ Shayista watched the two girls attending to the English man. One fanned him with a banana leaf while the other tried to nudge him upright. The man couldn’t hold his head straight, slipping in and out of a drunken stupor.

  Leaving his friends to their drinks, Shayista walked over to the hatman’s whores. ‘Is this fellow disturbing you?’ he asked.

  The first woman had crescent moon eyes, a full moon face and mango bosoms, a typical Magh beauty. ‘Hatman won’t pay,’ she said. Her eyes jolly, despite the problem on her hands. She sized up Shayista and offered him a seductive smile.

  ‘Who is he?’ asked Shayista.

  ‘Don’t know his name,’ said the other whore, running a finger over Shayista’s arm.

  Shayista grabbed the English man by his shoulders and drew him upright, then punched him twice in the gut. That brought him staggering back to his senses. He fell to the floor and vomitted.

  ‘Hey there, easy now,’ said the whore. ‘No need to get aggressive.’

  Shayista drew his sword. Onlookers hushed, the whores squealed, Costa and Van Diemen watched with amusement. The Englishman looked perplexed.

  ‘Who are you?’ Shayista demanded.

  The Englishman stuttered something inaudible. Shayista punched his nose. There was a sickening crunch and a howl of pain. The Englishman reeled, blood splattered on the walls. He clasped his hands over his face.

  ‘Who are you?’ Shayista repeated.

  ‘William Hedges.’

  ‘Why are you here?’ Shayista demanded.

  ‘Who the bloody hell are you?’

  Shayista brought his sword hurtling down and chopped off the soldier’s thumb.

  William screamed, hand over the oozing wound, and reached for his thumb on the ground. Onlookers were horrified.

  ‘Specifics,’ said Shayista.

  ‘I’m with Admiral Nicholson. Our orders are to seize and fortify Chatgaon, demand the cession of the surrounding territory, conciliate the zamindars, establish a mint and enter into a treaty with the Magh Raja.’ William said it all in one frightened breath.

  Shayista’s rage towards the Maghs reignited. They had already stolen a precious treasure from the Mughals, Shah Shuja’s daughter, Shayista’s own grand-niece. They raped and burned her, despite Mir Jumla’s pleas for mercy. And now this?

  ‘Fortify Chatgaon?’ Shayista probed.

  ‘Admiral Nicholson w
as meant to come here with twelve ships, 200 cannons, 200 muskets and 600 men. 400 more would join us from Madras.’

  ‘200 cannons and 200 muskets? Ha! The English don’t have enough saltpetre to fire that,’ said Costa, joining them.

  Costa was right. Shayista had banned the trade of saltpetre. There was reason to doubt this alehouse conspiracy. ‘Where’s the rest of the fleet?’ he asked.

  ‘The other ships didn’t make it. Couldn’t negotiate the storm. Landed up in Hooghly. They’re anchored off the Company’s factory waiting for Mr. Charnock and the reinforcements.’

  ‘Why does a small company from a tiny archipelago at the edge of the Atlantic believe it can conquer the world?’ asked Shayista, rherotically. Before William could answer, he sliced off his arm.

  William screamed in anguish.

  ‘Get on your horse,’ Shayista ordered. ‘Alert the Raja that the Subedar’s contingent will be arriving soon. He is to meet the Subedar at the docks in the morning.’

  The Englishman nodded, whoozy from pain and blood loss. Holding his hat in front of his nakedness, he limped out of the tavern.

  Shayista wished he’d asked Dhand to send reinforcements but it was too late now. Leaving Vroomen behind, Shayista and Costa rode back to the ship to work out a plan. The English were outfitted with a warship and weapons, the Magh warriors were fierce and on home terrain. Together they had every advantage. How would they get out of this one?

  Champa had warned him that violence was not the way. She suggested education, dialogue and love but Shayista felt a vengeful rage rising within him. He would tear apart his enemies bare-handed if necessary before he would let any harm come upon Bengal.

  CHAPTER 42

  C

  onfidence is the precursor to victory so Madeline puffed up her chest and marched, chin high despite her tremulous heart. Abdul had rowed her ashore and pointed her in the direction of Magh Bazaar. Her palms were clammy, nipples erect, goosebumps revolted on her arms.

  The Ruby Monkeys were to meet her at the bazaar. Mumin had set up the meeting. She wondered what sort of men the Ruby Monkeys were. Would the same rules of negotiation apply? Could all men regardless of their habitas be purchased at a certain price? What currency did the Maghs value? Not human skulls, she hoped.

  The crowd at the bazaar was dispersing, the evening’s melancholy set in. Magh merchants packed their wares: silver scaled fish, chicken, ducks, leafy greens, turmeric and pineapples. Astonishingly, they were all women and all topless. They wore woven skirts around their waists and hundreds of strings of beads on their necks. The older ladies huddled around bamboo bongs smoking, their crafts packed into sacks next to them. Madeline watched discreetly, too polite to get a good look.

  The Maghs were short and slightly built, averaging less than five feet in height. They seemed pleasant enough, not wild or savage. She tried to imagine Magh Bazaar twenty years earlier when it was a slave market. Nothing of that remained. But Madeline knew all too well that history repeated itself and wondered what that meant for Bengal. Would they be selling humans once again, three centuries later? She shuddered. Soon this ordeal would be over and she would have a place in society safe in France.

  ‘Mademoiselle Du Champs?’ said a voice.

  It must be him, she thought, right where Mumin had said he would be. The Ruby Monkey approached her, eyes darting like stalked prey. Madeline disliked him immediately. He was a stocky man but his movements were contained like a seasoned thief who could come and go without displacing a feather. The thorny problem with thieves of this calibre was that they were as likely to steal from their friends as their enemies.

  She tightened her grip on her purse and followed the Ruby Monkey away from the market into the hilly woodland. The night was a symphony of crickets, owls, bullfrogs and tropical monsters creeping around her. She had travelled from France to Bengal with seafaring thugs, timid she was not! But in the throbbing bamboo grove of wild and eerie sounds, she found she regretted her rash idea. She wondered where the Ruby Monkey was taking her. At least he had a lantern.

  ‘Did you come alone?’ he asked, as they walked down the hillock.

  Madeline nodded.

  ‘Stay close to me,’ he said. ‘Or be eaten.’

  ‘Tigers?’ she asked, anxious. He was shorter than she. Would he be able to protect her?

  He showed her a bamboo lute. He put it to his mouth and blew out a pea-sized dart that flew with tremendous force into a tree.

  Madeline was doubtful that this bamboo shooter would stop a tiger. It would barely disturb a cat.

  ‘The dart has been dipped in the saliva of a poisonous frog,’ he explained. ‘It will freeze the tiger’s muscles and kill it in less than one minute.’

  Poisonous frog saliva? Madeline was intrigued. She would ask for the details later. They walked through a patch of reedy ferns to a row of huts balanced twenty feet above the ground on bamboo stilts. He stopped at the last hut and pointed to the cane ladder.

  Madeline’s feminine instinct told her not to climb into a secluded hut alone with an unknown man who was armed.

  ‘We build our homes high,’ he explained, sensing her hesitation. ‘It keeps us safe.’

  ‘From tigers?’ she asked, afraid of man-eaters.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Tigers can climb.’

  Every inch of her body tightened with fear.

  ‘The height protects us from wolves.’

  Aaahooooooo! As if on cue, a haunting howl cut through the night, followed by a choir of canine replies. Madeline crossed herself, whispered a prayer to Saint Anne and hurried up the ladder.

  Inside, the hut was spacious, roomier than it appeared from the outside. A single room lit with candles. The floor was of woven cane. Silk cushions were laid out and scattered with flowers. Clay diyas with floating hyacinths fragranced the air.

  ‘Chief will be here shortly,’ he announced, dropping his shifty sideways glancing habit. ‘I am Diren.’

  Madeline forced a polite smile. Soon the ordeal would be over and she would return to Minaloushe and warm baguettes. She could almost hear him purring by her ear, she could almost smell the butter, when THUD, Diren fell to the ground, bowing in respect.

  A woman entered: petite, bald, wrinkled and topless. She looked perhaps three hundred years old. She walked to the cushions and sat with her toes pulled up over her thighs, a lotus upon a throne of flowers. Her neck was covered in necklaces. She wore a wreath of yellow leaves. In one hand she held a bell. In her other hand, a small club with spherical heads. Her scent was citronous.

  ‘I present to you our high Priestess, Chief of the Ruby Monkeys,’ said Diren.

  Madeline’s eyes were startled saucers. In Paris and Versailles, they boasted of progress, prided themselves on intellect and liberality, yet they had not celebrated a woman leader. Here, in the backwoods of Bengal, an impish old lady was revered as chief. Stupification transformed into veneration. Madeline bowed as she had seen Diren do.

  The Priestess Chief laughed. Her ample bosoms jiggled, sagging down to her belly. She uttered a few sentences. Madeline could not understand a word but she knew what was asked because of her tone and inflections.

  ‘Greetings,’ said Madeline. ‘I am Madeline Du Champs.’

  The Priestess Chief drew Madeline into an embrace, repeating her name gleefully, mispronouncing it as ‘Madli’ and then sang it in a catchy tune ending with a snap of her fingers. Her cheer was contagious. It was as though they were old friends and this was a wonderful reunion. Madeline felt at ease.

  ‘I am grateful to have been granted your audience. I know you are much sought after,’ Madeline said formally.

  The Priestess grinned. Diren placed a three-foot bong before her and lit it. It was almost as tall as she. She took a few deep breaths and with each exhale, progressively released the tension in her shoulders and around her eyes. When she was satisfied, she grinned at Madeline, a wide, toothless grin. Her skin glowed like a plum.

  ‘Is it a
gem you seek?’ asked Diren.

  ‘No,’ said Madeline. ‘I seek knowledge about the way to the diamond mines.’

  Diren translated Madeline’s request to the Priestess Chief who continued grinning. She said many things to Diren and gesticulated wildly.

  ‘The Diamond Way is achieved through meditation,’ Diren translated at last.

  Madeline frowned. ‘Meditation? But I don’t know how to meditate.’

  Diren looked shocked. He turned to the Priestess and translated. She then looked shocked too. Again she launched into a series of animated words.

  Diren turned to her and smiled. ‘Priestess says the way to the diamond is through the experience of ultimate truth. First you must empty your mind of the five poisons.’

  ‘Poisons?’ said Madeline alarmed. ‘What poisons?’

  ‘Desire, hatred, delusion, greed, envy.’

  ‘Good heavens, and how shall I do that?’

  ‘With a vajra!’ said Diren.

  ‘What is a vajra?’ she asked.

  ‘A diamond.’

  ‘Which diamond?’

  Diren tried to translate her question to the Priestess. The petite woman giggled and gesticulated as she tried to convey a message.

  Diren turned to Madeline, exasperated. ‘The vajra is the only diamond of any real spiritual value. It may be used to slice through the Illusion and arrive upon Bliss.’

  ‘But where do I find such a diamond?’ said Madeline. ‘Is there a map?’

  ‘The map is coded but our Priestess Chief is a Boddhisatva. She can show you the way to Enlightenment.’

  This time Madeline laughed. ‘No, no, you misunderstood me. I am not looking for Enlightenment, only the diamond mines. Diamonds, you know, like gems, but harder.’

  This time Diren’s face lit up. ‘Gems? All you want are gems? Ha, ha, ha. No problem. Do you like rubies? We have a ruby the size of a sparrow’s egg.’

  ‘No!’ said Madeline.

  ‘Alright, no rubies. Topaz?’

  ‘I don’t want gems. I simply want to make a map.’ She felt like crying.

  ‘Map?’ asked Diren puzzled. ‘You travelled to Bengal from France to make a map?’

  Madeline nodded. ‘And for freedom.’