Champa entered the antechamber and was surprised to find Dada pacing the room.
‘Couldn’t sleep?’ she asked.
‘The usual aches and pains. Nothing to worry about.’
‘Dehydrated, Dada?’ cooed Champa. She poured him some water.
He drank it gratefully.
‘Would you like anything else?’ she offered.
‘Nothing, thank you my child.’ He was lost in thought.
She needed his full attention. She offered him some honeyed words. ‘You are so wise, Dada, your knowledge knows no bounds.’
‘The knowledge is within you too,’ he replied. ‘Tap into it.’
‘Show me the way!’ She saw her opening. ‘You raised me to be a seeker. You helped me reject rote learning and the conditioning of society which anchors us in worldly desires. You encouraged me to keep the lamp burning through self-inquiry and books. There is only one thing you haven’t taught me yet.’
‘What’s that?’
‘It’s something I would love to learn.’
‘Tell me, my child, what is it?’
‘Could you please teach me how to summon the djinn?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Dada rebuked. ‘Summoning is not for the uninitiated.’
‘The ulema want to destroy our madrasa. Please help me use the Dark Arts to stop them!’
‘The ulema are insignificant imbeciles. Their archaic vestiges of ignorance will never cast a shadow on Enlightenment, have no fear. Can a man snuff out the moon? Child, we will NOT waste our time on such trivial matters.’
‘Then at least lend me some money to fix the well?’
‘Allah can only be experienced through expanded awareness. The only school you need is here with me, nurturing the omnipotent force of Allah through intuitive comprehension. I cannot give you money—money procured from clients in the name of Allah—for your inferior pursuits.’ He closed his eyes to indicate the end of the discussion.
Champa clenched her teeth. He was as stubborn as her father.
‘Hush child, we have some important work,’ he said. ‘I need that diamond to save Bengal. Without further ado, let us begin ... Bismillah-irahman-irahim.’
Champa paid close attention.
He pir chanted Allah-Hu and Al-Haq three times to awaken his kundalini and then he raised the energy up his spine to his heart using his breath. He recited Sura Noor three times in reverse and blew a prayer upon each shoulder. He rubbed his palms together to create heat which he washed over his face before settling into a meditative trance.
Champa followed. She was careful to keep her tongue rolled back: a necessary precaution when communing with spirits. Not adhering to these simple rules could result in consequences of unfathomable magnitude. She certainly did not want to spend eternity trapped in a parallel dimension.
Zulfiqar began performing the powerful cat breath from the depths of his gut. He sounded like a howling feline on opium. No sooner had he started, the cats in the alley began baying in chorus. They meowed, moaned and hissed, creating a vortex of negative energy.
Champa had seen her Dada summon the djinn only a few times before. Every time, it gave her the chills.
‘Arise Shopno,’ called Zulfiqar in a sonorous voice. He whispered something under his breath and a sulphurous gust of wind drifted in. The windows rattled. The falcon fidgeted. ‘Show us the diamond,’ said the pir.
Tele-transportation and telepathy were easy for djinn who existed in a dimension where time and space had no meaning. Djinn could travel to any part of the world and hypnotically project what it saw upon the minds of those engaged with it in séance.
Champa closed her eyes and prepared for the ride. Before an image could form, a knock at the gate disturbed her concentration. She scrambled to her feet. Up the stairs she climbed, wondering what Dada muttered under his breath to open the porthole to summon the djinn.
At the gate she was astonished to find the Subedar, cloaked in rough cloth. He looked as if he had seen a ghost.
‘I have come for what you offered to do. Undo my regrets,’ he said. ‘That is, if you really can.’
‘Of course I can,’ said Champa defensively.
His piercing brown eyes begged for salvation. His desperation resonated with her. She caught herself feeling sorry for him till she remembered he was the richest, most powerful man in the world, and yet, not willing to help their madrasa. The last thing he deserved was her sympathy. Rather, perhaps he could be useful to her. She needed to raise money to fix the well. Why not charge him for her services? He could be her first client. She was not technically allowed to treat patients but it was for a noble cause and anyway, she was angry at Dada.
‘It will cost you thirty rupees,’ she said professionally. It was a steep price but his face expressed no concern.
He tossed her his coin purse. ‘Keep it all. I don’t care.’
‘Follow me,’ she said, leading him to the back garden rather than the antechamber where her grandfather was rollicking with djinn.
There was a sheet laid out where she liked to meditate. She seated the Subedar upon it, and she across from him. She bowed, touching her third eye to the ground and began to concentrate.
‘Breathe,’ she instructed. Perhaps she could not summon the djinn but there were other things she could do. She started her séance with chants.
Allah-Hu. Allah-Hu. Allah-Hu.
Al-Haq. Al-Haq. Al-Haq.
When the energy in her body was sufficiently activated, she recited Sura Noor backwards, then closed her eyes and steadied her mind for meditation.
Soon she was in a labyrinth where only the conscience exists. She had followed Dada into this zone before but she had never done it alone. Separate from her mind and body, separate from her ego, she merged with the energy around her client. She began to synchronize her breath with his. Magic tingled inside her arms and legs, especially at her joints and under her navel, tickling her like a rush of cool water.
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.