Shayista 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.