Nasim 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.
‘Did you like the gift?’ said Shobha.
‘Indeed, the scarf was exquisite. How can I thank you?’
He bowed again and offered Nasim Banu another dupatta. This one was lilac, even softer than the last.
Nasim rubbed the delicate cloth. It floated off her fingers like a butterfly. ‘My, my. This is lovely.’
‘A humble show of gratitude. There is more where it came from, unless I am forced to shut down my karkhana.’ He hung his head.
‘Heavens no, don’t close your factory,’ exclaimed Nasim. ‘Muslin trade is booming.’
Shobha looked hurt. ‘Alas, your Highness, just yesterday the Subedar ordered an embargo on trade with the English. Now I can’t sell my muslin or my saltpetre!’
‘There must be some mistake. The Subedar is an ardent supporter of trade and commerce. Why half of Europe’s imports come from Bengal,’ said Nasim.
Shobha Singh lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘Merchants in Hooghly requested a firman exempting the Company from custom duties. The Emperor will not be pleased to learn that Subedar Khan has opposed this firman and thrown the English officer out of his court.’
‘Now, now. No need to go tattling on the Subedar,’ said Nasim, quick to defend her husband. ‘We have been friends for many years, have we not? Before you disturb the peace, why not have another word with the Subedar? Clear the misunderstanding?’
Shobha looked uncertain. Khajah Ambar whispered something in Nasim’s ears.
‘Please join us on the eve of the full moon for dinner and a dance,’ she said. ‘You can speak to my husband then.’
Shobha accepted the invitation and bowed deep, leaving respectfully without turning his back.
What would Shayista do without her? Endlessly she crusaded for him without any gratitude or acknowledgement. Still it would be well worth it if she could impress the Emperor and secure a promotion for Iradat. From her latticed window, she watched the sun set into the Buriganga, the sky a shade of murky pink.