Champa awoke in a most glorious garden. Around her blazing krishnachuras, shy lilacs, brooding jobas, cheerful hibiscus and elegant dalias vied for attention. A nearby fountain tinkled. Crickets chirped. The night was cool. She could smell rajni gandhas in bloom. Was this Heaven?
‘You have been unconscious for three hours,’ said a voice. ‘Are you alright?’
It was the Subedar. He was not far away. Seated on a tree stump, he rubbed a burnt hand and watched over her. They were alone.
She wiped the soot from her face and stared at him. In his eyes she saw burning books and she remembered all that had transpired. Guru Ma ... Her father ... She began to sob.
‘I have asked my guards to give them proper burials,’ said the Subedar.
‘You cannot quell debate through violence!’ Champa lashed out. ‘Killing makes you a murderer. Judging them makes you judgmental too. You rule with your false self not your heart.’
‘I have made Bengal what it is today, an open and inclusive cosmopolitan of commerce and culture. Look at our growth.’
‘Your growth means nothing to me. I live in the Alley among the squalid and forgotten. Your opulence is nauseating, built on the bones of defeated kingdoms. You pursue destruction. You forget that the purpose of life is not division, it is unity.’
The Subedar lowered his head.
‘You killed my father!’ she shouted.
‘This is not what I wanted,’ he said, saturated with her reproach. ‘I am trying to save Bengal.’
‘As if one man can hold back the tides of Destiny. Bengal will rise and fall and rise again, with or without you. Don’t delude yourself,’ said Champa.
‘It is my destiny to destroy.’
‘Not your destiny. Your curse.’
‘My curse?’
‘You were once a Sufi, my Lord. I saw it in your memories. Get rid of Kalinoor. It has cast a shadow on your perspective. Release darkness and let the light of God illuminate. Violence is not the path of Love.’
‘Love?’
‘Dialogue, education, love.’
‘Did you love him very much?’ asked Shayista.
Champa nodded. ‘Did you love Pari?’
‘More than life itself.’ He looked lost. ‘I built this fort for her.’ He began to sob.
This Champa had not expected. The Tiger of Bengal was crying stretched out over a floral tile in his garden? Her anger abated and soon she was crying too.
‘Forgive me, Champa,’ he said. ‘Forgive me.’
She saw the tatters of his separation and the suffering he bore. In the end, he had tried to rescue her and her school. ‘No, my Lord, you need not apologize to me.’
‘Shayista,’ he said. ‘I’m Shayista.’
‘You are Talib,’ she replied. ‘Talib.’
‘With the blood on my scroll, I can never be Talib again.’
‘It is not too late to redeem yourself. Rule not with your sword but your heart. Promise me?’ She lowered her eyelashes and opened his eyes.
Shayista nodded solemnly. He handed her a book he had saved from the fire. The Travels of Ibn Battuta.
‘Marium’s favourite,’ said Champa.
‘I know,’ he replied. ‘I heard you the other day. Thank you.’
‘For what?’ said Champa.
‘You are right,’ he said.
‘And Kalinoor?’ she said, heavy hearted.
‘I will destroy it.’
She nodded, betraying her grandfather whose lifelong quest had been to find the dark diamond.