On the banks of the Buriganga in the heart of Chowk Bazaar was a tent known as Jannat, Paradise. Under its crimson canopy lounged sinister mercenaries waiting to catch whiff of a golden opportunity. Here merchants could sell stallions from Arabia, camels from Egypt, gems from the coast of Masulipatam, dark secrets, pink lies, promises and primroses by the dozens. Here one could trade in silver, copper, counterfeit coins and scabbards bejewelled in rubies of cherry red. Here one could hire cutthroats to execute with words or swords any brutality for a reasonable price.
In the midspring sun, the tent was sticky. Wafting scents of cinnamon and cloves from the neighbouring spice souk did little to mask the stench of greed. Above the rowdy din of voices floated the melodious duet of a sitar and tabla. A dozen voluptuous dancers strayed from the uthaan to mingle with the chequered crowd. A lanky waiter served almond sherbet and liquor.
Subedar Shayista Khan entered the tent incognito, the hood of his fustian cloak low over his brows. He had eluded his bodyguards and was keen to protect his rare privacy. Only in disguise could he enjoy such freedom. Passing the bulging figure of Sheikh Obaidullah, he slipped him a coin. The inn keeper recognized the Subedar and nodded to assure him discretion.
With a disdainful glance, Shayista took cognition of every person in the tent then sat on a cushion positioning his back to a stack of crates to protect it from hungry blades.
To his right, Ottoman Turks discussed the aesthetics of Mughal architecture and Bengali women. They were trained assassins, he could tell by the way they sat with their palms against their hips, hiding sheathed khanjars, ears alert.
To his left, slaves with peacock feather pankahs cooled the gluttonous flesh of their aged master, Nawab Arifullah, a regional governor known for his penchant for rape. Pudding-faced and drenched in pearls, he looked like a royal oyster with a blond slave boy massaging his feet.
Shayista had prohibited slavery in Bengal to protect people from their own greed. He considered reprimanding the nawab but did not want to draw attention to himself. He was at Jannat to meet his European spymaster. He would send Dhand later to rescue the boy.
The nawab drooled over a dancer, one Shayista had not seen before. She tapped a tambourine against her thigh. Bony and dark, she was not what one would expect. Her face was an expression of crystalline contempt. Her nose was crooked, her eyes unsymmetrical, a purple scar snaked along her left cheek. The nawab seemed helplessly under her spell.
Shayista had not lusted over a woman in twenty years. He tried to tell himself it was his age though he knew the truth was that the only woman he had ever loved was taken from him in a moment of weakness. His wounded hand served as a constant reminder of his fatal mistake.
A waiter placed a hookah encrusted with topaz before Shayista. The Subedar drew in a deep breath of saffron-flavoured smoke. It coated his tongue. His muscles relaxed. He watched the dancer. She was not performing for money. She was a devotee whirling to the rhythm of the cosmos. He admired her dharana. Only with singular focus could one achieve such finesse. They were not so different, she and him.
A dancer danced to the rhythm of song, a warrior to the pulse of enemies. Alas that was where their similarities ended. While art was elegant, dismantling false heroes and upholding the Empire’s sovereignty was rather odious. Yet this task fell to him as there was no one else to take on the burden.
Shayista gulped smoke from his hookah and tried to formulate battle strategies in his head but the dancing girl was a distraction. The bells on her choli jingled. He saw the outline of her rose apple breasts, the undulating curve of her hips. The more she danced, the lighter he felt, nearer to peace, closer to freedom.
A waiter served him a glass of sharab. He let its coolness soothe his throat. From the corner of his eye, he saw two ruffians enter the tent. Dark, brooding men with thick beards, blood caked on their narrow scabbards. White shalwars, orange turbans, cummerbunds glistening gold, they looked like Marathas.
Shayista’s hamstrings tightened. It had been twenty years since he last fought Maratha guerrillas. He glanced at his left hand: pinkie, index, middle finger gone, chopped off at the second knuckle.
The Marathas puffed their chests and flanked the nawab. The larger one spoke. ‘Is this the fierce Subedar Khan? The one who burns Hindus at the stake? Ha! He looks like a bowl of jelly.’
Shayista’s ears perked up. Even if they had gotten hold of the wrong man, even if they had mistaken his political stance (he had vehemently opposed jiziya and the destruction of Hindu temples proposed by Aurangzeb), the most pressing issue at the moment was: how on earth did they know he was in the tent? He ran his fingers over his stubble. Had someone betrayed him?
The fanning servants quailed but the nawab displayed an irreverent disregard for danger, the kind that’s only possible when alarmingly inebriated. ‘Do you know whooo-oo-oo I am?’ he said with such force that he knocked himself over. Regaining balance, he slurred, ‘I’ll have you flog-g-g-ged.’
Shayista rubbed the ruby hilt of his shamsher. He didn’t trust a drunkard to resolve conflict without violence. He had seen too many boys raised on golden milk, swinging from fornication to altercation, reckless and wild.
Royal history was replete with alcoholics: his father, his uncle, his cousin Daniyal whose funeral he had attended. The clammy feel of the prince’s swollen cheek was forever imprinted in his memory. Blue lips, icy hands, stiff fingers.
A piercing scream ripped through the tent. The larger Maratha had yanked the slave boy by his curly hair and with one definitive swipe, severed the boy’s head. Blood spilled out of the boy’s neck and onto the Maratha’s kurta. The child body splattered upon the Persian carpet.
‘We have come for Kalinoor!’ the warrior shouted. He waved the head for onlookers to see: horror frozen on the disembodied boy face, eyes bulged, tongue lolling.
Grabbing the tambourine dancer, the smaller warrior pulled out a double-bladed bichua from his cummerband. ‘Give us Kalinoor or she dies,’ he said to the nawab.
The wavy scorpion dagger hovered volatile below her chin. The girl shrieked. No one dared to move. Stunned, they waited for the lymphatic nawab to act.
‘Kill her,’ said the nawab. ‘What do I care? She’s only a...’
The dancer sunk her teeth into her captor’s arm. He howled and recoiled. She leapt away only to be caught by the larger Maratha. He grabbed her hair and pulled her face to the boy’s bodyless head, eye to dead eye. She screamed.
The smaller Maratha was livid. ‘You whore of Kali!’ he shouted, rubbing his bruise, eyes bloodshot. He raised the bichua to kill her.
Shayista swore under his breath. When he travelled incognito he did not wear chainmail, only his forearm guard. Neither could he carry his Damascan seif. A sword of that magnificence drew too much attention. He had only his shamsher for close combat but the dancer was across the tent.
With a volcanic battle cry, Shayista emptied his glass upon the hookah. A brilliant explosion of blue lit up the room. Shayista hurled the flaming hookah at the Maratha. Before the warrior could comprehend the danger, Shayista leapt to his side and thrust his shamsher into his heart.
The second Maratha was frightened. Never before had he seen a demon emerge from an explosion and kill a man.
Shayista turned to him. ‘You have murdered an innocent boy. Your atonement can only be through your life for his.’
‘Who are you?’ the Maratha asked.
Before the man could receive an answer, the Subedar delivered his imperious judgement, plunging the shamsher into his throat. The man fell to the ground dead. Shayista cleaned his blade on the Maratha’s turban and sheathed his shamsher. The dancer added a few kicks at the dead body for good measure.
‘Y’Allah! What happened!’ shouted Sheikh Obaidullah, panting and sweating from the exertion of running in, pavilion guards close behind him.
Shayista grabbed him by his kurta and drew him near. ‘How did they know I was in here?’ he hissed.
‘Sire, I beg your pardon, I did not see them,’ Obaidullah said, looking darkly suspicious. He fell to his knees and kissed Shayista’s hand with his fat, wet lips. ‘The troublemakers must have recognized your stallion tethered outside?’
Shayista pulled his hand away and wiped it in disgust. The inn keeper was lying. He had come without his horse. But he’d had enough killing for one day. ‘If you ever betray me, I will pluck your eyes out one by one and feed you to my wolves. Now move the bodies out of my sight. And Obaidullah, the music please?’
The obliging host ordered servants to remove the bodies and instructed performers to resume the show. He then led a dazed nawab out of Jannat.
Shayista returned to his seat. A grey mongoose scurried across the carpet and slipped out from under the tent. The crowd resumed its banter but now all eyes riveted on him. The dancer had not returned. The temperature had gone up. His pipe was empty, his glass drained. He contemplated leaving when finally his secret agent arrived, looking sorely foreign despite his shalwar and chapals.
Vroomen Van Diemen’s shiny bald head was white and no matter how locally he dressed, he looked like a flamboyant firingi. Timidly he scanned the room and grinned as he spotted the Subedar. He bowed in a theatrical taslim. His waist coat stretched tight across his belly, the button securing it threatened to pop.
‘What’s the commotion? A tussle on the way?’ he asked, easing onto a cushion next to Shayista. He craned his neck to watch the dancers.
‘No,’ said Shayista. He motioned for a fresh hookah.
‘Bengali women are the finest in the world,’ said Van Diemen. He imitated a dancer’s moves trying to get her attention.
‘Are you drunk?’ asked Shayista.
A waiter relit the hookah and served them a mixture of cashews, almonds, pine nuts, pistachios and raisins on a silver platter, followed by glasses of sharab.
Van Diemen nodded sheepishly. ‘You will be pleased, Subedar,’ he said, reaching for a handful of nuts. ‘I have much to report.’
‘Let’s see if you can keep your facts straight. Really Van Diemen, you must learn to handle your alcohol. You’re a disgrace to the Dutch.’
Unperturbed by the censure, Van Diemen took a sip and began. ‘King Charles is dead. King James is the new king of England. Charles’ bastard son was executed at Tower Hill by London’s worst executioner. It took eight strikes to sever his head.’
‘Were they beheading him with a butter knife? What do I care of English politics? The uncivilised lot don’t even bathe. They have a long way to go.’
‘There’s more, dear Governor,’ said Van Diemen, pausing dramatically. He clapped and whistled at a dancer shimmying by his side. Henna tattoos snaked up her slender back.
Shayista pulled on the hookah. Obaidullah had kindly laced it with opium to redress the damage done. Shayista allowed his body to relax as he released lazy smoke rings. Intimidated by his indifference, the dancer drifted to another group.
Vroomen sighed. ‘Germany, Sweden and Spain are aligning against King Louis. In America, they have chartered a city called Albany.’
Shayista picked out a cashew. It was fresh, come perhaps from the southern part of the province where he had set up an orchard after Costa presented him with saplings from Portugal, cashews and pinapples.
Every variety of delicacy was available in Dacca thanks to the channels of trade he had established, channels his enemies wanted to exploit. Enemies he would crush.
‘What of the farcical Company cullion in Hindustan?’ he said, popping the cashew into his mouth.
‘Lord James is gone. He married a Muslim noblewoman, did the full circumcision and conversion ceremony, then deserted the Company for a holy pilgrimage to Mecca.’
‘If only outer excursions could promote inner evolution,’ said the Subedar.
‘Sir Josiah Child is the new Company Governor. Our lady spy stole this from his pocket. It is addressed to Mr. Charnock in Madras, a Company man.’ Van Diemen handed him a scroll.
‘A lady agent of espionage?’
‘These days there’s nothing a woman can’t do.’
Subedar Khan scrutinized the royal insignia. ‘It says it is their duty ‘to lay the foundations of an English dominion in Hindustan, to acquire possession by force ... come what may.’’
‘Your foolish Emperor doesn’t mind,’ said Van Diemen.
Shayista thrust his shamsher menacingly close to the Dutchman’s neck. ‘Never speak of the Emperor with disrespect,’ he growled.
‘Alright, alright, take it easy,’ said Van Diemen, sobering.
‘The Emperor does not understand the implications,’ explained Subedar Khan. He tucked the parchment into his cloak. Aurangzeb was making a critical mistake.
‘It gets worse,’ warned Van Diemen. ‘Sir Child has appointed Mr. William Hedges as Chief Officer of trade in Bengal. A handsome man, I hear. A virtuouso with the women. O, I am scarce able to recount the unsavory practices of these Englishmen. They petitioned the Emperor for a spot of soil in Hooghly upon which to build a factory house. No sooner was it granted, they constructed a fort, surrounded it with a ditch and mounted a great number of guns upon its walls. How is that in return for hospitality?’
‘English soldiers on Bengali soil? This cannot be true.’ Subedar Khan laughed.
‘The Company’s Secret Committee has requested King James for permission to seize Bengal.’
‘Seize Bengal? What audacity!’ The Subedar laughed even harder. Bengal from Bihar to Orissa, from Assam to Arakan, was his and he had hundreds of thousands of mansabdars protecting it. ‘Like mosquitoes plotting to attack an elephant.’
Van Diemen chewed thoughtfully on a handful of raisins. ‘It is, isn’t it? A tiny Company wants to take on the Gunpowder Empire.’
Most of the world’s saltpetre was produced in Bihar, over one hundred and twenty maunds annually. Saline earth collected off mud heaps and waste grounds where saltpeter developed into thin white effervescence resembling frost was dissolved and filtered through bamboo grass mats and the remaining liquor was evaporated to a crystallizing state in earthen pots. The refined saltpetre, better known as gunpowder, was his. Though it was close to the river Ganga and could easily be transported to Hooghly, Shayista had prohibited its trade. One had to be possessive of strategic resources.
‘I will warn the Emperor,’ said Shayista. Aurangzeb was scheduled to arrive in Dacca within a month. If they had their way, the English would not need to engage in armoured warfare. They would simply suck out their blood through unfair trade. That could not be permitted.
‘Perhaps the Emperor is already aware of the English advances but has not seen it fit to inform you as yet?’
Shayista peered into his eyes. Was Van Diemen holding something back? ‘Company designs on Hindustan are a joke,’ he said in disgust.
‘Everyone has designs on Hindustan,’ said Van Diemen. ‘Just as the Mughals did when Hindustan belonged to others. Sire, you must admit the Empire is imperialism at its zenith!’
The Subedar arched an eyebrow with scorn. ‘Mughals are natural leaders. The expansion of our power is a sign of our benevolence to humanity. We protect Bengali peasantry from the dominion of Afghans and Arakans. We encourage commerce and culture, education and growth. Poetry, music and art are our bastions. We nurture our people. Our sole purpose is not to loot resources.’
‘Who can blame the English really?’ said Vrooman. ‘You’ve turned Bengal into the richest kingdom in the world. You’re an alchemist! Now Bengal glitters like diamonds on the Peacock throne.’
Shayista frowned.
‘Speaking of which,’ continued Vroomen. ‘Everyone knows King Louis wears a Deccani diamond as blue as the ocean. Now King James wants to wear one too.’
‘Kohinoor is not for sale,’ replied Shayista dryly. If he knew anything about the diamonds of Golconda, he wasn’t about to reveal the details to his spy.
‘There is another diamond...’ Van Diemen leaned in to whisper. ‘It is as black as a moonless midnight and as large as a lion’s heart. Merchants say it has mysterious powers...’
Shayista was stunned. Twice in one day? He replied, ‘Why would the Emperor sell such a diamond if it exists?’
Candid from his drink, Van Diemen replied, ‘He doesn’t have it. We hope he can find it. All European sources have failed so far. He is the last hope. Unless you happen to know something about it?’
Shayista narrowed his eyes to scrutinize Vroomen. Was he really as clueless as he seemed? ‘I am not in the diamond business.’
‘The Company offered Emperor Aurangzeb twenty lakh rupees to procure this diamond...’ Van Diemen’s words trailed. A dancer approached.
‘You saved my life,’ she said to Shayista, her head bowed. The margins of her nether lip quivered.
Shayista shrugged. ‘Think nothing of it.’
‘You might have died,’ she insisted.
‘I welcome death,’ Shayista replied, releasing a chain of smoke rings that meandered into the shape of corpses. He noticed a spot of blood on her choli. A sapphire pendant hung between her breasts.
‘I prefer dancing over death,’ said Van Diemen. ‘Want to see?’ He fell back to his gawky moves.
The girl ignored him and studied Shayista’s face. ‘You are not well,’ she said. ‘You need help.’ Her voice was soft, her eyes sharp.
Shayista was startled. This slip of a girl was intrepid. She spoke to him directly, looked him in the eye. She told him to seek help, something even his trusted Chief Commander Dhand would not have dared to do. He glanced again at her sapphire. It had a hypnotic glow.
‘My grandfather can help you,’ she said. ‘Come with me.’
‘I don’t need help,’ mumbled Shayista, trying to tear his eyes away from the pendant.
‘You can help me,’ suggested Van Diemen.
‘Why do men always mask their weaknesses?’ said the dancer. ‘Even if a man is distraught with loneliness, wrecked by despair and tormented by guilt, he’ll tell you he’s alright. It is apparent from your posture, you are morose! Dada is an awliya, a direct disciple of Hazrat Shah Jalal. Let him help you.’
Shayista sat upright, intrigued. A direct disciple?
‘My name is Khadija Fatima Ali but people call me Champa. I am the only grandchild of Pir Zulfiqar Ali,’ she said. There was a pleading in her eyes that could not be disappointed. ‘I owe you my life. Allow me to repay the debt?’
Hardly could he resist her. Shayista was ready to go with her wherever she wanted to go.
‘Wait, we’re not through,’ said Van Diemen, acutely aware of the Subedar’s intention to leave before paying him. ‘The Japanese want more opium.’
Bengal’s intra-Asian trade was mostly opium and its major source was Bihar. The young fruits of opium poppies were incised and their thick juices dried out and cut into cakes. The quality of the resulting opium could be ascertained by its colour. The best grade was brown and the worst nearly red. Bihar’s annual output of opium was 8700 maunds, all of it brown. Shayista sold half and kept the rest.
‘Holland wants to increase its order of tanna-banna silk to 6000 bales,’ continued Van Diemen, trying to engage the Subedar’s interest.
In addition to raw silk, opium and saltpeter, Bengal was a major supplier of cotton and silk. Bengal provided more textiles to European companies than the rest of Asia put together. Some of it was sold in Asia—Japan, Persia, Ceylon—but the bulk was for Europe where the textiles were used for clothing, bed furnishings, table covers, curtains and wall hangings, but these weren’t things he felt like discussing. ‘Come by the fort later,’ mumbled Shayista.
Exiting the tent with Champa, he passed the double-crosser Obaidullah. Shayista knew he should probably kill him right then and there but he didn’t like to spill blood before Zohr prayers.