As the pirate ship pulled into Dacca’s harbour, Shayista wondered how he would get rid of the curse. Adamantine was indestructible but perhaps if he threw Kalinoor into the Buriganga, water would drown out its power. Or would the stone continue to damn him from the bottom of the river?
He bid his friends farewell, having elicited from them a promise to join him for supper, and made his way back to the fortress on horseback. He was puzzling over his dilemma when he detected a sound. He pressed his ear to the ground and ascertained ten horses bearing soldiers in armour, fast approaching.
Swooooooooosh. An arrow cut across the sky. It whizzed by his ear. He was not in the mood to take on enemies alone. He had the diamond to worry about. His mind raced to the Chowk Bazaar gates, the closest Imperial guard post. His adrenal reflexes catapulted him into action.
Shayista leapt with his horse over shanties, scaled the walls and darted through busy avenues, upheaving carts, knocking over pack horses, frightening children, scattering goats. Ducks and chicken flapped out of his way. Passersby gathered to watch. Soon the assassins were in sight: orange-turbaned Marathas.
A few more leaps and Shayista reached the Imperial post where soldiers were stationed. ‘Under attack!’ he shouted.
Imperial officers sprang into action, mounting steeds and drawing weapons. Plumes of dust, sweat and battle cries rang through the air. Musketeers took aim.
‘It’s too dangerous,’ shouted Shayista, stopping them. ‘Too many people around. We must fight close combat.’
The Marathas were not prepared for the ambush. They pulled back to regroup.
Shayista drew Azdahar and charged after them. Another arrow whistled past and impaled one of his soldiers. Then another and another.
Shayista looked up to see a most glorious form silhouetted before the moon: Arjun drawing a bowstring from the rooftop of the Bazaar. He was mounted on a white horse and he had on a black scarf over his face. A leather godhu protected his arm from the bow string on its return. His quiver, red velvet and embroidered in gold, was larger than he was. He gripped the bow in a classic Changal-i-baz, Hawk’s Claw, holding the arrow still, his advanced foot forward for balance. His aim was precise. It was evident he was a master.
The faultlessly executed arrow sailed towards Shayista who watched it, mesmerized. It traced a perfect path towards him and lodged in his turban. Soldiers shot at the archer but he eluded them, only to reappear and resume his projectile assault a few yards away.
‘Cover me,’ Shayista shouted to his guards. Swords and spears clashed above his head as he charged.
When near enough, he stood upon his saddle and leapt onto the roof. The archer saw him and tried to withdraw. Shayista threw a rock at him, knocking him off his steed. The archer fell to the ground. Shayista lunged at him with his sword.
The archer jerked back avoiding the blade which snagged on his scarf and tore part of it off, revealing an astonishing sight: a head full of hair. This Maratha marauder was a woman.
In a moment of confusion, Shayista lost his advantage. The Maratha parried Shayista’s blade with a shield and drew an arrow from her quiver.
‘Give me the Kalinoor and you can ride away with your life,’ she said, her bow taut, arrow aimed at his Adam’s apple.
Shayista didn’t want to hurt her. She sounded young. He whistled, diverted her attention and knocked the bow out of her hand with his steel forearm guard. She grimaced and yelled. He grabbed her wrist and drew her into a gentle bind.
‘The dark diamond is cursed,’he said.
‘Unhand me, you barbarian!’ she demanded.
‘Why do you want Kalinoor?’ he asked.
‘It belongs to me.’
‘Didn’t you hear me?’ said Shayista. ‘It is cursed.’
‘As if I’d believe you, you liar. You killed my mother and now I will kill you!’ She struggled to escape his hold. In the tussle, her scarf fell, revealing her face. It was a conglomeration of loveliness.
Shayista reeled, dumbfound. She was the spitting image of Pari. His knees buckled, he released his grip.
‘Do not pity me because I am a woman. I am as powerful as any man. I am the granddaughter of Shivaji Chattapatri of the Bhonsle clan. You have something that belongs to me. You stole it from my mother. I want it back.’
Shayista could find no words to respond. Could this possibly be his long-lost daughter Miri? Alive? He wanted to hold her in his arms and tell her many things but she jumped onto a horse and escaped. He stared after her in wonder.