The next day, Shayista was in no mood for domestic or administrative duties. He would much rather be outside, armed incognito, hunting down enemies but there was no easy way to slip out of the fortress without being seen. He was trapped between Charybdis and Scylla: across the latticed fountains was his wife’s zenana window, beside the pebbled pathway was the Diwan-i-am, Durbar Hall.
The Diwan-i-am was a classic piece of Mughal architecture: serene, spacious and splendid from the outside. Inside was a hornet’s nest of hassles for Shayista to deal with. Citizens from across the province came to the daily darshan to seek his assistance. The hall could contain an assembly of two hundred people and during public hours, it was always filled to capacity. From a plinth covered with Persian rugs, Shayista dictated his verdicts to his Diwan-i-ala, Chief Revenue Officer, Bhopal Singh.
Bhopal was a capable man, practical and reliable. He had served Shayista’s father till he died and then he served Shayista with the same ferocious loyalty. A dwarf by birth, taunted and bullied in youth, he took distinct pleasure in his position of power, upholding equality and protecting the underdogs. Bhopal would gladly die for the royal family but despite all this, Shayista wanted to avoid him. He had too much on his mind.
The Subedar grounded his gaze and crunched his body low, moving in the shadows of bushes to escape the Diwan’s punctilious surveillance. He made it past the entrance and the orchard of mango trees but as he crossed the central water channel, the ghu-ghu-ghuk of a collared dove interrupted his concentrated escape. He glanced at the bird, then back at the durbar, and saw Bhopal at the doorway gazing at him imploringly. Bhopal’s face lit up when their eyes met. Shayista could not in good conscience ignore him. He sulked back to make an expedient appearance at court.
Just then, Nasim Banu glided out of her zenana. She saw her Lord husband and blushed, hiding something behind her back.
‘I see your Highness received the gift from Zamindar Singh?’ said Bhopal, trying to recover the moment from awkwardness. ‘It is from his karkhana in Midnapur.’
Shayista scowled. The bushy-browed aristocrat was a trained warrior known for his ruthlessness both on and off the battle field. What did he want from Nasim?
Nasim Banu seemed flustered. ‘This ... this is a gift for me?’
Bhopal nodded.
‘Please convey my gratitude,’ said Nasim, wrapping the scarf around her neck. She bowed and retired to her room.
Shayista followed Bhopal to the durbar.
‘The Amir ul-Umra, Mughal Viceroy of Emperor Aurangzeb, Governor of Bengal, Subedar Shayista Khan cometh,’ announced Bhopal, his voice booming out of his small body despite his age.
Citizens and guards fell to their knees, heads bowed in respect. Subedar Khan entered the hall. He despised talking about taxes. Nothing could be more tedious.
‘Arise,’ said the Subedar, taking position on the plinth.
Ceremoniously Bhopal brought forth Akbar’s sapphire encrusted khanda, holding it upright in a velvet wrapping, laying it on the pillow next to Shayista. The broad-bladed straight sword was heavy and as tall as Bhopal himself, still he insisted on its presence as an emblem of sovereignty during darshans.
The first supplicant was a shy peasant. Bhopal led him to the stand.
The citizen, crisply dressed in his best kurta, cleared his throat but before he could muster his feeble plea, a voice from behind interrupted, ‘Your Excellency, the Zamindar awaits your counsel.’
Shayista saw him then. Not only were his brows as bushy as before, his mustachio stretched to a curl on his cheeks. With a vainglorious swagger, Shobha approached the stand. His sense of entitlement was irritating. He expected preferential treatment.
‘Wait your turn,’ said Shayista.
The zamindar’s nostrils flared, blood rushed to his face. Never in his buttermilk life had he been subject to such humiliation.
Unable to contain his glee, a grin burst upon Bhopal’s face.
The zamindar would have drawn his sirohi and minced the midget to a thousand pieces if it weren’t for the Subedar’s stern gaze. He twisted the tip of his moustache into a sharp self-aggrandized point.
‘Subedar Khan, Salaam. How are you?’ he said with false intimacy. ‘You have not recognized me. I am your humble servant Zamindar Shobha Singh. I have come to ...’
‘Wait your turn.’ Shayista cut him off.
Shobha smouldered. His left eye twitched. His moustache quivered. ‘Do you mean to say ... Could you be ...’ Seeing no change in Shayista’s apathy, he ended with, ‘Subedar Khan, you will regret this.’ Without taslim, he stormed out.
Shayista signalled for the peasant to speak.
Distressed, the peasant uttered, ‘I weave in a karkhana but we haven’t been paid in months. When we ask for our dues, he threatens to chop off our thumbs.’
‘Who?’ asked Shayista.
‘Zamindar Singh,’ he whispered.
Shayista was not surprised. The muslin weavers of the North were the finest in the world. Fashionable men and women in Europe wanted to wear nothing else but Shobha’s enterprise was based on unfair trade not sustainable local economy. He was selling muslin to the East India Company who then rolled it in hollow bamboos and shipped it to Europe for vast profits without paying tax.
Shayista called Bhopal to the plinth. ‘Execute the zamindar,’ he ordered.
‘Sire, I hate to contradict you but as your Diwan-i-ala, it is my duty to advise against this,’ Bhopal cautioned. ‘Hindus will revolt.’
Only Bhopal who had known him since he was a child would dare counsel him thus. Shayista gnashed his teeth and slammed his fist into the dais. He had to protect the Empire. He would have to find another way to curb the zamindar. Perhaps he could strike Shobha and the Company together. He had banned the trade of saltpetre, why not take that one step further?
‘Ban trade with the English,’ he said. ‘They are a company of foul dealers.’
‘Muslin trade?’ asked Bhopal.
‘Yes.’
‘Indigo?’
‘Yes.’
‘Cotton?’
‘ALL trade!’ said Shayista.
‘Are you sure, Sire?’ said Bhopal.
‘Yes,’ said Shayista. The Emperor would not approve of this but Shayista had to prioritise the wellbeing of his people.
‘Free merchants or company wallas?’ asked Bhopal.
‘Both.’
‘Hookum.’
Shayista noticed the weaver looking lost in the stand, despair etched on his brows.
‘You ... Do you make fine cloth?’ Shayista asked the weaver.
‘Yes Sire, I believe I do.’
‘I want my army outfitted in local textiles. You are hereby commissioned to produce the cloth needed to dress my army for the next ten years!’
‘Your Highness, that’s impossible …’
‘Quiet! I will pay double the market. Fail to deliver and I will have your head!’
The weaver’s eyes flashed as he tried to grasp the possibilities. After a moment of bedazzlement, he bowed and left.
In an aside, Bhopal said to Shayista, ‘Sire, that’s impossible, unless ...’ A new understanding washed over his face. ‘Ah, you want him to set up a karkhana and take on apprentices so that the art is not lost?’
Shayista said only, ‘See to it that he faces no obstacles.’
‘Consider it done, Sire,’ said Bhopal, beaming.
‘Now Bhopal, I leave the darshan in your capable hands. I have other matters to tend to,’ he concluded.
‘Hookum,’ said the dwarf. ‘And the Nauraz, Sire. We will have ten thousand soldiers here to greet the Emperor.’
Shayista thanked him and stepped out. In the garden, a grey-capped woodpecker called tit-tirr, tit-tirr, tit-tirr ... like a mechanical clock. Shayista recalled the pir’s eerie warning. Was Bengal running out of time?