The City of Love full novel

The City of Love Rimi B. Chatterjee The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 1 Copyright © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007. First published by Penguin India 2007. All rights reverted. The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 2 Contents The Beginning ~ 3 The Dignity of Man ~ 4 The Temple of Mind ~ 13 The Hill of Smoke ~ 22 The Fortunes of War ~ 28 The Prize of Stealth ~ 35 The Wisdom of Innocence ~ 42 The Coming of Sin ~ 49 The Dance of Conception ~ 57 The Arrow of Becoming ~ 64 The Sign of Possession ~ 71 The Hours of Awakening ~ 78 The End of Dominion ~ 83 The Nakedness of Being ~ 88 The Tyranny of Strength ~ 95 The Commerce of Secrets ~ 103 The Darkness of God ~ 111 The Power of Blood ~ 119 The Fury of Kings ~ 126 The City of Love ~ 133 The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 3 The Beginning Sailors have long known of it. They never talk about it even if they have been favoured by that rare vision, and these days perhaps it can’t be seen any more. But back in the time when a trader might be in sight of port, his ship heavy with nutmegs, camphor, rice and sandalwood, his eyes squinting against the glare of sunlight on water and his brain buzzing with calculations—back in that time, he might look up for a moment and see a majestic phantom city shimmering upside down in the clouds. Rooted in heaven, it would seem to stretch its rainbow-textured spires and minarets to him, but even as he would have laid his hand on a rope to climb to it, the mirror-city would be gone. And for a moment his rubies would dim, and his camphor smell stale, and even the sea would turn leaden and lustreless, if that city were forbidden to him. ~ A decade has passed since Vasco da Gama landed at Calicut in 1498, and discovered—not India, but a long and arduous way around the horn of Africa to reach the civilised world. Leaving a trail of blood and ashes behind him, he’d landed, wild-eyed and scurvy-rotten, at the city of the Zamorin, ruler of the sea. Calicut was a major nerve centre of the most powerful trading network on earth. On its docks were spoken a dozen languages, and the currencies of two handfuls of nations circulated in its markets. Places of worship, brothels, hostelries, taverns and eating houses catered to every taste and culture, for a port of the spice trade owed its allegiance first to the trade. In the court of the Zamorin, Arab and Malabari merchants laughed at the barbarian’s woolly hats and copper basins. Derisively they ran their fingers through the glass beads he had sought to barter for pepper, while diamonds flashed from their turbans and sapphires sparkled on their fingers. Having knelt in awe at a shrine to Mariamma, Goddess of Smallpox, and said a reverent Hail Mary to her (an understandable mistake), da Gama bought pepper in the bazaars like a madman till the Zamorin turned him out of the city. The hero of Portugal limped home, losing most of his men to scurvy and his ships to the storms of the Cape, but from one shipload of pepper sold in Lisbon, made a profit whispered to be six times the value of his entire expedition. Ten years later, he returned to Indian shores with guns and vengeance. His ships stood off the proud ports on the Arabian Sea and shelled at will. All along the Western Ghats, the esplanades and alleyways that had been fragrant with attar and incense now stank of blood. The merchants were aghast, for what fool would carry arms on a ship? Till then their greatest enemy had been the weather, and the ruler they all bowed to was the logic of commerce, regardless of the many names of kings and emperors stamped upon the coins that circulated briskly from Antwerp to Halmahera— and commerce does not love war. But the hungry men are here, and the times of blood have begun. The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 4 One The Dignity of Man And so it has come to this. I, Fernando Almenara, by birth a Castilian, by adoption a Florentine, trading hitherto under the Portuguese flag, am in peril of death. I lie here in cruel confinement in the dungeon of Sultan Mahmud Shah of Malaka. I have not seen any of my comrades who were captured with me. As far as I have been able to determine it is now the year of our Lord 1510. There is no sign of the fleet of Vasconcellos... Fernando dipped his makeshift coconut-rib pen down to the bottom of the inkhorn hidden in his waistband. The ink was so dilute it left a mere shadow of writing on the parchment, which was the back of the list of merchandise he had shipped out from Hormuz. Beneath it, the cracked binding of his only book, a German-printed octavo, roughened the progress of the nib. He crouched in the pool of light from the small gap near the ceiling of his cell. He did not know why he was writing this testament, or who would read it. It just seemed like the civilised thing to do. There was a thunderstorm brewing: he could hear it in the distance. The light would die soon. Best make the most of it. This misgives me that we will not be saved by the King of Portugal, for we are mostly common sailors and merchants taken in the treacherous sacking of the merchants’ station we had set up here in Malaka. Among us there is of noble blood only Don Ruy de Araujo, and we must hope that his ransom will bring in its wake our freedom. The other fidalgos escaped, including Don Francisco Serrão, saved by his best friend whom my countrymen call Fernando de Magellan. I believe the fidalgos knew of the great jealousy towards us that lay in the hearts of the Moorish merchants of Malaka, and that is why they all left so promptly. The Moors have poisoned the Sultan’s mind with their reports of Vasco da Gama’s cruel treatment of Calicut. Their tales have not taught the Sultan to love us, and he has no doubt had further intelligence from his spies and agents in Malabar. Curse these fidalgos! They are devils to all but the Pope and the Chief Inquisitor, whose feet they lick, and it is we who end by paying for their devilment. I have heard voices screaming in the night, but my faith is strong, and I will not bow my soul before the god of the Medicis nor of the Moors, nor beg for mercy … He paused, and closed his eyes. This was not what he should be wasting his ink on. The sordid machinations of merchants and lords were merely vanities. Instead, he turned the eye of memory to the only happy time he had ever known, in Florence. He had come to that city of art and learning by a roundabout route, trusting to the friendship of a merchant he met along the way: Giancarlo Strozzi, whose family was one of the most powerful houses in Florence. Giancarlo told him stories of the wonders of Florence that made him resolve to try his fortunes there. Fernando had picked up a sound knowledge of spices in the markets of Antwerp, and with Giancarlo’s good counsel he was soon thriving. He chuckled bitterly to himself now, thinking of his beautiful Florentine mansion, his garden with its arbours, his grand counting house and offices. And of Esther, the love he had not been able to save. He had fled Florence just over a year ago, on the eve of war with the Holy League. The exciled Medicis had decided to retake their city from the fledging Republic with the help of the armies of Spain—the men of his own native land. The news of this alliance had thrown Florence into chaos. The Republic was pinning its hopes on Niccolò Machiavelli and his new militia, whom Fernando had privately thought were a bunch of peasants with a sprinkling of The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2006 mercenaries. He had watched them parading in the Piazza della Signoria and guessed correctly that the Republic would fall easily to the alliance of Spain, the Medicis and the Papal States. He knew what that would mean for him. Fernando had brought habits of freethinking with him from the Low Countries. Both he and Giancarlo were members of the Merchants of Light, a secret society formed by rich young merchant princes to study the Hermetic texts and the Kabbalah. At first Fernando had been inclined to scoff. In Spain, the Reconquista had driven all talk of magic and other superstitions deep underground. Antwerp had been freer, but inclined to pragmatism. In Florence, Fernando had somewhat reluctantly joined the circle of adepts to be close to men of power, but after one meeting with their preceptor, Solomon Blanco, his scepticism had fallen away. He had been unprepared for the poetic force of Father Solomon’s teaching. So mild otherwise, when the old man donned his robes and opened his books he seemed possessed by a spirit mightier than Fernando dared imagine. He gave many proofs of its power. Fernando had challenged him to reveal a secret, and in return he had narrated in detail an incident that had happened to Fernando at fourteen, of which he had told no one. Father Solomon told Fernando that greed would be his downfall, but not for gold or spices or anything mundane. This talk both frightened and exalted him, and Fernando took to staying till late, listening to the old mage’s stories or to his daughter Esther playing her lute. He learned over the course of many evenings that Solomon Blanco had fled the fall of Byzantium as a little child; he had lived in Aleppo till the death of his wife and the rmiscarrying of his fortune on the Silk Road. He had then travelled to Florence to throw himself on the charity of former students, including Giancarlo’s uncle. Giancarlo had begged him to teach him and his young friends, and accordingly he had begun to unfold the mysteries to them. Then one evening Father Solomon gathered the Merchants of Light and told them that the Holy League was coming and he must flee. The Republic had reduced the power of the Inquisition, but the coming of the Holy League would give them once again the means to burn their enemies, among whom he stood. Father Solomon proposed to travel to the Holy Land, and once he had found safe haven there, he charged Fernando with sending Esther safely to him. As a newcomer Fernando would be less noticeable than the scions of the big houses all of whom were marked by the Medicis. That night Father Solomon was conveyed out of the city in a shipment of salt pork. Fernando took Esther home, knowing that he would not be able to disguise her presence for long, but hoping that word would come quickly from Jerusalem. There followed a tense time of waiting. The only news was about skirmishes on the edges of the city. Trade was at a standstill, and so Fernando spent more and more time in Esther’s company in his little study at the top of the house, where he had made up a small cot for her. She told him stories of her life in Aleppo. He learned that her mother had been a slave in the harem of the Ottoman Sultan, that she had escaped and found sanctuary with Father Solomon, much as Esther herself had now found safety with Fernando. When Esther was eleven, her mother had received a letter from Aleya, the friend who had helped her escape. Aleya had been accused of treachery by an official of the court and was awaiting execution. Esther’s mother had insisted that they try to save her, but Solomon had said it was too dangerous. From that time on her mother had fallen prey to some strange wasting disease. Solomon had interrupted his studies every so often to try some new elixir on her, but all in vain. Tears running down her face, Esther confessed that in the end she had begged her father to give her mother a fatal dose of opium but he had refused, saying God’s will must be done. ‘I hate him,’ she said. ‘He never cared about us. Even when I was small, he only petted me if I read to him. I don’t think he even misses me now.’ Fernando could find no words to comfort her, and so he had taken her in his arms and kissed her tears away. ‘I am not like that,’ he vowed, as they lay together in the moonlight, on the last peaceful night Florence was to know for a long time. ‘I will show you another way.’ The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 6 Esther’s love and body opened like a rose for Fernando, while he, who had hitherto always been a man among men, discovered places in his heart that he had never known existed. Previously he could barely sit for an hour without turning his thoughts to business, but now he was content to gaze into her eyes, listen to her fears, hold her and tell her he would save them both. But how? It was clear to him that they had to flee. He had the money and the contacts to get them to the Holy Land, but that destination had no charms for him, and she for her part felt no desire to go back to her life with her father. Then one night, sleeping by Esther’s side, he had a dream. He saw light gleaming on water, seen through the fronds of palm trees. He heard the laughter of children. A child brown as betelwood had run up to him, holding out golden nutmegs. He had reached to take them but the child had moved away and said, ‘Help me shake the tree.’ He looked up and saw that the palm tree reached to the heavens. Then he looked again at her and saw that the child had wings upon her back. She had grasped the treetrunk and half-climbed, half-flown into the glare of the sun, like a winged monkey. At this he had jolted upright with a cry of triumph, waking Esther in confusion. ‘I have a plan!’ he told her as she rubbed her eyes. ‘Every day I handle cloves and cardamom, nutmeg, cinnamon, kubeb pepper. The vegetable gold of the east passes through my hands. Surely these things must grow in a heavenly place? Why don’t we go there? I can speak five languages including Arabic, and can reckon in the currencies of a dozen countries. I know spices, dyes, gems, textiles, drugs and simples. Wherever there is a merchant’s station, a feitoria, I can earn my bread. And we have the bread of the spirit, Esther, we have each other. Let’s leave this tainted Europe to the dogs of Rome and find our own liberty in the Orient.’ But Esther had burst into tears. The Orient, for her, was the place that had birthed the Sultan of the Saracens. It was a place where women were bought and sold as cattle, a land of monsters and cannibals, plagues and deadly addictions. In vain Fernando explained to her that the Arab traders spread absurd fables about the Eastern lands to keep Frankish sailors from discovering the sources of their wealth. She would not be shaken. The Orient was worse than death to her. Now their nights were no longer full of love. Sometimes she would weep and he would comfort her, or he would despair and she would tremble for them both. Again and again she said to him, ‘My life has been full of betrayal. My mother betrayed me, because she didn’t care enough about me to live for me, and my father betrayed me because he lives in a world of ink and paper. Now you too are abandoning me.’ Fernando tried to reassure her, but he was distracted that morning by news that two of his fellow Merchants of Light had disappeared in the night, rumoured to have been taken by the Inquisition. If they broke he would be next. Esther asked him to take her as far as the Holy Land and leave her with her father. ‘But you hate your father,’ he remonstrated. ‘Come with me. We’ll make a new life together. Forget all those stories of slavery. I have wealth to ransom us a thousand times. Have you ever heard of a rich man being put to work at the galley oars? You will be perfectly safe as the wife of a prosperous merchant. The people will bow to you wherever you go.’ He could see she was tempted. ‘There’s no more time, Esther. We’ll leave tomorrow for Hormuz,’ he said firmly. ‘We’ll take an Arab ship from there to Calicut. It’s just the right time to catch the monsoon winds. Trust me. This will not only save us, it’ll be the foundation of our happiness.’ The next morning he woke to find himself alone. The mystery lasted only till midday, when a messenger from Giancarlo came to tell Fernando that Esther had denounced him before the Inquisition in return for safe passage to the Holy Land. He had fled within the hour with only a small bag of gems and his book. Fernando scratched a louse from his temple and took up his stylus again. On the last remaining empty space on his bill of lading, he wrote slowly, I destroyed the woman I love. I was blind to everything but my own need. I could have done as she asked, taken her with me to the Holy Land and parted ways like lovers do, but no, I was selfish, I wanted her with me on my adventure. I didn’t want to face this on my own. I forced her to betray me. I forgive her. He hung his head. He knew now that what he was doing was confessing his sins and begging for The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 7 absolution. What more was there to tell? He had lied and cheated in trade, but who hadn’t? The whole episode with the Merchants of Light seemed curiously unreal now. His journey to Hormuz had been in the company of thieves and ruffians, but then he could hardly travel like a gentleman with the Inquisition after him. At Hormuz he had put on Arab dress, polished up his rusty grammar and made contact with Abdul Karimi, his local agent. Abdul Karimi had put together a consignment of Yemeni frankincense for Fernando and ushered him down to the docks to take ship for the East. Fernando’s eyes had grown big when he saw the ship that was to carry him. Its planks were not nailed together but stitched with coir rope running in channels, so that the boards of its sides bulged and caved as the water hit them. It stank of the fish oil and tar that caulked its joints, and the hull was a mere shell in which the cargo was piled around the masts, with wooden slats laid on top. He had tried not to tremble before Abdul Karimi, but marched straight aft to the little reed awning and ducked into its shade. As he turned, an awful sight had met his eyes. Forty Arab horses, their eyes white with terror, had been driven aboard after him. Bracing their legs against the rolling, they had then each cocked their tails and expressed their protest in a river of dung. Even before the ship had weighed anchor, the crew were busy shovelling shit into the fetid harbour waters. Mercifully the crossing was swift. As they came in sight of shore a storm blew down off the blue peaks of the Western Ghats, causing the horses to scream in fear. They were forced to turn away from Calicut and run south to Cochin instead. But as they approached Cochin, the crew set up a worried chattering in a handful of languages. At the mouth of the harbour lay three large black Portuguese ships, bigger than anything anyone had ever seen floating in the waters of the Malabar coast. Each was armed to the teeth with bombards and falconets. Blackened ruins here and there testified to their ‘pacifying’ of the coast. As the crew began to debate whether they should land or turn tail, a Portuguese patrol boarded with cutlasses drawn like common pirates. Fernando’s somewhat rusty Portuguese saved them from a summary execution, and when he had said a Hail Mary to prove he was no infidel, they were told to proceed to Malaka where their horses would be put to good use. They were allowed to reprovision and offload three sick horses, then they left Cochin as part of the supply-ship straggle of Chinese junks, sambuqs and country craft trailing the Portuguese war fleet. He frowned and looked up. The storm outside was growing, by the sound of it, yet the light in his little corner remained bright. He put the parchment in the book and tucked it into his shirt, stood on tiptoe and pressed his cheek to the rough stone. Very faintly he could make out men shouting, the roar of bombards, the crackle of fires. Was that a tang of saltpetre in the air? But now the shouting and clanking was getting closer. The door to his cell was flung open and three men rushed in. They bound his wrists with rope where previously they had used manacles. Someone’s in a great hurry to dispose of the prisoners, he thought as he was hustled into the daylight and through the courtyards. With eyes streaming from the unaccustomed light, he saw smoke rising from the riverside with red fire in it. A jolt of exultation knotted his stomach. Then a stick hit him between the shoulderblades and he tumbled over a threshold. Here were more bound men, their faces so dirty that only their lower eyelids showed the true colour of their skins. He barely registered the rich hangings before another blow dropped him to his knees. Voices spoke in Arabic too fast for him to make out; they sounded angry and scared. Keeping his head carefully lowered, he peered around the room. Ruy de Araujo was nowhere to be seen, nor any of those of higher rank. Not a good sign. Fernando cast a sidelong glance at the man next to him and whispered, ‘What news, brother? Where are the fidalgos?’ ‘Albuquerque has finally attacked!’ The other man spoke to his own clenched fingers, as if he was praying. ‘He’s been here for months, trying to best the Sultan with strategy or threats.’ A herald of sorts was reading some kind of proclamation, with many flourishes. Fernando caught the word for ‘execution’ and the word for ‘dishonour’. He bit his lip. ‘Where are the fidalgos?’ The man gave him a terrified look. ‘I hear the Sultan forcibly circumcised them. They died of their wounds …’ The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 8 ‘What?’ ‘Ai!’ A guard waved a pike over their heads. The herald shouted, ‘The most humble servant of God and of the Sultan, our honoured Shahbandar!’ Fernando raised an eyebrow. What could the harbourmaster want with them? A group of richly dressed Moors entered in a whirl of silk and seated themselves on the dais. Judging by their expressions, they had disagreed about something. Now the Shahbandar was speaking to a neat young man with piercing eyes and a dapper beard, dressed in a dark blue robe and tight white churidar pajamas. The Shahbandar addressed him as ‘Daud’ and waved a permissive hand. Daud raked the sorry little group with a gaze like sunlight through a lens, then began to speak in perfect Portuguese. ‘Frankish scum,’ he said matter-of-factly, ‘It would be the civilised way to release you, but you do not belong to a civilised nation. Your champion Vasco da Gama took a vessel belonging to the Mamluk Sultan of Egypt off Calicut, and tortured, drowned and harpooned five hundred pilgrims returning from the Haj in that ship.’ A faint groan was heard from Fernando’s fellow prisoners. ‘Your first viceroy amused himself by firing the hacked-off limbs of Egyptian martyrs upon our ports from his cannon. This one, Affonso, who petitions for your release, has had innocent traders flayed alive for selling their spices to the highest bidder. For centuries we Moors have traded peacefully in al-Hind, and no merchant vessel has ever been obliged to carry guns. Now tell us why we shouldn’t learn by your example and bind you to Malaka’s ramparts so that you may take your comrades’ cannon shot in your Frankish bellies?’ A murmur of consternation and pleading rose from the bound men. ‘Well?’ the Moor asked briskly. ‘Does anyone have a reason? Gold is preferable, but gemstones of good water will do.’ They looked at each other. Trembling, one of the men extracted a gold crucifix from his breast and held it out in his bound hands. Daud broke the chain with a jerk and threw it across the room. He whirled. ‘Is that all? You! What are you hiding?’ He strode over to Fernando and, with a speed that almost stopped Fernando’s heart, struck his chest and tore his shirt away. The book tumbled to the ground. White-faced, Fernando watched Daud pick it up and open it. The boy chuckled. ‘Ah, a heretic as well as a brigand. No wonder you were quiet as a mouse in your cell. Ahem.’ He struck a pose and declaimed in passable Latin, ‘ “Legi, Patres colendissimi, in Arabum monumentis, interrogatum Abdalam sarracenum...” Well, well, a wharf rat like you carrying Pico della Mirandola’s Oration on the Dignity of Man. That’s not something you see every day. What’s your name?’ ‘Fernando Almenara, of Castile.’ ‘Oh, a Castilian among the Portingales? I thought it was illegal for foreigners to trade under the flag of Lisbon.’ ‘I am no wharf rat, sir, only an orphan of a great house fallen on hard times.’ ‘Aren’t we all?’ Daud patted his shoulder, then snarled in Portuguese, ‘The rest of you scum. Turn out your pockets: men like you always have a cruzado or two in unmentionable places.’ He snapped an order to the guards. A little pile of valuables, mostly rings and crucifixes, began to grow in front of the impassive harbourmaster. Fernando got the impression this move wasn’t his idea, but presumably this Daud had some kind of power over him. Daud turned back to Fernando like a tiger returns to its kill. ‘Well, my learned Platonist, while your friends give up their substance for the greater glory of God, let me translate for you the words of the divine Pico into your own tongue.’ He continued in Spanish, ‘“I have read, esteemed Fathers, in the ancient texts of the Arabians, that Abdullah the Saracen, on being asked what, among the many wonders of the world, was to him most admirable, replied that there was no spectacle more marvellous than man.” Well, here I am, Senor Fernando, Daud Suleiman ibn-Shams al Basri, the servant of god come to tell you of the wonder of man.’ He bowed in a graceful parody of Florentine manners. ‘Well, Castilian,’ he went on under cover of the book, ‘are you particularly anxious to die for the King of Portugal?’ Fernando squinted at him. ‘I don’t want to die for anyone.’ The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 9 Daud passed a tiny bottle to him. ‘Drink it now, the magic will have you flying out of here like a bird.’ As Daud strode forward and barked at the guards, Fernando sneaked a glance at the bottle. It was wrought crystal. He didn’t trust this sharp young Arab, but his future didn’t hold a lot of hope otherwise. At least if it were poison it would be a quicker death than the Sultan’s pleasure. He put it to his lips. It felt like a red-hot river plunging down his throat. He fell to his knees, clutching his throat with a dreadful ululation that he only dimly realised was coming from him. Water spurted from his eyes and nose; an arc of vomit splattered the floor. The nobles screeched in dismay, the guards around him jumped back in dread; even his comrades made the sign of the cross. Daud yelled over the jabber of fear and horror, ‘I am a physician. These are the symptoms of a deadly humour that kills a man within six hours. Give me leave to take him away before he ruins your carpets.’ The harbourmaster waved an agitated hand. Daud jerked Fernando, red faced and yowling like a wild animal, to his feet, and hustled him outside and down the corridor. There he took a pillbox from a pocket and crammed a dark green bolus into Fernando’s mouth. ‘Suck on that and be quiet.’ He took Fernando’s bound hands and dragged him across the courtyard. ‘Your churl Affonso has turned Malaka into a hornet’s nest. He’s fired the bridge that links the palace with the town; the shops on it are burning like damned souls. The news gave that Shahbandar the flux: I had to dose him with opium. Ah, we’re at the gate.’ Daud spoke imperiously to the guards, who looked with fascinated horror at Fernando’s greyly sweating face, then moved aside and bowed. ‘All right, now walk slowly till we’re out of sight.’ Fernando couldn’t have run if he’d tried: he stopped around the corner to throw up a foul green liquid and curse fluently. Daud drew an ornate dagger and cut his bonds, then grabbed a handful of his ragged shirt and hauled him on through the deserted streets. ‘Where are you taking me?’ Fernando asked hoarsely. ‘To our ship.’ Two rough-looking lascars had come out of the shadows and were walking on either side of him now. Daud spoke rapidly and they picked Fernando up by an arm each and bundled him down the hill. Unsure whether he was being rescued or kidnapped, Fernando tried his best to stumble along between them. As they passed through the turmoil-ridden city, an assortment of cutthroats appeared out of alleyways and taverns and fell into step in skilled silence. Bearing Fernando by relay, they left the din and smoke behind. Had they looked back towards Malaka now, they would have seen the silhouettes of caravels against the fires engulfing the bridge. No doubt Albuquerque’s ship, the Flor del Mar, was among them. The river below was clear of ships: the larger ones had fled, the smaller had sought out channels in the swamps to hide in. By now everyone knew what a square-rigged vessel on the horizon meant. On the stone embankment a dark man waited in a dinghy with the painter looped between his hands. They all piled in, and the brigands each took an oar and skimmed the shallow boat out of the river’s mouth. Grapeshot from a passing caravel fell dangerously close but the men barely flicked an eye in its direction. They reached open water, set the dinghy’s tiny sail and headed out into the Straits of Malaka towards Sumatra. Presently Fernando groaned. Daud poured a little water into his mouth, then supported his head as he opened red-rimmed, bleary eyes. ‘Look! You wouldn’t want to miss your first sight of the sweetest ship in the world: the Shaan-e-Dariya, glory of the sea!’ Through the clouds of pain Fernando saw, growing ever higher as they approached, a white choir of shark-fin sails soaring into the sky. Then the vision blurred, and his head fell back again. Fernando lay in the cabin where they had dumped him, sliding in and out of consciousness, exploring his pain like a miner mapping a dangerous gallery. They had given him a bitter drink that had cooled his throat and brought on the diarrhoea. An unsmiling lascar had taken his brimming chamberpot away without a word, replacing it with a new one. In the light from the lantern swinging on its davits he had noted the chipped Florentine scrollwork around its rim, but rather than remind him of home it only dismayed him the more. What kind of men would own Florentine chamberpots in this wild desert? None of the possible answers gave him sweet dreams. The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 10 Around midnight two lascars hauled him to his feet without bothering to wake him first. He was hustled on deck to the big stateroom in the stern castle. As he entered the circle of light his heart sank again. All around him was the gilt magnificence of some shipwright’s workshop in Venice or Naples. The Shaan-e-Dariya was booty: rejigged in the Moorish fashion for brute speed and precise handling, but packing all the falconets, bombards and swivel guns that a European ship could command. This room comprised the deck level of the stern castle of what had once been a caravel. And it was filled with men. Some sat around the table, some lounged against the walls, others squatted on the floor. They wore a curious melange of clothing from all the corners of the earth. The informality didn’t fool him; this was clearly a parliament and court of law before which he was to be tried for his life. ‘Welcome,’ said a big gingerish man like a slab of animated meat, seated in the centre at a table bearing three neat piles of paper and a gold inkstand. ‘I am captain of this ship, and we have some questions to ask you. I trust,’ he added politely, ‘that you are now well enough to speak? We apologise for any rough treatment you may have received.’ Fernando’s head reeled. ‘I am at your disposal, signiore,’ he said thickly. ‘It now falls upon me to request you to tell us your name and history, after which we will extend to you the same courtesy and make you an offer. While we carry out this duty, you will excuse us if we bind you to the chair, which you will note is bolted to the deck. This is merely a precaution.’ Deft hands bound his wrists and ankles to the chair. Forcing down a panicky feeling that he was going to be sick again, Fernando tried to clear his head. ‘Whether or not you accept our offer, understand that you must never again refer to what we tell you tonight. If you do, we will be obliged to crush your skull with all it contains.’ ‘Can I not refuse to hear?’ Fernando broke in tremulously. ‘Why can’t you just let me go, or pitch me over the side and let me take my chances?’ ‘You’re our prize from the wreck of Malaka,’ said Daud’s voice. ‘Since your companions hadn’t enough on them to ransom a gnat, I felt it acceptable to persuade our captain that we might cheat ourselves out of your price in the slave markets of Chittagong.’ Fernando’s heart sank. Pirates and slavers. ‘Tell us who you are and how you came here,’ said the captain. Fernando licked his dry lips and tried to match the big man’s tone, but all he could manage was a low croak. ‘I am Fernando Almenara, of the Andalusian town of Seville. My family was gentle but poor. At the age of sixteen I went to Antwerp to make my fortune, and there I traded in spices and the products of the New Draperies. In my twentieth year I came to Florence, where my fortunes increased. But I rashly wished to trade first hand in spices, for the initial profits on pepper, for example, are at least six times the outlay… am I boring you?’ ‘Not at all,’ said the big man, picking idly at the table with a knife. ‘Do go on.’ ‘I took ship from Hormuz for Calicut, but our vessel was impounded by a Portuguese fidalgo with letters of marque from King Manuel. He insisted he was the agent for something called the Estado da India, with authority over all of Portugal’s trade with the Indies …’ ‘Yes, we know what the Estado is,’ growled the big man. ‘Continue.’ ‘The fleet journeyed to Malaka. Initially the Sultan smiled on us, so we set up our feitoria. But we were taken and held as surety against peril from King Manuel I of Portu …’ There was an audible snigger. Then Daud said, ‘My poor Castilian friend, your captors called you Bangalih Putih, the White Bengalis. They had no notion of your Portugal, your Castile or your beautiful decadent Florence. Since then I have helped poor Sultan Mahmud revise his intelligence of nations and taught him a new word: Frangi, Frank. I doubt he will survive long enough to benefit from my instruction.’ His smile vanished. ‘You godless Franks are destroying the trade with your greed and guns. Just for that we should gut you like a goat.’ Fernando regarded the exquisite Persian carpet at his feet. ‘I am not a Frank,’ he said mildly. ‘My native land is an enemy to the King of France. And I had no part in the war. I am a simple trader.’ The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 11 ‘Do you take us for fools?’ Daud snapped. ‘Simple traders do not carry Basel-printed octavos.’ Fernando stared at him in amazement. ‘What do you know about printing?’ ‘Not enough. I know it is a Chinese invention that you Franks have been monkeying with. Never mind that. What is your interest in the secret knowledge and how far have you been instructed in it? Answer promptly, this is important.’ Fernando blinked. ‘What secret kno...?’ He jumped in his restraints as the knife slammed into the table. ‘Answer as if you are asking the Black Dragon himself to let you pass through the gate of heaven.’ ‘I have read parts of the Zohar in the company of a marrano, a Jew turned Christian, my father’s friend, who taught me Arabic. I have read all of Pico’s Magical Conclusions and Johannes Reuchlin’s The Wonder Working Word. Friends in Antwerp introduced me to Pico, and my one regret is that I was born too late to see Florence before Girolamo Savonarola’s bonfire of the vanities. Nevertheless in the city of Machiavelli I pursued my interest in the Hermetica in the company of a secret group of adepts, under the tutelage of a very learned Jew.’ Fernando opened his hands. ‘That is all I can tell you, good sirs. I wish it were more, but heresy is not well liked by the Medici Pope and the Medici King.’ ‘Hmm. Have you read Ibn Khaldun? Ibn Sina? Or the divine physician Ibn Rushd?’ barked Daud. ‘Avicenna and Averroes, as you Franks barbarise their names,’ he added more kindly at Fernando’s blank look. ‘I have heard discourse of them from my teacher, who told me that the East hides much knowledge. I wish to learn…I am quick of mind…’ ‘Pshah. You know nothing. You have no practice. As for your quickness of mind...’ Daud flapped a hand and turned to the captain. They conferred in whispers and seemed to come to a decision, then the captain went on, ‘Very well, Fernando Almenara, now you will hear who we are, starting with myself.’ His eyes flashed in the lantern’s light. ‘I am Sheikh Alamgir Hussain, of Granada in the dar al-Andalus. I was the son of a prosperous Morisco merchant of the Sultanate of Granada in the time of Sultan Mouley Hassan, but that great realm, as you know, fell to your countrymen in the Reconquista of the year 1492 of your reckoning, and all of my people put to the sword by you Castilians or forced to turn Christian. My father was murdered and my mother and I sold into slavery. I was then thirteen years old, but with three years of watchfulness and cunning I made myself free and escaped to the Barbary coast. I sailed for a time with the Englishman Hassan Ali, a corsair of Aleppo, but had words with him one day and decided my fortunes lay in the East. By common consent of the crew of the Shaan-e-Dariya, I am captain of this ship.’ He nodded at the dark man who had been their pilot on the way back from Malaka. ‘This is Nayakam, once a slave forced to fish for pearls in the oyster beds off Cape Kumarin, who killed his master with his bare hands and stole the exact number of pearls his father had died to procure. He is first mate at present.’ Next to him was a tall man with deep-set green eyes and fair skin. ‘This is Zain-ul-abedin of Kosovo, a former janissary in the court of the Osmanli Sultan Bayezid of Turkistan, now our quartermaster and armourer. This is Nani Lascar, our pilot, who knows these seas better that his wife’s breasts, and whom the Malays call Short Dagger. This is Johannes van der Groot, once a chorister under the patronage of the Duke of Burgundy, whose brother was torn by wild horses for saying that he loved to read Cornelius Agrippa of an evening, now our second mate. This is Haji Mohammed Shahriyar, who was branded with a red-hot iron cross seventeen times by Da Gama’s men before he dived overboard and swam to safety with his feet tied. This is Shwe Bin, once the most feared Magh pirate of Arakan, who killed three of our strongest crewmen before we forged a truce and became his comrades. This is Mahesh Shreshta, once a trader and diplomat of the great port city of Dabhol, whose family killed the woman he loved. This is Ilemameka Kano of Benin, who trained as a shipwright in Tunis and escaped a Portuguese slaver off the shores of Madeira. This is Joaõ Noronha de Covilha, once a priest of the Order of Christ, who wrote a book on Hebrew grammar that was burned in the marketplace of his hometown. This is Wang Chung, whose The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 12 ancestors were pirates on the island of Java, but were driven out four generations ago by the great Chinese admiral Zheng Ho when he sojourned with his mighty fleet of floating fortresses at Malaka. This is Kan-Kata of Harikela, who deserted from the army of Ismail Sharqi …’ the names rolled on. Fernando eyed the arabesques of the Persian carpet. Would these men care if they spilled his blood on this masterpiece that was worth at least a thousand florins on the Rialto? Perhaps they had so many such carpets they could wipe their swords on them. Or perhaps they would garrotte him, kill him cleanly … He shook off his trance as Alamgir said, ‘As you have no doubt surmised, Frangi, we are pirates as well as traders. When business is slow we make prizes of ships and their crews from our home port of Chittagong, taking care to spread our attentions equally between all nations. All of us have chosen this life. The men call me captain by sufferance and should they ever desire to replace me I shall step down in favour of their candidate. This goes for all of us who officer this ship. Everyone gets an equal share of the booty, and officers get an additional quarter-share if the men feel they have deserved it. Two shares are reserved for our fund against injury and disability, on which we each have equal claim. All matters are decided by vote. We welcome men of ability, especially those who know medicine, shipbuilding and cookery. You, as a Frank, will have no knowledge of the Greek masters, so you are unlikely to make a good assistant to our physician Daud. But we have heard much of Florentine delicacies, so I think you should celebrate your first month with us by serving in the galley. We are on shipboard about five months of the year, otherwise we live in Chittagong. The city and its realm are officially ruled by Sultan Hussain Shah of Gaur far to the north in Bengala,’ there was a general chuckle from the assembly, ‘but in truth Chittagong is the place where three powers meet. To the east there is Dhanya Manikya, the idolater king of Tripura, and to the south there is the Magh king Min Raza, also called Sultan Ilyas Shah, of the kingdom of Arakan. We find it necessary to be careful of all three. We have no priests: each man worships in the faith that to him seems most meet. The penalty for any kind of god-bothering is death. I say this because you Franks are often very stupid about this.’ Fernando blinked. In the silence that followed, Alamgir asked irritably, ‘Well?’ ‘Ask him directly,’ Daud said with forbearance. ‘Fernando Almenara, will you join us?’ ‘What if I refuse?’ he croaked. ‘You will be sold in the Chittagong slave market,’ said Alamgir Hussain, ‘where no doubt a wealthy Magh will buy you for his estate and you will live out your life yoked to a plough, for, look you, the Maghs follow the Buddha and abhor cruelty to dumb animals.’ The knife in his hand flashed with peremptory brilliance. Fernando had an impression of guns beyond the lantern’s light. ‘In that case … I accept.’ They made him read and sign the three copies of the charter that lay on the table in front of Alamgir. As they untied his feet from the chair he fainted. His oblivion lasted until dusk the next day. The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 13 Two The Temple of Mind ‘So Malaka falls to the Portuguese, curse them,’ Alamgir said. ‘Now there’ll be no sailing the Straits in peace. It’ll be round the southern coast of Java instead. Two weeks more on shipboard per voyage. That’s going to make my wife mad.’ Daud nodded. ‘Prices will go up all over the Bay of Bengala. As if that wasn’t enough, Albuquerque’s destroying the Arabian Sea too. He’s captured a little village called Goa in the land of the Peshwa. No doubt he’ll build a fort there and choke the trade of the west-coast harbours: Dabhol, Bhatkal and places like that. Pretty soon only the Frankish ships will be allowed to carry the trade, and you know what that means.’ ‘Huh. They’ll use their cannon on us if we try to grapple and board,’ growled Alamgir. ‘These Franks don’t pack enough limes to keep their teeth in their heads, but they fill every crevice of their tubs with gunpowder.’ ‘We need another Shaan-e-Dariya. Then we could flank their ships, draw their fire, and board at once from both sides.’ ‘I like that plan,’ Alamgir slapped Daud on the back. ‘Now you figure out how to bag us a caravel from under Albuquerque’s nose.’ They were on the sterncastle top with Nani Lascar, who was piloting them past Patenga Point and into the Karnaphuli river. The river’s mouth appeared from the sea to be only a shallow cove in the shoreline, but in fact its course turned sharply northward out of sight behind the point, making a headland that enfolded them softly from the hazards of the sea. Flanked on both sides by jungles thick as fleece, the river curved round in a great hook eastwards to the anchorage of Chittagong. Dotted across the main channel of the river, ships and boats were making way. Nani Lascar raised his voice in one of the fishermen’s songs his people loved to sing. Johannes van der Groot, who had sung under the great master Dufay in the choir of the Duke of Burgundy, joined his bass voice to Nani’s tenor, singing the Chatgaiyya lyrics with perfect enunciation, the result of much practice and profanity in Nani’s company. On either side of the vast channel the jungle climbed into the sky. Close to the shore there were palm trees gleaming in the sunlight, with above them the softer foliage of the rolling hills. They were now passing the guardhouses by the iron bollards to which were attached the massive underwater chains that could be raised to defend Chittagong from attack by water. A system of gears and a team of strong bullocks on either side worked the machinery, and the guards were adept at raising the chains at exactly the right moment to stove in a hull. But now the huge links lay quiescent and unseen on the riverbed. ‘Those chains won’t stop the Frankish ships,’ Alamgir said thoughtfully. ‘Those beasts are carvel-built: their planks overlap so tightly they can stand a good beating.’ He patted a stanchion. ‘As can our Shaan-eDariya.’ ‘We still have the advantage of local knowledge. The Flor del Mar went down with all hands off Sumatra, you recall. And no wonder: Albuquerque loaded it with every slave, coin, jewel and spice he could loot from the Sultan.’ ‘And then he floats off on a little raft for the Estado to rescue!’ Alamgir thumped the taffrail with a fist. ‘Even the sharks couldn’t swallow such a bitter morsel.’ ‘Our captured Frank would’ve been down there with the spoils of Malaka if I hadn’t stolen him first,’ Daud said. ‘When I got to the palace the Sultan had already pardoned the merchant scum, but I felt it would be amusing to see what their lives were worth. And lo, our Frank The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2006 carried a treasure greater than rubies.’ ‘Where is it?’ asked Alamgir. ‘The book, I mean.’ ‘Oh, I gave it back to our boy. What?’ Daud opened ingenuous hands. ‘You persist in branding me a rogue, Alamgir, but I would never wrong a fellow sadhaka.’ ‘I don’t know why you run after all that idolater nonsense,’ grumbled Alamgir. ‘No good will come of it.’ Daud merely smiled. Up ahead lay the dockside suburbs of the sprawling city itself, following the natural slope of the many low hillocks on which it stood, with the storehouses and workshops by the riverfront on bamboo stilts. Beyond them rose the bright domes and minarets of Chittagong’s mosques, the governor’s house, the mint, the treasury and the white roofs of richer merchants and factors. Over the water came the cheerful stink and bustle of a city dedicated wholeheartedly to commerce. A careened ship in a dockyard was like a whale’s back, dark from a fresh application of best Burmese pitch. Other vessels clustered their furled sails around both quays. Palms rose between the houses, stooping over their reflections in ponds fed from natural springs. Upstream of the city the river’s course twisted, reaching into the mountains that held its source. Far away, a slope gleamed with a square of fire, laid by the hands of some jungle tribe who would sow cotton and gourd-vines and rice in the soft ash. On the wharf Bairam Khan, the town’s head customs official, was waiting to greet them, having been alerted by the lookouts. Alamgir presented him with a carefully edited manifesto of the takings, legal and otherwise. They had a long understanding as to what was to be put down in the name of the Sultan and what was to lie buried in the flourishes. Alamgir let the man have a brace of rubies gratis and some well-prepared paan from his silver box, and sent him away with a passably rich load for the governor. In Chittagong, piracy and trade lived in a happy if not quite holy state of matrimony, with only the kind of quarrels long-time bedfellows might have. As they were turning back from seeing Bairam Khan off, Daud happened to look into the shadows by a warehouse. A tall man in a dhoti was watching the ship keenly. Daud frowned: the man’s face seemed familiar, yet also out of place. The thread across his chest proclaimed him a Brahmin: a rare sight in Chittagong, so probably an immigrant from further north. The ash marks on his forehead suggested he was a worshipper of Shiva. Without taking his eyes off the man, Daud touched Alamgir’s elbow. ‘There’s that alim who was down here watching us when we took ship. I don’t like his persistence. You deal with the rest of the cargo: I’ll follow him, see where he goes and report back at sunset.’ ‘Spying again, O restless one?’ growled Alamgir without rancour. ‘Stay out of sight and come back soon.’ But Daud was already gone. ~~~ Bhairavdas strode away from the ship, full of a sick disgust so visceral he could taste it in the back of his throat. So it was true, as he had feared: these filthy creatures were living in the city, infecting it with habits from every cesspit of the world. Who was the red man with the yellow hair? Did he have some kind of skin disease? How was it that he could sing the songs of the land so well? That meant the traitorous locals had befriended these lepers: perhaps even now they mingled their seed with them. A horror filled his bowels: some things are so unclean they should not even be pictured in the mind. Shankardas jumped when Bhairavdas touched his shoulder. ‘Have you finished loading the boat? Let’s go, I’ve seen all of this sinful place I want to see.’ ‘But Dada, I thought we could …’ ‘We are leaving, Shankar! Don’t forget that Indrani is near her time. We have all we need for the puja: this is our last chance to pray for an heir to the temple duties. There’s no time to waste. Get going!’ Bhairavdas glowered at his brother. Shankardas did as he was told. He was fair, plump, aged twenty three to Bhairavdas’s thirty The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 15 one. Visits to the city were a rare treat; he had been looking forward to it for days, and to be cheated out of it so quickly cut him deep. But he couldn’t argue with Bhairavdas’s reasoning. ‘It’ll be nice to have another child around,’ he murmured, ‘a little companion for Parvati, Kamala and Durga. I’ll teach him how to get mangoes down from the trees with a catapult. I’ll...’ ‘You’ll do nothing of the sort,’ snapped Bhairavdas. ‘My son will be a yogi. He will redeem our name and wipe off the taint of our flight from Gaur. He will help me purify this putrid land of false practice. He won’t have time to shoot mangoes with you. And you should be more diligent in your duties, Shankar. Stop rolling your eyes. In the four years we’ve been here, your insolence has only grown. It’s bad enough that you didn’t complete your initiation before we had to flee, so at least show some understanding of the problems we face here.’ ‘Whatever you say,’ Shankardas said tranquilly, and began humming a tune he’d heard that morning in the Chittagong bazaar: ‘O Hari, in the city of your love I am enthroned/ Although my tattered sari trails in common dust…’ ‘Stop that!’ Bhairavdas’s voice split the air. ‘Are you a dirty cowherd-worshipper, that you profane your mouth with that nonsense?’ Shankardas sighed deeply. ‘It helps the rowing, you know. And Dada, you may blame the Vaishnavs for our exile, but please could you stop calling them names?’ Bhairavdas’s eyes narrowed. ‘Shankar, you think a few sugarpuffs of doctrine will do you no harm? This world is full of dark forces, and among them are those peddlers of perversion. We are on a holy mission here, and I will not have you jeopardising it and endangering your own salvation.’ Shankardas sighed and got busy with the oars. ‘Next time,’ he muttered into his shoulder, ‘spend some silver and hire an oarsman.’ Bhairavdas stared rigidly ahead. As each bend in the river threw another arm of land between him and the city, he felt one blade of fear and hate fall away from his throat. Oh that witch Kumari! It was all her doing, his exile in this fastness, his lack of sons, his having to endure this fool of a brother. Bhairavdas had once been a priest of Gaur, right hand man to his father, who had managed the largest Shiva temple in the city. Bengal was ruled by a Muslim Sultan, but much of the nobility were Hindu, and thus the temples and their wealth had a hand in court politics. Sultan Husain Shah, presently on the throne, had gained it by throwing out the Abyssinian palace slaves who had ruled Bengal for seven years before him, and the new Sultan had needed much gold to set his kingdom to rights. After an abortive attempt to conquer the northern kingdom of Kamata, in which Bhairavdas’s father had earned the Sultan’s displeasure, Sultan Husain Shah had set his sights on the rich temples of Orissa. Since he needed money to wage his campaign, he had sent for Bhairavdas’s father and offered him the chance to restore his standing at court: pay for the campaign against Orissa and all will be forgiven. Bhairavdas’s father had been about to agree when Bhairavdas had respectfully stood up before the Sultan and said, never. As astonished eyes turned, he went on, ‘The Vaishnavs run the temple of Jagannath in Puri. They worship Vishnu as we worship Shiva. They are our brothers. We will not pay to shed their blood or steal their gold.’ There had been one perfect moment of silence, and then a babble had risen from the massed ranks of nobles. The Sultan had frowned. Bhairavdas’s last glimpse of his father had been of him on his knees, head bowed, before Sultan Husain Shah. His father had flicked a desperate hand behind his back and Bhairavdas’s companions had hustled him out of the court. He did not know what words his father had said, for Bhairavdas had gone straight to the temple of the sevikas to find Kumari, his teacher, and tell her everything. She had told him to flee, and he remembered the clutch of cold at his chest when he realised that she was right. To remain was to invite reprisals: if he fled perhaps his father would be saved from the kings wrath. But no matter: he had begged Kumari to come with him, for in that moment he had had a vision, of her and him together, indomitable allies and masters of the tantra. What Sultan would send his might against such enemies? But she had not only refused, she had mocked him to his face, called him a fool and a child and sent him away without a thought. To this day he hated Kumari with a visceral passion stronger than love. Forced to flee only The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 16 with the weaklings who depended on him, his wife, brother and three daughters, he had by stages come here, to Gajangal in the realm of Chittagong. Here Bhairavdas had encountered a setback. Gajangal was a new, raw village carved out of the forest, peopled by dull peasants with a few exiles and misfits like himself. The forests were infested with tribes, each led by a powerful witch. When he attempted to raise a temple to Shiva for the linga which he had stolen from his family’s shrine, the tribes came in the night and knocked it down. In retaliation Bhairavdas had thrown himself into magical warfare. He had stood in the blazing sun for days, arms raised, eyes fixed unflinching on the sun’s disc, willing the god to protect this holy place and punish his enemies. Periodically the tribes would come and set burning bales of wood around the bamboo frame practically under his nose while he hurled mantras at them like bombshells. Then he would rebuild and his austerities would begin again. This went on for two years. During that time Indrani had wept like a woman widowed, until one day she had run all the way from home to where he stood in the field by the temple and shook her fist in his face. ‘We must have a son!’ she had screamed. ‘You may have burned away your karma with your penances, but who will put the fire to my corpse when I die? Who will tend your precious temple when you are gone?’ That had broken his trance; he had returned, reluctantly, to the life of a householder, and to a less intense state of conflict with the foresters. But at least now the tribes left his temple unmolested: in that, he thought, his magic had been successful. If all went well, this child would strengthen his hands. ‘We must go straight to the temple,’ he told Shankardas. ‘We can’t afford to waste a moment.’ ~~~ Indrani watched the rice boil with dull eyes. What a good idea it had seemed at first, when night after night her bed had been empty beside her, to go and make the one appeal that would pierce Bhairavdas’s armour of renunciation. But, spurred by the desire for a son, he had not returned to her as she had imagined he must. Instead he had taken to standing all night under the pipal tree in the courtyard of their house to conjure the universe for an heir, coming in with the watery sunlight trickling through the walls of matting around their bedroom to force her legs apart and have rapid, mechanical sex with her. Bhairavdas was by training and inclination a yogi: to let his seed fall was to him an unpardonable weakness, and she knew what it cost him to break that rule and syringe her with a few drops of himself. He would spend the rest of the day in atonement, and she too would pray to her household gods that her nights would cease to be long vigils ending in this ritual. But there was no child. Until one day her eldest daughter Parvati had gone to a friend’s house in the village and there met Tara, who had come to cure a sick woman. Tara had been persuaded with difficulty to come to the back gate of their house (all the forest people knew of Bhairavdas’s temper) in order to give Parvati herbs for her painful courses. Then Indrani had shyly asked if Tara had magic for the making of sons. She had winced at the coarseness of Tara’s reply, but her hand had been steady as she had dropped her gold chain into the witch’s palm for the little packet of black paste. She had waited three months to be sure, as joy and terror wrestled each other into a seeming calm, then told Bhairavdas that she was with child, spurring him to a new round of austerities. She was left to push her growing belly around in front of her emaciated frame as she took out her anxieties on her moon-faced daughters. Her neighbours came and rubbed her aching sides with warm oil: they knew the importance of an heir to stake one’s claim to the soil. Indrani knew with what sly satisfaction they would celebrate if it was a girl, or something worse: a monster child. She swore her daughters to secrecy about Tara’s charm, and took to performing purificatory pujas every time a jungle-dweller’s shadow crossed her door. Pregnant at a time when she had been almost resigned to old age, a sense of secret sin pursued her everywhere. She took courage and tried to lift the great pan of rice from the fire. The girls were such silly children still; they were sure to be careless about draining it properly and saving the rice-broth for the cows: she felt her usual rage at them. A strange light-headedness gripped her, then a flowing The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 17 inside her as if a sea was retreating. She let go of the pan. Parvati screamed and jumped clear as the boiling rice flooded the floor. She grabbed her mother’s shoulders and pulled her away from the hissing mess. ‘Ma, Ma, what is it?’ ‘It’s coming,’ Indrani gasped through a tightened throat. ‘Help me outside, the hearth will be polluted. It’s coming now!’ Her daughters gathered anxiously around her. ‘Quick, Kamala, Durga, help me to the cowshed. Parvati, go to the jungle people’s settlement and bring Tara Ma. Make sure no one sees you! Then run to the temple but don’t disturb your father until the puja is over!’ They hoisted her to her feet. ‘Parvati, when you return, bathe thoroughly and fan the hearth fire; it must never go out. You’ll have to manage by yourselves: I’ll be impure for days! Ohhh, Ma, Ma, Ma!’ She had never known the pains to come so hard, so close together. As she struggled over the hot stones to the cowshed, each foot left a print of birth-waters that steamed in the sun’s rays. Doubled over, she staggered into the dark miasma of the cowshed, collapsed on a bale and began stroking her belly with an insistent motion. Not for the first time she felt the true magnitude of their exile — this loneliness, this terrible abandonment from civilization, ringed about by snakes and savages and uncouth gods. She moaned. If only she hadn’t asked that witch in the jungle for help! Then the pain took her in its gigantic fist again, and the blood-mist filmed her eyes. It seemed like an age before Parvati returned, in tears. She had looked everywhere in the village up to the edge of the jungle, but when she had come at last to the mouth of the dark path among the trees that led to the jungle people’s longhouse, her courage had failed her, so she had brought with her ... ...a thin little girl with a bundle on her back. Indrani opened red eyes. ‘Why, this is the washerwoman’s daughter. What use is she? You were supposed to bring me that Tara ...’ She stared at the creature, whose limbs were like sticks of wellburnt charcoal, with self-possessed black eyes shining out of a round face haloed in wiry hair. Hardly more than eight years old, with a scrap of cloth round her waist. Clearly in Parvati’s terrified eyes one jungli was as good as another. The girl turned to Parvati. ‘Bring wood and make a cooking fire; boil some cloths in the water. No time for herbs. Why is she in the cowshed?’ Parvati stared at her. ‘That’s where women go to give birth, or the whole household will be polluted! Don’t you know that? We’ll have to go bathe after this anyway.’ The girl shrugged, hauled her huge white bundle of clothes off her shoulder and, with some distaste, found a clean spot outside to set it down. ‘There’s no time to call Tara,’ she said calmly, passing deft fingers over Indrani’s belly. ‘The child is crossing the womb-door. Both of you stay here and help.’ She looked intently at Indrani’s shivering body. ‘The baby will come any minute now. Its head has crested the birth passage. You must relax.’ Indrani screamed, ‘I’m dying! I’m dying! It’s a devil! The witch has tricked me!’ Her legs kicked wisps of straw into the air. The girl grunted. ‘Stop frightening the animals.’ She stripped off Indrani’s sari and laid hands on her belly, below the red welt the cloth had made in her swollen flesh. Squatting before Indrani’s sex like a woman fanning an oven to get it alight, she examined it to her satisfaction, then caught the woman round the armpits. ‘Hold my shoulders. Lean against my head and push!’ Indrani grunted; her nails made eight deep crescents in the dark skin that quickly bloomed with blood. The girl took no notice. Every so often she wrung out a new cloth and held it against Indrani’s sex; her fingers delicately stretched the flesh. ‘Come,’ she crooned over her spread hands, ‘Come to Bajja, little one.’ Then a red hemisphere bloomed inch by inch at her fingertips like the sun rising upside down. In the doorway Parvati and Kamala watched, appalled and apprehensive. ‘Maaaaaaa!’ With a convulsive heave and a rush of blood the child was born; the girl saved it smoothly from the fetid floor. She put its squalling mouth to its mother’s breast. Indrani’s eyes flew open. ‘The cord! Who will cut the cord?’ The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 18 ‘Don’t worry about that. Give suck. The afterbirth will come more easily. See how hungry he is? Hold him.’ ‘Him?’ Indrani looked down as the girl gently sponged the blood from the tiny body. ‘Mahadeva! After so many years finally I am a mother!’ Bajja said nothing, merely cast a look at the daughters crowded in the doorway. She felt the cord to see if it still pulsed, then wound some thread round it. She drew a flint dagger from her belt, washed it in the boiling water and cut the cord after the ligature. ‘Keep the wound clean. What are you doing?’ She struck away Kamala’s hand. ‘Putting cowdung on the stump.’ Kamala said nervously. The girl regarded her for a couple of seconds, then spat with viciousness into a corner. Kamala fled. Bajja wrapped the afterbirth in a cloth to take away, stood up and shouldered her bundle. No one looked at her as she walked out the door. Behind her, Indrani began to sing a wavery little song. ~~~ Bhairavdas stood before the entrance to the temple. In the moment before he began to work up the trance state that would carry him into the worship, he saw the reality of it, the rough bamboo beams, the straw thatch, the plain mud-brick walls. He pushed the sight away. At morning worship in the Shiva temple of Gaur where his father had served before him, he would have proceeded in state through many ringed courtyards, each defended by exquisite carvings of its designated guardians whom he would praise on the stations of his journey. For as he moved inwards to the final sanctuary he would in actual fact be climbing the many levels of Mount Kailasha, appeasing and glorifying the hosts and powers that inhabited it, until at last he would arrive at the summit, to the garbhagriha, the innermost womb-room that held the most sacred image of Shiva, a plain stone linga. Here, there was only a wall and a single courtyard to protect the garbhagriha, with a few clay bas-reliefs fired with the stolen wood of the forest. Nevertheless, he stood before the doorway and summoned his yogic powers to visualize them, investing each cubit of the beggarly porch, as he paced with mincing steps to the sanctuary, with sparkling circles of walls crowded with Shiva’s attendants. Here were the keepers of the directions, the spirits of the winds, the celestial workmen and weapons-makers who served the god, the overseers of human pleasure and pain, the strong young soldiers and the serving girls. Then came the pure beings set by Shiva to rule over the entire impure realm, intercessors and protectors; and the older gods of the Vedas. Bhairavdas was not quite treading the earth of the village now. Around him glittered the mindcreated temple of his vision, far more glorious and awe-inspiring even than the one in Gaur, and only dimly through it could he see the real physical wall, drab and undistinguished. He paused a moment by the Nandi bull. In those first months of struggle he had had it carved by the best workman he could find from the only piece of stone the people could procure for him. Here he drew upon all his powers of sight and praised the most exalted attendants of the great god, Shiva Mahadeva, prayed most humbly that they extend protection and permission for him to approach the god himself. At the threshold he began his ritual of self-purification. Only a Shiva could worship a Shiva, so he would have to awaken the divinity in himself. He felt the tension in his flesh as he readied himself once more to take the awesome charge of the god’s power. This was why he still drew breath: the great majesty of the ancient ritual that gave him a glimpse of godhead. As he had been taught when just a lad, and as he had done nearly every morning of his life, he began through the concentrated power of his mind to collect and reabsorb the various elements of his subtle body, his linga sarira. These were the subtleties of the universe: smell, flavour, form and colour, touch, and sound. They controlled and created the gross elements that made up his physical body: earth, water, fire, wind and ether. One by one he entered each of the realms of the five gross elements and gathered its impurities in a net of mantras, absorbed lower into higher and gross into The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 19 subtle, until they rose step by step through the chain of being, chakra by chakra. He felt the enormous lightness of purity raise him so that he looked upon the meagre earth with the amazement of a giant. All fetters had fallen away from him; his consciousness erupted like a fountain through the mystic opening in the top of his head where the third eye looks upon heaven and earth. He felt the pang as the thousand-petalled lotus in his head opened and washed him in its streams. Then he began to create for himself the body of mantras that would act for him during the worship. Upon his thumbs, he imposed the mantra of Ishana, which grants grace. On his index fingers, the mantra of Tatpurusha, which veils the truth for human eyes to bear. On his middle fingers he imposed the bright Aghora mantra, antidote to darkness, his own secret name. On the ring fingers he imposed Vama, which grants stability for it invokes the woman, and on the little fingers Sadyojata, controller of emission, source of creativity. He further protected them with the mantras of the Weapon, Armour, Crown, Head and Heart. Then, with his purified hands which were now instruments of godhead, he imposed their powers on the chakras of his body. Shankardas had brought the food and bathing water for the offering. In the two master pots Bhairavdas slipped the two remaining diamonds of his store. He purified them with the Weapon mantra and protected them with Armour. Then he envisioned Shiva’s mighty court, his attendants in their due order, their stations, powers, duties, excellences, like an unfolding lotus whose petals divided and subdivided as the effulgence of the god crafted itself into particular beings. He called down Shiva into the linga from the vivid heart of this panoply, humbly begging him to grace it with his presence out of love and pity for human limitations. He knew the exact moment when the god descended. Then Bhairavdas began his ritual service, bathing, feeding, entertaining, pleasing the god. At the appointed time he knelt and made his prayer, visualising the radiant figure of a babe, his little sex clearly visible, imagining the flames of the ritual fire that burned before him to be chubby baby hands playing with the offerings of the future. But the wide realm beyond the brightness was tugging at his head: he felt the yearning as for a lover for the day he would ascend into that nothingness. He had only ever touched it once, when his guru had showed him what lay beyond the realm of flesh. He felt that pull again, the desire to melt into that realm where minds had no boundaries, but just as his feet seemed to leave the earth his fetters bit into his being, and he knew that he would not leave today. There was still karma to burn off, goals to reach, promises to keep. He sat humbly before the god and thought, with this poor stuff I serve you, for evil times have come and the barbarians from Turkey and Arabia and the Afghan lands and even further places of horror and savagery have brought their pollution into our motherland. You protected us when we left Gaur, and I vow that if you smile upon me today you will taste the sweetness of the finest service from my own flesh and blood, taught with the best of my wisdom and devotion. So, my Lord, I ask of you this one thing only to serve you better. At last when all was done Bhairavdas opened the door for the splendour of the god’s presence to leave them, reversed the mantra of invocation and felt the deep wrench of the godhead leaving the stone. Then, retracing all the meticulous steps he had traversed, he divested himself with care of his divine body. Exhausted, he sank back once more into the everyday existence of a bound and enslaved soul. His last act was to palm the two jewels that had lain in the gods’ bathing water. Shankardas seemed to sag slightly when the puja was over. Bhairavdas frowned. Shankar always found it too easy to get back into everyday mode. ‘Go outside and see if any of your nieces have come with news.’ Parvati was waiting by the temple gate. Shankardas caught her round the waist and tickled her. She squirmed, giggling. ‘Shankar Kaka! Stop it!’ ‘It’s just that your face was so long I thought you’d step on it. Why are you hanging around here? Has it happened?’ ‘Yes! We have a brother, and you a nephew!’ Excitedly she threw her arms round his neck. ‘Ah! Behave yourself. The old man is in a curmudgeonly mood. I’d better tell him carefully.’ The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 20 ‘Ma is going to name him Chandu, for he is fair as the moon.’ ‘Name him?’ Shankar muttered uneasily. ‘I don’t think your mother is supposed to …’ But he stopped, for the speed with which the smile deserted Parvati’s face meant that Bhairavdas was at his shoulder. ‘I have a son?’ ‘Yes …’ ‘It is all the grace of god. Come, Shankar, Parvati, let us give thanks to Shiva Mahadeva.’ ~~~ Nine months later, there was drumming in the village. A feast was going to be held in the priest’s house. His son, the baby Sadashiva whom everyone called Chandu, was to be weaned. Bajja, doing her rounds with her bundle of clothes, heard the drumming and looked thoughtful. The next day she changed her loincloth for a sari dyed with yellow juice from flowers gathered in the forest. Its colour was bright and glowing, and Bajja used her skills to get rid of the creases. Her head held high, she walked the dusty road to the farmers’ village. She was going to claim the wages of her labour. She was used to the idea of wages; she had learned that left to themselves, the big people often went for months without paying for her services. She had discovered the hard way how to get her dues out of them. This was no different. The priest’s house had been decorated with garlands of fragrant flowers. Her tribe-sisters Jogni and Heruki had made those garlands, a cowrie shell for each. They had been counting the money when she left the forest village. She could hear many voices inside the house. She hesitated at the front door, then went round the back to the opening in the fence which the cattle used, closed with a piece of bamboo sheeting through which she could see many shapes moving in the courtyard; women, by the colour and texture of their cloth. She recognised a few saris she had refurbished recently. Then a horrible sound rent the peaceful, fragrant air: the full-throated, taut-lunged yell of a spoilt child. Immediately the women milled and hurried like an anthill that had had a stone thrown in it. The yell came again, louder, longer. Women’s voices chirruped anxiously between waves of sound so strong they seemed to tear the air to shreds. Bajja stuck her fingers in her ears and leaned forward, trying to make out what was happening. Then she saw him, his little arms waving stiffly like an ant’s antennae, his eyes invisible, his mouth a great, red-rimmed gape. Around him female hands flapped and fussed, female voices twittered. Six different soothing rhymes were crooned. Toys were shaken, bowls of milk displayed. And still the yells came till it seemed like the tiny body would burst open from the sound inside. Bajja softly trotted forward. The press of bodies around the woman holding the child was almost solid, but she merely slipped under their elbows till she appeared before Indrani, who stared in complete bafflement at the black and yellow spectre. Without a word Bajja took the bundle from her arms, turned and wriggled eel-like out of the crowd, through the gate and into the road. Too stunned even to scream, Indrani stood there, her shaking finger pointing after the girl and a strange mewing coming from her throat. The press of people was so thick that at first no one realized: then, appalled, they rushed out after her. Bajja walked with a tranquil pace, the bawling child in her arms. When the women caught up with her she frowned and shook her head at them. Afraid of what she might do, the women fell silent. Behind them, in the house, a shrill keening arose. She came to an open space under a large tree, and stopped. Dappled light and shade fell on the child in her arms. She lifted him till his ear was level with her mouth. ‘Kalu,’ she whispered. ‘Look at the pretty leaves.’ Her walking had lulled him, the air on his face had cooled his heat. He was only whimpering now. She held him up. The movement made him open his eyes. Gurgling, he opened tiny fists and grabbed the sunlight. Oblivious to the frozen faces all around him, he stretched his tiny arms to the sky and chuckled. The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 21 When he’d had his fill of the light Bajja lowered him, turned and began walking back. Halfway to the house Parvati ran out and snatched the baby from her. ‘Witch!’ she screamed. ‘Never, never set foot in our house again!’ The child began to cry once more. Bajja regarded Parvati’s anger-darkened face with amusement. ‘Don’t suffocate him. He only wants to breathe.’ ‘What do you know about it? Get out of here and never come back.’ ‘I want my midwife’s fee.’ This time her voice had knives in it. Parvati took a deep breath through the press of fury in her throat. She fumbled at her waist, took out a few cowries and threw them at Bajja’s feet. ‘Go!’ she said. Bajja stared up into Parvati’s face with a cool, impassive gaze, stooped and picked up the shells. ‘You are very gracious,’ she said, with a mocking bow. Then she vanished, her feet kicking up dust as she sped like a storm-cloud along the road towards the jungle. In Parvati’s arms, the baby’s screams turned his face purple all over again. The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 22 Three The Hill of Smoke Fernando tipped a bucket of peelings into the river and watched gloomily as the water boiled with shining fish. Had he known that joining a pirate ship’s crew meant labouring daily over a temperamental earthen stove in the communal kitchen, a lot of his terror would have evaporated, or at least changed texture. He was staying in the meetinghouse where all their accounts were kept and those men who did not have families lived and ateabout a third of her 170-strong crew. Khizr Khan the cook had set him to learning basic Chatgaiyya as well as the use of the local culinary weapon of choice: a vertical knife shaped like a swan’s neck attached to a block of wood over which one squatted with the sharp edge facing one, called a boñti. The novelty of this was that he could use both hands to chop things very fast and accurately, although it took some practice to catch the pieces neatly in his right hand as Khizr Khan did. Fernando was glad that the comparative poverty of his childhood had inured him to sitting on the floor, but even then he had to get up every couple of hours to stretch his legs. Khizr Khan’s other method of cutting, using both hands with the knife held between first and second toe, was beyond him. Every so often a practical test of his linguistic skills would be carried out by a foray into the local bazaar. Khizr Khan bargained with fierce good nature with the pedlars and barge-women, sometimes commenting about Fernando and making them laugh, then scowling in a friendly way and saying in the bastard Arabic that was their lingua franca, ‘Learn quick, Frangi, so you can share the joke!’ Fernando was beginning to distinguish the different stations and communities among the local people. The genuine locals, the Chatgaiyyas, had broad, flat faces and large eyes. Of those who lived in the city many were sailors, and these called themselves ‘lascars’: some in fact had served on all the major routes of the Indian Ocean and sprinkled their conversation with words from a dozen seafaring tongues. The village Chatgaiyyas came from the jungle settlements with food and forest produce of all kinds to trade for metal goods, cloth, salt, spices and tools. Men and women cultivated the land equally, but they had no fields such as he was used to: the people travelled certain territories, burning the jungle and sowing their crops among the half-destroyed tree stumps: when harvest was done the place was left to revert to jungle till next sowing. The city and its surroundings held three main kinds of immigrants. The most visible were the people from the kingdom of Arakan in the south, whom the locals called ‘Maghs’. They were mostly delicate-featured with high, flat cheekbones, richly though simply dressed in sarongs and jackets. Many of them had vast estates around the city, cultivated by the many slaves they captured, since they preferred to take their prisoners alive; there were specialist Magh slavers who raided southern Bengal regularly to supply Chittagong’s slave markets. The Maghs traded in gemstones, spices, silks, dyes and costly drugs by secret routes into Ayuthaya, capital of the King of Siam, Champa on the Mekong river and Pegu in south Burma, or sent their goods north to Gaur, Pandua, Sonargaon, Satgaon in Bengal. They traded by sea too, to Coromandel, Malabar, Serendip and the South Sea Islands. They were Buddhist but spoke Arabic as well as their own language and sometimes had Muslim names as well. Khizr Khan told him that was because many years ago the then king of Arakan, Min Sowa Mun, had been driven out by jealous nobles and had taken refuge with the sultan of Gaur of the time, Azam Shah. It took nearly thirty years and two major changes of dynasty before Jalal-ud-din Muhammad Shah, son of a Hindu usurper, agreed to finance a military campaign to restore Min Sowa Mun to the Arakan throne. That sojourn in the court of Lakhnauti impressed Min Sowa Mun deeply, and he took many Muslim ways and Bengali habits back to his land. Khizr Khan showed Fernando some Arakanese coins: The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 23 they had Buddhist motifs on one side, and the kalima, the Muslim expression of faith, on the other. One side bore the name of Min Raza, the other his Muslim name, Ilyas Shah. The second category of immigrants comprised the Turks, Afghans, and Bengali noblemen who served the Sultan. There were surprisingly few of them, mostly record-keepers, revenue men, customs officers and overseers of the mint, with a small but highly trained army in barracks just outside the city. Many of them did business on the side with shares in merchant ventures and cuts from pirate raids. They all did their best to stay in Chittagong city rather than be sent to the network of garrison towns that stretched southwards to Ramu on the Arakan frontier; there were no profits to be had there, only endless skirmishing with fierce Maghs and jungle people. There were also Bengalis who had come to this eastern fastness as immigrants from places further north and west. They were a very mixed group, resembling the Chatgaiyyas somewhat though some of them could be as sharp-featured as the Arabs. They mostly lived in little colonies on the edge of the jungle, cultivating land with ploughs and oxen in the manner of plainsmen. Few had come out of choice: if it was not war that had thrust them here it was a river’s shifting, or a family feud, or a devastating loss of caste. Khizr Khan tried to explain to him the complex hierarchies of their society, but it was hard to make out from their dress and accoutrements who was high or low. Khizr Khan told him their language was different from the local tongue and promised to teach it to him once he had mastered Chatgaiyya. And lastly there were the assorted foreigners who inhabited Dianga on the south bank of the Karnaphuli. There were Lascars, Maghs, Malays, Burmans, Siamese and islanders from the scatter of little isles reaching into the South China Sea as well as the flotsam of all Europe, North Africa and the Arab world. They were all sailors or connected in some way with the disposal of merchandise; they traded and preyed on the ships of rich Chetty merchants under the protection of the King of Siam or the powerful Mopla traders, Indian descendants of seafaring Arabs settled for generations on the Malabar coast. But some merchants’ ships were never touched; they were the ones who had understandings with Dianga and paid a consideration for their immunity when they called at Chittagong. Sheikh Alamgir Hussein’s title was not honorary: many of the Arabs of the community looked up to him as a leader and arbiter of their personal disputes, and (rather to Fernando’s surprise given his comments on religion) it was Alamgir’s voice that called the faithful melodiously to prayer each dawn from the minaret of Dianga’s mosque, at least when he was on shore. When he was off on his raids his son, a boy of fourteen with dark hair and skin and startlingly green eyes, stood in for him. Fernando had never seen Alamgir’s Bengali wife: she was rumoured to be very beautiful. There was also an Eastern Orthodox church run by an elderly Byzantine, but no Roman church and no priests. He knelt and swilled the bucket out in the river’s clear water, thinking bitterly of his vague imaginings of how he would visit the cities of the east like Marco Polo. But perhaps Marco’s reputation for tall tales was well deserved. He straightened his aching back with care and turned, to be confronted with the sight of Daud sauntering casually along the quay, the dark plum silk of his flowing kurta and his thick gold belt a sharp contrast to Fernando’s soiled serge shirt and britches. A beautifully crafted dagger was tucked into his waist. ‘Leave the bucket here. You and I are going for a walk.’ ‘Why? What iniquity are you going to involve me in now?’ ‘I’m simply going to explain the iniquity you’re in already. Put it down. Alamgir Nakhoda has given you leave. Don’t fret, jaan, just come with me.’ Fernando let himself be led up the hill, away from the river. Narrow country boats with barrel awnings and sharply raked stems and sterns moved lazily upon the water’s light, carrying produce to market or taking the day’s profits back to some village. Sometimes they could make out the rangy figure of a boatman, twisting his oar in fluid sunlight. In the distance white sails glowed. They walked through the busy streets until the houses thinned out and the woods began to close in, taking the river away from them. The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 24 ‘Well, tell me.’ Daud did not answer at once, then he said slowly, ‘Our position here is difficult, as you may have noticed. We have to deal with the powers around us delicately. Hence until you are sufficiently acquainted with the state of things, we keep you out of the glare of day.’ Two vertical lines appeared in Fernando’s brow, then he nodded slowly. ‘I understand that. Khizr Khan has been showing me the town. I can see it sits upon a knife-edge. It’s a refuge for renegades and a rich prize for any ruler that can seize it.’ ‘You’re right, jaan. There are rumours of war brewing to the east. Tripura is harrying the western borders of the Sultan’s territory, just a few days’ brisk riding from here. The king, Dhanya Manikya, has already encroached on the frontier. The sultan is sending an army to cut him off before he can turn south towards us, for if he takes Chittagong he will have gold and jewels to finance his war to the gates of Gaur.’ ‘Will we fight him if he attacks the city?’ ‘Bless you, no. We’ll pay him off, then spread our hands in injured innocence when the Sultan retakes the city. We owe allegiance to whoever holds the sword at the moment.’ Daud grinned. ‘And there’s more news. Your impetuous Albuquerque has torn down Malaka’s mosque and used the stones to build a new fort called A Famosa: the Famous. No doubt he wishes us to take adequate notice of his coming to the Indies.’ Again the sidelong look. ‘Do you regret that you weren’t there to greet the victors?’ Fernando shrugged. ‘My lot has been cast with yours. I could have fallen in the attack and never seen King Manuel’s flag upon the battlements. And I am a Castilian, not a subject of Lisbon. Who knows how Albuquerque would have treated me?’ ‘Wisely spoken. You might also have gone to your death in the Flor del Mar, which now lies at the bottom of the Straits with all souls except Albuquerque whom God has reserved for some different fate. But my friend, a word of advice. If you wish to live in peace here, remember you are no longer a Castilian. We have no allegiance. Call us freeholders of the commonwealth of Dianga.’ ‘Freeholders of the commonwealth of Dianga!’ Fernando repeated slowly with a smile. ‘You certainly have a way with words. No one would think we plunder and kill and enslave for a living, listening to you.’ Daud shrugged his thin shoulders. ‘The merchants of Hormuz grow rich because your countrymen pay king’s ransoms for handfuls of mouldy peppercorns. Isn’t that why you took ship for the Indies? Isn’t that why Albuquerque has spilled rivers of blood in a little village called Goa on the coast of the Marathas? Before that he attacked Chaul and Dabhol, but was repulsed. Evidently he’s a man who can’t face going home empty-handed to his king. But fret not! Capturing a port is only a means to an end. If he doesn’t turn a profit his head won’t be worth a pound of ginger to Lisbon. He’ll be another failed adventurer, like Columbus.’ ‘You think so?’ ‘Certainly. Your Columbus made so royal a fool of your Queen Isabella that, flushed with the triumph of having destroyed Alamgir’s people, she gave the Genoan trickster three ships crewed by condemned men to sail westward to the Indies! And with the luck of Shaitan he finds a piece of grassland fit only for your Aragonese sheep herders and whoops that he’s found the Spice Islands.’ ‘But where is the proof that he lied to Queen Isabella?’ Daud’s eyes glinted. ‘If you will know it, then study the ancient Greek texts, or the Book of Routes and Directions of Ahmed ibn Majid, or the Rehla of Ibn Batuta, or the works of Ptolemy that are unavailable in any Frankish school of learning, nor will be while the elders of Byzantium and Rome are so sure that the science revealed in their Book is true. You Franks do have a handful of wonderful arts, some far superior to anything we’ve yet produced, yet your science and mathematics would disgrace a child of six. You build well, but only because masons are lowly scum beneath the notice of your church’s enforcers.’ ‘I know something of that,’ said Fernando carefully. ‘It was not just trade I sought out here, but also The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 25 freedom.’ Daud gave him a sidelong, speculative look. ‘Why did you flee Florence, jaan? From what kind of danger? Come now, you can trust me, I am no Christian.’ Fernando shrugged. Daud went on. ‘Do you think I don’t know how matters of the mind are in Christendom? Tell me, how many Franks came to Baghdad to read the texts of Aristotle and Plato and Pythagoras and Dionysius in the Sultan’s library, ah? Just two, and the brain of one was rotten with mercury from his infantile obsession with the elixir of life.’ ‘I know that. Hence I—’ ‘Hah! The Franks will never read unless they wipe the mud of Christendom from their eyes. Pico’s defenders have died martyr’s deaths; Cornelius Agrippa wanders the German countryside, for no town will harbour him. If only I could send a band of trusty men that far, I’d kidnap him as I did you and bring him here.’ Daud’s eyes danced as he waved his arms, sending plum-coloured gleams into the forest’s shadows. ‘What we have thought till now was the sum of ancient knowledge is only a drop of nectar fallen from the store. The source of it is here, I know it. I have talked with magicians of this land. You know the Tree of Life, and the power of the Sephiroth?’ ‘Of course. It is the essence of the Cabala. The ten Sephiroth are the emanations of the names of God, which come together in the Tree of Life that patterns forth all human existence. Here, I will draw it for you.’ And Fernando took a stick and made marks in the soft Chittagong soil. Daud seized his hand. ‘Notice there are three channels running from top to bottom. The central, from Kether, Crown, to Malkuth, Kingdom, via Tiphereth, Beauty and Yesod, Foundation, is the most powerful. On the left, Understanding, Judgement and Glory join in one, and on the right Wisdom, Lovingkindness and Victory. The magic of this country has a similar pattern. The scholars say there are three channels, Ida, Pingala and Susumna, that run through chakras, or wheels, at different levels inside the human body. They meditate to wake consciousness from the lowest chakra and make it ascend to the highest. You can’t imagine what power this gives them! I’m translating a secret text called the Vajrachintamani, the “Diamond of Wisdom”, but it is fiendishly difficult. One of these days I’ll show it to you.’ ‘They let you see their secret wisdom? How can you know they won’t trick you?’ ‘Trick me!’ Daud seemed to be tracing with narrowed eyes the path of a column of smoke that rose above the forest canopy on the summit of the hill. For a long moment he was silent with a look of absent mischief on his face, then he gave a little grunt and nodded with satisfaction, tapping his leg with Fernando’s drawing-stick. ‘You are quite right, jaan, I can’t possibly know if I can trust them. But perhaps you can help. Come and meet my teacher and judge for yourself.’ ‘What?’ But Daud had turned and was making his way up a path hardly wide enough for goats. Fernando followed. The going was rough and he had to keep a sharp eye out for thorns and hidden branches, so he was taken entirely by surprise when a little clearing opened suddenly in his face, disclosing a high wall with an ornate gateway that framed a small black temple like hands unfolding on a secret. The thin column of smoke rose from the temple’s summit. Daud silently beckoned him to the gate. At first he thought she was a living woman. He almost ducked with a heart-spasm of fear from the great blade she held in one black hand, her broad face turned deliberately to him as she stood over her victim, but his moment of terror dissolved in confusion when he saw that she had three other hands. A beat of time later his eyes told him she was stone, but so highly polished her naked limbs had the same lustre as the darkest damsels who came to the wells for water. She had the wide fine shoulders of a hunter, the flaring hips of a runner, the narrow waist of a most powerful lover, and under her feet lay the supine figure of a man, foreshortened in the bas relief to show his matted hair cascading over his upflung arms. He seemed limp as a corpse until Fernando realised that between her taut conqueror’s feet there rose from him, pointing unerringly at the centre of her womanhood, an erect phallus. In Florence he had had a friend, well known for his celebration of the flesh, who had commissioned The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 26 a fashionable painter to cover all four walls of his bedroom with a continuous fresco of the rape of the Sabine women, each a huge bifurcated pink pillow twisted in every attitude of abandonment under the ferocity of the Roman soldiers whose metallic lusts chewed them like candy. That fresco had never stirred him. Now this stone woman, centuries old with a face like a pancake and eyes so long they seemed to end in her temples, with her hatchet and her flensing knife and her gory trophies, made him feel for an instant a sharp and absurd sadness that he had not been born to lie at her feet. ‘That is their Hieros Gamos, the holy coupling that endlessly creates and destroys the world.’ Daud said quietly. He took Fernando’s arm and steered him round the great upright slab of the carving. The back was smooth but unfinished, and certain dents suggested it had been torn from a larger structure and dragged here. As booty or salvage? He had no time to speculate, for Daud was taking him inside. A fire flickered in the low square altar. By its light a figure crouched, and when she raised her head he drew a sharp breath. This was an old woman, unlike the young queen in the carving, but there was enough of a resemblance for him to think for a mad second that she must have been the model for the sculpture. Daud knelt by her and touched her feet, and she raised a hand and stroked his hair. Then she looked at Fernando. Her long eyes regarded him with a fire that he failed to recognise, in his awe and fear, as the mark of a ferociously focused intelligence. ‘This,’ Daud whispered, ‘is Dhumavati.’ Fernando willed himself to stand quite still as she placed her hands on his head. They felt heavy and warm, like a man’s hands, with an energy in them like dry wool in winter. ‘I have heard of you from Daud,’ she said in the bastard Arabic the dockhands spoke. ‘Welcome, little one.’ ‘I thank you, Umma.’ ‘That’s well said,’ she grinned, showing red teeth that disconcerted him for a moment until he remembered the local habit of chewing catechu-stained betel leaves. She stepped back to her altar. Various objects hung above it, desiccating slowly in the smoke. Fernando decided not to look too closely at them. ‘Well, Daud,’ she said, ‘What do you seek today?’ ‘Tell my friend about this place, Umma.’ ‘What do you want to know?’ she asked a little sharply. Fernando got the impression she wasn’t exactly pleased with Daud for disturbing her rites, whatever they were. The glint of her eye said they would not have much time before she sent them on their way. ‘Tell him the story of how the city got its name,’ Daud said in placating tones. Dhumavati chuckled. ‘Oh yes.’ She settled herself more comfortably on her haunches. The red loincloth she wore just covered her thighs, and her breasts were bare beneath several ragged flower garlands, but she was clothed in the dark of her skin and her hunter’s self-possession. ‘Listen carefully, the two of you. Long ago, in Arakan, a king called Chandra-Surya, named for the sun and the moon, brought the faith of the Buddha to the kingdom. All the people became followers of the Buddha, so they learned to do no harm to any living thing, to tread lightly upon the earth and seek enlightenment as if it were wealth. And for many ages the Maghs followed the Buddha, and many wise ones came from Tibet and Bengal to preach among them, of Avalokiteshwara, and of Tara, the female Buddha, and they prospered. But one day this land you know as Chittagong, which was then called Samatata, was taken over by a jumped-up warlord from Harikela called Gopaladeva. Gopaladeva began to harry the borders of Arakan, and to swoop upon their ships from our excellent piratical harbour. This grew till the then King of Arakan, Tsulataing Chandra, decided to act. He marched with all the might of his kingdom upon this land, destroying everything in his path and dying the rivers with blood. His men killed the people with the mercy of soldiers, that is, with a sharp edge. The pain they inflicted destroyed the evil karma of Gopaladeva and his people and made them sinless. And when Tsulataing Chandra saw that all was over, and even the flames had died on the ash of the bones of the people of Samatata, he ordered that there be raised a stone monument at the site of the city, and on it he carved the words “Tsitta-gaung”. These words in their The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 27 language were the message of the Buddha, and they mean, “To make war is wrong”.’ A silence. Fernando realised the story was over at the exact moment that Dhumavati and Daud whooped with crazy laughter. He watched helplessly as they fell about, slapping their thighs and holding their stomachs until the paroxysms died reluctantly into chuckles and snorts. Daud wiped the tears from his eyes and composed himself enough to get up and touch the old woman’s feet, and she placed her hands on his head again. Then she beckoned Fernando, but as he bent to touch her feet in imitation of Daud she caught his arms and raised him. She cupped his face in her hands and regarded him for so long he almost squirmed. Then she abruptly let him go, waved them away with a snap and sat down by her fire. Their last sight of her was as if they had never entered. Fernando was silent on the way down, even as Daud chuckled softly and muttered ‘Tsitta-gaung’ every so often to himself. But when they regained the road Fernando turned hotly on him. ‘You say she is your teacher? She? An old witch-woman brewing charms and potions?’ ‘But yes, my impetuous heart. Did you not think the story was priceless?’ ‘No! Only a devil would think it was a matter for laughter. Why did you laugh?’ ‘At the folly of humankind, of course. Because if you wish to bring peace and wisdom to the world, you often have to beat the devil out of it first, just to get its attention. Then one day when the savages are tired of trying their strength against a superior civilization, maybe they’ll sit down and learn why they keep losing. Think of the battle for the Holy Land …’ ‘No, Daud! You’ve been dazzled by the wiles of a naked witch till you think a coarse joke hides some sort of arcane wisdom. A true master has the mien of a scholar, and is gracious, and learned, and the best of men. He is l’uomo universale, the man for all occasions, skilled in all …’ ‘Ah, Fernando, the fragments you revere are only Christian hand-me-downs from the Jewish Kabbalah, which in turn comes from Egypt and whose ancient roots are hidden in this land, I am sure of it. The Wonder-Working Word? Propaganda to convince Jews that “Jesu” is “Yahweh” with an “s” inserted, to make them fall down and revere Christ! The only wonder that word can work is to make marranos of decent men.’ Fernando glared at him. Then he breathed, ‘My teacher was a Jew, and he fled the knives of the Inquisition. They will tell you Jews are safe in Florence, but that is true only so long as they abjure the wisdom of their fathers: I saw the naked face of my Church the day they arraigned my teacher as a sorcerer. He who was the gentlest of men, who laboured to open our minds as if we were his own sons and never did harm in word or deed, was forced to flee for his life. That was when I learned that sorcery was whatever the Church wished, that I was to bow to these men bred in darkness like a chastened child and let them hurt me for my own good. I did not play with fragments of wisdom, as you accuse me: I thirsted for the true illumination of the ancient world and sought out wise ones who could give it to me. For that crime Solomon Blanco, who was born Shalomon Ezekiel, was sentenced to death. For that thirst I was torn from the bosom of my friends, and from the one woman who shared my thoughts, who feared to follow me here. I know I will never see her again. All I have loved has been eaten by the darkness.’ They looked at each other for a long moment. Then Daud reached out slowly and clasped Fernando’s shoulder. ‘Welcome to the freedom of the margin, my friend,’ he said. ‘Your life and happiness are henceforth protected by the Shaan-e-Dariya. And now I give you an interesting correspondence to reflect upon. Johannes Reuchlin calls himself “Capnion” in his Cabalistic works, meaning “smoke”. “Dhumavati” means “the smoky one”. The name is borne by one of the Dasamahavidyas, the ten puissant goddesses of knowledge they have here. Is this not remarkable? I must teach you scholar’s Arabic and give you books to read; for long I have thirsted to talk with one such as you …’ And they set off back to the city. The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 28 Four The Fortunes of War It was the dark fortnight of the last month of autumn. Bhairavdas made his way through the thickets to the rear of the burning ghat. The darkness hid the river; only the water’s sound washed over this terminus of the dead. At this hour of the night the burning ground was deserted but for the shadowpeople who were always there, the margin-dwellers. The pyres lit during the day had all burned down, leaving red embers to mark their places and a taint of charred wood and meat in the air. In the morning the menfolk of the dead would come to gather the ashes and immerse them in the river, little imagining what the last remains of their loved ones had witnessed. Every so often a glow winked out as a jackal, head down, crossed in front of it looking for bones to pick. Their cackling cries ripped the night’s smoky silence. Near the southern entrance, which was the direction of death, fires had been lit in a circle around a raised earthen platform, causing the shadows of the seven men seated around it to leap like living things. Each of the men was naked, as was Bhairavdas himself. He had known them for many years; they were the sages of forest ashrams and villages around Gajangal whom he had handpicked and trained, each to his capacity. None of them equalled his power, but the rite demanded eight celebrants and they had responded to his message. Bhairavdas took up his station in the empty eighth place. Before him he placed his skull bowl, containing a quantity of his own blood. His presence was the signal for Jwalini to get up from her place by the river and enter the circle. She wore only the flower garlands he had consecrated earlier for her to wear. She was in fact a Domni, a corpse-carrier’s daughter called Mithu; she had no training in the lore but was willing to please, full of superstitious awe and not too bright: he needed no more for his purpose, for she was merely a vessel for the power. They began the chant, consecrating themselves, the place and the instruments, calling on the doorkeepers of death to hold the ritual circle fast. They gave Jwalini forbidden meat to eat and praised the energies of her chakras in reverse order: head, neck, chest, solar plexus, navel, and perineum. In the last chakra, the Muladhara in her yoni, her female sex, they portrayed the glories of the sacred fire of her living altar-body, and called upon it to receive the sacrifice. Head bowed, Jwalini took her place upon the altar and lay down with her arms and legs spread out in a circle, her yoni towards Bhairavdas. His companions, each now in the yogic ithyphallic trance, took their places at her head, shoulders, hands and feet. Each of them had a skull bowl in his left hand, filled with his own blood. With the smallest fingers of their left hands, they began to draw the secret signs upon her body and to chant the mantras with their mouths inches from her skin, so that their breath touched her and carried the power of their words into her blood. Soon an intricate mandala took shape upon her belly and thighs, blossoming out from her sex like the circles one saw when staring at the sun. Her face slowly lost the rigidity of terror and began to sink into the trance state Bhairavdas knew so well. It was the moment when the faces of the interchangeable young women he used in his rites always seemed to dissolve and take on Kumari’s too-well-remembered features, but there was no woman who could be the equal of Kumari. He pushed himself deeper into the trance; calling the godhead into his purified body. He consecrated his hands with the mantras of Shiva, dipped them into his bowl of blood and raised the stone he had prepared to take the charge of godhead. It was a thick cylinder that he had sought for many months in the caves around Gajangal: it had to be a natural formation. Tonight it would be transformed into a linga. He bowed before Jwalini, and began to chant the mantras to call down Shakti into the girl’s The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 29 body. He called her, the Mother, the active counterpart of Shiva, the potentiator of all forms, the energizer of the world, the giver of speech and thought, the rescuer, the champion. He imagined her standing over the prone body of Shiva like a pyramid of fire, beseeching her to send her grace into the body of this girl, her devotee, her yogini. Jwalini’s eyes were half closed now, only a line of white showing under their lids. She was now a chalice foaming with power, and when he knew she had been filled to the brim, he knelt between her legs and with infinite tenderness and respect inserted the linga into her yoni. It was large and intended to hurt a bit, for the pain and the blood pleased Shiva, but Jwalini had been lulled so expertly by his co-celebrants that she hardly twitched. The intensity and tenor of the mantras increased, enumerating the powers and virtues that the linga would possess, telling it of its history from the first crime committed by Rudra against the Father of Heaven to the unfolding of the myriad effulgence of the Lord of Sages, King of the Yogis, he who contains the seed within him and is not burned up. Bhairavdas sat with his eyes closed, his hands upon the developing linga. His yogic soul entered the girl’s body through the subtle channels and began to draw her Shakti into the stone. Had this been Kumari he would have felt the jolt of it in his hands at once, but this child hardly knew herself and the power was scattered in the grosser elements of her soul. He sighed and sought the smallest divisions of her being, absorbed lower into higher, caught each level of power in a net of mantras and gently spun it into the linga. He felt it grow heavy and warm like living flesh in his hands, the sign of the godhead accepting its new home, and at the precise moment when the process was complete Jwalini climaxed. Her back arched as she cried again and again in the hoarse corpse-voice of deep trance, ‘Om nama Shivaye!’ as the linga completed its potentiation. Then abruptly it was finished and she flopped back like a dead thing. Bhairavdas withdrew the linga, and the eight adepts retreated to their places in the circle. Jvalini lay flaccid for a few moments, then opened bloodshot eyes and looked around her as though waking from deep sleep. She came to Bhairavdas and touched his feet; he blessed her and drew a tika on her forehead with the last of the blood. ‘Go in peace, child,’ he said gently. ‘Your work is done. You will obtain your heart’s desire by the grace of Mahadeva. God is pleased with you.’ Then, hating himself, he slipped her a bag of coins, but these were fallen times and the grace of god was sometimes not enough reward for the women to maintain ritual secrecy, as he had learned to his cost. With her departure, a change came over the circle of men. They put away the dream-residue of the godhead’s presence and their eyes snapped into focus on the world of appearances. The real business of the night was about to begin. ‘Aghora,’ said Ishan Kumar of the ashram of Shonarbithi, using Bhairavdas’s secret name, ‘we have carried out the rite as you specified. Now you must tell us why you wished us to raise and contain the linga power.’ ‘I intend this linga to protect a messenger, no, to be a messenger. I will need a strong young initiate to carry it to Dhanya Manikya of Tripura. You know that he intends war against the Turki filth. The Tripuri king is not a Shaivite but a follower of the goddess Chandi, sadly, but that is close enough for our purpose. He must be strengthened so that he can drive these unclean people into the sea.’ Even as the words left his mouth he was aware of the gleam of eyes shifting this way and that as his companions looked at each other. ‘What makes you think he will take up your invitation?’ ‘He must be told he has friends here. You know we cannot let these … these mlecchas rule us forever. Without the rule of a king sanctified by dharma we are doomed, each one of us. It is only a matter of time before the people defy us and run after the Turki gods, whether from fear or greed. Already the merchants who go to the city are bringing back strange ideas. And I have seen monstrous men from savage lands living among our people in the new settlement. Who knows what filthy deities they placate with their pollution? Dhanya Manikya is the easternmost power of this land and the only Hindu king with force of arms still left. He is our last hope.’ The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 30 ‘Kings attack countries for reasons of state,’ said Vishweshwar of the village of Hajindi, in the patient voice Bhairavdas dreaded. ‘If Dhanya Manikya comes here it won’t be by our leave, and he will be beyond our power. Our realm is of the subtle body and the mind. Kings deal in steel and blood. Our affairs and theirs cannot coincide.’ Bhairavdas took a deep breath. ‘This potent artifact we have created is a thing of magic. It will grant him what he desires. I am the foremost Tantric of this region, I am giving him the key to success beyond his wildest dreams. Chandi after all is an inferior emanation of the Mahashakti. We can grant him access to the real power without which he cannot defeat these mlecchas, and when he is on the throne he will remember who helped him there.’ Again that exchange of glances. ‘What if he loses?’ ‘The people hate and fear the Turkis. If we incite them to rise for him, he cannot lose.’ This time Ishan Kumar nodded with more confidence. ‘That is possible. The Turkis live mainly in the cities; the countryside is still ours. We have some power over the villages. But we will have to move fast: there are rumours that Dhanya Manikya is already at the gates of Rangamati and is slaughtering the last of the Buddhists there.’ ‘More power to his arm, then,’ Bhairavdas said. ‘The shaven-heads are almost as bad as the Turkis. I hope he makes war against the Maghs as well. Who shall we send to bear the message and the linga? We need someone of sufficient stature to impress the king with our powers.’ ‘There is no one better suited than you, O Aghora,’ said Ishan Kumar smoothly. Bhairavdas frowned with deepening annoyance. ‘You know I cannot leave the Gajangal temple; Shankardas is a mere initiate and cannot conduct worship on his own.’ ‘Send Shankardas, then,’ and Ishan Kumar sat back with the air of having solved a knotty problem. Bhairavdas gritted his teeth. ‘All right. Shankardas will bear the linga and my letter to Dhanya Manikya. On our behalf he will demand that our people be saved from the Turkis. The King of Tripura must invade Chittagong and free us from bondage.’ ‘Exactly so. And ask him for safe conduct for us, because the countryside will soon be swarming with Tripuri soldiers.’ ‘Ishan Kumar, Dhanya Manikya is no Turki. He would never raise his hand against a Brahmin, nor loot a temple or an ashram. Are you forgetting who you are? Use whatever means necessary: curse the powerful, terrify the weak, but make the people remember their ancient birthright. When the Tripuri troops come, welcome them as friends and urge them on against the mlecchas. We must control this war or it will sweep us away.’ Ishan Kumar merely shrugged. ‘Very well. Let us return to our villages, then, and see how our gift is received.’ ~~~ Chandu ran on chubby three-year-old feet and dived into his mother’s pillowy lap with a whoop of delight. Indrani’s ageing bag-of-bones body had miraculously bloomed into plumpness with the coming of her boy-child. The household that she had run with an iron hand was now left to muddle on as best as it could under the fitful attention of Parvati, Kamala and Durga. No sacred idol had ever been fed, bathed, cuddled, dressed, entertained or lulled with more tireless devotion than this little piece of manhood. Now Indrani ate or slept when her treasure did, living entirely on the scraps of his plate and closing her eyes only when he was in deepest sleep. As for the girls, they managed as best as they could, passing the time in a fug of discontent. The main reason for this was their steadily advancing ages: Parvati was seventeen and Kamala three years younger. Strictly speaking they were past the age of marriage; only Durga at thirteen was still an acceptable bride, and moreover there were no families around of sufficient stature to pass Bhairavdas’s rigorous standards for an alliance. It was as if the sour burden of unfulfilment that Indrani had carried before Chandu’s birth had been dumped threefold on their shoulders. And with Shankardas away on his brother’s errand of state, his peacemaking influence between the sisters was gone; he was sorely missed. Chandu was fair and round as the moon. His mother’s fears for his safety had girded him with a The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 31 strip of cloth thick with so many charms, spells, talismans and amulets it was like a kind of lumpy skirt. She had never forgotten the shock of his disappearance on the day of his weaning ceremony. Somehow the terror of those few short minutes had fused with her trepidation about Tara’s charm so that they appeared one fear, centred on the brooding shape of the jungle. On the rare occasions when Indrani stepped out of her house she would look fearfully beyond the village and its fields to the shadows beyond, and make a sign of protection to ward off whoever watched. Her Chandu was so golden, so perfect, it made her heart quail within her to think that that darkness might in any way have some claim upon him. He nuzzled her breast. She gave him suck, gazing fondly into his face. Her hand played idly with the little sex between his chubby thighs, her heart overflowing with tender pride. This was her ultimate victory: that she, a weak and inconsequential woman, ignorant, unregarded and unworthy, had nevertheless produced from her body the sovereign sign of manhood. She was the mother of a son: that admitted her into a special heaven that no female weakness could bar her from. When she died, a man she had created in her womb would set the torch to her pyre. Her own mother, who had also produced a son very late, had told her that a woman who died thus and received such a sendoff was freed at once from the cycle of rebirth, because there was no further virtue she could aspire to. And now Indrani believed it. Outside in the courtyard in the waning afternoon sun, Durga and Kamala were breaking rice in a dhenki. It was a huge heavy boom with a weight at one end that hung balanced over a great wooden drum containing the grain; you pressed the pedal with a foot and let go to make the weight pound into the drum. Kamala was working the pedal while Durga squatted by the drum and fed it with whole rice. Every so often Kamala stopped to rest as Durga cleared out the husked rice and set it aside to be winnowed. Their grain came from the temple offerings made by Gajangal’s farmers for the upkeep of the priests’ household. Kamala mopped her brow. ‘Why can’t Baba tell the women of the village they’ll have sons like Shiva himself if they husk our grain for us?’ Durga only grunted. She was a taciturn girl who relied on silent stolidity to infuriate her sisters. She scrabbled in the drum, scooping the last of the bran out with her fingertips. A strange, confused noise outside on the road made her look up to see Kamala staring at the doorway onto the road. Her eyes wide in horror, she pointed a trembling finger and gasped incoherently for words. More annoyed than afraid, Durga turned to look. ‘What is it, Didi? Are you seeing ghosts in the afternoon as well?’ Horsemen were riding by, holding huge stained swords above their heads. Their horses’ hooves raised clouds of dust that glowed in the slanting light, edging their nightmare shapes with fire. ‘The Tripuris! They’re here! Kamala! What shall we do?’ Kamala dropped the husking weight almost on Durga’s hands. ‘Quick, Durga! They mustn’t see us!’ She grabbed her arm and started dragging her inside. Durga clutched at her. ‘They’ll get in. We must shut the courtyard gate!’ She ran to the wall and began hefting the heavy wooden door; she had to thrust her shoulder under it to make it turn. As she toiled, a hand reached through the open doorway and grabbed her by the hair. Kamala screamed. Durga abandoned the door and tried to run inside, but crashed to her knees as the man pulled her head down. Another man came through the door now. Still screaming, Kamala fled inside and barred the door just as something heavy hit it and splintered the wood. Outside, Durga’s cries suddenly ceased, then started again at ear-splitting intensity. Kamala ran to Indrani and held her. Together they put their hands over their ears. It seemed to go on forever, tearing their brains apart, and then it stopped. In the ringing silence that followed they heard the thunder of hooves, then far-off shrieks, the crackle of fires, the splintering of wood and the shattering of pots. Kamala laid her head in her mother’s lap, next to Chandu. ‘Durga!’ she sobbed. ‘Soldiers caught her! Ma, we’re all going to die!’ Parvati appeared, white-faced. ‘What are you talking about? What’s all this noise outside? Where is Durga?’ Kamala sat up and tried to tell what she had seen. Indrani turned pale and hugged Chandu to The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 32 her, not daring to wonder what had become of Bhairavdas. They sat mutely, holding each other, waiting for something to happen. It grew dark. Then someone battered on the main door. All three of them screamed, then covered their mouths with panic-stricken hands. The pounding came again. ‘Parvati! Open up! It’s me, your father!’ Parvati scurried to let him in and barred the door again. Bhairavdas’s face was grey. He came and slowly sat in the middle of the room. Kamala cried, ‘Durga … the back courtyard ...’ Bhairavdas got up like a very old man and unbarred the back door. The courtyard was empty, filled only with the choking dust of the kicked-over half-husked rice. He stuck his head out onto the road; there was no one there, only the dint of many hoof prints in the dust. He barred both doors, came back to his place and lowered his head into his hands. ‘You fool!’ Indrani’s voice held a fury lent by the fear of death. ‘You sent Shankar to them, to his death! And now Durga’s taken and we’ll all be killed …’ ‘We must flee to the jungle,’ he said bleakly. ‘The whole village. That is the only place we will be safe.’ Indrani’s face collapsed as if she had been slapped. ‘Not the jungle,’ she whispered. ‘My Chandu … not the jungle.’ ‘Then stay here and die, woman. The soldiers were a raiding party; they took grain and gold and … and whatever they could take and went towards the riverbank. I must go now before more come, and hope I can beg the witch-woman Tara to let us shelter in the jungle. Pack what food we have and be ready when night falls. I will gather the survivors. We’ll leave Gajangal to its fate.’ There was an infinite weariness in his voice. ‘I don’t know what this jungle asylum will cost us, but we must pay it.’ Indrani clutched her son to her breast. Parvati shut the door after her father, then crept to Kamala and wept in her arms. Then they made bundles of parched rice and gur and some mats and clothes and waited for nightfall. Bhairavdas came back close to midnight. ‘She will take the women and children until the soldiers have moved on,’ he whispered. ‘The men must stay in the village. I will take you to her now, then return before dawn.’ They crept out fearfully into a night lit here and there by the last embers of burning houses. Chandu was strapped to his mother’s back, his cheeks stuffed with sugar puffs to keep him quiet. Little knots of people came down the road, hardly more than shadows in the starlight. A few of the strongest men would accompany them into the jungle; Harimadhab, and Kanai Kaka, and Jogen. Kamala thought of the ghosts that hung upside down in the dark mango trees by the roadside and shivered. Parvati squeezed her hand. They dared not light even the smallest lamp. The men went in front and behind, the women and children bunched fearfully in the middle. In the darkness even the familiar road was full of dread; and as the canopy of the jungle began to blot out the sky they heard an old woman moan in terror, quickly shushed by her daughters-in-law. The jungle was full of noises: insect sizzles, furtive slitherings, a rustle, a crack. Among the leaders of the little party, someone began to sing softly, a hymn to the Mother who rescues her lost children and holds them to her breast. They took up the tune one by one, gripping each other’s hands tightly. Some time later they saw the tiny glow of a beacon fire. A man stood in the path, waiting for them. Bhairavdas gave the women and children of Gajangal into his charge. Indrani whimpered and clutched at him, but he shrugged off her hands and turned away. ~~~ Bajja ran back to the jungle from the riverside, three fat fish dangling from her hand. She passed the little huddle of makeshift shelters that held the Gajangal women. No one looked out as she went by. The sight of the little drunken tents made of mats and saris draped on rickety bamboo frames always made Bajja reflect on the strangeness of these foreign people that she sometimes served. She made for the fire by the tribe’s house, beside which Tara was shredding wild yams and glowering. The tribe’s house was a large building on stilts in the center of the clearing, and it served as The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 33 shelter, storeroom and meeting place for all of Tara’s extended family, numbering some fifty people; she was mother or aunt or sister or cousin to all of them and their children. They lived around it rather than in it; their real dwelling place was the jungle, their roof the forest canopy. The house was one of many the tribe had built: they were scattered through the forest within easy reach of their jhum fields. They lived in whichever house was closest to the fields under crops, moving their stores and possessions when they abandoned the fields to the jungle for new ones. The Gajangal people, by contrast, marked out little spaces for themselves like extensions of their own bodies, yet the women flinched from the wind and the light. It was as if these people had to uproot the trees and replace them with themselves, after which they put down roots and became as immoveable as any mango or jackfruit. Bajja thought it all very odd. The women had been in those little tents now for almost a month. Tara studiously ignored them. Every so often she would dump a basket of rice or some vegetables or a fish or deer outside their huts and go away. She neither spoke to them nor let them speak to her. The women would creep out after she had gone, take the food in and cook it in the little space between their huts. Two of Tara’s grandnephews had dug a pit for them as far into the jungle as the women dared to go, to bury their waste in. One of the priest’s daughters had come and tried to say something, but Tara had glared at her so fiercely she had fled. Now Tara was sitting by the fire, with her half-wild jungle fowl scratching about her in the dirt, telling her grand-nieces Raka and Kuhu the tale of how Bhairavdas had come begging for shelter. With relish she described how he had trembled and stammered, and how she had taunted him, each telling amplified for their edification. Tara’s fair face with its hint of Magh blood, the relic of many depredations that had seeded the countryside with varied genes, was flushed with triumph. ‘I told him, you stripped the land and now you complain because soldiers stick spears between her legs? Who made a whore of her? Powerful people and big armies are always rushing about; you open doors for them, its only a matter of time before you get stomped into the mud.’ Raka asked, ‘Why did you take the women in, Tara Ma? We don’t owe them anything.’ Tara grunted. ‘We aren’t like them. They got what they deserved, but I didn’t want their blood on my soul.’ She looked up to see Bajja listening and motioned irritably for her to squat by the fire. Bajja gave the fish to Kuhu to gut, and said mildly, ‘Kuhu, that silver comb you’re wearing, you bought it in the city with the money you earned making garlands for Harimadhab’s son’s wedding, didn’t you?’ Kuhu nodded, and Bajja went on with a characteristic smile, ‘That’s why we need the village.’ Tara scowled. She knew it too: the tribe used Gajangal’s money to buy the essentials and small luxuries it needed from the city, and she realized further talk would have Bajja forcing her to admit it: Bajja after all earned a good slice of the money with her skills in dying, washing and preparing cloth. So instead Tara gave her a piece of honeycomb to chew and asked. ‘Well, what did you see by the river?’ ‘The soldiers are striking camp. Groups of them are riding towards the city. Most of the horsemen are gone already. The supply wagons are following. They all seemed in a terrible hurry.’ ‘Good; they’ll be off to invade the city, then.’ Tara nodded at the shelters. ‘Go and tell those good-for-nothings I want them out of here by dawn. And then go to the village and tell that priest to come and fetch them; I’ll wager they won’t shift for themselves.’ Bajja went and peered into the gloom of the nearest hut. All she could see were huddled bodies. It amazed her that they could sit all day doing nothing when the whole jungle was there to be explored, fruits and berries to be picked, game to be hunted, wood to be gathered. She shook her head sadly. ‘Anyone here?’ she called, feeling silly. There was a rustle, then the woman she vaguely recognized as the priest’s wife crept out. She had a child in her arms, muffled up in a quilt. Her hand on its neck kept its face pinned to her shoulder, as if the light might damage it. ‘Yes?’ she said nervously. ‘Tara wants you to be ready to leave here by dawn tomorrow, ‘Bajja said. ‘The soldiers have The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 34 struck camp. Most of them are gone. It should be safe for you to return. I’m going to the village now to tell them to come and take you.’ She eyed the child, noting his struggles with amusement. ‘Is that the one I birthed? He’s grown well. You should let him run about.’ Indrani clutched the child so hard he screamed. Bajja fled. Clearly these plainswomen were mad. The sooner they returned to their weird little settlement the better, and she could go back to just washing their clothes. She sped off to the village to carry out the rest of her errand. Bhairavdas and the rest of the village men came the following day. As Indrani neared the house she saw he had bricked up the door in the back courtyard that had lost Durga to them; now there was only the gate in the hedge for the cattle, leading to the path between their plot and Nilmani’s. ‘Shankar Kaka!’ He was there to greet them, red-eyed and with a dirty bandage round his head. Parvati and Kamala fell at his feet, weeping. He raised them in his arms and stroked their hair, touched Indrani’s feet and wiped the tears from her eyes, hugged Chandu who cried from fright. Then Indrani cooked the little rice they had left with a handful of dried chickpeas, and they sat down to eat. Shankardas told them he had met up with the Sultan of Bengal’s army marching under General Gaur Mallick and joined them for safety on the road, thinking to cross the Gomti river in their company. ‘But Dhanya Manikya’s general Raikachag is a fiendishly cunning man,’ he said. ‘He dammed the river upstream, making us think that the water was low, and when we had gathered on the bank to cross it he breached the dam. I can’t describe to you the horror of it. The water came upon us like a giant hammer, smashing the army and scattering men and animals far downstream. I barely survived by clinging to a cart.’ He looked at Bhairavdas. ‘The linga was strapped to my back. I had to shrug it off to save myself. It was lost in the river.’ Bhairavdas made a weary gesture. ‘That is the best place for it. The gods have found us unworthy, Shankardas. We are oppressed by illusion, myself most of all. I am sorry.’ Later, Bhairavdas went to the temple, which the soldiers had not molested. One of them had even left a votive packet of flowers and gold coins wrapped in a silk cloth, no doubt loot from some previous foray. He kicked it across the road as hard as he could. Then he sat before the linga and prayed, for the first time, not as a priest but as a man. He had been wrong to try to purify the world: it was Mahadeva’s design that it be sullied. He found his thoughts turning inwards, cupping the little space he had created out of nothing; Gajangal and the temple and his son. This was where he must expend his powers, until the cosmic design glowed forth from everyday things. So when news came months later that Dhanya Manikya had taken the city but died before he could reap the fruits of his conquest, Bhairavdas neither mourned nor rejoiced. From deep inside he watched his little world heal, his wife sink back into her reverie of motherhood, his daughters grow older. A hard certainty formed in the pit of his soul. When the time came, God would call Sadashiva to fulfill the task at which his father had so miserably failed. Bhairavdas’s role was only to watch, and teach, and prepare for that day. The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 35 Five The Prize of Stealth Dying sunlight flashed on the blade. Don’t let it distract you! Fernando said to himself as he swung the heavy steel and felt his teeth crack together with the jolt of it hitting Daud’s weapon. Fernando was used to the finesse of the lighter Toledo blade: the Arab scimitar he held was a killing machine, more like a cleaver than a sword. With it you got one massive blow, but one blow, he had been told, was all he should need. Daud sprang back and grinned. ‘Is that all you can do, Frangi?’ Fernando said nothing, only swept his blade in low. Daud’s wrist flourished a parry; Fernando briefly marvelled at how he could twirl his heavy weapon through the air like a silver ribbon. The clang of the counterthrust jarred his shoulder: Daud’s face was close to his now, the weight of his body forcing Fernando’s blade up to his own neck. ‘It’s all about balance, Frangi!’ The screech of steel seemed to mingle with the flash of Daud’s teeth, but Fernando ducked under Daud’s sword arm, whirling behind him to bring his blade back into play. ‘Save your breath for fighting!’ Daud was turning too, his sword springing to follow Fernando’s retreating back, and Fernando had to leap to get himself facing the right way. Their blades met with another clash, the force of it knocking them apart again. They crouched for a moment, their ragged breathing one sound in the darkening courtyard. Fernando sprang back, pivoting on his left foot just as Daud lunged, getting in a thrust that passed an inch from his chest under his right armpit. He completed the turn for space to recover. Daud stepped in, the point of his blade heading for Fernando’s stretched left leg: Fernando’s foot flashed up and round to kick Daud’s wrist aside with desperate strength. Amazingly, Daud rode the blow, his blade flicking round in a quick circle. ‘Fighting dirty, are we?’ ‘You said anything g…’ Daud’s scimitar smacked the wall where Fernando had been. ‘Aha!’ Fernando whirled. The point of his weapon pinked the skin under Daud’s left ear. Daud froze. ‘More practice, jaan. You are still too weak. The blade tells you what to do.’ Fernando resisted the urge to press harder. He growled, ‘Have I beaten you now?’ Daud’s sword clattered onto the stones at his feet. Fernando stepped back, sheathed his own weapon and unbuckled the heavy belt with relief. ‘I suppose you’re going to say I was lucky, eh?’ ‘No, jaan, you beat me. I’m a sore loser.’ Daud grinned, picked up his sword and ran a cloth down it, then put it away. ‘I want to see you fight with a cold eye. But come, let’s get out of these foul clothes; you must come with me tonight; Rahmat Ali of Isfahan has brought a qawwal to sing and I hear he’s a true master. He’s been wandering the villages, finding young boys with good voices and the right kind of soul, and training them. There’s precious little art to be had in this backwater. The show’s supposed to impress the new governor Hamza Khan with the culture and sophistication of Dianga’s society.’ ‘And the sooner he’s impressed the better, eh?’ Daud chuckled. ‘If anyone can impress him it’s Rahmat Ali. But Gaur will treat us gently for a while. The Sultan will be glad to have his eastern port and all its gold back. Lucky for him Dhanya Manikya died so conveniently, and Min Raza at the same time, so Arakan couldn’t move in. The new king Thazata is praying for another chance to catch the Sultan on the hop. Personally I wouldn’t mind being invaded by Arakan: the Maghs have a much more practical attitude to sea trade.’ There was a full moon riding low on the hills as they set forth. The moonlight was soft and full of the scent of flowers, though as they neared the river more mundane smells mingled with the The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 36 perfume. They were heading for the main square. From quite far away Fernando saw the glow of lights splashed upon nearby walls. The air bore the distant sound of many voices singing. Stringed instruments played, and hands clapped. The square was full of people; at one end a makeshift stage had been set up, hung with lanterns and exquisite carpets. Right up near the stage, on a kind of dais to the side, sat Rahmat Ali himself, the most powerful merchant in Chittagong. Next to him in the shadow of his huge bulk was his delicate Thai wife, Surikit Bibi. In the half-light her headdress flowed with a light that told the world its silk was worked with hundreds of perfect tiny diamonds. On Rahmat Ali’s other side sat the new governor, Hamza Khan, a keen-looking man in a plain dark silk kurta, and beside him was Alamgir Hussain, holding a jewelled goblet against which he gently beat time. Fernando tore his eyes from them and focused on the stage. The singers and musicians mostly wore white, with brightly embroidered velvet waistcoats. Many of them had their eyes closed in a kind of ecstasy, and their hands seemed to clap the rhythm of their own accord. They were ranged in a big group around the figure in the centre, who wore only a plain woollen shift. He led the singing in a voice cracked with age and strong with soaring passion; his eyes were open in the trance of one whose entire consciousness is focused in sound. ‘That’s Pir Baba. A very learned Sufi saint from Persia,’ Daud’s voice said in Fernando’s ear. ‘He’s singing now in his native tongue, but he’ll sing in Arabic by the by, and even in Hindvi and Chatgaiyyan. He sings about the great Sufi masters, about the soul and love and yearning, and the greatness of God.’ They found places on a large sheet by the stage, removed their shoes and sat down. Fernando looked around at the crowd. Daud had closed his eyes and sat with his hands folded in his lap, one hand sometimes softly tapping the other. Fernando closed his eyes too. At first he felt nothing, then subtly the music changed. Without the light and glitter to distract him, it seemed to reach inside the darkness behind his eyes and gently cut him loose from himself. Pir Baba’s voice wove like a hummingbird around a note, climbed, danced with another. He seemed to sing alone, though the others followed his lead and he courteously let them repeat what he sang. He led them to places of melody they could never have reached on their own, and yet he was always a step ahead of them, teaching, teasing. His voice sounded as though many years of waiting for an answer from God had put pain into it along with joy, as though it had become a direct channel for a longing that could never be assuaged. It was a strong voice because it had known weakness, and it took Fernando in the cup of its hands and bore him aloft into the sky. He opened his eyes quickly, just before the vertigo took him. From somewhere gusted the wild sweet smell of marijuana. He felt Daud’s hand on his arm. ‘Don’t fight it, jaan.’ ‘What’s he singing now?’ Fernando asked hoarsely. ‘About the saint Nizam-ud-din Auliya, of Delhi in the time of the Tughlaq Sultans. The qazis of the city had forbade Nizam-ud-din to sing, saying it offended God, but he sang on because music was the only language in which he could tell God of his soul, until even the Sultan had to give in to the tyranny of love.’ Fernando didn’t respond. Pir Baba finished the song; his followers picked up the last flourishes as the saint looked down at his hands. Without the cocoon of music to protect him form the world, his face had a slightly strained look as he peered out of his box of light at the dim faces below him. Rahmat Ali threw coins wrapped in silk onto the stage: some of Pir Baba’s assistants collected them, but the saint himself flinched when they landed. He began to speak, hesitantly, in Chatgaiyya, thanking the great ones around him for this chance to sing for them. The great ones nodded, fiddling with their silks and jewels and whispering to each other behind their polite hands. Pir Baba turned to a man beside him on the stage and had a brief consultation, then raised a hand and began to sing again. The men and boys around him took up the melody, but after a few short lines he gestured gracefully at a young boy who began to improvise on a melodic line. Pir Baba turned his face away from the crowd. Fernando heard Daud’s voice in his ear again, carefully neutral below the music. ‘He was wandering the countryside like a common beggar. Rahmat Ali heard him speaking by the The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 37 riverside to a rabble of farmers and peasants. He fell at his feet and persuaded him to come here for a night. No doubt he will go away loaded with jewels, which he’ll give to the village children to play marbles with.’ Fernando looked at him. ‘Are you enjoying this?’ Daud regarded him keenly. ‘Why? Is the music not to your taste? Fernando shrugged. ‘Some kinds of people can breathe on miracles and tarnish them. He doesn’t want to be here, you can see that.’ ‘Oh, men like him are a lot more stubborn than you and me: it’s not so easy to turn a Sufi from his path. You’re right; he won’t sing the really important songs before this audience. Those have to be earned with more than gold coins. For that, you and I will visit him on the riverbank some day. Come.’ Daud slipped his shoes back on and beckoned Fernando away. As they left the square the melody and the boys’ voices faded easily into the river’s song, but Pir Baba’s voice followed them in its loneliness for a longer time, not kin to any other sound. ‘Cruel, you strew roses on me as if I lay in my grave. Don’t you know that this heart has sought you over the savage swell of the ocean? Turn your perfect eyes on me; do not throw me forever into the darkness of the waves, for my love is treasured in this song like myrrh in a maiden’s breast….’ The cool air drew them back into the peace of the night, blowing the noise and heat of the gathering from their silks. Daud cast a glance at Fernando and chuckled in the moonlight. ‘You beat me today. Clumsily, I admit, but you beat me.’ ‘I am honoured that you admit it. I’ve always known that for you the word “friend” has the same meaning as “worthy opponent”.’ Daud laughed with genuine pleasure. ‘At last you’re beginning to know me. Well, you’ll be able to give Lopo Soares’s ships a nice surprise when we intercept them next new moon.’ ‘Lopo Soares? Who’s he?’ ‘The new Viceroy of India. Haven’t you heard? Albuquerque took Hormuz for Portugal and died, and his reward was the installation in his place of Lopo Soares, his lifelong enemy. Soares is sending three ships to Malaka with supplies and arms for the fort of A Famosa. Alamgir Nakhoda plans to ambush them before they enter the Straits, at new moon two weeks from now. Expect a glittering prize.’ ‘I’ll be ready.’ ~~~ The Shaan-e-Dariya slipped from the mouth of the Karnaphuli like a knife from its sheath and headed south southwest, her newly scraped hull drawing a white line in the sea. Fernando spent the first few days getting into shipboard routine. All sails were set: she was soon passing the shores of Arakan and following the wind across the Preparis Channel into the southern chain of islands. They saw the orange bamboo-ribbed sails of a Chinese junk or two, some way to the east. Daud told him that a century ago the Chinese empire had patrolled these waters with ships like floating forts. Double-hulled with up to seven masts, watertight bulkheads and crews of more than five hundred, they had been the most fearsome craft afloat, but the Empire had lost interest, or run out of cash, and now only petty private traders came from China to these waters. Most of the other craft were coir-stitched Indo-Arab vessels, with one or two island pirahus, narrow vessels with a very shallow draft and outriggers projecting from the sides. The pirahus looked hardly strong enough for coastal sailing, but Daud insisted they could sail through blue water straight to Madagascar. Days later they sighted the Andamans off their starboard bow, due south of Arakan’s great mountains as if the range had simply marched on into the ocean bed. They kept them in sight low on the horizon; there was the Invisible Bank to be avoided, and various other shoals built by the volcano on Barren Island. Alamgir stood on the forecastle, a great east-facing-upwards Portalan map of the Bay stretched between his two huge hands. On it three red lines had been traced, running like arrows from the west up towards Malaka. They terminated at Great Nicobar, around which a red circle had been drawn. Alamgir glowered at them from under his ginger eyebrows. Fernando The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 38 heard him say quietly, ‘No sign of a sail yet.’ ‘They left late.’ Daud scanned the horizon. ‘The caravel Santa Maria will be in the lead; it carries the soldiers and weaponry. Then there will be the San Cristobal, a nau, with the supplies, and last the Asuncion with the fidalgos. The Viceroy won’t risk his most precious cargo: rubies may be common as muck out here, but no Burmese mine will cough up a Portuguese nobleman.’ ‘We stand off and wait, then. Watch out for pirates from Nancowry harbour, and patrols from A Famosa. They’ll be impatient for their ships.’ They waited for five days, lurking behind the little tail of islands north of Great Nicobar, keeping hull down to the horizon, looking for riding lights in the dark of the moonless sea. The steep lateen rigging was heavy with men at all hours, with the sailor’s watchful sea-trance in their eyes. They took turns quartering the horizon, having agreed a bounty for the first sighting. Nayakam guided the ship with a gentle hand on the wheel, using to the full the light and shade of the islands to keep them hidden. Shwe Bin sat by the mainmast, legs crossed, eyes half-closed, hands palm up on his knees. Fernando nudged Daud and tossed his head enquiringly at the Magh. ‘He prays for their souls.’ ‘A pirate prays for the souls of his victims?’ ‘Don’t misunderstand me. A violent man, such as you or I, has certain ideas of fighting. Because we’re sinful we worry about rules: what’s done, what isn’t. A Buddhist will just kill you. Remember that kick you gave me? A Magh fights like that all the time. They have no concept of mercy, only of death with least violence.’ Fernando looked at Shwe Bin’s serene face and shuddered. Then he shinned up the shrouds to the main yardarm. The gold of the sunset lay across the western sea. The main and mizzen sails were half set, giving them gentle way to the south and west. Fernando found a spot near the summit of the main lateen, twined his legs round the sharply disappearing yardarm and looked down the steep rib of the billowing sail. Here there was no safely of a horizontal square-rigged yard. Ankles hugging each other, he scanned the sea. The west was dark now. A few gleams speared out from between the low humps of the islands; Fernando followed them with his eyes, willing them to hit a scrap of white canvas, the flap of a telltale flag. Somewhere out there the stern-light of their quarry was making a glimmer on the froth of a wake. They were to take the Santa Maria; it was the fastest vessel and the best armed. An intense, busy silence enveloped the Shaan-e-Dariya. He was taken completely by surprise by Joao’s shout and had to grab for a handful of rope to steady himself. Just below him Joao was pointing excitedly west-south-west. And then he saw it, the faint trace of a wake. Starlight ran along a square-rigged silhouette, showing the vessel to be a European caravel. As she sped out of the west towards safe anchorage her riding lights crested the waves. A little while later two more gleam-shadows showed behind the lead ship. Men were scrambling down to the decks and assembling around Alamgir. When Fernando touched the planks Joao was being given a bag of gold, which he kissed and held aloft. Then Zain-ul-abedin began to speak. Alamgir stood a little way off, as if underlining the fact that Zain had command of this mission. ‘They’ll make for the southern tip of the island some fifteen minute’s sailing east of their position,’ Zain-ul-abedin said. ‘There is water there and some game but no habitation, which is lucky for our Franks as the people here are fierce as wild beasts. I reckon they will cast anchor but stay on board till dawn rather than risk a night landing. The ship with the red cross on its mainsail is the Santa Maria.’ ‘It is the lead ship, then,’ Johannes van der Groot said. Zain-ul-abedin nodded. ‘They’ll moor close to the shore, the better to take on water when dawn comes. We’ll approach as soon as we have full darkness. Nani Lascar will handle the boat. Nayakam and Ilemameka, you must be ready to steer the ship once we take it: you have experience of square-rigs. Who volunteers for the raiding party? I want Portuguese speakers: if they’re singing and drinking you’ll kill them quietly and take their The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 39 places until we are well away from the other ships. Daud? Fernando? Joao?’ ‘Yes,’ Fernando pushed forward. Johannes van der Groot, a grizzled old Greek called Costas Corinthiakos and Mahesh Shrestha also joined the raid. In addition Zain took Kan-kata, Shwe Bin and a dark young man called Rakhehari. ‘Once they’ve settled for the night we’ll make our approach in the boats. We form three groups: one to attack each of the fore and aft castles and one to take the hold and crew’s quarters. No pistols or scimitars, only rapiers, garrottes and knives. We take no prisoners. Stop their mouths and go for the neck or the heart. Where there are gatherings of men, stop to regroup, then rush them all at once.’ The men went below to put on dark clothes and bind their turbans round their faces. All lights were doused except for a few dark lanterns, shuttered almost closed. Alamgir nudged the Shaan-e-Dariya carefully into the lee of the cove. The sky said it was midnight; as they assembled by the ship’s boats they could see the reefed sails of the two rearward Portuguese ships looming against the stars. Nani Lascar had muffled the oarlocks, and the ship’s three boats were lowered into the water with barely a splash. As they passed the stern of the Shaan-e-Dariya Alamgir tossed a coil of stout rope to Kan-Kata, who paid it quietly into the water as they crept away from the ship’s shadow. The Asuncion was bright with light and standing off in deeper water. Sounds of singing came from it; clearly the nobles felt they were close enough to A Famosa to celebrate their arrival in the Indies. The troop ship was darker, but lanterns hung fore and aft. The ship had swung bows-on to the shore; the wash of light from the stern castle lay along the sea towards the Asuncion. Nani Lascar came up to the anchor chain running down from the bow and made fast. One by one they made their way up the slippery iron, fists and knees clenched. Above him Fernando heard the first choked-off sound of death. When he reached the deck and slipped over the taffrail the bodies of the lookouts lay huddled on the boards. In the forecastle there was scrabbling and strangled noises. He leapt to the door and stabbed a crewman who tried to run out, then slipped inside. On the next floor Ilemameka’s team was swiftly and delicately cutting the throats of men in their beds. From the poop deck came a hoarse ‘Madre di …’ and a gurgle. One by one the raiding party trooped out, some with superficial injuries. The forecastle was clear. The men regrouped and advanced sternwards to help the hold-takers. Ahead of Fernando a rectangle of light showed a hatchway in the deck. A man emerged from it, blood running from his throat. Fernando grasped his grubby blouse with a jerk, but as he darted his needle-pointed rapier under the man’s chin and up into the brain, a horrified face rose from the next hatchway, its mouth distended in the beginnings of a scream. In the act of launching himself across the distance, Fernando knew he would never be in time to choke it off. But there was no shout: as Fernando’s feet left the deck he caught a glimpse of Shwe Bin rising behind the man’s shoulder. There was a whirl of a foot, a crack, and the man collapsed. Shwe Bin knelt by Fernando and helped him up. Daud’s party appeared from below decks, their knives dark. The deck was theirs: Zain sent men to lurk by the taffrail and watch for trouble. Aft, Nayakam’s party had surrounded the stern castle, from which sounds of revelry could be heard. The door opened, unrolling a man’s long shadow in a swash of light on to the planks. Singing and the thump of mugs swirled out as Joao struck down the man who had stepped through. Then they rushed the doors. There was no stealth this time. The Portuguese were butchered with no chance even to rise from their chairs. All they could have seen was a whirl of steel and dark shapes. Fernando saw Nayakam kick away a man’s sword-thrust with a graceful midair twirl, then his foot smashed the man’s throat so hard he choked on his own crushed cartilage. Seeing Fernando staring, Nayakam gave him a grinning European-style bow and said ‘Kalaripayattu,’ which left him as mystified as ever. Zain took the rest of the men and rushed up the ladders to the next level. They heard cries, thuds and the thunder of footsteps on hollow wood. Daud pushed a body off the table with some distaste. ‘Come, Fernando, Johannes, Joao, lead us in some Portuguese drinking songs to get this foul Madeira down, while Kan-kata finds a sail to The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 40 muffle the anchor chains and get us on our way. And wipe up this blood; the stink of the wine is bad enough.’ He tossed a scrap of dead man’s shirt at Fernando. The four of them sat down. Johannes took up the very song the men had been singing. The others joined in as best they could. Soon Johannes was keeping time with a jug and grinning enormously. Joao began to change the words, speculating on King Manuel’s ancestry and the Pope’s relations with donkeys, dogs and chickens. After a while Fernando saw the riding lights of the Asuncion begin to drift away. Nani Lascar had fixed the towrope to the Santa Maria’s bow; if the Asuncion noticed they would think the anchor was dragging as the Shaan-e-Dariya gently pulled its prize away. Fernando hissed to Daud, ‘What’s kalaripayattu?’ ‘Ancient Malabari martial art. Nayakam’s trained in it since he was six. His father took him to a secret guru: how do you think he escaped?’ ‘I want to learn it!’ Daud gave him a sour look. ‘So did I, once. My hip still twinges of a night. Tell Nayakam, and once he’s finished laughing he’ll take you down to the courtyard and show you a few things. And keep singing; you were definitely off on that last chorus.’ Zain came down. ‘All right, that’s enough. Get on deck, we want all sails set and the devil after us. Go!’ Ilemameka hissed instructions in the darkness, marshalling the others to set the square sails to catch the wind. It was treacherous work on an unfamiliar ship; Daud ran from mast to mast with a dark lantern, showing the men the lay of the ropes; they had to take one look and handle them by feel. Ahead of them the Shaan-e-Dariya was already flying to the north-northeast. They cut the towrope and scuttled along in her wake, Ilemameka cursing and scrambling from man to man as the red cross flapped above his head. Fernando pulled on his rope and belayed it in its cleat. The foresail creaked above his head, ghostly white in the darkness, filling at last with air. There was still no sign of the dawn in the east. He looked back into the darkness they had left behind. A cold wind blew out of it; there was no sign of the Portuguese lights, nor of the dark peaks of Great Nicobar. Only their own wake stretched behind them, glowing faintly in the starlight. They sailed on, taking turns to watch and rest. The Shaan-e-Dariya matched their speed, tacking when they looked like being left behind. Fernando came on deck after sunrise to find Ilemameka and Nayakam confabulating on how to improve the ship. The Portuguese built for long voyages, while what the pirates needed were speed and manoeuvrability. Most of the rig would have to be changed; all inessential mass jettisoned. As they entered the Karnaphuli Alamgir came on board to inspect his prize. To a great cheer from the crew he had the mainsail taken down, slashed out the red cross with his knife and threw it into the sea. At about 200 tons she was twice the size of the Shaan-e-Dariya, with two-tiered fore and aft castles faired into the hull so that they were almost one piece with it. The castle walls were pierced with archer stations to throw fire arrows into enemy rigging, and ports for swivel guns to hurl chainshot and grapeshot and bring down masts and spars. The lowest levels of the two castles carried the heavy bombards, and there were two huge ports on each side of her rounded stern from which the blunt mouths of four large cannon could be bared. She had three masts and a bowsprit, could be rigged square or lateen, and her hull was carvel-built with overlapping planks on a frame. Alamgir took a bottle of Frangi wine, broke it on the bow and renamed the ship ‘Pir Prasad’ in honour of Pir Baba. Then the men went below to find the cargo manifest and check the goods. In the first and second layer Joao unearthed twelve cases of pistols and arquebuses, forty large crossbows, fifty pistol crossbows, sixteen crates of swords, fifty of armour, ten of tools and twenty five bags of nails, Below that there was a hundred bags of saltpetre and fifty of sulphur. Several maunds of pepper had been poured loose into one section of the hold, where the saltpetre had spoilt some of it. ‘They still have a lot to learn about loading spices,’ said Nayakam. He hauled out some The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 41 bags of dried leaves. ‘Look! Tamalapatram.’ He crushed one in his fingers and held it under Fernando’s nose. ‘They’re leaves of a kind of cinnamon.’ Kan-kata sniffed a leaf. ‘Tej pata,’ he grinned. ‘The Franks call it malabathron. Good quality. We’ll get a fine price when we sell it on.’ Below that in the dunnage there were quantities of sailcloth, ship’s spars and rigging. In the ballast, there were both bombards for ships and heavier guns for investing the fort, iron rods and a carved stone recording the glorious victory of Malaka, which fifteen roaring men dragged out of the hold and pitched into the harbour. In the cabins and crew’s quarters there were chests of frankincense, balsam and myrrh and a huge gold basin, probably loot from some ravaged palace. There were also gold and silver jewelry and some gems, which Alamgir shared among the men. Bairam Khan arrived, and Alamgir presented him with the heavy cannon for the governor, ten bags of saltpetre and a handsome sword for himself, while the crew smartly shifted the rest of the cargo into their warehouse, then organised stevedores and carts to send off the cannon. This still left Alamgir with enough weaponry to equip a small army, but he tactfully refrained from mentioning the fact. As Fernando was leaving, Daud called after him and came hurrying up. ‘I shall be away some weeks; Alamgir has a task for me. Be alert, my friend. I have worrying information about the Estado da India from the western coast. They’re making all merchant shipping carry passports called “cartazes”, which force them to trade only in Portuguese territories. Two Frankish fleets stand off Gujarat and Cape Kumarin, capturing any ship without a cartaz and choking the Malabar trade to death. Vijaykumara Chetty of Tellicheri has sent us letters describing the savagery of their extortions. They may even look eastwards, so I’m going on a secret mission to the Sultan of Gaur in Lakhnauti.’ Fernando nodded. ‘I’ll watch for danger as best as I can. Go warily, and come back safely.’ The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 42 Six The Wisdom of Innocence ‘Open, open, open, open … ah!’ Parvati deftly scooped a little ball of rice and milk into Chandu’s mouth, ignoring as best she could the half-masticated remains of the last mouthful that coated his seven-year-old teeth. ‘Eat up quick, or the black witch will come and drink your blood and crunch up your bones!’ He regarded her grotesquely horror-twisted face and scratched his naked chest. ‘I hope they fix up Kamala’s marriage this time,’ Parvati muttered to herself. ‘I can’t take another afternoon of this.’ She had been left in charge while her mother went off to interview the prospective groom’s family; fairly well-off farmers in the next village an hour’s walk away; Bhairavdas had at last given in and allowed the family’s evident piety to outweigh their lack of distinction. ‘Come on! Otherwise the black witch will come at night with her sharp teeth and eat you up, chop chop chop chop.’ Chandu stared at her. Then with a gargantuan effort he swallowed everything in his mouth. She quickly loaded another cannonball into the breech. Only the black witch ever had any effect on him, so whenever she had trouble with him she told him once again the tale of his weaning ceremony, with ever more nightmarish embellishments to frighten the food down his gullet. Over a succession of difficult mealtimes the black witch had grown forty feet tall, sprouted hair like coconut husk, eaten whole oxen and picked her teeth with the plough. The story was their only common ground; in everything else, the sixteen years that separated them were an insurmountable barrier. Parvati sighed. She was twenty-one years old: girls her age were worrying about the marriage of their own daughters. Kamala was nineteen but undersized and passable as sixteen at a pinch; if chosen, she would be the man’s second wife. The family seemed to consider the connection with Bhairavdas enough compensation for her deficiencies. Parvati scowled: she herself was fair and prettily plump, yet they would not dare choose her. By the iron rules upheld by her own father, her time for being chosen was past forever. Indrani returned, complaining so mightily about her aching legs that Parvati could hear her from the gate. Indrani fussed over Chandu and scolded Parvati for not having finished feeding him, but without much heat. Her eyes were bright but the folds of her chin still glistened with the half-blotted tears of loss. ‘They have agreed!’ she moaned, and fell into Parvati’s arms. Chandu took the chance to cut and run from the rest of his lunch; by the time they had disentangled themselves he had vanished from the house. Indrani wailed: she knew her wayward treasure would only return after he had punished her for leaving him at the mercy of his sister. Parvati slunk off to complain to Shankar Kaka. Chandu was always running away, the little monster: why should she take the blame this time? ~~~ Upon the dark waters the lotuses danced. Bajja watched them as she beat her clothes on the flat stone by the wide steps to the pond. She was now fourteen, almost fifteen, tall and dark; her body moulded by hard work into lines of subtle strength. She no longer stooped under her bundle. Her chest was still flat as a man’s, but a soft rising of her nipples was under way. The lotuses were white and pink, and their scent made the air heavy. Here at the edge of the water you couldn’t see the slime from which they grew, or their stout hairy stalks, bristling with thorns. The dark water disclosed only the thick fleshy leaves like plates with raised edges for the gods to dine on. Between them here and there a glowing flower had pushed into the air. The petals of the lotus are sentient like fingers; they open and close to the rhythms of day and night. Each flower is fenced with thorns; it repels mud and water alike from its skin. Lotuses have The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 43 intelligence; that is what makes them sinister, and divine. When cut, they shrink into an ugly, veiny bundle like a flaccid onion. A cut lotus is more dead than any other flower, for its mind is gone, and those who cut them placate their gods with so many sacrificed corpses. She greeted them in her mind, praying that they be saved; they nodded on the water, acknowledging her as one of their own. In a steady rhythm she whirled the wet cloth over her head and brought it thumping down on the polished rock. Her feet stood firm in the thin mud on the steps of the ghat, their toes spread to keep her balance. She worked methodically through her bundle, then gathered the twisted cloths upon her shoulders, climbed the steps and made for the bushes where she would hang them to dry. She finished spreading the last sari over the twigs in the sun, then took her own thin, checked towel and stood pensively in the clearing, flicking it against her wet hair. Droplets flew from the water-heavy black mass, making instantaneous rainbows leap and die around her head. After a while she said, ‘Come down out of that tree.’ ‘How did you know I was up here?’ ‘You always hide. Come down.’ Chandu clambered gingerly down from his perch. She flicked the towel again, tilting her head back. He barely came up to her armpit, his arms and legs thin but his belly round like a frog’s from his mother’s feeding. He stared up at her with wide black eyes from a face the colour of whey. ‘I ran away from Ma again. She’ll cry when I go back.’ She shrugged. ‘Stay as long as you wish, Kalu.’ Bajja sat on a rock and combed her hair with a wooden comb she’d carved herself. He crouched at her feet in companionable silence. He didn’t know why she tolerated him, nor why she called him ‘Kalu’. If he asked her she just smiled that slow teasing knife-bright smile of hers. She began to sing, softly, almost under her breath. O wanderer, you’ve let your flute fall in the stream And the lotus has caught it in her lovesick petals, O wanderer, the lotus has clasped your careless heart. How will you make music now, my cloud-dark one? ‘Bajja,’ he said as they packed the clothes. ‘What’s a Frangi?’ She chuckled. ‘Why d’you want to know?’ ‘Father was saying that the Frangis and Turkis have brought their filth into the city. Turkis I know about: they chased us out of Gaur all the way here to Gajangal. But I’ve never seen a Frangi. He says they’re savages from lands without law. He says they’re unclean.’ ‘You mean they don’t wash their houses in cowdung like you do?’ He looked puzzled for a moment, then said, ‘Want to see the new asanas Father taught me?’ He didn’t wait for an answer, but lay on his back on the grass in front of her and kicked his legs over his head till his toes touched the grass and he was curled up like an upside down shrimp. ‘Halasana!’ he piped triumphantly. ‘The Plough Position.’ She snorted faintly, picked a grass seed-shaft and began to chew it. He spread his legs and looked at her anxiously from between them. Upside down, her face looked even bigger and more impassive than usual. She regarded the small head beneath the pale seven-year-old backside. ‘That’s good.’ He collapsed with relief. ‘Now watch this. Ardha Chandrasana!’ He made a backward arch, feet and hands on the ground. ‘And Chakrasana!’ he walked his fingers closer to his feet, until he could grab his own ankles from behind. Now only his feet were in contact with the earth, while his body arched backwards in an almost perfect O. ‘The Wheel Position!’ ‘You look like I could bowl you along like a hoop.’ ‘No, I … Bajja!’ But she had put her hands on his knees and given him a gentle push. Helplessly he fell backward on to his face, then rocked onto his stomach. Now his feet in his own grasp pointed at the sky. ‘A new one,’ she chuckled. ‘See, I taught you something.’ Her laughter put the breath back in his lungs, so he laughed too. He let his feet flop back and lay The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 44 with his face and body pressed into the earth. Right near his face he could see tiny insects busily scurrying under the flat blades of durba grass, arched over their heads like swords. There was a kind of green shade there; for a moment he tried to pretend he was lying in it, but the ants tickled his nose. He sat up and inspected the grass stains on his hands. She looked at him sidelong. ‘Let’s drop this bundle off with Tara, then go to the jungle.’ From the jungle house Bajja led him along a familiar path, heading for the river. They lapsed into the busy silence of children alone in an interesting place. Chandu pottered happily, but Bajja had work to do: she grubbed with her toes in the cool leafmould for the long, dark seedpods that she would boil to make a pink dye. And she found mushrooms among the fallen leaves, which they ate raw. He stuffed a mushroom whole into his mouth. His eyes bulged blissfully for an instant, then he swallowed and sighed. ‘I wish Baba would teach me useful things like how to find these. All I ever get taught is book learning and names of gods and poetry and stuff. And twisting myself into shapes. Baba folds me up till my joints squeak. He says I have to learn all this so I can serve God. I wish I could be like you and just wash clothes.’ Bajja stopped dead. ‘You think that’s what I do?’ ‘No, no,’ Chandu waved agitated hands. ‘You know about the forest, you know how to make colours and patterns and pretty things. You’re allowed to. They never let me make anything. Baba gets so angry if I get my hands dirty.’ She regarded him with surprise and pity. ‘Why?’ ‘Because …’ Chandu went red. ‘Well, people like us … are… we aren’t meant to ... I mean we’re supposed to be holy. So we can serve God and things. So …’ ‘How can you serve God if you don’t get your hands dirty?’ Now Chandu looked puzzled again. She sighed and said, ‘All right, let’s go down to the river. We can catch fish and you can wash your hands afterwards.’ Bajja had a special hiding place in some rocks where she kept her fishing rods. They collected one each and came down to the bank where the river made a big slushy curve. Here by the outside bank little stagnant eddies developed, where fish would laze around, sucking mosquito larvae into their white mouths. There were palm trees that leaned crazily over the river, their frond-shaggy tops curving upwards like the heads of people lying on their stomachs. Bajja and Chandu walked along one of these till they were out over the river, then lay down and cast their lines into the water. The palm leaves shaded them from the glare of the sun and hid their shapes from the fish below. After a while Chandu said, ‘What’s that over there, Bajja? Right out there on the horizon; is it a boat?’ Bajja squinted along his pointing finger. There was a dark dot on the glitter of the water. As they watched, two rhythmic splashes appeared on either side of it. ‘Yes,’ said Bajja, ‘a boat, with a man in it.’ ‘Funny shape for a boat.’ This boat was a strange squat shape, pointed in front and flat behind, and the man in it sat with his back to them, rowing with an oar in each hand. ‘I’ve seen boats like this, in the city,’ Bajja said slowly, ‘I saw them tied to the decks of the big ocean ships. Silly way to get about, where you can’t see where you’re going. He’s bound to hit a sandbank.’ The man was closer now. They could see his head was wrapped up in some kind of cloth. In a land where people got by with the barest minimum of clothes, he was wearing a heavy shift from neck to ankle. Chandu craned to see his face. ‘Do you think he’s a Frangi?’ ‘More likely a Turki. They wear things like that on their heads.’ And Bajja stood up on her treetrunk and hallooed. The man stopped rowing and looked round. They saw he had a dark, narrow face with a beard. Even at that distance, they saw his eyes flash at the sight of them. He waggled an oar to make the boat turn and rowed up to them, a big grin on his face. As he drew closer they saw that the liveliness The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 45 of his face was belied by the fine wrinkles spreading out from his eyes and mouth: he was older than he seemed. ‘Hello, fisherfolk,’ he called in Chatgaiyya. ‘That’s a capital fish-catching place you have there.’ ‘Isn’t it?’ said Bajja with pride. ‘You’re from the city, aren’t you? What are you looking for?’ He chuckled. ‘Mainly for a village, but also for smart people. Not any particular village, just a village.’ ‘What’ll you do there?’ ‘Seek out wise ones and dispute with them. And find people in trouble and help them. Maybe cure someone with my medicines, or escort a merchant through the jungle with my charms of protection. Sing some songs, that kind of thing.’ ‘So you’re a magician?’ He grinned. ‘Not quite. In my native land I would be called a Sufi. But here they just call me Pir Baba and leave it at that.’ ‘Where’s your native land?’ ‘There.’ He made an extravagant gesture to the west, indicating huge distances. ‘Today they call it Fars. In ancient times the Magi called it Iran. Some say the arts of the world were born there, so long ago that even the rocks don’t remember. But why don’t we sit down on the bank and talk? The current keeps trying to push me away.’ Bajja thought about this, raking the man with her slow, considering gaze. Finally she nodded, got up and walked back to the bank as if she were on a stout bridge instead of an eight-inch-thick wobbly treetrunk. Chandu clambered after her on hands and feet like a little monkey. The man shipped his oars neatly and beached his boat in the mud. Then he climbed the bank to a drier place. He beamed at the two of them and sat down. ‘Did you come here on a ship?’ Bajja asked without preamble. ‘Yes I did. Several ships, actually. I’ve been wandering for some time.’ ‘Why?’ ‘It’s what I do. My master has enjoined it upon me. I must travel the world and teach people the Name wherever I go. I must show them the bliss that comes from losing oneself in singing the Name. My master tells all his disciples to go forth and do this, but he has also set me a special task. I can’t return home until I’ve completed it.’ He looked at their puzzled faces and smiled. ‘The easy part is to teach people about bliss. People are hungry for bliss; there isn’t enough in the world. And yet it’s so easy to be happy. You know that: you were happy in your tree just now. But big people forget so quickly. I have to remind them.’ Bajja nodded. ‘What’s the special task he set you?’ He sighed. ‘I set it for myself, I think. You see, one day the Master was talking about love to his disciples, and I happened to come in. I had just lost the woman I loved to another man. In my pain I scoffed at the Master’s words. I told him that love had been invented to torment us and reduce us to the level of beasts. The Master listened patiently to all the bitter things I said in my rage, and then he called me to him and stroked my head and said, this too is love. And furthermore, he said to me in a voice as soft as a breeze, this pain you feel is the only way you will know yourself. When you have been joined with another, then sundered, then only do you feel the shape of your soul in the lines of your grief. Until then, you are still a child, you have not yet seen your own face, nor entered the gates of the city of love. And he said, go, and understand this, and tell all you meet what love really is, until the truth of it is part of the air you breathe. Then, if you still wish it, you may return.’ ‘That’s a hard task,’ said Bajja thoughtfully. He glanced at her, surprised. ‘You think so?’ Bajja smiled her slow smile. ‘Yes, Pir Baba. You won’t be able to learn a thing like that out of books like Kalu does.’ Pir Baba regarded Chandu solemnly until he squirmed and confessed, ‘My father’s the priest in the village. He wants me to grow up to be the temple priest after him, so he makes me read lots of books and learn rituals and things. But that’s not all I know!’ The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 46 ‘Why are you ashamed of knowing things in books?’ ‘Because …!’ He couldn’t very well say that most of the things he read made no sense to him, that he spent his afternoons propping his eyelids open for words that swam in front of sleep-sick eyes while he longed to run in the cool shade of the forest like a common goatherd. So he just sat dumbly. ‘Books are good,’ Pir Baba was saying. ‘If you can read, you can listen to the dead as if they were sitting next to you. And you can leave what you know for others, so they can hear you from miles and years away. Books are valuable.’ ‘Kalu says women aren’t allowed to read his books,’ sadi Bajja. ‘They can’t even be around when he reads them. Nor can unpriestly people. Only the priests.’ Pir Baba frowned. ‘Is that so? Is that why you’re ashamed, little one?’ To his surprise Chandu realised that it was. Partly, anyway. He nodded, feeling somehow relieved that Bajja had said it for him. Pir Baba looked grim. ‘Where is your father’s temple, little one?’ ‘In the northwest corner of the village of Gajangal, twenty minutes’ walk from here.’ Pir Baba nodded. Chandu said, ‘Tell me about the Name.’ ‘I can’t tell you, I can only show you. Will you chant the Name with me? Just follow me and sing as I sing, you’ll pick up the melody in no time.’ They both nodded, their faces eager and wary at the same time. He smiled at them. ‘Chant after me: Allah hoo, Allah hoo, Allah hoo.’ They chanted. It was easy. Pir Baba’s voice rose and fell in a kind of song, simple enough for them to follow. They laughed and clapped their hands, and he clapped too, teaching them the rhythm. Their voices danced over the waves as the afternoon wore on. ~~~ Parvati wept. Shankar Kaka was nowhere to be found, so she had sat down on the temple threshold to wait. But the bitterness of the future had caught up with her there. A sick yearning welled up in her mind: never to wear sindoor! Or bangles! Or worship the idol of Ma Durga at the spring festival! Kamala might be just as overworked and harried in her new life, but she would always have before her a dream: if she became the mother of a son, and her mother-in-law died, her status in the household would rise until one day she would perhaps become the ruler of a frightened flock of girls in her turn. Whereas for Parvati there would be only drudgery in her father’s house, and deprivation, and at best an uneasy truce to be forged with Chandu’s wife when the time came. She hugged her knees, dropped her face on them and cried her heart out till her sobs shrunk into silence. The silence formed itself into music, and words: If you want the true value of gold and jewels Take your heart to the marketplace of love. They are selling the best treasures there, Take your heart to the marketplace of love. She raised her head. The song was still far away, but the piercing sweetness of the voice carried like birdsong through the afternoon’s silence, twining around the notes of a flute that made her heart swell with a feeling that would have been joy if it had not hurt so much. She listened to the words that seemed to drop through the slanting sunlight into her lap. See the merchants of love come with their wares You won’t find a coin on them Only golden notes falling from rough flutes Over the waters as their ships sail by. They are going to the hidden city In the republic of love. Where the friend of lovers lives The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 47 Among bright flowers that kiss his feet. Her swollen eyes could make out their source now: a group of people dancing and singing as they came up the road to the village. Some of them were in orange robes, some in patched rags of many colours; some had shaven heads, others long matted locks. There were women too, some in plain white, some brightly dressed in beautiful saris. They raised their arms above their heads and danced; little khanjanis, hand-cymbals, jingling together in their hands. A woman in the lead was singing as a man danced around her, playing his flute and twisting gracefully in gentle ecstasy. She got to her feet. Something about the music wouldn’t let her sit there any longer. She took a few steps into the road, almost barring their way. They stopped, and the singing woman smiled and raised a hand. ‘Hare Krishna,’ she said. ‘Why are you crying, daughter?’ ‘Because I will never have anyone in the world to call my own.’ Parvati felt a kind of fear as the words escaped her lips. Yet the woman’s face was so kind that the fear transmuted into longing, and then into deep regret. ‘You are wrong, my love. You will always have Him to call you His own.’ ‘Who?’ ‘The Moner Manush. The Premer Bondhu. He who dwells in the heart. Who is the heart.’ ‘There is no one in my heart,’ Parvati said, and wept. The woman stepped forward and drew Parvati’s head to her shoulder. ‘Listen well to me, child. You heard me wrong. Krishna calls you His own whether you listen or not. Now will you open your ears to His love? Let us sing to you and take away your sorrow; no one can hear when their own tears choke them.’ And holding Parvati in her arms she began to sing softly as a lullaby, Premer Bondhu khunji Hiyar modhur majhe Dhaka shohor jai Tari raje, premer shaje, I seek the friend of love In the honey of my heart I go to the Hidden City In his realm, made beautiful with love ‘What do you people think you’re doing?’ Parvati sprang back. Bhairavdas stood at the temple gate, unnaturally still. Only his eyes moved, raking the motley crowd. The woman ignored him entirely. ‘My name is Radha,’ she said to Parvati. ‘What’s yours?’ ‘Keep away from my daughter! Be off, you rabble. Can’t you see this is a temple to Shiva? Take your uncleanness elsewhere and trouble us no more.’ This time she looked at him, folded her hands and bowed. ‘We are sorry to have troubled you, O learned Shaiva priest. We’ll be on our way. Don’t be harsh to the girl. She was sorrowing, and I …’ ‘Go now, young Vaishnavi, or face my wrath.’ Radha looked up at him from under her lowered forehead, smiled, raised her khanjanis and danced lightly on. Her troupe followed her, the notes of the flute audible long after they were mere smudges of colour among the trees. Parvati cowered. Bhairavdas turned on his heel. ‘Go home and help your mother,’ he said curtly over his shoulder. ‘If you lack the sense not to consort with Vaishnavs you will remain in the private courtyard. Know that they are a rabble of thieves, whores and sodomites who care for no rules and shrink from no iniquity. They will ruin your reputation if you are seen with them. This must not happen again.’ ‘Y-yes, father.’ ‘Shankar! Take Parvati home and make sure she speaks to no one.’ Shankardas, grim-faced, emerged from behind Bhairavdas’s shoulder, took Parvati’s arm and hustled her down the road. The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 48 When he considered they were far enough away from the temple he dropped it and hugged her. ‘My brave Paru! I wouldn’t have had the guts to do that. Your Baba’s face was a picture! But don’t tell anyone I said so.’ ‘Of course not. Shankar Kaka, who were those people?’ ‘Followers of Chaitanya Mahaprabhu, the great master of Nabadwip. Technically devotees of Vishnu, though they mostly worship Krishna. They wander through the countryside, begging their food and shelter and singing songs about the love of Krishna and Radha. One of their greatest leaders is Nityananda, who was once an initiate of a respected Tantric sect but left it all to follow Chaitanya. That’s one reason why your Baba hates them.’ She heard the quiet thrill in his voice. ‘But you don’t hate them, do you?’ He smiled. ‘They’re free. We’re not. Are we, Paru?’ She shook her head sadly. ‘Will we ever be free, Shankar Kaka?’ ‘I wish I knew. Come, let’s take you home. I have to tell your Ma “what happened”. She’ll howl and wring her hands, then sit you down and ask you all about it with her eyes goggling.’ He chuckled; she laughed too. They ambled on down the road, listening to the faint melody of a flute floating on the breeze. The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 49 Seven The Coming of Sin The Shaan-e-Dariya and the Pir Prasad put off from Dianga docks and made for the open sea. The Pir Prasad had been extensively refitted with Burma teak and pitch, and Malayan coir; her sails were white wedges in the sunlight, with a spritsail on her high bowsprit billowing before her. All furniture and inessential bulkheads had been removed: the crew were used to living on the floor, and this gave them a large space below-decks to lay out their booty. In the first hold, chains had been fitted for the accommodation of slaves. They had taken on almost a hundred new men to crew the two ships, with the original crew spread over both; Nayakam was in command of the Pir Prasad; he was standing now on the bridge with his hand upon the wheel. Like the Shaan-e-Dariya, the ship now had two huge human eyes painted on her prow, in red ochre, lime and tar, above which her name shone in Persian and Arakan script. The swivel guns and falconets on the castles now shared space with tubs of earth containing ginger, turmeric, radishes, coriander, onions, garlic and chickpeas: the crew’s precaution against scurvy. They were already thick with green shoots in the sun. In a corner of the galley Khizr Khan squatted, toasting rotis on a cast iron bucket filled with red-hot coals. Alamgir Hussain was in a jovial mood; his son’s marriage had been fixed with Rahmat Ali’s daughter, and he was hoping to bag a good wedding present for them from this trip. As they breasted the guardhouse of the chain barrier, someone hailed them from the shore. It was Daud, signalling for the ship’s boat. ‘About time, too,’ Alamgir shouted across. ‘I was beginning to wonder if you had taken service with the Sultan.’ Daud came aboard, grinning hugely. ‘I can’t say I wasn’t tempted,’ he said. ‘Ala-ud-din Hussein Shah is a great ruler, and Lakhnauti is a wonder you should see before you die. He is a man of great tolerance beloved of Muslims and idolaters alike: they call him ‘crown of kings’. I saw Sri Chaitanya, a great fakir of the Krishna cult, leading throngs dressed in saffron robes singing Hare Krishna, and all with the blessing of the king whom they were praising. And he is strong in arms as well; the Ekdala fortress where he resides is a thing of magnificence. But there were other, less savoury sights as well, such as the sallow faces of the official Portuguese delegation.’ ‘The official Portuguese delegation!’ ‘From the Estado da India, no less. Imagine my surprise when we came face to face in the Sultan’s audience hall. They had come to beg humbly for a factory and a customs house in any eastern port, Chittagong for preference. But naturally my gifts to the Sultan were richer, and my words sweeter, so in their ham-handed way they tried to make trouble for us. They presented a petition to him, which I took the liberty of having copied.’ He pulled a scroll from his breast. ‘Fernando, you scan Portuguese well, why don’t you read it to us? Leave out the beginning, in which they ask for their factory and other bits of grovelling. Look at the last bit, there.’ ‘ “This settlement has collected rebels, pirates and heretics whose impious offences stink in the face of King Manuel the Fortunate. We wish humbly to warn you that these masterless men will not hesitate to make affray in the cause of any alien power against your puissance. But if you will withdraw from them your protection and deliver them into our hands we will see that they are brought before justice for their numerous crimes against man and God …”’ ‘That’s enough,’ said Alamgir. ‘What did the Sultan say?’ ‘He’s no fool. He would rather have the dregs of the western world living quietly on his borders than the might of the Estado da India laying down the law in them. He gave them a courteous but meaningless answer and sent them away with presents richer than they brought. But we know The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 50 they’ll be back. And there were others too, private traders whom I met in the house of Martin Lucena, a Portuguese merchant of Gaur. There was one Joao Coelho who had been sent by Giovanni de Empoli, a financier of Florence, to spy out the land and ingratiate himself with the sultan. When I left he was still there. Spies are everywhere: I also heard that Albuquerque had intelligence of Malaka from a Muslim of Bologna called Ludovico di Varthema, and that Soares is planning to send another spy to Canton now. Varthema is even said to have visited the Spice Islands, and I hear that Francisco Serrao, who was thought drowned among the islands, is in fact living in Ternate and corresponding with his masters.’ ‘What should we do?’ said Joao. ‘We can’t kill every Frank who seems suspicious.’ ‘Don’t worry, brother, we’ll match their spying with our own, and make sure our friends are more powerful than theirs. When there is gold to be had and men are far from home, much can be done. These Franks are hungry.’ The motion of the ship changed as they negotiated the last stretch of the river and sailed into the open sea. The Pir Prasad was ahead of them; numerous ships and boats of all sizes lay scattered in between, their wakes fanning out as they turned either south or north to trade along the coast, crisscrossing with those returning. Gradually they left the teeming shore and made for open water, preceded by dancing dolphins. The October turbulence of the retreating monsoon was just developing in the basin of the Bay, sending cyclones roaring up the Orissa coast and into Bengal, but here the winds were turned aside by the curve of the Arakan Yoma and blew weakly from the north: Alamgir preferred to do the eastern run during this season, when sailing to the western ports was hazardous. Their first port of call would be the island of Cheduba off the Arakan coast, where they would meet Shwe Bin’s family and drop off a few chests of Somali and Yemeni incenses, coffee from Mocha, guggul and opium from Sindh, khus from the Himalayas and salt and ambergris from Sandwip for his many brothers and their wives. Then they would call at Mergui, Malaka and Makassar to trade their cargo of fine muslin from Dhaka, gur, sesame, indigo, tussar silk from Assam, rice from Harikela, cardamom from the Nilgiris, cinnamon, pepper and pearls from Serendip, cumin and coriander from Chittagong itself. At Mergui they would buy the rubies and sapphires and teakwood of Burma and Thailand, at Malaka they would buy benjamin and camphor from Sumatra, sandalwood from Timor, Chinese silk and porcelain, and at Makassar they would buy cloves from the Moluccas, mace and nutmegs from the Bandas, and perhaps indulge in a little light piracy on the way back. Most of these items they would sell in Chittagong’s markets, with a few, such as the better gems and spices, reserved for onward sale to Malabar when next they called. Their backers had put up half the money for the cargo, but most of the original crew of the Shaan-eDariya had shares in it. Fernando had a fiftieth share, a big risk, and hoped the voyage would help him complete the payments to his banker, Abdul Karim Hashimi, on his new house in Dianga. ‘There’s more news, Fernando,’ said Daud as they rested a while, having helped set the sails for Cheduba. ‘Your old shipmate Magellan, the hero of Malaka, has quarrelled with his Portuguese masters. He wanted a bigger pension from King Manuel for making war in the Maghrib, but His Majesty graciously told him he might take his game-leg elsewhere. He and the mapmaker Rui Faleiro have sworn allegiance to Charles of Spain, and hope to outfit a mission to sail around the world. What d’you think; will he top Columbus?’ ‘Oh, he’s far more ambitious. He has no hunger for gold or land, only for the praise of men: I’ll wager his pride was hurt by the king’s refusal rather than his purse.’ ‘Magellan says he can prove the Spice Islands lie on the Spanish side of the line drawn by the Pope, when he divided the globe between Spain and Portugal in the Treaty of Tordesillas. There were men in that Portuguese delegation that thought him a traitor for it. If he sets out on his voyage every ship from Lisbon to Malaka will be looking to make a prize of him.’ The ship settled down to the routine of sailing. Fernando took watch and shinned up the ropes to sit atop the main mast. There were still numerous vessels keeping them company; he spotted the The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 51 Thiri Thudamma, a Magh trader that often did the run down to Mergui or Malaka. There was the Firoza, a ship owned by Rahmat Ali and shared in by several prominent government officials; Fernando had heard that Hamza Khan the governor had been offered five percent in it, until he should trade on his own account. Over their port bow was the Nagarjuna, a spice trader from Machilipatnam. Spice ships tended to be sturdier than the country boats that carried mainly rice and textiles between local ports; spices needed to be protected from the weather and the sea. They only came this way when intending to trade with Bengal and the Ganga plains; the long-distance spice trade preferred to cut across the foot of the Great Bay, avoiding the contrary winds of its maw, to loop eastwards to the Moluccas, the fabled Spice Islands: Ternate, Tidore, Bacan, Makian, Obi, Morotai, Halmahera; and the Bandas: Ceram, Ambon, Banda Naira, Buru, Sula, Pulo Ai and Pulo Run. Those fabled places were the far eastern end of the greatest trade network on earth, whose arms embraced the entire known world so widely that one end barely knew the other. If there were a goddess of spices (not to mention perfumes, fine woods, gemstones, rare dyestuffs, drugs and simples, silks, porcelain, precious metals, and all things that make civilization worthwhile), seated in the pulsing heart that powered the monsoons somewhere deep in the Indian Ocean, she would have seen with her divine eyes a world-hugging tangle of trade routes looping and binding like the skeins of a fishing net. From west to east they started in Antwerp, where great loops came from Portugal and the Adriatic: Venice, Genoa, Ancona, and the Levant, feeding northern and western Europe. The routes spread into a fan in Lebanon, Syria, Jordan, Palestine and Arabia Petraea, and the realm of the mighty Ottomans. Here they split into two, one hank of threads crossing the isthmus of Suez and flowing around Arabia, the other going east overland to curl north around the Takla Makan desert into China, or south into Samarqand, Bukhara, Kandahar and through the high passes into India. Round the Arabian Peninsula one net caressed the Hijaz and Cairo to enter the Arabian Sea through the Bab-el-Mandeb, studding the coasts of Somalia and Hadramaut with rich ports, the other ramified over the Tigris and the Euphrates, enriching Mosul and Baghdad and Basra, and so into the Persian Gulf. There the nets joined again, racing with the breath of the monsoon; July to September blowing them towards India, October to April hurrying them home. Along the Makran coast they flew to Karachi, the great cosmopolitan port of Sindh, and the emporia of the treacherous Raan of Kutch. Around the bulge of Gujarat, pilot’s boats waited for big ships at the crest of the tide to tow them through the shoals and sandbanks into wealthy, bustling Broach and Cambay. From there a vast concourse of strands enveloped the western coast of India, precipitous with the mountains of the Ghats, red with laterite blood in the monsoon rains, rich with forts and ancient harbours: Kalyan, Chaul, Dabhol, Calicut, Cochin, Quilon. There were greater treasures ahead: the isle of Ceylon, known variously as Lanka, Serendip or Suvarna Dwipa, the isle of gold, Taprobane of the ancient Greeks, with its mountains and streams and fragrant breezes and beautiful harbours: Batticaloa and Trincomalee and Galle. The arc of the Bengal Bay took a single handful of strands running up to Nagapattinam, Machilipattinam, Puri, Satgaon, Sandwip, and Chittagong herself, while a great highway of threads twined and plaited their way east across the base of the bay, touching the Nicobars, then the north coast of Sumatra to Malaka, sheltered within its strait, where the fort of A Famosa now frowned over the sea. From there they curled past Java to Makassar, on the island of Sulawesi, where sharply raked pirahus brought the spices of the Moluccas to the trade of the world. There Chinese junks and Arab dhows and sambuqs filled their holds with vegetable gold from the palm-fringed, coral-girt, volcano-plumed Spice Islands, made and unmade by the planet’s raw flesh and the bodies of tiny ephemeral insects. But now there was a thin hank of threads garlanding the huge shape of Africa, running round the western bulge, then looping almost to Brazil (still called Vera Cruz) coming round the Cape of their Good Hope to tangle and cut the strands of Madagascar and the Maldives. From there, fighting the tapestry of the trade, these new sharp-edged threads cut straight across from Socotra to Calicut, where they had already garrotted the Zamorin’s empire and were now trying to force this exuberant calico of sea routes through the strait ring of their compass. But this ancient stuff was no Dhaka The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 52 muslin (the finest sort soon to be christened shabnam, dew on grass) to meekly pass the test: it was a net older than Christ, compounded of sailcloth and coir rope and the sinews of determined men, and it would fight back. The Portuguese who by grace of the Pope and their dire need had added these new strands (and the Spaniards who were soon to take Magellan’s bet and draw a worldencompassing thread that would pioneer a new ocean route) might think they were changing the rules, but the rules, for better or worse, were also changing them. The Shaan-e-Dariya and the Pir Prasad reached Cheduba in five days’ sailing, spent a few entertaining evenings with Shwe Bin’s piratical family, then continued south past the Arakan coast and the Irawady delta into the Gulf of Martaban and through the shifting shoals of the Mergui archipelago. There they had an encounter with Malay pirates near Cabusa Island who tried courageously to board the Shaan-e-Dariya’s high sides until the Pir Prasad loomed out of the dawn mist and sent them running for their lives. ‘Pity,’ sighed Daud. ‘If they’d hung around we could have rummaged in their ship. You’d never believe the stuff these small-timers accumulate.’ They docked at Mergui and made contact with their agents. Alamgir was carrying letters for various merchants from his clients; he dispatched Zain and Haji Mohammed to deliver them. The rest of the crew got busy loading and unloading. Their agent, Thabeng Tha Aung, told them the new pepper plantations at Aceh on the northern tip of Sumatra were finally mass-producing better peppercorns than Malabar or Lanka; he had samples to show them which they admired. Zakaria Immao, a depot manager there, was a good friend of his and could get them competitive rates. Alamgir arranged with the man to sell off their Malabari pepper in Mergui so they could load up at Aceh. Once the press of business slowed, Daud and Fernando went into town to find out what they could. Mergui was rich. Situated on the thin neck of land that pointed down into the Malaka Straits, and watered by the mighty Tenasserim river, it was the key to the rich courts of Pegu and Ayuthaya. Ocean-going trade, mainly brought by Chettys and Klings (people of the ancient port of Kalinga in Orissa) of the eastern seaboard was transshipped here to the country boats that ran the river routes to the jungle-hidden cities of Southeast Asia. Behind the docks there were eateries and shops, brothels and taverns, the waterfront of ports everywhere in the spice trade, with the graceful pagoda roofs of temples and official buildings rising further in the distance. Women, elegant in bright loincloths tucked round their breasts and falling to mid-thigh, stalked through the bazaar, their eyes bold and appraising, flowers in their hair, their figures lithe as coconut trees. Daud lingered a while there, sampling food and exchanging gossip with the vendors. People that Fernando addressed in Arabic answered easily in kind, but Malay or Siamese were beyond him so he let Daud do the talking. They wandered to the better quarters, where Daud hailed a young merchant, dressed like himself and with the same sharp eyes and neat beard. ‘Well, Bilal, what news of the Franks down south?’ Bilal looked glum. ‘At first they let trade go on as before, and sent embassies to Pegu, Ayuthaya and Aceh to say that nothing would change, but of late they’ve been patrolling the Strait and fining ships without cartazes. Smaller craft get through by hiding in the coastal reefs where the Frankish ships can’t follow, but many of the larger traders from Malabar and Coromandel have been challenged, and those that failed to show a cartaz were taken to Malaka and heavily fined. Aceh and Makassar still defy them: the Sultan of Aceh refused to let them tax or fix his pepper rates. You’d be better advised to leave Malaka alone, go to Aceh and then round the south coast of Sumatra by the Sunda Strait to Makassar; they haven’t yet discovered that route.’ Daud thanked him and they sauntered back to tell Alamgir. A council of war was called. It was decided that the Pir Prasad should go to Aceh, then round the southern coast of Sumatra to wait for a fortnight for the Shaan-e-Dariya at Makassar. The smaller ship, with her piratical honours less fresh upon her, would attempt to pass the strait and see for herself what the Frankish regime was like in Malaka. If she was delayed or turned back, the Pir Prasad was to make her own way home. The Shaan-e-Dariya would give her a head start of a week, and spend the time gathering further The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 53 information. They left Mergui as planned. From the northern point of Sumatra the Shaan-e-Dariya tacked east, entering the narrowing funnel of the Malaka Strait. They spotted the patrol between Tanjungbalai and Kelang; about fifteen ships strung out across the water, their gun ports menacingly open. Two of them immediately shook out sail to intercept. Alamgir’s face was impassive as they came alongside and requested permission to come aboard. A boatload of Frankish officials arrived, covered by the big ship’s guns. The Shaan-e-Dariya’s crew ranged around their captain; the Frankish customs man took in the rainbow of skin colours and costumes with a slow and ironical glance before settling on Alamgir Hussein. ‘And you are the captain of this ship, Senhor …?’ ‘Sheikh Alamgir Hussein, sir.’ The man regarded his ginger hair and florid face. ‘You seem to be a good way from home, Alamgir Hussein.’ ‘My home is forty days’ sailing from here. Thirty, with a good wind.’ ‘And that would be …’ ‘Chittagong, sir.’ ‘Ah, Porto Grande. So you would be having a cartaz from the Chief Factor there?’ ‘Chief Factor?’ said Alamgir very carefully. ‘Indeed. I have his name down here. Yes, Dom Joao de Silveira, but I see he was dispatched a month ago. Perhaps he has not arrived yet? Well then, next time you sail this way you will need a cartaz. For now I will let you off with a fine. Who owns this vessel?’ ‘Rahmat Ali, Abdul Karim Hashimi, Set Min Khaung, Ma Byaw Mungyi, Elihu Matthias, Kalicharan Saudagar, Mahadev Mu’ajmadar, Khwaja Ahmad Khan, Saif-ud-din Fadl Mahmud, the crew and myself.’ ‘Hmmm. Well, all that remains is for me to inspect your cargo.’ But Alamgir managed after a cursory examination to head the man off to his cabin, where the Frangi took a chest of incense and several bags of gold, each with a brusque jerk, refused all offers of wine and food and headed back to his ship. Daud raised an eyebrow even as he bowed the man out. ‘They still have a lot to learn, don’t these Franks?’ They did not linger in Malaka once their agent had dealt with the cargo, and sailed on for Makassar and their rendezvous with the Pir Prasad. Under the volcano-smeared sky of Sulawesi they loaded the spices their agents had purchased and reprovisioned the ships. Fernando cast a wistful look east, to the coral islands, but the waters were lousy with Bugis pirates and they were all anxious to learn what truth there was to these rumours of Portuguese factors in Chittagong. Both ships made for the Sunda Strait and set all sail for Aceh, taking the longer but clearer route around the outside of Sumatra’s southern reefs and turning north past the island. This was where their lateen rig allowed them to tack within four points of the wind, so that they zigzagged elegantly north. Ten days out from Chittagong they saw a small Chinese junk wallowing ahead of them. It was clearly in trouble. No signal was needed; like a well-oiled machine the Pir Prasad and the Shaan-eDariya matched speeds and came alongside each other, the space of a ship between them. The junk’s crew had seen them; black figures began running around the deck, pulling at ropes and climbing rigging with the frantic energy of terror. The two ships ran up the Arakan flag in tandem, Alamgir’s colours-of-convenience when buccaneering; the effect on the junk was like a stone thrown in a termite nest. Men began hurling themselves off the deck into the sea. They were two cable-lengths away now. Nayakam and Alamgir pulled hard on their wheels. The straw-stuffed whole oxhides that hung as bumpers on the two pirate ships’ sides pinched the junk in their deadly grasp. The pirate crews hurled grappling irons over: unfortunates who hadn’t jumped fast enough screamed briefly as they were crushed between the wooden walls. The boarding parties swarmed onto the junk, yelling and waving their scimitars and sabres. A small group around the junk’s mast, The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 54 led by a huge tattooed bald man, had decided to put up a fight; they were swamped by a sea of struggling men and dexterously disarmed and bound. Heaving them on to their shoulders, a party of pirates took them to the slave holds while the rest of the men ransacked the ship. In less than an hour they had cleared the ship’s small hold of its cargo, mainly silk, cotton, sandalwood, brazilwood (used to make a red dye) and spices, ripped up the cabins and found the captain’s secret hoard of carnelians and amethysts, and discovered a Catholic priest. He sidled towards Daud out of his cabin, white with terror, holding his Bible in front of him. ‘I warn you, barbarian,’ he squeaked in Italian, ‘I am protected by the authority of the Pope.’ Daud looked him up and down, then delicately speared the Bible on the end of his scimitar, brought it up to his face and regarded it as if it were a dead toad. Then he thrust it at Fernando. ‘Is this worth anything or shall I toss it overboard? Fear not, friend,’ he continued in Italian, ‘We are not barbarians and you will be fed and kindly treated. What’s your name?’ ‘Fra Emmanuel, good signior.’ Then they heard Zain’s whistle signalling the raid’s completion, clapped a hand each on the priest’s shoulders and scrambled back to the Shaan-e-Dariya with their trembling captive, where they chained him up next to the hulking tattoo-bearer. Then the two ships went on their way, towing the junk behind them to be broken up for scrap. Over the next few days Daud patiently fed the big Melanesian. The harder the man struggled, the gentler Daud became, sitting by him with a feeding cup full of gruel until the man took food from his hand from sheer exhaustion. Beside him the priest crouched in his chains, his thin hands shaking as he muttered Pater Nosters into his soup. ‘Drink it up,’ Daud told him kindly. ‘You’ll need all your strength to impress a rich Magh and be bought for a farm.’ Fernando half leaned down into the hold. ‘Alamgir says to throw the priest overboard.’ ‘Curse it! What for?’ ‘He doesn’t want troublemakers, and I’m inclined to agree with him. He may not look like much, but the servants of Rome are like ants after sugar: fail to squash the first and in a week your whole warehouse gets cleaned out.’ ‘How far are we from Patenga Point? You know Hamza Khan hates to have us louse up the river’s mouth with corpses. You should have said earlier; we’ve already wasted shipboard on him. Let’s just shoot him and get rid of the body later.’ Fernando looked up. ‘My God in heaven!’ Daud heard him cry. He scrambled up on deck to see a wall of wood floating past, punctuated in stately progression by huge gun ports, each with a blunt metal cannon barrel poking out. Daud’s jaw fell. ‘Where in the name of the saviour of mankind did those come from?’ They exchanged grim glances as they coasted slowly past the seven tall caravels anchored along the Chittagong waterfront, longer and slimmer than any ship they had seen before; their castles raked back and a whole deck on each one dedicated to cannon, not just a few ports reluctantly bored in the stern: they were a new type, the warship, not armed traders like the old vessels. At the end of the line was Hamza Khan’s fast jaliya, an armed sloop-like vessel. The ships completely blocked their customary berth: the Shaan-e-Dariya anchored further upstream while the Pir Prasad went on to the wrecking docks with their prize. Then they headed back on foot to see what was going on. Bairam Khan was on the quay, with the governor Hamza Khan frowning like a thundercloud. A party of Franks stood before him, sweating in their cumbersome clothes and holding sheaves of important-looking parchment. As Alamgir came up to the group, the most elaborately dressed Frank was saying, ‘I tell you sir, I come in the name of Manuel the Fortunate, King of Portugal and the Algarves, Lord of Guinea and of the Conquest, Navigation and the Commerce of Ethiopia, Arabia, Persia and India, to whom the Pope has given the exploitation and enjoyment of all the seas and trade thereof …’ As he spread his documents bristling with seals his interpreter began rattling in abominable quayside Arabic. Hamza Khan glared at Alamgir’s men as they came up. ‘Can any of you tell me what this fool is saying? I have no orders regarding him, yet he says he has the Sultan’s firman.’ The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 55 ‘I’ll wager he wants to plant his breech amidst us and eat from our plate,’ said Daud. ‘We heard of this in Malaka. Wait, I’ll question him in Frankish talk. Honoured Senhor! May I inquire as to your business here?’ The man turned at the sound of his native tongue and looked Daud up and down. ‘I am Dom Joao de Silveira, Chief Factor of Porto Grande for the Estado da India under the authority of Manuel, Emperor of the Indies. My interpreter …’ ‘Oh Dom Joao, we are honoured to have you in our fair city and greet you as brother merchants eager to do business with the Estado, of which we have heard much. When we are here you don’t need a bazaar interpreter to conduct your business: this man is not putting your case well, as you can see. We will help you speak to Hamza Khan Sahib.’ ‘Most kind,’ Dom Joao muttered. Daud bowed with elaborate courtesy. ‘Dom Joao, this is my captain, Sheikh Alamgir Hussein. While you are in Chittagong, you are his guest.’ Daud scanned the documents rapidly. ‘Hamza Khan Sahib, I’m afraid he indeed has something like a firman, see here? But it may be a fake, for all we know.’ Hamza Khan scowled. ‘Get him and his ships off the docks; I’ll see to this later.’ Daud bowed again. ‘Dom Joao, the governor has taken gracious cognizance of your credentials. Please come with us to our humble township here; and allow the harbour pilots to berth our ships, for this is our customary loading bay. We can give you an excellent berth for your fine vessels some way upriver, with a wide frontage where you will be less crowded by harbour riffraff.’ Daud barked orders at the pilots, then shepherded the Franks away. Alamgir hissed, ‘I can’t keep these men in my house!’ ‘We’ll accommodate them for now in the meetinghouse. Try and smile at them for the Estado’s sake: let’s get them off our shores peacefully.’ They ushered their guests into the meetinghouse. Khizr Khan got busy preparing a princely meal and sent men to get chairs and tables from the store. ‘So,’ said Daud, pouring Shiraz wine into jewelled goblets for them, ‘Tell us how we can be of assistance.’ ‘As we told you, we have been sent here to set up a feitoria for the Estado. King Manuel feels it meet to have a share of the upriver trade, by the grace of god.’ ‘And what merchandise are you particularly interested in?’ Dom Joao de Silveira licked his lips. ‘Astragalus, spikenard, colocynth, bdellium, balsam, benjamin, zedoary, orpiment, cloves, nutmegs, you know the sort of thing.’ ‘Ah,’ said Daud, and looked woebegone. ‘I’m afraid we can only offer you ginger, turmeric, cumin, coriander, fenugreek, mustard, linseed and caraway hereabouts. And some very good rice, sugar and pulses. There is also long pepper and malabathron from the Himalayas.’ ‘No perfumes?’ Dom Joao looked acutely disappointed. Daud sighed. ‘You need deserts for perfumes, Dom Joao. But you can source some very acceptable attars from Lucknow and Delhi, only you will have to deal with the Sultan of Bihar, who is no friend to Bengal merchants. For cloves, nutmeg and mace, cinnamon, pepper and the like, we mainly buy elsewhere and sell on. Our sources are Malabar, Ceylon, and of course Malaka. But the Estado is already in charge there. In Chittagong you are adding many miles to your route, ensconced so far north. Perhaps Portugal’s interests lie further south?’ ‘I have orders.’ But he looked distinctly uncomfortable. ‘Hmm. Have you ever considered building a base for His Majesty in Ceylon? The Golden Island, the country traders call it. It is a premier producer of pepper, cinnamon and pearls, and there is a wonderful harbour to the south, Galle by name, totally untouched.’ ‘Really? Cinnamon and pearls as well as pepper?’ ‘Of course.’ Daud twirled the goblet. ‘But think about it, have a look around our fair city, ask others of what I say, report to your principals and make your own plans. We will be quite happy to host you as long as you wish to stay. We are a hospitable city.’ They sat down to eat. As Dom Joao was finishing, a Frankish crewman came with a note for The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 56 him. He read it and frowned. ‘Do you have a Christian priest called Fra Emmanuel in your custody?’ ‘I think we did apprehend an impostor calling himself that, your honour.’ Daud said blandly. ‘Is he really a Christian priest? My word. He was consorting with some very strange shipmates.’ ‘He says here that you have imprisoned him and appeals for my protection. He is on your ship. Should we go thither and see what is the matter?’ ‘That won’t be necessary. We’ll find him and invite him here. There must have been some mistake. Fernando, if you would be so good?’ Fernando left and returned with Fra Emmanuel, who threw himself at Dom Joao’s feet. ‘Oh, your honour, please protect me from these savage men, who have treated me most cruelly and intend to sell me into slavery …’ ‘How the man rambles,’ Daud said lazily. ‘Come, Fra Emmanuel, no harm was offered to you. Sit with us, there is still meat and drink left, as well as this excellent syllabub. Really, if you persist in travelling with tattooed ruffians on disreputable Chinese junks you can’t blame us for doubting your credentials. How were we to know you were such an exalted servant of Christ? But come, least said, soonest mended. You are our guest now.’ Dom Joao and his men sat up late into the night, drinking and talking. Over the next few days the Chief Factor bought a handsome house in Dianga for the accommodation of his offices, carved out a section of waterfront for the exclusive use of the Estado and paid for a small wooden chapel for Fra Emmanuel. He sent presents to the Governor, but Hamza Khan had little to say to him. Fernando watched all this with deep misgiving. Something told him he would regret Fra Emmanuel’s escape from the slave bazaar. The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 57 Eight The Dance of Conception Months passed, and Kamala was wed. The occasion was bare of ceremony, as befitted the wedding of the daughter of a learned priest, and most of Kamala’s trousseau was thrown together from Indrani’s old silk saris, refurbished by Bajja. The bustle and disturbance of the wedding brought Bajja and her bundle to Indrani’s doorstep more than once, but Chandu had no time to sneak away and see her by the pond or in the forest. He had new lessons to work on now, and new problems to worry about. In the middle of the wedding preparations Bhairavdas had announced that since Chandu was almost nine he wanted him initiated into the traditions forthwith. The result was a whirlwind of tears, entreaties, outcries and glowering sulks from Chandu’s mother. Wasn’t it hard enough that a daughter was being taken from her without the loss of a son as well? Baffled and infuriated, Bhairavdas retreated. Chandu’s initiation was deferred to his eleventh year. In actual fact this meant little respite. Endless exercises in rhetoric occupied Chandu’s time. Had there been other boys studying with him, the hours of untangling single sentences that ran for pages would not have been so dull. Sometimes Shankardas helped him, but other people only drifted in and out of his misery. And he dared not take a risk and go to Bajja. So she came to him. One afternoon loud with rain, when the monsoon had washed all purpose and enterprise into the village’s mud and left nothing but bad temper and idleness behind, he crept behind the cowshed in the back courtyard to escape his mother and sister quarrelling in the kitchen and be with his books and pen and palm leaves. An unwilling prisoner in his cage of water, he sat under the eaves and gloomily scanned his own handwriting of the day before. A parcel landed in the middle of his careful calligraphy. ‘What …!’ Bajja stood grinning before him, wringing water from her raincloud hair. The parcel had smeared the ink beyond salvage. He stared up at her in fury and hissed, ‘Why have you come here? You know you’re not supposed to see my writing! If Baba finds you …!’ She squatted companionably beside him. ‘He’s at the temple, doing whatever you folks do.’ Berry juice leaked out of the package onto his ruined work. ‘I’ll eat them, then,’ she said, casually picking up a palm leaf from his work, but he shook his head and stuffed a greedy handful of the berries into his mouth, then tried to twitch the leaf out of her fingers. She held on. ‘What does it say?’ ‘It’s forbi …’ he caught her eye and gulped. ‘That’s copied out of a book of stories about animals … I mean, they’re supposed to be animals but actually they’re like courtiers and kings. They’re meant to teach us about the world. You know, about being clever and things. It’s called the Panchatantra.’ ‘Read it to me.’ ‘I can’t, you know that! Baba’d kill me.’ Bajja looked at him. Then she tossed a berry into her mouth. ‘It’s raining. I have no work; no one gives me work in the monsoon. Your sister and mother have quarrelled each other to sleep. No one can hear. What are you afraid of?’ She would taunt him if he said another word: he knew it, and felt hot all over. ‘All right, but keep a sharp lookout. If anyone comes, you crawl out quickly through the bushes over there. I can only tell you what it means, not the real words, because they’re Sanskrit, the language of the gods, and … and you’re not …’ He gulped again and rushed on. ‘Panchatantra means “five parts”. The first one is called “The Loss of Friends”. Er, here’s a story from the first book. I copied it out yesterday.’ He fell into his sing-song reciting voice. ‘Once there was a lion who had two friends, a jackal and a wolf. One day the lion found a mother The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 58 camel lost in the woods and in labour with a child. The lion killed the camel and he and his friends feasted on her, but they spared the little calf. The lion adopted the baby and promised that nothing would harm him. As he grew, the lion only became fonder of him. ‘But one day the lion was wounded by an elephant and could no longer hunt, so they were starving. Then the jackal thought, “The king loves this useless camel, but if we can kill it we can feed. Wise men say there is no task that is impossible or forbidden for an intelligent mind.” So the jackal told the camel to offer his body to the lion, provided the lion gave back his gift twice over, and Dharma should witness the deed. The camel and the lion agreed, and the jackal and the wolf pounced on him and tore him to pieces.’ ‘Wait a minute, surely the camel could see he’d be killed?’ ‘You’re not supposed to ask questions. Then the lion went to worship the gods before he ate, and he set the wolf and jackal to guard the camel meat. The minute he was gone, the jackal said to the wolf, “I can see you’re very hungry. Eat and don’t worry, when the lion comes I’ll explain. He won’t be angry.’ Bajja laughed. ‘But let me guess: the jackal betrays him when the lion comes back.’ ‘Are you going to tell the story?’ ‘All right,’ Bajja grinned. ‘Tell me what happens to the wolf.’ Chandu felt his face getting hot again. ‘Well, as … as a matter of fact, the jackal does betray him, but that’s not the end! The wolf runs away.’ ‘And then? I know, the jackal outwits his master and eats the camel all by himself, doesn’t he?’ Chandu glowered at her. ‘Look,’ she said reasonably, ‘I’ve been dealing with you people for years. A story like that is bound to end with the jackal winning.’ He flushed. ‘Look, I didn’t write it. It’s not all about cunning animals. There’s more, but I’m not allowed to tell you. And even I won’t know the real truths until I’ve been initiated.’ ‘So you’re just playing with toys, until your father teaches you the real truths?’ He scrabbled at the brittle leaf-pages. ‘Listen. This story’s about love and sacrifice and generosity to guests. I haven’t done this one yet. Ahem. Once upon a time there lived a merciless hunter in the heart of a forest. He was cruelty itself, and he had no friends. The ancient ones have said, “A wise man avoids the company of the wicked and cruel as if they were poisonous snakes.” One day he trapped a female dove, but soon thick clouds covered the sky and the rain poured down. Frightened, hungry and cold, the hunter sheltered under a huge banyan tree. He called out loudly, “If there is anyone in this tree, please save me.” ‘A dove that nested in that tree was thinking about his wife who had not come back. He said to himself, “A house is wood and stone without a wife; a wifeless home is a wilderness.” The wife in the hunter’s net heard her husband’s sorrowful words and, happy that he loved her so much, thought, “Call her no woman whose husband is unhappy; where happy husbands live, Heaven showers blessings.” So she called in a low voice to him, and told him of the cruel hunter who sat below their tree, suffering from cold and hunger. She said, “You must serve him with devotion. Don’t hate him because he has trapped your beloved wife. It is in fact my karma that has bound me, not his net. Give up all thoughts of revenge and serve him with care.” ‘So the dove hid his sorrow in his breast, picked up fire in his beak from a tree that had been struck by lightning and lit a pile of twigs at the base of the banyan tree. Then he told the hunter, “Because of my karma, I have been born without fortune and have not even enough to feed myself. What is the point in a host’s living if he cannot serve a guest? It is better that he renounce this world.” Then he flew once round the fire and swooped into its heart. ‘Moved by this sacrifice, the hunter told himself, “I am responsible for this tragedy. This dove is a great soul, he has shown me the right path. Hereafter, I will slowly destroy this body. I will fast and witness my own living death.” He threw away his net and stick and let the dove’s wife go. But life without her husband was worse than death to her and she followed him into the flames, where he awaited her with jewels and rich robes. He said, “O my darling, women like you live happily with The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 59 their husbands for 35 million years.” So they lived in heaven, while the hunter went deep into the forest. There he jumped into a forest fire and was saved.’ Chandu shut and bound the book, hardly daring to look up. For a long time Bajja said nothing. Then she asked softly, ‘Have you told that story to your sister Kamala? Would she jump into a forest fire for her husband and live for 35 million years in heaven? Or will you tell me it’s just a story and I have no cunning to understand it.’ Chandu hung his head. ‘I don’t know. I have to ask Baba what it means,’ he said feebly, knowing that he would never have the courage to ask such a thing of Bhairavdas. Bajja sighed. ‘All right, you’ve told me a story. I don’t know any stories, but I can sing you a song about love. Fair exchange? Then shut up and listen.’ For a moment there was silence, then in a low whisper like big, rough leaves fluttering in the faintest of breezes, she began to sing above the rain: Last night I heard you sing of love And my heart flashed wings in its bone cage I sang my sorrow through the bars My limbs are tangled in the world. My lips can shape only your name, My blood beats only to your heart Why have you left me here alone, To mourn the cruelty of love? Chandu looked at her in puzzlement. ‘I don’t understand. What does your song have to do with my story?’ She looked at him, then took his hand. ‘Put away your books. The rain has stopped; it’s getting dark. The village women are lighting their evening lamps. Come with me.’ ‘Come with you? But …’ She led him out the back gate and down the lane. They ran swiftly through the gathering dusk, the cool wind of evening lifting their hair, to where the last of the lamps flickered at the edge of the village. Under the dim light a strange haze seemed to rise up out of the earth: the sheen of thousands of gauzy wings. The termites were flying their once-in-a-lifetime mating dance, called out of the ground by the alchemy of rain and earth. Bajja showed him how to catch the creatures out of the air deftly between thumb and finger and pop the fat little bodies into his mouth. Together they leaped in the rain-washed moonlight, caught the earth’s love-feast and let the wings flutter away on the breeze, until the stars came out one by one. ~~~ Bhairavdas sat unmoving on the temple threshold. He was deeply troubled. He had thought that Kamala’s marriage would free him of some of his worldly fetters, but in the manner of fetters they had proliferated. Kamala, rumour had it, was not happy. Her in-laws said nothing, but there were talebearers enough to say that she was little better than a slave in their house, and unlikely to be anything better, for her husband did not cohabit with her. As if that was not enough, Parvati had taken to going about her daily chores with eyes swollen from weeping. In the middle of her tasks she would suddenly stop and stand stock-still as if someone had called her, but if queried she would turn aside with a guilty start. The house seemed wrapped in a pall of gloom that no good fortune could lift. And on top of that, an urgent, irresistible voice in the back of his head insisted that he was losing precious time with Sadashiva. His son spent too many days idling in the village and by the river, in spite of all the work he loaded onto his slight shoulders. The prospect of the heir of one of the foremost priests of Gaur turning out no better than an ignorant cattle-herder made his vitals twist inside him. He opened his eyes with an angry snort. This was no time to meditate: he needed to act. But what could he do? He knew he would soon reach the limit of what he could teach the boy here. The only real option was to initiate him, send him to Gaur and apprentice him to a guru there. He thought guiltily of Kumari: for many long years he had pretended to himself that she was dead, because that The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 60 made it easier. What if it were true? Who would be wise and trustworthy enough to find a sevika for Sadashiva? And what of the Sultan’s wrath against him, had it cooled or did it burn still? The way was long; Gajangal often heard of parties of raiders loose among the jungles, casually pillaging and raping on the margins of the Sultan’s power. Was there anyone left to whom he could entrust his son, someone versed in the lore who could oversee his spiritual education? Names revolved in his head: none that he would trust with his soul’s purity, but in these irreligious times no more could be expected. Perhaps if he were to write letters, send Shankardas to find his old students and beg a favour from them? Anything, even the risks of the open road, would be better than this rustic torpor. Bhairavdas went inside the temple to write the letters. On a matter of such import it was best not to waste any time at all. He was so engrossed in the task of drafting them that at first he didn’t register the sounds outside. On the edge of consciousness he heard something like a human voice, yet far sweeter and more piercing. Like a hook in the mouth of a fish, it pulled him gently out of the pool of anxiety in which his mind was tossing and brought him back to the surface of things. He knew the sound now. It was a flute, one of those tiny treble flutes that are so small they hide in the hands of the player, so that he appears to be making music with his hands alone. He sat up, for a moment ravished by the pure sensual beauty of it. Then an instant later a dark flame of rage burst from his soul. They dared stand outside his temple and challenge him! He put the letters aside, got to his feet with a jerk and strode out into the road. There was no one there. The sky was a lambent blue, the trees dark green against it. The road was a brown streak dappled with shade. He stood in the middle of this scene of peace and covered his ears with his hands, but the notes pierced his flesh all the same. A great sense of unfairness engulfed him. Had they stood in the public way and disputed with him, he could have quoted chapter and verse from the holiest of books and annihilated them, he could have demonstrated his Tantric power until they gasped and stepped back in superstitious fear. But they would not confront him. Instead, in their sneaky, traitorous way, they were tearing open the skin of yoga to show him a pain he thought he had cast off long ago, in the youth he had so gladly given to the pursuit of mastery. Unbidden, again, he thought of his guru; her face and body so real she seemed almost to be standing in the shadows. Kumari, graceful dancer, had played the flute thus when she wished to trick him out of an unseasonable sobriety. And so some uneducated cowherd with a piece of spittle-wet bamboo was defeating him without a blow struck in his defence. Bhairavdas sagged. For a long moment he stood undecided; then he went inside, moving like a tired old man, to put away the letters and head home. He would make preparations for his son’s education, but not today. In the shadows he did not see the piper sitting in a little hollow nearby, or the circle of listeners around him. Had he turned his head and looked carefully into the gloom, he would have seen that one of them was Parvati. ~~~ Some days later, Bhairavdas went into the city to find couriers for his letters, and Chandu got an unexpected days’ reprieve. He lost no time in going to Tara’s forest village, where he found Bajja by the fire, stirring an immense reeking pot of black glop. ‘What’s that?’ ‘Dye.’ The palms of her hands were stained purple. She raked the ashes out from under the pot, then covered it with a big leather sheet. ‘We’ll leave this to cool. How long do you have?’ It was a question she had never asked him before, and a secret look in her eye made his heart beat faster. ‘All day.’ ‘Come on, then.’ He followed her as she ran out, along the road that led to the hills beyond the tribe’s house. ‘Where are we going?’ he called, but she only ran faster. He managed to keep up till they reached the slope, but then he inevitably fell behind. She stopped, and waited with her hands on her hips, outlined at the top of the hill against massing stormclouds. Then she looked down the other side of the hill and let out a piercing whistle. When Chandu finally caught up, a man had appeared beside her. The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 61 ‘Dhani,’ she said. Chandu recognised him as the man who supplied grass and fodder to the village. Dhani grinned at him, hefted him under the arms and settled him on his shoulders. With Bajja running alongside they made faster time. Chandu could feel Dhani’s neck-pulse against his knee, growing stronger with the exertion. He looked down at the red cloth, dyed by Bajja, coiled round Dhani’s head, with a few wisps of grass stuck in it. Dhani’s hair was thick and curled, like a heap of shiny black stones. When the grasscutter turned his head the roughness of his cheek scraped Chandu’s thigh. It felt like the sparking of flint. He shivered and clenched his fists. The clouds above them were huge and soft, like the breast feathers of some great bird that you perceived not just with your eyes but with your skin. They were the colours of many kinds of smoke, yet cool and soothing and enormously gentle. Chandu looked up and spread his arms, imagining that he was falling into the embrace of that grey serenity. A white egret like a cross swooped below them, its legs trailing behind it, followed by a scattering of jungle crows. Then slowly the jungle rose up as they descended, covering the sky from their sight. They were deep in the jungle now. Chandu felt the tiniest tremor of fear. But Bajja was singing, Why do you leave me, love, under monsoon skies? I crave the raincloud hue of your thighs I burn in the lightning of your smile Won’t you humour me a while? Dhani reached up and set Chandu down on the ground. Then he nodded at Bajja and disappeared into the trees. Great black mouths seemed to loom out of the jungle at them. Chandu clung to Bajja’s hand. ‘Silly, they’re just cave mouths. Come on, this is a secret place I want to show you.’ She tugged him into the darkness. They weren’t really cave mouths, but the remnants of buildings that had half-sunk into the jungle, their broken cavities roofed over by shrubs and creepers. At first there were cells through which he clambered breathlessly, squeezing through holes in walls and barking his shins on half-seen roots, following the dark shape of Bajja’s body as she slithered on at breathless speed. They came into an open courtyard. In the uncertain light he saw it was bordered on all sides by small rooms like the ones they had crossed. Most were so tumbledown they were hardly more than foundations. But here in the interior someone had cleared the roots and vines from them. Bajja was already disappearing through a narrow doorway on the other side. The wind had freshened, blowing the clouds across the sky like the hair of a dancing woman. And as he came through the archway to creep behind Bajja’s back, he saw her, the woman dancing, in the changeable light of the joyful monsoon, black as ink, naked as night. She was dancing in the centre of a ruined courtyard. Her movements were delicate and unhurried, yet full of a brilliant greed that shone out of her long eyes. She balanced on one foot while another crossed her body and gestured delicately in the air, then she gave a bound like a tiger and pounced upon a rock, but she didn’t stop there; the movement circled like a leaf in the wind, throwing her into the air again. Her hands above her head seemed to grab the breeze, swinging her body into a new arc. She swayed like a wave rolling on the shore, and again there was that bound that stopped his heart, changing to a gentle sweeping motion. Her face came round and she looked straight into his eyes. Hiding behind the strong curve of Bajja’s hip, he felt as if his spine had suddenly turned to water. The woman smiled. He tried to catch Bajja’s hand, but she strode forward and left him exposed. ‘Who are you?’ Bajja’s voice was calm, but a vibrant note in it suggested larger questions on the tip of her tongue. ‘Dhumavati. And you are Bajja.’ ‘How do you know my name?’ ‘It’s not your name, child. Your real name is Vajra.’ ‘My real name? Why are you here? Were you waiting for us?’ ‘Yes and no, child. I’ve watched for you, I admit it, but it’s the merest chance I’m here today. I am glad of it. Who is the little one?’ The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 62 ‘Kalu. The priest’s son from the village. He follows me around.’ ‘But his name isn’t Kalu, is it, Vajra? His father calls him Sadashiva, his mother calls him Chandu. You gave him a secret name of your own. Why?’ She shrugged. ‘I helped birth him. He bore the signs of a hunter, so I called him Kalketu.’ Dhumavati laughed. ‘Kalketu, the mighty hunter, servant of the goddess Chandi, guardian of the forest. A cruel, sinful man who learns the hard way what devotion is. Oh, my love, you have a talent for paradox already. And I have another riddle for you. Can you tell me what Vajra is?’ Chandu tugged at Bajja’s hand. ‘Let’s get away from here,’ he whispered fearfully. ‘I think she’s a witch. Ma told me they eat children!’ Bajja chuckled. ‘Chandu here thinks you’re going to eat him. Is that why you’ve built a fire in that ruin over there?’ ‘No, that’s because the rain is coming. Why don’t you sit with me? At least it’s dry and warm, and I have some roast hedgehog you might like.’ It was indeed dry and warm, and Chandu crept as close to Bajja as he could. The jungle was full of racing shadows. He entertained a fearful doubt as to how he would get home if the storm broke. But Bajja seemed unconcerned, and sat crosslegged with her chin in her hands, watching Dhumavati skin the carcases of the small game she had hunted. ‘Who built this place, Dhumavati Ma?’ Dhumavati gave her a keen glance. ‘What makes you think I know the answer to that?’ ‘Well, you wouldn’t have danced here if it wasn’t a special place for you.’ The old woman laughed. ‘Yes, you’re a wise one. It was built many hundreds of years ago, by shaven-headed ones who followed the Buddha, men and women both. It was the largest centre of their teachings in the East. Scholars and sacred texts came here from the furthest northern snows and the easternmost dawn lands, to pour their measure into the great river of tradition that ran through these elegant courtyards. Here many secrets were explored and potent wisdom uncovered by those scholars, but it has all blown away on the wind, now. Even these old eyes were too late to see it.’ ‘How do you know this?’ Dhumavati’s eyes were half-closed against the smoke from her fire. ‘Broken bits of wisdom still survive, in old texts, among secret adepts who hide their faces. This is a bad time for the old ways: too many new things have come to challenge the shadows where the truth moves. We live on the edges: pig-herders, arrow-makers, oil-pressers, carriers of corpses, beggars. It’s only on the edges that you see the whole truth. And every so often, when the time is right and we are ready, we meet in a forbidden place and put aside our masks. For those few hours we show each other who we are.’ Chandu shivered. The wind was freshening. Dhumavati went on in a voice soft as ash. ‘I wanted to tell you, daughter. Vajra is that which can never be harmed or changed. It is also nothingness, the zero which is eternal and unchangeable. All things and no thing: diamond, thunderbolt, adamant: all these are part of the meaning of Vajra. It is the trained mind, that cannot be forced, that cannot be stopped, that is complete, that has been forged by force of will and course of time.’ ‘That’s not me,’ Bajja said mildly. ‘I’m not even grown up.’ ‘But you will be,’ Dhumavati whispered. Then her gaze rested on Chandu. ‘You too seek truth, don’t you, child? Albeit reluctantly. Do you know what a wise woman, a famous nun, said once in this very courtyard? She was addressing a huge concourse of renouncers, and she said, not faith, nor rituals, nor worship, nor purity, nor meditation, nor austerity, nor penance, nor good works, nothing can give you enlightenment but the knowledge and the querying of your own body and mind. That’s a text you might learn to read in time, eh, little one?’ Bajja’s face was rapt in a deep thoughtfulness, Chandu’s a mask of terror. Dhumavati stroked his head, very carefully as if it were made of glass. Then she said, ‘Bajja, the wind is dying. That means the rain will come soon. Better get on home. We’ll meet again, at the gates of the city of love. When your despair comes, call me and I’ll be there.’ Bajja was silent. Then she slowly got to her feet and took Chandu’s hand. ‘All right.’ The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 63 The wind blew them home like shed leaves. The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 64 Nine The Arrow of Becoming The dull thud of mud bricks against a palisade of bamboo stakes filled the air. Workmen toiled along half-raised walls, piling the thick unbaked bricks one upon the other. It was clearly going to be a big establishment; the central hall had already taken shape and lacked only a roof. Up in their pipal tree, Bajja and Chandu watched, shielded by the thick leaves from the eyes of the crowd that had collected to watch the building. New houses were rare in Gajangal, unless another refugee came to join their little band, in which case there was usually a family group off to one side, anxiously watching. But there was only Harimadhab, the rich farmer on whose land the house was coming up. He stood with a little knot of men in strange clothes who kept looking back along the road to the river, as if they were waiting for someone. Carts of straw arrived for the roof, but still the men craned their necks to see. A short while later, a covered cart with many attendants arrived. The men rushed to help the occupant out, and Harimadhab came and took the dust of his feet. As the man straightened up and beamed at the people Bajja nudged Chandu: it was Pir Baba. ‘He’s come back at last,’ Bajja said with satisfaction. ‘Maybe he’ll dispute with your father like he said he would.’ Chandu’s face fell. ‘Would he really do that?’ ‘Let’s go ask him, shall we?’ ‘No, no, I want to go home …’ But Bajja was already climbing down the tree, leaving him with that familiar sinking feeling of being left behind. He scrambled after her. Someone was spreading a white sheet in the shade. The strange men had surrounded Pir Baba like an honour guard while the people of the village crowded round, calling for his blessing and pressing gifts upon him. Pir Baba sat down on the sheet, leaning on a tree and smiling at the villagers who jockeyed for places near him. ‘We’ll come back later. There’s too many people,’ Chandu muttered, but Bajja was already pushing her way in. As he tried to follow, a pale, dark-haired man caught his shoulder. ‘Don’t bother the Pir, little one. Go and play.’ But a familiar voice said, ‘Fernando, let the children come. It’s because of them that I found my way to Gajangal. They are jannatis, they know the way to heaven, and most of all they’re my friends. Come, Chandu, Bajja, sit by me.’ Pir Baba held out his arms to them, and they went to him. ‘How I’ve missed you,’ he murmured. ‘Do the fish still bite by the river?’ ‘Oh yes,’ Bajja said. ‘Where were you, Pir Baba, all this while?’ ‘I was among friends who loved me too much, in a noisy, busy place, not like your peaceful bend in the river. But I’m out in the fresh air now, and glad of it. See all the new friends I’ve made in your village? Harimadhab Bhai is making me a khanaqah here, so I can stay and sing with you. Do you remember how to sing the Name?’ ‘Of course. But Chandu here wants to know if you’ll dispute with his father.’ Chandu tried to make himself as small as possible in the curious gazes of the villagers. Just then he hated Bajja with a passion. ‘I’ll dispute with anyone, my child. I’ll sit here and wait for whoever comes to talk or sing or simply pass the time. If Chandu’s father wishes he may trade wisdom with me.’ Bajja nodded. Then she transferred her gaze to the young man who had tried to stop Chandu. ‘Is he a Frangi?’ The young man bowed. ‘Fernando Almenara of Castile, your ladyship,’ he said. ‘I am, as you say, a Frangi, but for now I count myself a citizen of Chittagong.’ Bajja giggled. Chandu decided he hated this young man as well. Fernando went on, ‘I came from the city to escort Pir Baba here; I The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 65 return tonight. And you are?’ ‘Bajja.’ She regarded him keenly for a moment, then turned back to the Pir. ‘And how have you got on in the task your master set you, Pir Baba?’ ‘I live it every day, my child. But now these people wish to talk to me. Sit by me; I’ll speak with you more later on. I have many wonders to tell you.’ Chandu tugged at Bajja’s hand. She ignored him. He pulled her hair on general principles, then began to creep away. He had almost left the little gathering behind him when he heard a sound that froze his blood. It was the furious staccato beat of the little hand-held drum of Shiva, the doubleheaded dugdugi that his father carried when on serious Tantric business. It was coming from the road into the village, and effectively cut off Chandu’s retreat. The tree nearest to him was a mango with leaves as dense as night: he shinned up it with frantic speed. In no time at all he saw his father approaching, ashes smeared on his forehead and chest and his treasured leopard skin around his loins. In one hand he carried an upturned skull, in the other a gleaming trident. Shankar Kaka followed, holding a plate with objects of purification on it and playing the dugdugi. Beyond them Chandu saw faces turn among the gathering. Some of the villagers were getting to their feet, making signs to ward off the evil eye. To see a Tantric in full regalia in the light of day was a fearful thing. Mothers gathered their children and fled. The menacing rumble of Bhairavdas’s incantations filled the afternoon stillness. Pir Baba turned a mild face to him. ‘Greetings, brother.’ Bhairavdas did not respond. The drone of the mantras continued. An itchy feeling began to fill the air, the kind that usually heralds a really bad dockside brawl. Some of the city men had risen and stood uncertainly on the edge of the gathering. But Pir Baba, Fernando and Bajja sat on. Bhairavdas danced closer to the group, till his shadow crossed Bajja’s face at every pass. Then suddenly he brought the prongs of his trident down with a thump just inches from Fernando. The Frangi’s hand flew to his sword but Pir Baba was faster; his palm pinned Fernando’s blade in its scabbard. Then they all gasped. A full-grown king cobra glided out from the roots of the tree near the spot where the trident had struck and coiled upon the white sheet. Bhairavdas raised the trident again, making the snake spread its hood and follow his movements with its black bead eyes. Its sand-coloured body was within reach of Bajja’s hand. Her eyes lit up with greed; Chandu saw her other hand inching towards a stick. Pir Baba said mildly, ‘Brother, I am impressed. But call off your beast and let us speak together. I have many questions to ask you. Will you not speak to me?’ ‘These men are killers!’ Fernando hissed. ‘He won’t listen to you. Let me cut that snake in two, then see how he talks.’ ‘You will be dead before you can move a muscle. Killing a cobra is not a task lightly …’ Bajja’s hand whirled. As the striking snake followed it and hit its chin upon the ground she slammed it behind the head with the stick. They all heard the snap of its spine breaking. She got to her feet with its limp body dangling from her grip, then began to gut it with the dagger from her belt. ‘My god!’ said Fernando. His horrified gaze met Bhairavdas’s stony one. Bajja coiled the bloody carcase in her hands and made off towards the forest village, a look of anticipation on her face. It was not often that she got to eat snake. The three men regarded each other. Then Pir Baba sighed and spread his hands before Bhairavdas. ‘My friend, please sit. This exhibition does neither of us justice.’ Bhairavdas spoke. ‘You are pollution itself. Leave this place. This was nothing; I have more powerful magic at my disposal. I thought to show you in plain light what I could do, so that you would know the power you deal with, but henceforth my curses will come upon you in darkness. Be wise and go.’ ‘Why talk of cursing? I am a man of insight like yourself: I wish to learn from you …’ ‘Be silent! I give you one day; if you are not out of this village by then, you and all those who The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 66 have touched your shadow will suffer the most horrible of torments. Harimadhab, have you forgotten how your son nearly died of a fever last year? Do you risk the wrath of the gods so lightly? Do you think your skin can turn away thunderbolts if you consort with Turkish filth? Speak!’ Harimadhab folded his hands. ‘The Pir went with my boats to Srihatta, and I lost not a man on that journey, neither to tigers nor bandits. I am still a devotee of Mahadeva, but I am also a farmer, and I must have silver for my grain.’ ‘So you would sell your chance of immortality for a bushel of rice? Your blood will turn against you and fill your bones with poison until you die in screaming agony. God sees everything!’ Harimadhab turned pale, but said nothing. He watched in silence as Shankardas performed the rite of purification, scattering potentiated water over the road. Clearly Bhairavdas had intended to rout his opposition and purify the site, but he settled for consecrating the public road as a facesaving measure. Then the two brothers left, the sound of the dugdugi receding after them. Chandu waited till they were out of sight, then climbed down from the tree. Normally fear of snakes prevented him from cutting across the fields to go home, but this time it was overruled by the much more awe-inspiring fear of his father. ~~~ Chandu lay awake and scanned the dim matting of the roof. Far away a jackal called, then more joined it in a long, terrible halloo scattering in crazy laughter. He shivered. Beside him his mother slept. His tiny movement had made her eyelids flicker. Mechanically she raised a hand to stroke his flank again and again. He was tenderly amused; she could do what a mother did even in her sleep. But there was also a tiny grain of irritation which said, am I a baby that I have to be fondled whenever a jackal calls? He moved a little, away from her soft, flaccid hand. The hand fell upon the mat. Her eyes opened. ‘What is it, my son?’ ‘Nothing. Go back to sleep, Ma.’ Her arm crept round him and pulled him close. She began to croon his favourite lullaby in his ear. ‘Ma, let me sleep. Stop it.’ ‘But you’re so restless you woke me up. What’s troubling you, Chandu?’ She began to stroke him more insistently now, murmuring, ‘My piece of the moon, my golden boy.’ He lay there helplessly while her fingers kneaded his chest, his belly, his thighs. ‘We’ll have to get a little wife for you soon, won’t we? But you’ll still come and crawl into your Ma’s bed at night, won’t you, eh? No one else knows how to put you to sleep.’ Her fingers were stroking his sex again, as they had as far back as he could remember. He lay as he always had done, transfixed by the power of her need. A hot, angry pity swelled his throat. He took her wrists and gently put her hands away from him. ‘Ma, stop.’ For a moment she didn’t comprehend; she thought he wanted her to get up, bring him water, fuss over him. He pushed her away more roughly than he had intended. ‘It’s all right, Ma, I can go to sleep on my own. There’s no need to do that, Ma.’ There was a shocked pause. Then, ‘That’s right, throw away your old mother. Eat my head, drink my blood, why don’t you? I have only this little love to give you and even that’s not good enough. Don’t you understand I have you here only for a few months more? Soon you’ll be eleven, your father will take you, and then what will I do? It’s only by Ma Kali’s blessing I’ve hung on to you for so long …’ Her voice dissolved in weeping. ‘Ma, you’ll still have Parvati.’ ‘That useless creature? Why couldn’t she die in time and save us the shame of having an unmarried daughter in the house? All of yesterday morning I couldn’t find her anywhere. Parvati…! Oh Chandu, promise you won’t forget your old mother when your father takes you to the city. Promise you’ll come back to me. Oh what a sin it is to become the mother of a son, and have to go The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 67 through this grief. Oh Ma, Ma, Ma …’ ‘Will you tell me something Ma? I have to know. Is it true that Bajja took me away on the day of my weaning ceremony?’ ‘Bajja? Who is Bajja?’ ‘The washerwoman. Did she come here and take me out on that day?’ In the dark he could almost hear his mother thinking. Her breathing was heavy and uneven. Then she said stolidly. ‘What a stupid lie. Of course not. Who told you?’ ‘Parvati. She said …’ ‘Sadashiva.’ Indrani gasped. ‘Your father!’ Bhairavdas stood in the doorway, his face and shoulders ghostly white from holy ash. ‘There is no time,’ he said. ‘We are surrounded by evil. It must be done tonight. Get up, Sadashiva. Follow me.’ He turned and walked out again. Her fingers dug into Chandu’s arms so hard he almost cried out. ‘Don’t go. Your father can’t mean you to go now. He promised: only when you were eleven. Not yet! What does he mean? What ails him?’ Chandu knew all too well what ailed him. ‘I must go with Baba. Leave me.’ He unpeeled her fingers from his flesh, got to his feet and walked out of the door, to where the spectre of his father’s ash-laden shoulders hovered by the gate. Dread squeezed his heart as his father turned without a word and made for the temple. As he walked he wondered what his father had in mind. He knew that the initiation was a three-day ceremony. He was to spend a day in seclusion in the temple, where his father would tell him the first great truths, and give him a personal mantra that he was to recite every day of his life. Then he would be let out and robed like a renouncer. His mother would be brought to see him: she was to appeal to him not to go but he was to refuse her and start off down the road. Carrying the staff and bowl, he would go round the village begging from his past acquaintances. At the end there would be a puja. But he had always thought it would be done like a wedding, with due announcement and ceremony and fixing of dates. Not like this. Suddenly a desperately longing for Bajja overwhelmed him. How easily she had killed the snake that had threatened Pir Baba, when even in his tree he had been rigid with fear! If anyone could save him from this madness, it was she. But she was far away, no doubt asleep in the forest and oblivious of his pain. Bhairavdas laid a heavy hand on Chandu’s shoulder. ‘I’m sorry it has to be like this,’ he said softly, ‘but there is no time for me to do it properly. Mahadeva has spoken to me: the sin of curtailing the ceremony is a trivial thing beside our need. We are no longer safe in Gajangal, and I fear that my power over the realm of vulgar men may be waning. You will spend tonight in the temple; I will be here with you. Tomorrow we beg in the village, and the day after, worship Him.’ He led Chandu into the garbhagriha and sat him before the linga. Just one oil lamp burned there, but Bhairavdas put it out. The darkness in the little room was absolute. At length, in a voice unlike any that Chandu had ever heard from him, Bhairavdas began to speak. ‘My son, tell me how the world was made.’ Chandu trembled. But then the words from his studies rose unbidden in his mind. ‘In the beginning Prajapati had many sons, but they were yogis and would not spill their seed, and aeon after aeon the world remained unfruitful. At last Prajapati drew together all his strength to make his most powerful son, who would engender men. He made Shiva, but to his dismay Shiva stood within the river and contained his seed till he became a living column, Sthanu, the linga. The linga endured for an aeon of aeons; it burned and froze at once and linked the three worlds of gods, men and demons. ‘But Sukra, the priest of the gods, had sided with the demons and used his power to revive all killed by the gods. Enraged at this, Shiva swallowed him and stopped every orifice of his body to keep him prisoner, but at last Sukra opened the sperm channel and escaped from Shiva’s body as the seed. And from the seed men were created.’ The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 68 The darkness yielded no sound. Chandu blinked a couple of times, watching the purple and green not-lights inside his eyes. Then Bhairavdas said in a voice that was cold and gentle and inexorable, ‘That is one level of truth. As you proceed in the discipline you will learn that there are levels and levels, each in the other like the petals of a lotus. Listen. ‘In the beginning, there was Prajapati. Prajapati required to make seed, so he needed the help of Rudra, the terrible one, also called Sarva, the archer, and Lord of the Dwelling. Rudra by his mastery made seed for the father of all, and charged him always to keep it safe, for Rudra is the guardian and champion of the unborn, the free-of-fate. He was the first and most powerful yogi, and his containment was perfect, his purity was perfect. But Prajapati had in him a lust, and to satisfy that lust he made a deer, the first of his creatures. This deer was his daughter, and she inflamed his lust. So he pursued her, across the sky, and turned himself into a stag to take her. But just as he was about to cover her, Rudra saw what was happening, and in great rage he fired an arrow at the Lord at the moment of emission. The arrow hit the Lord’s linga and wounded it, and a piece of flesh and seed fell to the ground. The doe fled in terror so intense it produced light, so that she made the first dawn the world has ever seen, and she was called Dawn, Usas, from that instant. But the piece of flesh and seed, the first sacrifice, tumbled through the universe and burned the earth with its power, until all the world was a raging lake of fire. There upon that lake was Vastu, the dwelling, and there Rudra became Agni, the fire-creator, and forged, one by one, the pashus, the living beings subject to fetters, in the hearth of his yogic mind. But at the end, when he was to be paid for his work, he was given only the burnt land where the seed had lain. And he was enraged, and he put a yogi’s curse upon the gods, the most terrible retribution in all the worlds, until they called him back and gave him rule over all he had created, and made him Lord of Beasts, Pashupati. Since then, whatever remains on the site of the sacrifice belongs to him.’ There was silence. Then Bhairavdas spoke again, ‘The arrow of Rudra infused the Creator with his asceticism. From then on the Creator could make only mind-born sons, each a greater yogi than the last, and all contained within themselves their seed and none generated upon the earth. Then from the Creator’s anger and frustration Rudra was born again from his forehead as a little child, crying and demanding to know his names. And Brahma the creator gave him his names and laid upon him the task of creating men. And the Lord refused: for he would not emit seed.’ ‘So all that I have learned was wrong?’ Chandu breathed. ‘No Sadashiva. You learned a simpler version of the legend. They are all true. Rudra the Lord of Yogis becomes Sthanu, the endless pillar of fire that neither Vishnu nor Brahma can measure, but Brahma lied that he spanned it and is punished with the loss of his head. Or Rudra enters the waters and warms them with yogic fire for many ages, only to come forth and find that Daksha, another mind-born son of Brahma, has filled the world with people, and Rudra in anger tears away his linga and lets it burn earth and heaven till the gods appease it. But always, always, Rudra refuses to fetter the unborn with form.’ Silence. Then in the darkness Chandu heard a scraping sound like a great beast chewing on a bone. There was a spark and flame: Bhairavdas had lit a lamp with an ancient fire drill. ‘What you have learned till now has been children’s stories. There is more, even more to be uncovered.’ He took Chandu’s finger and placed it in the groove where the tinder had caught. ‘Feel that heat? It is the heat of engendering, which is latent in everything that once had a life. It is the heat that drives men and women to procreate. But there is a secret that only the yogi knows. If we take that great creative elixir necessary to make a human being, and we turn it inwards, into the man’s soul, it becomes power. All of yogic discipline is geared towards this end: to turn the seed back to its source. Now look, Sadashiva, at the linga.’ Chandu looked at it. He had seen it before, but now in the uncertain light of the little lamp it seemed to throb before his eyes. ‘On the night when I heard that we had to flee,’ Bhairavdas continued softly, ‘I went into the temple of Gaur at dead of night. The linga had been set into the stone; I had to break the paving with levers and hammers. I uprooted the linga from the place where The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 69 it had rested for centuries, and hid it in filth to bring it safely here. Our lives, all our riches and treasures were nothing compared to this, for without it there would have been no chance of establishing the true worship, of bringing order to these barbarian lands. Order is power. Never forget that, and you will have an anchor through even the darkest times.’ Bhairavdas held the lamp closer. ‘Look carefully, Sadashiva. You see that the linga rests upon a base with a lip. That base is the goddess, while the linga itself is the Great God. The base is the realm of earth, where Adharashakti presides. From there to the lip of the basin, the place of Parashakti, is the impure realm, so the lower half of the linga begins and ends in shakti. Then begins the pure realm of the linga itself. On the five sides, north, south, east, west, and the zenith, rest the five emanations of Shiva … Chandu tried to visualize the five faces his father was describing, but the linga sat in front of him like nothing so much as a squat stone. It reminded him of the collection of shapeless stones Tara worshipped under a tree in the forest village. On the edges of feeling he could sense the start of a great and howling loneliness. ‘Sadashiva, there is one crucial thing you must learn. Seed is the source of the entire world. You may think your mother gave you birth, but you are wrong. She was only the container, the yoni. That which made you was my seed.’ ‘She is not my mother?’ Bhairavdas placed a pot filled with rice in his hands. ‘She was a vessel such as this. But it is the seed which sustains, not the pot. Now listen to how the seed must be awakened. In the undeveloped man, the seed is in the lowest chakra, the Muladhara, situated behind the scrotum, as you know. All of the skills I have taught you are designed to help you raise that seed through the six chakras of your body into the Sahasrara chakra, the thousand petalled lotus in the head. When you have your final initiation, the brahmarandhra gate will open in the top of your head and allow your divine eye, the pineal gland, to know the godhead directly. Twelve thumb spans above this is the dvadasanta, the spiritual spire of the yogi’s mind, through which the god will descend during the ritual. Only when this path has been opened and made powerful with seed will you be able to worship Shiva.’ Chandu nodded. His father said gently, ‘Sadashiva is the supreme god that guards the highest gate of the human body. So I named you, as the pinnacle of my achievement.’ Chandu put the pot down. ‘I will do my best to be worthy of the name, father.’ The flickering light sparked in Bhairavdas’s eyes. ‘Then listen well. To awaken the seed, you must harness Shakti with the help of a specially trained sevika, who will teach you to arouse and control desire. With her you will learn to hold your seed even when clasped in the closest union, and moreover to draw her female power in through your male organ as a pen sucks ink. That is the paramount reason why I must take you to Gaur: it is only in that ancient city that I will find a woman who can teach you these dangerous arts.’ ‘I must be taught by a woman? But …’ ‘Sadashiva, you are about to enter the secret world of the Tantra. Some of the things I say will contradict what you have been taught before. It is only through paradox that you will rise. I myself was taught from the age of thirteen by the wisest and most beautiful of them all, the sevika Kumari of the Mahadev Temple of Gaur. There were twelve boys who wanted to be her disciple, but she chose me.’ Bhairavdas gazed indulgently at his son. ‘Don’t look so frightened; the sevikas are kind; you will have nothing to fear.’ Chandu stared. His father had had a woman teacher, a wise woman, a guru. He tried to imagine his father at thirteen. ‘Tell me …’ But Bhairavdas was stern again. ‘No. You must first understand certain important rules. Firstly, the sevikas are women of an unclean caste, because such are most endued with female power. You may not acknowledge them; all must be done in secret places marked by signs of power that I will teach you to recognise. You will need to strengthen your purity; I will show you how. Secondly, you The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 70 must never, not even under the greatest temptation, entertain any feelings for the women. They are your teachers, not your wives. The most powerful maithuna, or sexual union, is that untainted by pleasure, so that the yogic detachment reaches true magnitude. Your association with your sevika must aim to make her presence redundant. When you are an adept, you will be able to raise yourself to the linga state and absorb your own seed for hours, without need of a woman. Are you listening?’ Chandu started. A strange, misshapen hope had been growing in his heart as he listened to his father’s words. ‘Baba, are you sure there are no sevikas outside Gaur?’ Bhairavdas looked at him. ‘There are some women in forest ashrams, but they are nowhere near as highly trained as the temple women of Gaur. Why?’ ‘If I can find a woman suitable to be a sevika, could I finish my training here?’ ‘Certainly, if we could find such a one, but I fear that won’t be possible. Now let me tell you about the rite of divesting of the fetters …’ Chandu had heard enough. As his father’s voice droned on, he thought, so this is what it means to become an adult. And he began to plot how to see Bajja again. The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 71 Ten The Sign of Possession ‘For the eyes of His Holiness the Most Exalted Cardinal Giovanni de’ Medici, ‘Reverend Father, ‘Subsequent to my last letter sent to you from Pulicat, I journeyed with much difficulty to Malaka on a Portuguese ship. There an interpreter stole my money and I was forced to use my secret funds to buy passage aboard a country boat. On the way we were captured by pirates and brought in chains to Porto Grande on purpose to be sold as slaves, but by good fortune the most pious Dom Joao da Silveira, Chief Factor for the Estado da India, had just arrived to establish the Imperium of his most gracious Majesty King Manuel of Portugal in Porto Grande, and he secured for me my freedom. I disclosed to him my true mission, for he is a man of discretion and can be trusted to further the cause of Mother Church. Indeed, he has given me much information regarding the heretics and apostates sheltering here. ‘I am now stationed in a chapel generously endowed from the Estado’s funds. There are few here who are of Rome; most are Byzantines who fled the Fall, although I hear rumours of a recusant brother of the Order of Christ, one Joao Noronha de Covilha. Then there is the Castilian, Fernando Almenara, who is said to have fled Florence for some crime against God: I recall having heard his name mentioned in connection with the Strozzis and the Merchants of Light. I beseech Your Holiness to take intelligence of our brothers regarding that matter. ‘In the meantime there has been much turmoil. The Governor of this city, one Amirza Cao, came with certain evidences and laid upon Dom Joao the charge of taking by violence the Sultan of Bengal’s ships on his way to Porto Grande. At first there were high words, then at my urging Dom Joao made composition with the Governor in the interests of peace. No sooner was this bruit settled than the King of Arakan sent rich embassy to Dom Joao asking for the alliance of Portugal’s Christian Majesty against the Moorish Sultan of Bengal. Once again the Governor accused Dom Joao of treachery and threatened to drive all the Estado into the Bengal Bay. Then Dom Joao, his blood much roused, made war upon the city and there was much cannon fire and burning of vessels, but some Moorish merchants came with terms and said that all were here to trade in peace and disagreement would bring loss to all sides, so greatly do these men love gold even above their honour, and it is much pity that Dom Joao did not keep on with his bombardment till every Moorish ship had been burnt and sunk. ‘Then one Daud al-Basri, a Moorish pirate of the city and one of those who laid hands on me during my capture, persuaded the Chief Factor that he had better prospects of gain in Ceylon; and that a spell of absence from Chittagong would cool the Governor’s temper. Against my advice Dom Joao left for Ceylon, promising to return to the feitoria in some months. I am sorry to report that this Moor then set about corrupting the Chief Factor’s men with coin, wine and licentious women. I made bold to remonstrate on account of their immortal souls, but some of them even beat me for trying to bring them back to Christ and I was forced to let this Daud set my bones. I beg and pray Your Holiness to send me more hands as soon as the Church can see her way to aiding me, for I am sorely pressed and girt about with evils. My only hope is in the news just received that the Chief Factor has returned on this morning’s tide to Porto Grande, and I am repairing thither to tell him of all that has occurred in his absence. ‘With most humble and pious salutations in the service of Christ, ‘Fra Emmanuel Ponteverdi of the Agostini’ ~~~ The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 72 Alamgir pressed his thumbs into the hollows above his eyes. ‘Khan Sahib, are you telling us that the Sultan has ordered you to give Dianga into the governance of the Estado da India?’ ‘The Sultan has ordered me to do what is needful. These vermin must have a mohalla where they can keep their pollution out of the city, and they insist that it be in Dianga, where they have already bought houses,’ said the Governor. ‘But we cannot allow that!’ Rahmat Ali spluttered. Hamza Khan looked grave. ‘You have seen the destruction they can visit upon the city. Prince Nusrat has only just attained the throne after the death of his father Sultan Hussein Shah, God’s peace be with him, and he cannot afford to antagonize these Franks.’ The Governor sighed as he regarded the circle of glum faces in front of him. ‘Alamgir Janab, Rahmat Ali Janab, I know it is highly irregular, but I regret that at present it is not expedient to object too strongly to the Estado’s practices. As we have lately seen all too clearly, they have the ships and the cannon to enforce their cartazes, and no one here is prepared to challenge their crazy regulations. The Sultan wants peace in Chittagong, and if the achieving of this makes it impossible for you to live in Dianga, then you must temporarily or permanently go somewhere else.’ He softened slightly at Alamgir’s look. ‘I like it even less than you, my friend. I know the dubious wisdom of letting them nest on our very doorstep, but as you have seen we cannot remove them by force, and nothing less will budge them.’ ‘Maybe,’ said Daud, ‘but if the inhabitants of Dianga were to be offended at their uncleanness, say, or to be insulted by one of them in his cups, you would not bear any blame for the consequences.’ Hamza Khan glared at him. ‘None of your tricks, Daud. I will not have any more rioting in the streets. You are all men of honour and I charge you with this upon your oath: no more bloodshed.’ Alamgir nodded gloomily. ‘War will only bring more of them. Are they all starvelings in Portugal that they come here, board honest men’s ships and scour the very bilges for gold?’ ‘It’s spices they seem to crave even more than gold. When the Factor came to my shop I never saw a man look so greedily at the humdrum ingredients of a good meal. They must all have the maws of sharks.’ ‘Don’t give up so easily, gentlemen,’ said Daud. ‘The key to this puzzle is to find their weakness. Khan Sahib, only let me watch them. I promise you I won’t act without your permission. Give me access to your spies, and in return, I will pass on anything I learn.’ Daud bowed. He knew that since the arrival of the Estado Hamza Khan’s earnings had halved, as had all their incomes. Rahmat Ali was the worst hit, and his face looked perceptibly thinner. The tallest masts were bowing first before the storm. Hamza Khan looked thoughtful, then nodded. ‘Very well, watch them, Daud. But I must ask you all to refrain from openly resisting the Franks, for they tend to visit their vengeance indiscriminately upon us all. If you wish to escape the Frankish impositions, do so in such a way that I never need find out. And I shall be as blind as you may expect me to be.’ They all nodded sombrely. Then Daud said softly, ‘That is your command as governor, Khan Sahib. But we also crave your advice as a merchant. Each one of us in this room has losses to count. Rahmat Ali Janab lost a whole ship off Cambay for lack of a cartaz, and they even dared to board the Shaan-e-Dariya right here in the bay and ask to see our cargo manifest. I hate to admit it, but they have it in them to be worse pirates than any we have yet seen. If this goes on much longer, you know how we will all be reduced.’ Hamza Khan shook his head. ‘I wish I had comfort to give you,’ he said sadly. ‘All I can say is that we have to find new business; maybe look to the inland trade with Ava and Ayuthaya. You gentlemen are free to relocate to Arakan or elsewhere if you choose: those of us who must remain have to make the best of it. You understand that I did not tell you this.’ There was little more to be said. The merchants began to disperse. Alamgir, Zain, Nayakam and Daud lingered. When only Rahmat Ali was left, Alamgir said, ‘There remains the affair of the Franks’ demand for the handover of some of my men.’ The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 73 Hamza Khan said nothing, only motioned for a servant to bring wine and kebabs. They waited. Only after they had been served did he say, ‘Alamgir Janab, you don’t imagine I would be so inhuman as to give any of your men into the hands of those brutes.’ ‘No, Khan Sahib, but these are trying times.’ ‘You mean you fear my hand might be forced? I don’t blame you, my friend. It is a sad position for a man of honour to be in. Joao Noronha is safe from me, but the Franks have a habit of acting independently. Perhaps our Joao might visit U Shwe Bin’s relatives on Cheduba? A short sojourn while we manage the situation here? And Johannes and the others could accompany him, perhaps?’ Alamgir nodded. ‘That Romish priest came around and preached at some of us in front of our meetinghouse. I have never seen Fernando so angry. They are bringing their infections of the mind with them along with those of the body. There are reports of the Frankish pox all over the city, and Daud tells me the priest has called more of his kind here. If they come, I tell you the Inquisition will not be far behind.’ ~~~ A lone bird flew in the sky, climbing in overlapping spirals. Fernando glanced up at it and headed deeper into the jungle. The air felt raw against his skin; he craved the coolness of shade and the secrecy of leaves. He stopped to pull off his sandals and let the moist earth caress his feet. Slinging them over his shoulder, he crept through the trees and found a path smoothed by animal feet: the press of hooves was still fresh by the verge. A couple of turns down the path, a cool breeze greeted him from deep in the forest’s heart. Eleven years I have lived here and breathed the air of Chittagong, Fernando thought. I speak the language like a native, I wear the clothes of the country, I eat the food, I enjoy the music and walk beneath the trees. I have friends here for whom I would lay down my life. I was happy here, so happy that I almost forgot. And now men bred from the dark of Europe come and tell me in their pride that all this is wrong, that my friends are infidels and heretics, that my way of life is corruption, that I must pay for my crimes. Have they dominion over me because my skin is white and I was born among Sevilla’s mountains? Rather will I first soak Chittagong’s soil with their blood and mine. The wind rushing through the green boughs gradually blew coolness into his anger, taking the urgency out of his steps. He paused to sit down in a little hollow made by a bent old tree. The nightmare pageant of memories and feelings that had haunted him ever since his encounter with Fra Emmanuel began to slow its macabre dance. He heaved a great sigh, reached up and ran his fingers through the leaves above his head, stretching his shoulders luxuriously. A few drops of moisture that had lain in the angle of a twig splashed out, wetting his fingertips and eyelids and leaving transparent tracks in the fine white silk of his kurta. A half-decayed flower fluttered down and clung to the back of his hand; he tenderly unpeeled it and threw it away. More blossoms fell, carrying a ghost of fragrance with them. He got up again, put his sandals back on and ran down the path. At first it was a wild dash, then he settled into the rhythm of his running and began to enjoy himself. He ran on until the trees thinned and the sky opened above his head. This was a field, abandoned some while ago, slowly slipping back into the jungle. Underfoot the ground was hummocky with old crop stubble, decaying back into the soil. Charred treestumps had put forth shoots, some of which were as thick as a baby’s arm now. In some months, the trees would be tall enough to start laying claim to the sky again. He turned his back on the clearing, brushed a leech from his calf and followed another path, at random. He dimly knew where he was; in the tribal lands on the outskirts of Pir Baba’s village, but he kept that knowledge at the back of his mind, playing at being a fugitive. He pushed on. This field was a human place, even if deserted, and he wanted to avoid the haunts of men. He was here to look upon the jungle’s face, rather like a prospective tenant wincingly inspecting a hovel he must inhabit out of dire need in the near future. He smiled at the thought, only half acknowledging to himself the grim despair behind it. He knew he couldn’t realistically expect The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 74 to last a night in the forest; it was only the fading signs of humanity still about this place that was keeping him out of the maw of some tiger. Yet the fantasy of flight was oddly comforting. Even if his doom was to go back to the city and struggle with the future, for the moment he could imagine a different fate. He followed the path, pausing only to pick up a stick and thump it on the ground ahead of him, to ward off snakes. He looked at the trees, trying to identify the few he knew, wondering if the seeds of that one, the fruit of the other, might sustain him. It was past noon; time he turned back and made for Pir Baba’s khanaqah. But ahead of him he saw light glinting through the tree. He eased his way cautiously through them and found himself on the banks of a reservoir. The water was dark green under the afternoon sun and thick with pink and white lotuses. There were steps leading down from the further bank. It was late afternoon and unlikely that anyone would come out so far into the forest to draw water or wash pots and pans. Once more he slipped off his sandals. A dip in the pond would soothe his burning feet. He went down to the steps, much polished by use; he noted that a flat stone beside them shone with the patina of many laundry-bashing sessions. The thin mud contained some half-obliterated footprints; none of them looked fresh. The water was shockingly cold to his sore toes. The lotuses nodded approvingly: he slipped off his kurta and churidar pajamas and left them by the steps. The years in Chittagong had burned him a deep gold, so he did not fear the sun. Knowing that the prickly lotuses could be unpleasant bathing companions, he kicked out into deeper water. There he turned on his back and stared up at the sky, feeling that familiar sense of infinity that the swimmer in the midst of any expanse of water feels. Around him the lotuses obscured the banks like walls, crisp white or blushing pink above, spiny green below. From here they enclosed the sky like a fishbowl full of clouds with him in the centre of it. The water, silky with algae, held him in its gentle grasp, its pressure around his chest a gentle reminder to breathe. His feet trailed weightlessly beneath him; his hands hung in the velvety darkness. He closed his eyes and let the warmth of the sun play upon his face. Here in this untenanted place he could at last dare to let the memories out, to face the guilt. The first memory: the year 1506 in the secret garden of a rich friend of his, his initiation into the Merchants of Light. Fernando’s friends: young traders of consequence styling themselves seekers after ancient wisdom, but mostly just boys intoxicated with the world. They thought they could master the ancient mysteries as they mastered the currencies of a dozen nations, eager for a little raunchy talk and glamour around an ancient and deliciously dangerous ritual. But Fernando had thirsted, and he had come back many times to talk far into the night with Father Solomon. ‘You have a wanderer’s heart,’ the old sage had said, ‘without which there is no wisdom. Walk your path, Fernando, you are one of the few who has a path to walk.’ And now his path had led him here, to the news, from the mouths of his enemies, of the ruin of his love. Had he abandoned her, his first love? Should he have tried harder to make her come with him., or had he let a boy’s petulance decide this future for the man he now was? Or was it only that he had had to walk his path, as Father Solomon had predicted, and who knew how far he still had to go? For him there could be no looking back: his curse of a wanderer’s heart was set on leading him to the lair of wisdom, at what cost only the gods knew. He sighed, blowing water gently away from his face. He could feel the edge of a new battle looming: this priest would bring trouble, and the old worry gnawed his breast again. He clenched his hands in the soft water. Suddenly restless, he turned over on his chest and swam to the shore. His clothes were gone. He froze on the steps in shock, water pouring off his naked body. But he could see no footprints or any sign that anyone had been there, whether human or animal. He came up the steps and looked slowly around, wondering if he could improvise a covering from leaves and sneak down to Pir Baba in the uncertain light of dusk. Then he saw a glimmer of white under a nearby bush. He approached it cautiously, senses alert for danger. Someone was evidently watching him. The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 75 Perhaps they meant to attack and were luring him into a trap. But he felt no animosity around him, only the prickling of eyes on his defenseless skin. He sidled up to his clothes, snatched them to him and drew the dagger that was still in the secret pocket in his pajamas. The darkness of the bushes was impenetrable to him, standing in full sunlight: he saw no movement. He had heard the forest people were excellent marksmen with arrows. In that case, if they bore him ill will, he was already dead. He looked down at his kurta. There was a smear upon its front; he held it up to get a better look. Someone had planted a perfect handprint upon it, fingers spread, so clear that every phalanx was sharply outlined. It was more than a smudge; it was a deliberate sign of possession like a threat or a promise. He turned to wash it away in the water, and stopped. What did this mean? Who could have done it? He looked closer: it was not mud as he had thought, but some kind of dye; it stained his fingers. Slowly he turned back, and put his clothes on. The handprint stood out dark upon his chest. As the sun’s light turned russet red, he picked up his stick, each movement deliberate, and set off down the path towards Gajangal and Pir Baba’s hospice. He could feel the gaze of the unseen watcher almost burning the skin of his shoulders, but he used all the willpower he could command not to turn back. For that too was a sign and a challenge, only he had no idea who he was challenging and what it would lead to, except for an ungovernable excitement that made his manhood rise and his heart race. The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 76 Eleven The Hours of Awakening Chandu sat in the temple courtyard, his legs crossed in the lotus position. He visualized the arrow that Rudra had fired at the Creator at the moment of his uniting with the Dawn. That blow, gouging out a piece of flesh no larger than a grain of barley, had made Time, for the arrow was a fraction too late to stop the spilling of the seed that Rudra had prepared for the Father, and in its flight it created a now and a then. And in that sense, time was Rudra. It was his twin, his formless antagonist, who made possible the play of the world that was Shiva, the ultimate reality. And thus Shiva was also Mahakala, which could mean Great Time, Great Darkness or Great Death. ‘First, there is the ripening of mala, the impurity that oppresses and darkens the soul like the tarnish on a brass pot,’ Bhairavdas had said, outlining the regime he must follow now that he was an initiate. ‘Just as tarnish can be removed with acid, so with meditation and austerity you can remove mala from your soul. Then, there is the working through of karma, or action. You must consume your deeds, pay your debts, shoulder your responsibilities till you are free of them. Finally there is the vanquishing of maya, or illusion. For this you will need study, thought and ritual practice.’ Chandu’s day now began with worship and ended in recitation. He learned that the world had been created and destroyed in many previous aeons, each with its own myth. In some of them Shiva was Brahma’s creator, in others Brahma was Shiva’s. Bhairavdas told him there was no ‘before’ or ‘after’ to these stories: they could not be strung like beads on the thread of causality. All were equally hard to hold in the mind, though Chandu tried till his brain squeaked. He felt better when he was learning the attributes of the beings on various levels of the sacred mountain, or studying the mystic map of the body of Nandi, Shiva’s chief follower, the bull who was also the world. In his eyes now even the flowers of worship were outlined with the brilliance of the knowledge of their real natures. Had it been only this, it would have been enough. But at night Bhairavdas would reveal the other, dark side of the lore. The roots of the thousand-petalled lotus of the head began in the muck of the lotus pond: Bhairavdas showed him pictures in palm leaf texts so sacred that he would be obliged to kill any uninitiated person who should chance to see them. One of them stuck in Chandu’s mind: the four-armed, severed-headed goddess Chhinnamasta, squatting naked on the supine body of Shiva with their sexes connected (the artist lovingly rendering every folded detail of the joining) with her own severed head held in her hands. Her other two hands held a bloody kharga (a heavy weapon that was half sword, half axe) and a conch shell cup. Several neat streams of blood issued from her neck, one of which fed her own lips, one filled the conch, the others falling into the mouths of female attendants. Around this tableau stalked jackals and vultures, gnawing at corpses, while the goddess smiled gently, nestled in her own hands. Bhairavdas had explained the picture thus: the power of Shakti is beyond life and death, such that she can do things no mortal can conceive; she demonstrates this for our wonder. All creation demands sacrifice from the creator. She, the supreme creator, feeds the world with her own blood, not as a sacrificial animal, but actively. ‘This picture is the exact opposite of the mother suckling her infant,’ Bhairavdas had said quietly. ‘This is the other motherhood to which the yogi must surrender utterly. Everything in the secret Tantra is upside down: that is its power. The woman is above the man: blood takes the place of milk. Death becomes life: the burning ground becomes a lovers’ bower. The mother nourishes with death, not life, and she procreates not the species, but knowledge itself.’ The picture disturbed Chandu. Not because it depicted the act of sex: he lived in a society where both privacy and clothing were at a minimum and there were few mysteries about the female The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 77 body left for him to be surprised at. Indeed, there were boys his age who were married, and boys slightly older who were fathers. If his mother had had her way he too would have been one of them: she had fallen at Bhairavdas’s feet the day after his initiation and begged him to get Chandu married before he took him away, so that in the little bride she would have a companion in her loneliness. Bhairavdas had merely looked down at her and said, ‘I do not wish my son to increase his karma at this vulnerable stage,’ and walked away. Chandu had raised his mother from the floor, but he had been unable to meet her tearful eyes. Since that day she had treated him with the same fearful distance as she treated Bhairavdas. No, the picture disturbed him because of its serenity. His father talked of gaining power, but a being such as this could not be ruled: her face had the same calm willfulness that Bajja sometimes showed. Chandu gathered that all the complexities of Kailash with its crystalline, almost bodiless universe of entities that he contemplated during the day, depended for their nourishment on the dark wild sex energy of the cosmic coupling of Shiva and the Goddess. This powerhouse of chaos, veiled by the rigid formality of the lesser levels, burned in the anarchic heart of the ritual universe. If the adept failed to touch it, all his knowledge was mere rote learning. The yogi must share in that power through the kalachakra rituals, the coupling of a Tantric circle of sevikas and yogis. The power he tapped from the circle drove the motor of his yogic austerities, until he became a sufficiently awakened entity to access the energy simply with his own body. The women would be kulikas, members of lineages apparently predisposed to confer enlightenment on those who joined with them. Their naked bodies would be smeared with red ochre, their hair would be loose upon their shoulders and cascading down their backs, their breasts would be glistening in the torchlight as they chanted the names of Shiva, both the sacred and the profane. The men and women would be smoking charas, a highly concentrated form of hashish, and a chillum of it would be passing left-handedly around the circle. They would recite the attributes of the goddess, praising her as Bhaga, the eternal womb. ‘Bhaga is the head of a ram with curled horns, full of playful power,’ Bhairavvdas had told him that morning. ‘She is Vadabi Jvalamukhi, the firemouthed mare under the sea who strikes sparks with her hooves, and from this eternal burning, mountains are born. She is crow-faced, sharp and penetrating, and tells past, present and future to those who listen. She calls the blood-tide out of women, and that is when her power is strongest among them. All goddesses are aspects of Devi, the first of whom was Vak, the goddess of speech, from whom flows all ideas, words and thought.’ That night Bhairavdas would teach him the story of how Shiva caused woman to be made in Devi’s likeness. Now Bhairavdas came with flowers and offerings for the evening puja, and Chandu helped him carry out the ritual, ending with the lighting of the lamps. They blessed the devotees and fed the offerings to the temple bull. Night fell, and Shankardas went home, leaving Chandu in the inner sanctum. Bhairavdas brought out his texts. ‘The last birth of Rudra from Brahma’s forehead was the fruit of his frustration in the making of woman. The primal wounding had caused the first woman, the Dawn, to flee, and she now wept at the margins of the world as Sandhya, the twilight. There were female spirits in the world, but they only helped the yogis concentrate their seed. At last Brahma’s passion was so great he threatened to burn his creation in a universal holocaust, so that Rudra took pity on his creatures and manifested from Brahma’s forehead as Shiva Ardhanariswara, the god whose half is woman. The left side was Devi, the supreme goddess, and she was in Shiva and part of him, since “Vama”, the left, also carries the meaning “beautiful woman”.’ ‘Why was she part of Shiva?’ Chandu knew his father expected him to ask these questions, but the answers didn’t always make sense to him. ‘Because Shiva above all synthesizes the opposites of the world. No other god can hold such contradictions within his own body. Brahma begged the goddess to come forth so he might create women in her likeness, and Shiva suffered her to leave his side. She agreed to enter the world as The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 78 Daksha’s daughter.’ ‘But wasn’t Daksha the sage who infuriated Rudra by creating men when Rudra was in the waters?’ Chandu asked dutifully as Bhairavdas paused. ‘Indeed he was,’ said Bhairavdas, pleased. ‘By choosing him to be Sati’s father, Shiva was giving him a chance to redeem himself. Devi agreed to be Sati, “She-Who-Is”, so long as Daksha respected his daughter as the Goddess’s representative, else she would throw off her body and return to the celestial realm. So Sati, Shiva’s intended bride in the realm of mortals, was born from the womb of Daksha’s wife Virini…’ ‘But where did Virini come from if there were no women?’ Chandu saw his father’s frown and knew he’d blundered again. After a pointed pause, Bhairavdas went on, ‘The young Sati showed great yogic concentration of mind. When Brahma came with the offer of marriage to Shiva, she readily agreed, but Virini, who was vain and worldly, scorned Shiva as an outcast beggar, unclean, always drunk or high, with matted hair and snakes and animal skins on his body. ‘At the wedding, Shiva made Virini see all his hides as bridegroom’s silks, and the snakes as finest gold, and all the ghosts and spirits that attended him as beautiful girls and brave youths.’ Bhairavdas looked sternly at Chandu. ‘The appearance of the Tantric is terrible only to those who are tangled in appearances. To Sati on her wedding night, Shiva laid down one condition: if she should ever doubt him, he would leave her.’ Chandu nodded. He was familiar with tests of loyalty, and had no questions. ‘The love of Shiva and Sati made an eternal springtime upon the earth, and the creatures of that age played with more sweet joy and sang and gamboled with more pleasure than was ever seen upon the earth before or since. Yet the love of gods is hard to bear, and as Shiva began to reveal his true nature, Sati began to fear, for her mind was dark with women’s darkness. When she shuddered at the ghosts who attended him, and quailed at the hardships of the yogic life, Shiva knew she was no longer his, though he soothed and flattered her with pretty stories. And in time her father Daksha invited them to the sacrifice at Prayag. What does Daksha’s name signify, Sadashiva?’ ‘Expertise.’ ‘Correct. He was the living text by which all sacrifice is carried out, but that was all he was, a ritualist: he did not understand the heart of magic. When Daksha entered, all the gods rose, barring Shiva. Daksha cursed him and forbade him a share in the sacrifice, and Shiva only smiled, for he knew that he was himself the sacrificial fire. But Sati could not take this insult to her husband, and against Shiva’s wishes she went back to Daksha and cursed him in turn. Then, with anger hotter than fire, Sati burned her body’s life away, for Daksha had broken his word to her. When Nandi heard of her death, he rushed to tell Shiva, who created the demon Virabhadra to destroy Daksha’s sacrifice.’ ‘Why did Shiva not destroy Daksha himself?’ ‘Because his yogic powers had been undone by passion. Shiva grieved. He took Sati’s lifeless body upon his shoulders and began the dance of the ending of the world. The three realms trembled with the stamp of his feet, his hair lashed stars out of the sky and his hands crushed the blackness of space till it returned to primeval ether, the seed he had once prepared and guarded. Then the gods saw that his grief would outlast the universe unless they removed its cause, so they cut the body of Sati on his shoulders into a thousand and eight pieces, and where each one fell in the three realms there rose a shrine of the goddess. Fifty-one of these exist in our realm. Then Shiva, robbed even of Sati’s corpse, saw that her yoni had fallen at Kamakhya in Assam, and there he descended as a sacred linga. ’ Chandu realized the story was over, but a long spell passed and Bhairavdas was silent. Then he said, ‘There are many truths in this tale, Sadashiva, that you will unfold over the years. For now I will only ask you to contemplate its warning. Shiva, the supreme yogi, became human in this lila to caution us against love. Love is the antithesis of yoga, and it constricts the mind.’ Bhairavdas looked up, and his eyes were bleak. ‘When you are an adept, many men and women will come to The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 79 you, asking you to teach them how to love each other. Treat them kindly and with pity, for they are blind and will never find the path to power. They think the Tantra is a toy, like a peacock feather they might brush against their lover’s nipples, and they do not understand that to engross oneself in one human being is to close the door to enlightenment.’ Bhairavdas raised a hand as Chandu started to speak. ‘You are young; I know how the world will lay snares for you. You will see the goddess in every woman, perhaps supremely in one woman, but remember, even Sati’s mind was dark. No woman can be the equal of a yogi. Only through heartbreak will this…’ Shankardas’s voice broke through the temple’s stillness, sharp with panic. ‘Come quick! Parvati has disappeared. We can’t find her anywhere.’ Bhairavdas pushed Chandu out and locked the garbhagriha without a word. Then, pausing only to snatch a brand from the temple gate, he went pounding down the pitch dark road towards home. Chandu and Shankardas scrambled after. Soon the men outdistanced Chandu, but his yoga-hardened body had reserves of strength and he kept their double flame in view. But far away, so far he could not tell whence it came, Chandu’s ears picked out a voice raised in melody, floating clearly through the night air above the sound of his own panting. All roads lead to the City of Love Set your feet on the dusty path He calls us to the City of Love Take my hand and follow the path. Chandu stopped dead. He had heard that voice before; it had sung him to sleep often enough. He wondered if his father had noticed, but then thought with a twinge of bitterness that Bhairavdas had probably never knowingly listened to his daughter’s singing. He knew there was no need to run now. As he neared his house he could hear his mother’s voice, grieving in a kind of melody of its own. He found his father and uncle standing over Parvati’s clearly untouched rolled up mat. In a counterpoint to their silence Indrani’s wailing washed over them, counting the griefs that had dogged her ever since they had fled Gaur. As her voice died away Bhairavdas turned to his brother. ‘You know where she is, don’t you? Why did you come so late?’ Shankardas bowed his head. ‘You’ve let them take her, haven’t you? Do you think I sit in the temple and see only God? I am a Tantric, I can see the lies in your heart. You know that the Vishnu-followers worship weakness: they say the highest state is that of a milkmaid pining for her cowherd lover, weeping and wailing like your sister-in-law is now, with no thought of the dignity and majesty of God. Among them some men dress as women, and other men take them to wife with filthy rites. And there are some who claim to be related to god like children to a parent, and go around naked, importuning women to suckle them. Endlessly they meditate on the lewd antics of a lowborn outcast and his besotted female followers, they guzzle milk and butter in babyish ceremonies and chant the name of Hari till it banishes all thought. You know all this, and yet you let her go.’ Chandu cringed. Shankardas looked up sharply. ‘She has chosen her path,’ he said to his brother’s redrimmed eyes. ‘I only envy her courage.’ And he turned and walked away to his room. ~~~ Shadows tore Chandu out of sleep. Through his dreams had stalked huge women with the heads of boars, lions, slavering monsters with red tongues lolling on their pendulous black breasts and white fangs distending their lips. He lay and panted in the predawn cold of his solitary mat, collecting the scattered fragments of his mind. He had to face it now. He was afraid. In the chaos around him, there was only one still point of strength, and he had to go to her. How many hours to daylight? His father would come before dawn to take him to the river for their morning worship. He rose, took a brand from the store and lit it from the hearthfire that was never allowed to go out. It was the hour when the jungle night-hunters would be returning to their lairs, but the danger from their teeth was nothing compared to the terrors The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 80 in his head. He let himself out and ran up the slope to the forest, the brand streaming above his head. The east was still dark. Under the trees the fire seemed to burn brighter, throwing shadows around his flying feet that jumped and shivered with him. He ran all the way to the jungle settlement, ignoring the pain in his legs and the burning in his lungs. It was deserted. The house was a shell, and there was grass growing in the firepits. They must have moved on; the next camp was five miles away. He stood for a moment in the empty clearing, then collapsed to his knees and screamed her name, again and again. Only when he had no breath left did he let the brand fall to the wet floor. He lay curled in his misery until the sun came up. A warm hand fell upon his shoulder. He looked up into her face. ‘Dhani told me,’ she said. ‘You were shouting fit to frighten tigers. What’s up?’ He sprang to his feet and threw his arms around her, bursting into a storm of tears. ‘You have to stop him, Bajja!’ he sobbed. ‘He’s going to take me away to Gaur and put me in the temple. I don’t want to go! He wants …’ ‘Who? Why? Slow down, Kalu, I haven’t seen you for months. You’d better start from the beginning.’ She sat him on the edge of a firepit and patiently got the story out of him. At the end of it she crossed her arms and grinned. ‘Chandu, why are you sad? I’d give my right hand to leave this place and go see the city instead of rotting here.’ ‘I’m not sad, I’m scared. You haven’t seen those pictures. Some of those women …’ ‘They’re just pictures. If you learn about them, you won’t be scared any more. That’s the whole point.’ ‘Bajja, come with me. He wants to put me under a … a woman teacher. You could do it. You’re the most … the wisest person I know. You could learn the lore and teach it to me.’ She shook her head slowly. ‘I don’t think your father would agree to that.’ Her mouth quirked in a wry smile. ‘And now I think you’d better go home, or they’ll think you’re off with the Krishnalovers like your sister.’ ‘No! Bajja, you have to help me. At least come with me as far as the village. Or … if I asked her, do you think Tara would hide me? Just until the villagers stop looking for me.’ ‘Hah! Do you know what the penalty is for stealing a Brahmin’s son? And we’d have your father on our necks. He doesn’t care about Parvati, but he will come after you.’ ‘Bajja …’ the tears were coming again, silently now. ‘If I’ve ever meant anything to you, you have to try just once to save me. Please come with me to the temple. There can’t be any harm if I ask Baba if you can be my guide. If he says no, it ends there. I’ll make him promise not to trouble you any more.’ ‘You’re such a child, Kalu.’ But she nodded. ‘All right, I’ll go with you to your temple gate. But I don’t promise anything. You’re only asking this of me because you’re too mad with fear to see your folly.’ Still wet from his morning worship, Bhairavdas was meditating in the garbhagriha, concentrating all his powers on finding his son, when he heard Chandu calling outside the gate. He ran out to see him standing with the washerwoman from the jungle. His eyes narrowed. ‘Sadashiva, where were you? You’ve neglected your duties. How will you reduce the burden of your karma if you …’ ‘Baba! I have something very important to ask you.’ Bhairavdas caught his breath, but stilled his annoyance. The strain on Chandu’s flushed face was all too evident, as were the tearstains. ‘Well?’ ‘This is Bajja. You know her: she’s the washerwoman who killed your snake. You know she has power. She’s the only person who can teach me the lore. You must take her to be my guide. You must!’ ‘Killed my snake?’ Chandu’s hands flew to his mouth. Too late he remembered he wasn’t supposed to have seen The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 81 that incident. But Bhairavdas ignored him and advanced with measured steps into the road. ‘What is your name, girl?’ ‘Vajra.’ She did not lower her gaze. Bhairavdas subjected her to the full blast of his personality, and then rather to his own surprise, looked away. This whole business was embarrassing him. He looked down at Chandu. ‘Sadashiva, a sevika is trained in the lore from childhood. This girl is at least twenty. I see she does indeed have some power, but she must be taught from scratch, and only a sevika can train a sevika. You need a guide now, not in ten years. It is all too impossible.’ ‘Then can she come with us to Gaur, and be my … my servant?’ He dared not look Bajja in the eye. ‘Yogis don’t have servants. Send her away. You have work to do. Don’t waste my time with this nonsense.’ Then Bajja spoke. ‘Sir, since your son wishes to have me serve him, I am willing to travel with you to Gaur.’ Thunderstruck, Bhairavdas looked at her. ‘Didn’t you hear what I just said?’ ‘But I too may be in search of instruction. Why not travel together as far as our roads take us? I have forest skills, and might be useful on the journey. You for your part need only be my fellow travelers; I will make no further claim on you.’ ‘You’ve put him up to this, haven’t you?’ ‘No. He came to our camp calling for me. But I am willing to travel to the city on my own account. This forest grows dull, and I wish to see other lands and seek wisdom.’ Bhairavdas was silent. Then he said slowly, ‘You do not speak like a jungle dweller. I am a yogi: I see into essences. Yes, I know why Sadashiva prizes you: I suspected as much. It shows that he has the yogic spirit: he too sees beyond appearances. But before I can take you, I must question you. Come: we must not speak here in the open road.’ They skirted the temple, which Bajja was not allowed to enter, and went to the space where common devotees gathered to receive blessings. There the three of them sat in the lotus position; Chandu noticed how easily Bajja slipped into it. She watched Bhairavdas alertly. ‘Vajra, tell me what is the meaning of mastery.’ ‘To see beyond the skin into the bones and flesh and mind.’ ‘How is it to be accomplished?’ ‘By questioning, and not resting until the last link of the chain is found.’ ‘What is the use of mastery?’ ‘The removal of fear from the adept’s mind.’ ‘And then?’ She looked at him. ‘That’s all. And perhaps the finding of peace and happiness, if they exist.’ ‘Are you not to use mastery in the furtherance of your power?’ She bowed her head, hiding her face. ‘I am a woman. What power could I gather?’ ‘Then why go on this quest?’ ‘Because I wish to be strong enough to be left alone.’ Bhairavdas’s eyes glowed. ‘Come to me here at midnight tonight.’ ‘Baba!’ ‘Be quiet. You started this. You awakened a power. Now it must run its course.’ ‘Very well.’ Bajja smiled, and took her leave. ‘At midnight.’ ~~~ Bhairavdas looked up as her shape darkened the doorway. ‘Vajra,’ he breathed. ‘You are indeed the thunderbolt. Your mind struck mine like flint. Come here, child, and tell me who you are.’ She stayed where she was. ‘Have I permission to enter the temple?’ ‘Those laws are for the fools who sleep in the hours of awakening. Now everything is upside down: the last shall be first, the dead shall live, the dark shall illuminate what is hidden, the low The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 82 shall command the high. Enter, Vama, beautiful woman, here you are supreme ruler as long as the night lasts.’ ‘No, you come out here.’ ‘Are you afraid?’ ‘Am I not the low, and do I not therefore command you while the night lasts?’ Bhairavdas stilled in shock, then softly laughed. ‘Vajra,’ he said, tasting the word. ‘My son chose well.’ He came out under the stars into the temple courtyard. ‘Here I am, yours to command.’ ‘Then tell me why you called me here.’ ‘Because the flame of you burned me and I could not do otherwise.’ ‘Is that all? Have you no wisdom to offer me? Nothing to show me?’ ‘Not wisdom, worship. You are Devi. I saw it the moment you humiliated me before that mleccha magician. Only Devi could have done it. I have carried the knowledge in my heart for years. I knew that the goddess within you would draw you to me at last.’ ‘Don’t you hear me say I am a woman? I am only a woman. I want you to teach me the wisdom you hold.’ ‘Yes, you are a woman, and you are already wise in your womanhood. I have nothing to teach you. But you have the goddess-power to give me, for which I humbly beseech you.’ Her eyes flashed. ‘And what will you give me in return?’ ‘I will take you with us to Gaur, of course.’ She thought. ‘All right. Now how do I give you this goddess-power?’ ‘Come inside and sit before the linga with me.’ He turned, and after a beat of hesitation she followed him into the dimly lit sanctum. She saw he had made an earthen platform, meticulously proportioned as if it were made of finest marble, and covered with an intricate mandala. Before this he began to chant, scattering heavy-scented flowers upon it. ‘At the end of every mantra,’ he told her, ‘you must say “Tat tvam asmi”.’ ‘What does it mean?’ ‘You must chant, child. Never mind what it means. Chant it whenever I pause.’ He began to paint the sacred signs upon her and to whisper incantations against her skin. ‘Om am pusaye namah,’ She shook her shoulders as if a mosquito had settled there. ‘Chant, my child. Om am basaye namah.’ ‘Tat tvam asmi. Tat tvam asmi …’ It seemed to go on forever, as he moved slowly down her body, chanting and pausing. ‘Hrim srim hum namah, Om bhagamalinyai namah, Om aim hrim srim aim yam blum …’ She giggled. ‘What’s that?’ ‘Silence, child. They are seed mantras and very powerful.’ He loosened his loincloth. ‘Klinne sarvani bhagani vasamanaya me, om strim hrim klim blum bhagamalinyai namah, aim hrim srim sasaktika namah.’ He took her hands, and lay backwards himself upon the altar, drawing her over him. ‘O Devi, I offer myself to you. Please take me as your child and your creation.’ His head fell back helplessly. His erect penis quivered: she stared at it as if it were a poisonous mushroom. She flung her hands out, breaking his grip, and sprang away , cracking the earthen altar under her heels, her eyes huge with rage as she stood over him. ‘Is that what you want?’ The light of the lamps glistened on the tears in his eyes. ‘Devi, punish me for my wrongdoing. I have let my daughters float away on the waters of the world, and my son I haul like a tethered calf to a fate he abhors. Your bidding is so hard, but I will obey though my heart cries. Please absolve me from my weakness. Ma, take away my pain.’ She kicked him, hard. ‘I am not Devi! I am Vajra! I am Bajja! Tara! Tara! Tara!’ And crying to the stars for shelter she ran out into the night. The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 83 Twelve The End of Dominion Fernando sat upon his wide veranda, fingering a goblet while he watched the sun play upon the river’s broad breast. Last night he had dreamed of Florence. Regret was useless: like a compass set to spinning on a portalan, he had sought his orient as best he knew how. Only a sadness, mild as the wine in his glass, remained. He watched Daud hurrying along the strand towards his gate. He knew he had come to say goodbye, but the impatient brightness of Daud’s eye spoke of news to tell as well. Daud arrived in a flurry of silks and flung himself down in the wide chair next to Fernando. Balaram, Fernando’s Chatgaiyya steward, smoothly slipped a glass of wine into his hand, from which he drank deep. ‘Ah!’ ‘So what news, jaan? I can see you’re bursting to tell me something,’ Fernando smiled. ‘The world is round. Rejoice, for Magellan has plucked out the beards of the doctors of ignorance once and for all. His ships have come out of the western ocean round the Cape of the Americas and one of them is in the hands of the Portuguese. But the other, they say, went on to dock safely at Madrid. The earth has been spanned by the hand of man.’ ‘Indeed?’ ‘Yes, the news is all over the bazaar, and the Franks are hopping mad. Magellan died on the way, trying to bring Christ to some indignant island, but his flagship Victoria escaped under a Basque captain, Sebastian Delcano, and reached Madrid to gladden Emperor Charles’s Holy Roman heart. The other ship, the Trinidad, they overloaded on the way back with cloves at Ternate till her timbers groaned in their joinings, and she was captured by the Malakan Portuguese and taken to Goa to stand trial for Magellan’s treason. But Delcano slipped south of Sumatra and cut straight across the ocean to Madagascar. Thence, of course, the route to Europe is now well known.’ ‘So the Spaniards have pioneered the western passage at last?’ ‘Yes, Malaka’s power will be further weakened: the Spaniards now know they can avoid the Straits and A Famosa altogether to get to the Spice Islands, though it must be a terribly boring voyage. I hear that all they encountered between Cape Horn and the Spice Islands was ocean. Leagues and leagues of it, and so calm that Magellan called it the Pacific. If there is nothing but water from here to Mexico, then Spain can ship spices from the Islands across the Pacific to the western Mexican ports, send them by a short portage to the Atlantic shore, and embark them again for Madrid. Portugal has lost the spice race, and even their spy Francisco Serrao is dead of poison in Ternate. Do you understand what this means, jaan?’ ‘Don’t celebrate just yet, Daud. There is still the country trade around al Hind. It is probably worth more than the European trade and Lisbon’s hand is strong upon it. The Spanish route will only affect Western Europe.’ ‘Maybe. But al Hind’s trade enriches the men here, not Lisbon’s kings. The other day I saw Silveira chewing paan in the company of Hamza Khan Sahib. Give it a generation or two and these Frangis will be just another caste in the hierarchy of the idolaters.’ ‘Yes, but can we wait that long? By the time their hunger is sated we’ll be old men.’ Daud laid a hand on Fernando’s arm. ‘Jaan, even youth and dominion must end, and then the wise move on. Pir Baba is off next month up north and I’m going with him as his physician. There are interesting developments afoot in Bengal, and I have an urge to see for myself. Chittagong no longer pleases.’ Fernando nodded. ‘Pir Baba hinted as much when last I saw him. He doesn’t like the way things The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 84 are going here any more than we do.’ ‘I have a present for you, to keep you company in my absence.’ Daud took a packet of rich silk from his breast, unwrapped it and handed it to Fernando. The sun gleamed on a beautiful red leather-bound book, latticed with calligraphy like a dance of golden blades. ‘The Vajrachintamani, translated into Arabic: the first fruits of my work. It’s taken a long time with one thing and another, but the idleness of the last few months turned my mind to scholarship. I felt it meet that you should have it.’ Fernando met his glance with tears in his eyes. ‘You are a true friend, jaan, and this gift is beyond thanks. Go in peace, and who knows, the way things are going I’ll follow you soon. I’ll ask after you and Pir Baba at the khanaqahs: they’ll be sure to know where you are.’ Daud nodded. ‘We’ll watch for you with longing, jaan, both of us. Be careful, then. This place is no longer safe.’ At the veranda steps Daud hugged him hard. ‘Send word through friends when you can, and if anyone troubles you, go straight to Alamgir.’ From the end of the road Daud looked back at the lonely figure on the veranda. He felt the edge of a secret in Fernando’s immobility and a touch of disquiet squeezed his heart. As he turned into the rising road that led to the city he frowned to see two Christian friars walking deep in conversation, their hands hidden in their sleeves. Their faces darkened to see him, and their eyes followed him carefully as he disappeared from view. ‘He’s the one Dom Joao da Silveira told us about, isn’t he? The slippery one,’ said Fra Angelico Sforza to his companion. Fra Matteo Martelli nodded. ‘He gathers intelligence from all sorts of places and supplies it to the Moorish merchants. He nearly cost our protector his feitoria.’ ‘Devilment everywhere, eh, brother? Not just in Germany with this Martin Luther nailing his theses to the door of the Wittenberg church,’ Fra Angelico frowned. ‘Everywhere the Church and her minions are under attack, even from those who should know better.’ ‘It is the disease of conscience that has lately affected many worthy men,’ Fra Matteo answered sadly. ‘And if it spreads here our work will be undone before we begin. There is much danger in this man Luther. When the Holy Roman Emperor called him to account at the Diet of Worms, he said the Pope and the Papal Councils have contradicted each other, and he will not peril his soul for either! The Northerners have forgotten that Christ’s path is one of submission to authority. They are such men of trade that even when they become scholars, they weigh and measure sins like so much pepper or galingale.’ ‘Why then was Martin Luther not seized as soon as he defied the Holy Roman Emperor? ‘He has a patron, Friedrich the Wise, Elector Palatine of Saxony,’ Fra Matteo replied. ‘The Dutch and the Germans are too remote for us to try causes with them. Even the English stir restlessly under that Tudor king. But as long as France remains Catholic we can keep Europe holy.’ ‘Thank the Lord for that.’ Fra Angelico crossed himself. ‘But the East is a different matter,’ Fra Matteo continued glumly. ‘Think what violence a breach in the Church will do here! The nations that throw off Rome will toss aside the Treaty of Tordesillas that divides the earth between Rome’s champions, Spain and Portugal, and will contend for the wealth of the Indies. The Dutch are keen shipbuilders and know the trade through their banking networks, wealthier even than the Lombards. They will challenge Portugal in fifty years, and if they cannot do it with permission of Christ, they will ask for leave from the devil. And with them will come their printing and lewd habits and hellish ideas.’ ‘They’ll bring heresy to lands that Christ has not even tasted yet. Souls will be damned without hope of salvation!’ ‘Indeed. We must act boldly to take fugitives such as this Fernando Almenara into our care. Almenara was one of the heretics who flourished in godless Machiavelli’s Florence. Has not Saint John said, “The man who cannot rest in me, is cast out as a branch, and is withered, and men gather them as brands, and they are burned”? And if I mistake not, this is his house.’ They looked with disapproval at the lush green garden full of shady fruit trees and cascades of The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 85 flowers, and made their fastidious way to the veranda steps. Fernando hadn’t moved. He merely raised his glass to them and said. ‘Welcome, reverend friars. Will you take some wine with me?’ ‘No, we cannot accept sustenance from unsanctified hands,’ said Fra Matteo solemnly. ‘Fernando Almenara, we have come to call your soul to penitence.’ Fernando shrugged. ‘I thought as much. Entertain me with your thoughts.’ ‘You stand accused before the Church of Rome of numerous crimes committed on the soil of Florence, from which you escaped on the pretext of trade to the east, and for which we have orders to carry you back to the Court of the Holy Office of the Inquisition for the shriving of your soul. To wit, that in Florence you were a member of a group called the Merchants of Light that dabbled in the black arts under the guidance of a sorcerer called Solomon Blanco, alias Shalomon Ezekiel, alias Kubele Kratos, who abused with filthy rites the charity of Florence in giving him, a Jew, shelter and ease. That you fornicated with the daughter of this sorcerer after the mercy of God had taken her father to the stake. That you harboured one Milos Chrysologus alias the Red Mage, a Cathar of Bosnia. That you plotted with Giancarlo Strozzi and the heresiarch Deacon Giuseppe Strozzi to balk the Medicis of their rightful patrimony of the city of Florence. That you succoured all of these servants of the devil with money from your purse and the patronage of your house. And that here you have consorted with Moors and idolaters for years at the peril of your immortal reward, the nature of which crimes it falls upon the Church to determine and purge from the sight of God.’ Fra Matteo’s eye caught the gleaming book by Fernando’s side, and he looked grim. Fernando’s face was impassive. ‘This is all about that tub of guts, isn’t it? Giovanni de’ Medici, your Pope Leo X. A man so shortsighted he can’t read a public proclamation, who spears captured deer and imagines himself a mighty hunter. A walking stomach, a greedy child full of petulance and foolishness, who by the intrigues of his damnable family has become the head of your corrupt and venal church. This isn’t about faith, it’s about dirty politics. You want to throw the Strozzis bound and broken at the feet of your master, and you think you can use me as a tool.’ Fra Angelico gasped, and crossed himself feverishly. Fra Matteo frowned. ‘Your blaspheming damns you thrice over, Señor Fernando. Will you cease to peril your immortal soul, acknowledge your sins and find peace in God?’ ‘Peace in God? The same peace you forced upon Father Solomon and Esther? You’ve killed them, haven’t you? Tell me what befell them! Speak!’ The two men looked at each other, then Fra Matteo said reluctantly, ‘The Jewess confessed her sins. The Cathar ascended the pyre in a state of grace, but the sorcerer would not save himself. But come, Señor Fernando, if you surrender to us we will remit some of your expiations, for the Church condemns not at once, but after the first and the second admonition.’ ‘Don’t hide in your filthy equivocations. What did you do to Esther? Have you let her live or no?’ ‘She went to her rest praising God, Señor Fernando. Do not disquiet yourself about it. Return with us from this eastern waste to the protection of Rome. God is merciful, and perhaps even yet you may be saved from eternal damnation.’ Fernando’s face flashed red under his tan, but his voice when it came was steady with an outrage too strong for passion. ‘Thank you for your offer, kind sirs. And now I suggest that you leave. You have come here without an armed guard. As you can see, I possess a sword. Your broadcloth, however holy, will not turn it aside.’ They paled. ‘We are servants of Christ. Do not heap such a deadly sin upon your head, Señor Fernando. Even the Devil would deny you Hell.’ Fernando smiled a smile that made the friars cringe before its kindness. ‘I have in my house a steward, a man of this land, who often deals with wandering mendicants for me, since this land is fruitful of them. He will lay hands upon you and turn you out in your drawers, as a costume more appropriate to the climate and conferring more respect upon renouncers such as yourselves. I can guarantee that my whole household will watch, and that your fair skins will remain unscathed. What The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 86 about it, gentlemen?’ ‘No thank you, Your Honour, I think we will take our leave now,’ Fra Angelico quavered, plucking at his companion’s arm. They managed to get to the gate without breaking into a run. Fernando watched them go, his hand still upon his hilt. Then he turned, tenderly wrapped Daud’s book in its embroidered cover, and retreated to his bedroom. His Indian clothes seemed too flimsy for what he had in mind, so he chose a stout serge shirt and breeches and sat at his desk to pen a note for Alamgir. Then he dragged a chest from a corner, opened it and took out Pico’s Oration on the Dignity of Man. Its cover was stained and roughened, but the print was still as bright as the day he had bought it; he wrapped it with Daud’s present and settled both books in his breast. He hesitated over a brace of pistols, but he knew he would soon run out of powder and shot in the jungle, and opted instead for a second sword, buckled over the first. He filled two bags with gold coins, then called his steward. ‘Balaram,’ he said, ‘You saw those Frangi fakirs who came here? They’re dangerous men who mean me harm. Send the gardener’s boy to Nakhoda Alamgir with this note. As of now, your master is going out hunting. He will fail to return; if any stranger asks, you are worried to death that he’s been attacked by a wild beast or met with some mishap, and you’ll wail and grieve like an abandoned thing, all right? Put on a good act for me; much depends on this. Don’t let anyone but Alamgir touch anything, but treat my goods as yours while I’m away: you know where my keys and pistols are. Here’s gold for present needs. If you must send me word, Alamgir will know how to reach me.’ Balaram grinned; he had been trained by Daud to be Fernando’s bodyguard, and he could scent trouble as well as his teacher. He touched the bag of coins to his forehead. ‘I’ll weep like an abandoned child, master, I haven’t baited a Frank in a long time.’ ‘Be careful: next time they’ll bring soldiers, so try soft words first; they don’t know the ways of this land. Now make me up a pack of hunter’s food, enough for a few weeks, and give me a goatskin of water.’ Fernando sprawled in his chair on the veranda, finishing the last of the wine as his steward made up his vagabond’s pack. Balaram had been with him for five years now, and Fernando knew he could trust him with his life. His only regret was that once again he was leaving friends to cover his tracks and deal with powerful enemies on his behalf. Balaram saw him off by the back gate. At the top of the hill Fernando paused to look down on the gracious sweep of his own roof. This wealth that he had fought so hard to create now meant as much to him as the scurf off his skin. He turned his face into the sunset, and climbed the ridge. Behind him curtains of greenery fell, cutting off the city progressively from his sight. Soon the city’s noise died into the buzz of the jungle. As he reached the summit of the ridge a faint sound curled up from the river and touched him: the muezzin’s call to prayer, too far for words, only a beautiful melancholy voice painting the open sky with its sign. He paused to listen, and a great wound seemed to open in his chest and pour blood upon the reddening air. He fell to his knees by the rough path, his goods scattered around him, and pounded the weeds with his fists in the agony of his powerlessness to save. Images flashed upon his mind: Esther’s frightened eyes, Solomon’s mild smile, Milos’s fine hands around a crystal cup. He saw again his first sight of Esther’s moon-silvered nakedness, felt again the sweet trust of her arms around his neck. Crushing his forehead to the bruised grass, he groaned her name again and again. Silence fell: his breathing calmed. The forest sounds buzzed around him. He raised his head and gathered his belongings, his body aching as if he had been savagely beaten. But his eyes were clear now as he made for the rise of Dhumavati’s hill. Soon he was climbing to the end of the goat path that Daud had showed him, long ago. Up ahead the temple shone black and red in the setting sun. He knelt at the feet of the mother of the world and kissed the grass before her image. Here beneath the shadow of the naked huntress with her flensing knife and her smile of compassionate The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 87 cruelty the friars would not dare to seek him. He hesitated a moment, then pressed his thumb in the rich dark earth at the foot of the image and marked his own forehead with it. He entered the temple, which had a musty smell of abandonment, and put down his belongings by the altar. Small creatures fought in the shadows to get out of his way. In the courtyard the cistern had six inches of rainwater in it, but the woodstock was full. He gathered an armful of logs and dry leaves and lit a small fire in the blackened fireplace. By its light, smiling eagerly to himself, he sat down to begin Daud’s book. The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 88 Thirteen The Nakedness of Being Bajja opened her eyes to the watery light of dawn. Above her the gnarled branches of a tree clawed the sky. She turned her head and blinked at a star fading on the western margin, then sat up carefully and looked around. The unevenness beneath her had been half-burnt fragments of wood and bone. The earth was still dark under the brightening sky, except that here and there a deep red glow seemed to pulse out of the ground. She got to her feet. Memory oozed back slowly. Last night, coming upon the river in her headlong dash, she had run along the bank for what seemed like hours. She had only stopped when exhaustion felled her in her tracks, and then she had sunk into an unbreakable swoon. This was the place that had broken her fall: a patch of ground along the river where people came to burn their dead. Only the rich could afford the enormous amounts of wood and ghee it took to reduce a corpse to ashes and dust, so the burning ground was full of signs of the less fortunate whose relatives had had to leave the odd arm or leg half-consumed by the flames. They were supposed to throw the remnants in the river, but the scavengers usually got there first: jackals by night, dogs and vultures by day. A slow, terrible smile spread over her face. So her journey was to begin here: she was to be given no easy passage to wisdom. Very well. She would walk her path. She got up and searched among the fragments of the pyres until she found an intact brainpan. She took it down to the river, washed the ash off it and plugged the holes with wet clay. Then she found a fire which was still hot, tucked the skull in the embers and drew out a length of charred, fire-hardened wood. When the clay was baked, she took bowl and staff back with her to her tree, and sat down beneath it. She was still there when the sun died into evening twilight, and still there when it rose again the next morning. She washed in the river and sat under her tree again. A procession came with a corpse, borne by two ragged Doms, who prepared the pyre and laid the body on it. It was pathetically small in its wrappings: a girl barely in her teens, died in childbirth. The husband dropped a sweetmeat in her bowl; she ignored him. She wondered why they did not dig a pit for the fire: the corpse would be sure to be consumed then. Long after the Doms had finished their grisly ritual and left, she sat companionably with the crackling pyre and watched the last of the smoke spiral lazily into the air. On the third day Tara came to see her, flushed and cross as ever. ‘Do you know how much trouble I had to find you, child? Come home this instant.’ Bajja only gazed at her. Tara snorted. ‘You won’t find what you’re looking for here, my girl. You and I belong in the forest; isn’t forest magic enough for you?’ ‘I want answers,’ she said through cracked lips. ‘All you’ll get here is your death.’ But Tara left alone, as she had come. By the fifth day the dogs no longer barked at her: she could send them cringing away with one long stare. Her eyes had hollowed in their sockets; her skin was grey from the ash that floated continually through the air. She sat so still that she seemed almost part of the tree; a misshapen outgrowth of its trunk. At night she lay down beneath it, her body as dark as the blackened soil it stood in. Sometimes a dog would creep up and snuggle beside her for warmth; she paid it no attention. Her eyes were fixed on the furthest distance she could see. The first step: to pare herself down to the foundations. The blade of the sun slashed her again and again, stripping away layers. Day followed day, and the arc of light came round like a circling sword. Sometimes she cried out with the pain of it and her shouts rang hollowly in the buzzing The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 89 silence, to be answered by a cascade of frantic barking from the dogs. On the tenth day she woke to a terrible pain: hunger gnawed her ribs like a basketful of rats fighting to get out. Her eyes watering, she stared at the dim jungle that lay like a blanket over the distance-misted hills. She could almost taste the meat. She could take a sharpened stake from the burning ground, creep into that green shade and spear a lizard, dig a badger out of his hole, or just go to the river and snatch from its depths a fat fish. Helplessly she drooled, but her legs stayed folded in the lotus position, and her shadow traced its arc across the burned earth. On the twentieth day a party of women came to her, seeking her blessing. She listened to the shapes in the air their words made. When their voices died into silence she raised a hand vaguely and asked, ‘Why do you trouble me?’ They bowed down before her. A dead leaf shook loose from her tree and fell at her feet. The women gathered it up carefully and went away. She ate whatever appeared in her skull bowl, uncaring whether the white grains were rice or maggots. Sometimes she noticed that people other than mourners came to the cremation ground, did their business so silently they might have been ghosts, and went on their way. But Bajja mostly sat still, listening to the silence within. In it words formed, slowly and painfully. No one seeing this desolation could be in any doubt of the perishability of the human body, nor of its kinship to the earth and sky. All religion, all faith, was designed to disguise and sugarcoat this final reality. All the stories that people told themselves, however happy, however useful and fulfilled and noble, ended here. So why go on? People said you were born to work out your karma, to add to or reduce the burden of deeds you carried. If you lived a good life according to dharma, you reduced your burden, if not, you increased it, and pushed further away the day when you might be free of birth. The good and bad things that happened to you were the raw material you worked with, like the warp and weft of the cloth ready to take the pattern you might print upon it. You could make a glowing and intricate design, or you could muddy and tear it, or just sit around complaining about how poor and meagre it was and wishing you had a better one. But what guarantee, at the end of life, that either of these courses of action made any difference? No one could know for sure, could they? All they had were the stories that clever people had made up to explain the observable facts, and the vain hope that if they told the stories over and over again, and persecuted anyone who refused to believe them, they would come true. But Bajja didn’t believe in gods and ghosts and stories. Around the fire under the longhouse her tribe had told breathless tales of the demons that haunted the jungle at night, but Bajja, tracking the tigress training her cubs, or watching cobras make love under the moon, had never seen them. Life itself had taken too much of her attention. She sat under her tree and opened eyes that gleamed in the dying fires, daring the darkness to vomit forth a spirit. Surely if any place on earth could harbour ghosts, it was here. But nothing, human or inhuman, spoke to her. She arranged her questions around her like bones to be identified and articulated into a skeleton. So what if the stories people told themselves were false: if they did not have these lies to cover their heads, the vast nothing of the universe would suck the life out of them and leave them mere shells. People would kill and maim and torture rather than allow that to happen: they would destroy empires and nations and their dearest love rather than face unprotected the adamantine zero of space. It did not matter whether their covering was the spirit-stories of her sisters or the musty legends Bhairavdas taught his son: there had to be a story. The things in it, regardless of what they were called, always acted as if they were people, even though the stories insisted they were bigger and stronger and wiser and older and not to be comprehended by mere human intelligence. And the folly of it filled her with compassion. Could she raise her head without a story to protect her, and stand the sight of the uncovered universe? Life was so sweet, death burned so harshly: it was hard not to commit the habitual folly of a child and think that in some way it was all meant to be: surely pleasure and pain were The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 90 punishment and reward, surely life was a prize for being good, and death the fate of all evildoers? She laughed gently at the naïveté of it. And yet there was good and evil, of that she was sure. There was a law that governed human life, but who enforced it, and how did it work? If gods and goddesses were characters in stories, then they had been made by people, out of the lives of real heroes and heroines, and out of dreams and nightmares and hopes and fears. If that were so, then the only real things were people and their lives. And in the fabric of their lives was to be found the weaving of the law. But she had no tools to unpick it, and only one lifetime in which to learn. She looked helplessly around the field of bones, but they were dumb. On the thirtieth day she seemed to see the streets of a fair city, as if she were a bird or a god. The vision shimmered, and she saw the tiny trees, the dots of people and horses moving, the green wash of parks and the boxy shapes of houses. The sight of it made her heart suddenly swell, as if a beloved but forgotten voice was calling her, and she knew that there she would find friends and answers and balm for wounds. She spread her arms to dive into it but the vision swirled and vanished like smoke, leaving her to stare into the darkness of the truly forsaken. She understood then that the vision was the opposite of this place she sat in, that it existed only in the mind, and that she was forever exiled from it. If she had had the strength she would have wept. On a day without count she opened dull, red-rimmed eyes on a copper sky. The horizon seemed to throb with the heat, and the earth too panted under its load of fires. Ash settled in her hair and on her skull bowl. Vultures wheeled overhead, using the thermals of the dead to glide ever higher. Bajja felt her bones creaking. Hunger no longer tormented her body; it had wound itself down into the rhythms of starvation. She felt as if her head was pushed up against a wall. She could feel the pressure of it on her forehead, big and gritty and immoveable. It didn’t care that she was there, and her shoulders ached with pushing at it. That night, she left her accustomed place and walked with halting steps to the river. Her body burned: perhaps water would soothe her fever. On the way she saw a circle of torches: the magicians were at work again. She drew nearer, propelled by a vague curiosity. A huge shaggy man crouched in the middle of the group, whom she saw were dressed in animal skins and wore fearsome animal masks over their whole heads. Beside the huge man lay a corpse, pallid and flabby. She had seen this man earlier, wrestling a bamboo cage with this corpse in it into the river. As she watched, he ran a knife through its water-softened skin and split it open like a ripe fruit. ‘Behold,’ he said in a remarkably soft, musical voice, ‘the architecture of life. You will recall the theory of the naris, that carry the rasas or humours around the body. You have no doubt been told that there are three main naris spanning the centre of the body: ira, pingala and susumna. You have seen pictures in the texts. But today I will show you that that story is told to stop the minds of the curious. Note first this folded tube. It is the main nari for food, and from it the body extracts the goodness from whatever we eat …’ ‘How do you know that, Biru Dom?’ asked a voice. ‘Because I tasted its rasa in a freshly killed corpse,’ said Biru Dom, ‘and it was sweet as milk. But wait, I will show you further proof.’ And with that he placed his huge hands on each pair of ribs and popped them one by one out of their articulation with the sternum. ‘This is the nari that feeds the lungs and carries the vital breath, the prana, into the body. You will see that it does not descend to the lowest chakra, contrary to what the yogis say. Here is the food sack, or digestive bag. You see that it connects with the food nari, so that there is a continuous passage from mouth to anus. Here to one side is the liver, that the Greeks say is the seat of the soul, and the passage for bile. In fact I have seen that only blood reaches from the lowest chakra to the highest, for bile is found below the Manipura chakra of the solar plexus, and phlegm above it. Bile and phlegm extend beyond these regions only in subtilised forms as the energizing and building forces, whereas recognizable blood inhabits even the smallest of the … yes what is it?’ The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 91 ‘Where do you think the soul resides, Biru Dom?’ Biru Dom screwed up his big face. ‘Nowhere and everywhere,’ he said at last, ‘for unless the soul pervades the body, we cannot explain how we feel pain, or indeed feel anything. I believe there is a kind of nari that carries the soul, which somehow communicates with the spine and head, because I have seen men who have fallen from horses awake from their trance to find that injury has taken the soul out of their limbs. But this soul-cutting happens only from lower to higher: a man may lose the soul of his legs, or his trunk, or even his arms, but I have never seen a man lose the soul in his head and live.’ ‘So the head contains the soul?’ ‘The head is the soul’s refuge, where it goes in dreams, or when the body is damaged, but its home in a healthy person is the whole body.’ Bajja crouched on the ground, listening. After so many days it was pleasant to hear human voices. The lesson carried on, and she wondered who these beast people were. Their bodies looked fat and prosperous; they had dulled their skins with ash, but they still gleamed. Clearly they didn’t want to be recognized. She came to herself again to find the place deserted. Then she cried out as she was lifted bodily off the ground. ‘My god!’ cried Biru Dom, ‘You’re burning, child. What ails you?’ He set her gently on her feet, then caught her as she swayed. ‘I saw the city of love in the smoke,’ she whispered, ‘but it wouldn’t let me in.’ ‘You’re the woman under the tree,’ he said, his eyes narrowing. ‘Who told you about the city of love?’ ‘… Dhumavati …’ He set her gently on the ground and shouted for his dog, a great bristly scar-matted creature, who slunk up and sat down next to her. Then he ran as fast as his bulk allowed to the riverbank, got into a dinghy and sculled furiously upriver. ~~~ So this was death. It didn’t seem so bad. A pleasant lassitude spread over her limbs like an old cotton quilt. There was still pain but it was far away and tamed. In front of her the wall still stood, but now it was black and rose to the sky, and had a peculiar sucking quality as if it was made of absolute vacuum and wanted only to swallow her. She would never know what existed on the other side, because she could not pass through unbroken. She bowed her head and accepted it, knowing also that her acceptance meant nothing: it was going to happen whether she accepted or not. She had found the answer to all her questions, or rather, it had found her. ‘Wake up,’ said a voice. She had a strange sensation, as though part of her was sitting behind her, holding her in its lap and talking to the back of her head. She felt thighs against her thighs and a chest against her back. ‘Wake, Vajra. Hear me.’ She felt a stinging pain on the back of her neck. This must be death talking to her. ‘Get on with it,’ she muttered. ‘I’m ready.’ ‘My Vajra was lithe and strong as young bamboo bent into the archer’s bow. What have you done with her? This pathetic creature is not my Vajra. This is no seeker after truth; this is a living corpse. Are you Vajra?’ ‘Leave me alone, or do what you must, only don’t talk.’ The sting became unbearable. ‘Ahhh!’ ‘Are you Vajra, foolish child? Or are you just some illiterate tribal girl who thought she could skin the universe with common sense and anger? Will you prolong this silly drama or talk to me?’ ‘All right, I’m Vajra, demon. Now go away.’ ‘You don’t give orders to demons,’ said the voice silkily. ‘Do you want to live and complete your quest, or am I wasting my time?’ Something about the voice stirred a memory. ‘Ma Dhumavati?’ The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 92 ‘The same. It’s time. You’ve seen it. Now all I have to do is show you how to get in, if you still have it in you. Yes or no?’ ‘Why did you take so long?’ ‘Did you send me word ere now? No, wanted to have all the glory yourself, didn’t you? No one can enter the city of love on their own, that’s why it’s called by that name. But you do have to walk the path with your own feet. Now listen to me. You’re burning with fever, so the first thing I must teach you is how to heal yourself. Here is water. Drink.’ Bajja drank, then vomited. Dark bile came out of her mouth. ‘Drink again.’ This time it was a foul-tasting concoction that nevertheless stayed in. ‘Now,’ said Dhumavati, ‘where is your sickness most intense?’ ‘In my forehead. And my stomach.’ ‘Inside you and every human being there is a special kind of fire, called Agni Vaishvanara. It is the fire of life, fed by food and breath. The tonic I have just given you is a powerful energizer. You must imagine your whole body filled with tiny lamps, each so small you cannot see it, and in each lamp burns a flame. Millions and millions of these flames make up your body. Can you see them, ranks of tiny lights inside you, each burning with a pure, intense glow?’ Bajja closed her eyes and tried to concentrate. She imagined herself like a great cave, with walls filled with niches, each with its lamp so that the whole space glowed brighter than day. ‘Very good,’ Dhumavati breathed in her ear. ‘Now imagine each of these lamps burning away the noxious vapours of your fever. You are a furnace in which nothing evil can live. There is a great fire in your chest and a mighty beacon in your head, illuminating every corner of your mind. It consumes the pain in your head, turning that which ails you into fuel for your light. Can you feel it? Bajja concentrated. Dhumavati whispered in her ear, ‘You are my strong huntress, my wielder of knives. Are you going to let a paltry fever defeat you? Know that there are a million Kalis inside you, each as powerful as the Goddess herself, with four arms and a deadly weapon in each hand. They are killing the demons of weakness and falsehood in you, calling your name as a battle cry. Every blow they strike increases your strength. Can you see them? You must fill them with your fury and direct them to the places where it hurts the most, so they may fight for you and save you. These shadows over you are transitory as morning dew: you need only to know your true self to annihilate them with the power of the sun. Know that you are Vajra: the hardest substance known to man. You are the diamond, the thunderbolt, the absolute unchanging. You are the naked black of absolute space. You are the state of peace beyond all pain, which is the point of stillness in a balance of tensions. You are the final understanding. Do you hear me?’ Bajja and Dhumavati sat like one woman, the young-old, playful-wise, virgin-siren. Soon their conversation descended beyond words as they vanquished Bajja’s illness. Even as Dhumavati left to gather food, cook it and feed it to her new disciple, they were bound in the struggle of their shared meditation, so that their minds strove back to back even when their bodies were apart. ‘Margins are dangerous places,’ Dhumavati breathed. ‘Bad things haunt boundaries. Only after much training can the adept sit unharmed for days in a burning ground, and to fast or eat unclean meat is only advisable for the expert yogini. Yet I admire your courage, Bajja, and when you’ve regained your strength you’ll tell me what you found in that smoky darkness.’ ‘I’m not sure that I found anything,’ Bajja whispered, but Dhumavati shook her head. ‘You did, or you would have gone home in a week. Did you see her?’ ‘Who?’ ‘Varahi. The name means “sow”, and you’ll know her by her boar’s head, but it has a secret meaning also: “boon-giver”. She comes to new initiates and tries to terrify them from their path.’ ‘I saw no one. Only the earth and the sky and the dust and dead people being burned.’ ‘You saw the city of love.’ ‘I saw a city. But it turned out to be only a vision.’ ‘My dear, nothing is ever “only a vision”. And I’ll wager you saw Vajrayogini too, and Tara.’ The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 93 Bajja smiled faintly, ‘Yes, Tara came to me.’ Dhumavati nodded, and placed a hand on Bajja’s forehead. ‘The fever’s gone. Now you must build up your strength. There’s nothing to be won from austerities alone: they’re only good for preparing the mind for illumination. Otherwise you’re like those high caste yogis who come here and hang head downwards over pits of fire to roast what’s left of their brains.’ They stayed under Biru Dom’s protection until Bajja felt well enough to stand thigh-deep in the river catching fish. As a farewell gift she went into the forest and trapped a boar for Biru Dom’s family. Then they set off, both dressed in leather loincloths, Dhumavati’s pack of medicines over her shoulder, and garlands of bone and red oleander from Biru Dom’s wife around their necks and arms. They climbed the hills, moving deeper into the forest. Bajja reckoned she wasn’t far from the old ruined Buddhist monastery where she had first met Dhumavati. Presently they came upon a clearing in the jungle, neatly hacked out of a dense thicket and surrounded by thorny bamboo groves. In the centre were a few huts, a natural spring brimming in a basin of rocks and falling in a thin stream down the hill, and a smooth space of compacted mud. Seven women sat there in front of a collection of huge steaming pots. For Bajja, so recently starving, the smell from them was like a whiff of heaven. ‘Ah, Dhumavati, we can always trust you to turn up when there’s food about to be served,’ said a plump, dark woman with her hair in a thick plait. ‘Who’s your friend?’ ‘Kakasya, this is Vajra, my new follower. And here is some spiced pork from Biru Dom’s wife.’ ‘Has it any pepper in it?’ Kakasya asked. ‘Can’t abide pepper in meat.’ She stuck a finger in and licked it. ‘Hmm, cloves, cinnamon, ginger, garlic, onion and nutmeg, all cooked in sesame oil. Very good. And how is Biru Dom? Still teaching anatomy to city folk? He’ll come to a sticky end, sharing knowledge with them. I’ve seen jackals more grateful.’ Dhumavati shrugged. ‘Let’s eat, then let the chakra begin. Are there any fried yams?’ ‘Sukhsiddhi’s made some. And there’s Kenni’s pickled rabbit, banana flowers and wild rice, Bhrikuti’s roasted sal seeds, Sahajasundari’s best hot venison curry, fried boal fish, lobster, and my mango juice preserve to suck on later. There’s both rice wine and mahua; finish the rice wine first. Pity we don’t have any men today: Shyama couldn’t find anyone suitable.’ They ate on banana leaves, urging each other to take seconds and swapping recipe tips. Then when the pots had been washed in the stream and put away, the storytelling began. ‘Once a yogini called Sahajachinta came to the house of a learned Brahmin, asking for alms. When he came out, reverentially bearing a bowl of payesh, each grain of rice like a pearl in the thickened milk, she asked him to make love to her. He refused, and she declined his offering and left. ‘Again he passed her in the marketplace, and she pulled aside her sari and showed him her nipples erect and dark with hot blood, but he called her unclean and ran away. ‘The third time she came to him and said, twice you have turned aside the chance of enlightenment. Know then that if you deny me this third time you will be cursed with blindness. I sought you out because everyone praised your wisdom. Will you redeem yourself, or must I leave again without tasting you? At this the man fell weeping at her feet, but she kicked him and said, get up and take my gift. Then he cried, if I lie with you I will lose my caste, my wife will kill herself for shame, my sons will be shunned, my daughters will remain unmarried. So she said, I need not trouble myself to curse you, for you are blind already, and she went on her way.’ ‘Hmm,’said Kakasya. ‘Once there was a young dancer, part of a travelling troupe, who performed before a king. He was an adept, and saw that every movement she made was luminous with mind. So he sent a gift of gold and perfume to her tent and asked her to be his wife. She agreed, and he built a secret apartment in the palace where for twenty years she instructed him in the yogic arts with her mind and flesh. But one day a serving girl let slip that the king had an untouchable wife, and the people rose in anger. Then the king appeared in the marketplace with his The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 94 wife, and the people were thunderstruck at how beautiful she was. The king made a proclamation: since the people would not accept his wife and teacher, he was going into exile with her. Weeping bitterly, the people followed them to the edges of the forest, but the king and his consort never once looked back. There in the forest they lived for another twenty years, teaching and enlightening one another, and they wrote many important treatises on the Sahajayana. The wise came from all around to meet and talk with them. Every so often an ambassador would be sent from the palace to beg them to return, but they never did, and even after the king died, his guru remained in the forest ashram, writing and teaching.’ ‘This story was told to me by an Ionian,’ said Sukhsiddhi. ‘Once there was war between two sister nations, and it went on for many years and ate up many strong young men, such that many young girls never even got to taste them. Then one day the wives of the foremost men of both the nations met at the well and hatched a plan. They refused to give their husbands joy of their bodies until they had put an end to the silly war. So they wore their finest muslins and their lushest silks, and lay around the house in the most provocative positions, but whenever the men, inflamed beyond endurance, came anywhere near them, they got up and ran fleetly out of reach. Pretty soon the men were all going round with sore balls and in the foulest mood imaginable, for even the prettiest catamite couldn’t compete with those glowing Grecian girls. At last, fearing that their manhoods would be forever damaged, they bowed to the power of the league of wives and called off the war.’ The stories went on till late into the night, and the women lit a chillum or two of charas and smoked it as they listened. Some of them sang, and one or two danced, and around midnight they fell to roasting some partridges they had caught the day before. The next morning Bajja and Dhumavati were up early, ready to set off. ‘I’ll have to teach you to read the texts I have in the temple,’ Dhumavati said. ‘Think you can learn?’ ‘Of course. If Kalu can do it, it can’t be difficult.’ They climbed on in silence. Dhumavati noted with approval that Bajja was almost back to her old strength. It was late afternoon when they came to the temple. Bajja went to stow their things behind the altar, and gave a cry of surprise. ‘Ma Dhumavati! There’s a dead man here.’ Dhumavati clucked in annoyance. ‘You’ll have to learn better to tell the dead from the living. He’s just passed out. Burning with fever, I see. Must have been drinking the water in the cistern.’ ‘It’s … it’s Pir Baba’s Frangi follower. Fernando.’ ‘And that’s Daud’s book he has by him, I’ll warrant.’ Dhumavati poured out a cup of water and began dissolving drugs in it. ‘Sick children everywhere, all clamouring for wisdom as if it were sugar candy, and starving themselves and eating filth if they don’t get it. When you grow to be my age, which won’t be likely unless you get some sense into your head, you’ll laugh at the folly of it all.’ But Bajja wasn’t listening. Fernando had opened his eyes, and they were locked in hers. The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 95 Fourteen The Tyranny of Strength Chandu crept fearfully into the temple’s garbhagriha. The stone slab that was its floor was spotless, so there seemed to be two Bhairavdases sitting in the lotus position: the real one, and a macabre, upside down demon version. Bhairavdas opened weary eyes and rose as if he hadn’t slept all night. He handed Chandu a bundle and took another himself. ‘Come, my initiate, let us be on our way.’ ‘Now!’ cried Chandu. ‘But I haven’t said goodbye to Ma.’ ‘Yogis don’t say goodbye to anyone, Sadashiva. The road awaits us. Come.’ Chandu trailed after him, filled with an incredulous fury that forced words to his lips. ‘Where is she?’ ‘Your woman? She’s gone. We were both wrong about her. I thought she was Devi, but she was just a frightened child. Fear is the enemy of the yogi. There can be no enlightenment without … Sadashiva!’ Chandu was running back towards the forest. He had almost lost sight of the temple when a horrible cramp struck his legs and made him fall full length with a desperate cry. He lay in intense pain till he saw his father’s feet stop in front of his face. ‘There is no need for this, Sadashiva. Now get up and follow me.’ Chandu struggled to his feet. So this is what it’s like to hate, he thought. Every fibre of his being prayed that a thunderbolt would vaporize Bhairavdas where he stood. ‘Tell me the secret signs and attributes of a yogini and how to recognize where a chakra gathering is to be held,’ said Bhairavdas as they made their way towards the river. ‘There are four kinds of yogini,’ Chandu parroted. ‘The mild woman who is like a lotus and leads gently, the huntress who flays the perception and exposes it to the truth, the wisdom seeker who dwells in remote places, and the ugly and arrogant woman who destroys the ego. The signs of the yogini are fainting, laughing and crying without reason, controlling men and beasts with her gaze, speaking to the air or inanimate objects, dressing crazily, leaving the hair untied and wearing bone garlands. The secret signs whereby a devotee asks for their guidance are the offering of red sweetmeats, the wearing of red garlands on the left hand, marking two triangles joined at their apexes of sandalwood paste on the body, or fixing the yogic gaze upon the guru’s feet. If a man goes to the yogini and says, “I’m hungry” he is asking to be fed with enlightenment. Chakras are gatherings of yoginis where the sacrament of the five “M”s, meat, fish, alcohol, coitus and secret knowledge, is celebrated. The adept will know them by yoginis standing at crossroads holding garlands woven according to a secret pattern. If they move these garlands in a leftward direction, a chakra is to be held that night at a secret location, whether cremation ground, jungle or cave, and the male adept is invited to take part in their rites. The adept must be very careful to show them all respect, for if he betray disgust or horror they will withhold their wisdom or even give his life to the goddess.’ He paused to draw breath. ‘Very good.’ They had reached the river. ‘We’re taking a fishing boat to the city, Sadashiva. I will question you again when we are alone.’ To Chandu’s intense disappointment they didn’t enter Chittagong city, but took ship for Noakhali from the docks themselves. As a Tantric priest Bhairavdas didn’t have to wait for transportation; the captains vied with each other to take him on board, for his magic would be a potent protective against wild beasts and wilder men. Unbeknownst to him, the captain who took them on had carried a Sufi Pir on his last voyage, and had prayed on that trip to Khizr Pir, protector of all who go on water. The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 96 ‘Panch Pir, Badr Badr!’ the men cried as they cast off. Soon the banks showed nothing more exciting than jungle. They rounded Patenga Point and continued north, making for Sandwip Island in one of the many mouths of the Ganga’s vast delta. They were entering the great arterial system of rivers that continually created and destroyed the land of Bengal, whose eternally fluctuating mudbanks, channels and mangroves were the treacherous yet bountiful basis of her fortunes. Under the bowl of stars of the open sea, Bhairavdas made him name each point of light and trace in their patterns the story of creation. There was Kalketu with his belt of stars: Rudra, Sarva, the hunter, the archer. There was Rohini, the deer that Prajapati had coveted. Many aeons ago, the sun used to rise at the spring equinox exactly between Kalketu and Rohini. But lust had inflamed the Creator, and the ancient sages noticed one day that the sun’s equinoctial rising had shifted closer to Rohini. That was the beginning of time: when men looked up and saw the stars foretell the birth of desire. And Kalketu’s arrow had begun history. Sandwip was a bustling place; a transition point from the ocean to the rivers, where two kinds of trade met. Chandu gaped at huge saltpans near the sea’s margin; the cook told him Sandwip exported salt all over the delta and beyond. In the docks there were ships from inland bringing vast quantities of rice, cotton cloth and sugar to be traded down the coast; there were traders bringing the riches of Mergui and Malaka, and there were fast Magh jaliyas from which the cries of slaves could be heard. Chandu and Bhairavdas waited on the wharf while the cargo for Sandwip was unloaded and sacks of salt loaded again. Then they rounded the island and reentered the Sandwip channel, joining the many ships making for Noakhali. Bhairavdas sat prominently in the bows in the lotus position, his hand on its rest turning his rudraksha rosary as he recited mantras of protection. Chandu sat with him, watching the bizarre mangrove forests go past, their host of breathing roots sticking out of the water like witches’ fingers, or went aft to talk to the cook, who did his best to curdle Chandu’s blood with stories of river pirates. They stayed well away from the banks, but the cook told him with relish that tigers were quite capable of swimming to the ship, climbing on board and slaughtering anyone they fancied. ‘Once a tiger came and ate our lookout while we were playing cards down below,’ he said. ‘We only found his bloodstained sandals.’ Chandu was very glad to reach Noakhali in one piece. At Noakhali, while the crew went about their business, Bhairavdas took him ashore to the Shiva temple. The priests there gave them food, then listened reverentially to Bhairavdas’s discourse to his son. Bhairavdas told him the story of Bhairava, the god who is to be feared. Once Brahma had lied about measuring the linga — or he had lusted after his own daughter Savitri — and Shiva had cut off his head as punishment. But Brahminicide in turn attracted a penalty: the skull stuck to Shiva’s left hand, forcing him to wander through the world as Bhairava, the skull-bearer, until the sin should be expiated. When he came to Varanasi, the most sacred spot in the land, he was freed of the curse, but by then the legend of the kapalik, he who carries a human skull, had been born. In his honour ,groups of yogis wandered with bowls made from brainpans, living in uncleanness and performing secret rites. ‘But there is a story of Bhairava that is told in the secret chakras,’ Bhairavdas said, ‘which will show you his real meaning. Once in his wanderings he entered a deodar forest and began to dance, sending shivers of bliss through the trees and animals. Here there were many ashrams of ascetics and their wives. These men were masters of the three disciplines: tantra, mantra, yantra; theory, incantations, and instruments. Their studies had given them godlike power, but also made them arrogant and blind. When their wives and daughters saw this young renouncer, dirty, unkempt, shaggy, his linga beautifully erect, a skull in his hand and snakes round his limbs, dancing with such delicious grace, their eyes brightened and their wombs flowed with divine rasa.’ A murmur of appreciation went round the gathering. Chandu tried to look unconcerned. It was the first time he was listening to this kind of story with an audience. ‘The women rushed to Bhairava and stroked his matted hair, ran their hands over his strong young limbs even as he danced. They threw aside their fine saris, became sky-clad and lay before The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 97 him, weeping with desire. Yet he danced on, intent only on the intricate pattern of his movements. At this the rishis tried to drag their wives back by the hair but failed, so they reviled the young man as a lecher and a profligate, for they knew him not. At the last they pointed fingers of blame at Bhairava’s linga and declared that he must either make it bow its head or submit to having it cut off, for there was no other way to break the trance of their wives. And Bhairava said, “Very well, you may have it provided you can tell me what it is.” Can you tell me what it is, Sadashiva? What are the meanings of linga?’ ‘Linga means ‘sign’, ‘gender’, ‘type’ and ‘species’, it is both the phallus itself and the image which we worship.’ Chandu recited. ‘Shiva is the supreme sign, for all lingas are aspects of him, and he is also called the one without a sign, a-linga.’ ‘Very good. The sages could give no reply, so he smiled and tore it free and it was taut and unharmed as he held it out to them. At that they saw that he was a-linga, and understood that the women had been wiser than they.’ ‘Why didn’t he lie with the women?’ ‘Oh he did, in their minds, just as he lies with every woman, even the most chaste, the most virginal. When a woman takes pleasure in herself, her invisible partner is Shiva. The sevikas know this, and train themselves to serve the universal bridegroom in their pleasure. When you lie with them, they will couple not with you but with the Shiva in you, and thus they will nourish the godhead you are as yet unaware of.’ A few days later they said goodbye to the priests, rejoined their boat and started for Chandpur near the confluence of the Padma and Meghna. At Chandpur they changed to an upcountry trader heading for Pataliputra, turning northwest to follow the Padma. The river was now no longer like a small sea, and was crisscrossed with islands and sandbanks that braided its channel. In some places the mudbanks, or chors, were bare as if they had formed days or hours ago, in others there were trees growing on them and people tilling the land, yet they could still disappear practically overnight; a man might wake to find half the village under water and the river nibbling at his front door. This maze of mud and water was pirate country, and the crew kept watch continually. Bhairavdas sat day and night in the prow, strengthening their charms of protection. They tried to keep close to other ships, but it was difficult in the maze of channels. Towards evening they saw a dark bulk up ahead, drifting in the water. The crew’s faces turned grey with fear as they scrambled to turn the ship and make for a side channel. ‘Get back!’ the captain shouted at Chandu, but Bhairavdas caught his arm. ‘Stay. Watch carefully.’ Chandu stared fearfully into the gloom of the swamps on either side. What were those dark shapes converging on them? Then a horrible ululation burst from everywhere at once, the call of the river bandit: ‘Ha re re re re re re re!’ It froze Chandu’s blood, but his father’s hand was like an iron circlet round his arm. Whimpering, he watched men pour over the side. Bhairavdas let him go and sprang to his full height. Raising his trident high above his head, he screamed the first words of a curse so potent it made Chandu fall to his knees. Outlined against the sky he was a terrible apparition, his eyes sparking with divine fire, his arms bulging with yoga-tempered muscle as he whirled the heavy weapon round his head and buried it in the breast of a bandit. Blood fountained around them. Then everything erupted in a whirl of arms and blades, out of which the bright arc of a huge sword swept round to caress his father’s neck. As if in a dream, Chandu saw Bhairavdas’s head leap from his shoulders and bounce across the boards. A huge plume of blood sprayed from his neck. For a moment his body still stood, as if the blood-fountain was doing the service of a head, then it swayed and crashed full length on the deck. Chandu screamed as a hand grasped his hair and hauled him away. He was heaved up over the side and hauled onto a dinghy. ‘Baba! Baba!’ he yelled, still unable to believe that Bhairavdas was dead. A hand smashed across his face. ‘Shut up, Brahmin spawn.’ He felt a tug, and his sacred thread was torn from his body. He lay weeping as the thumps and bumps from the ship suggested the fight was giving over to looting. Bags and boxes were tossed into the seven pirate dinghies, then The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 98 they set off. A huge flabby man was sitting beside him, his heavy hand pinning Chandu’s head to the planks. Sagging jowls framed his mottled chin below little piggy eyes. From Chandu’s perspective he seemed enormous. ‘Mirwaiz!’ one of the pirates called. ‘Aren’t you going to share your prize with us?’ Not waiting for an answer, they erupted in laughter. Mirwaiz growled. Chandu got the impression his fellow pirates didn’t like him very much: he was included in their group because they found his brutality useful, but they had only contempt for him. Chandu grasped the insight with both hands, surprised by the cool detachment of it. He was, he realized, thinking like a yogi. They disembarked on a great flat mudbank, stinking of dead fish and algal scum. On it a few huts stood on stilts. Mirwaiz tied Chandu’s hands behind his back and dragged him into a hut that stank even worse than the jetsam on the bank. Chandu crawled into a corner while Mirwaiz huffed and puffed around the place, muttering all the time. ‘Hindu scum, good for nothing, never done a days’ work. Priest’s son?’ he barked, then went on before Chandu could whimper an answer, ‘Thinks he’s too good. Thinks he’s the master. Bowl of milk, master? Rice? Nuts? Sugarcane?’ Chandu watched him with huge eyes. ‘Filth. Worshipper of dolls. Unpurified. Your women uncovered. Do you know a woman’s hair sends out rays that destroy a man’s mind? No beard. Usurers, fiddling with books and things. Cows are your mothers! Eaters of grass! Evil! Evil!’ ‘I don’t eat grass,’ Chandu said in a voice that trembled. Mirwaiz roared. ‘Open your filthy mouth! I clean you out, see?’ He grabbed Chandu’s chin and thrust a huge ball of dirty rags into his mouth, almost dislocating his jaw. ‘No evil twisted words! Tell me, am I frightening you?’ He leaned down to glare into Chandu’s face. Half suffocated by the stench and the rags, Chandu nodded. A hideous scowl disfigured Mirwaiz’s face. ‘They all say that, but they make fun of me! You laugh at me? Hanh?’ Chandu shook his head, but Mirwaiz slapped the back of his neck so hard he fell on his face. ‘Liar! Liar! Laughing at me! I teach you to respect Mirwaiz! I teach to you fear Mirwaiz!’ Chandu felt hands scrabbling at his loincloth. Mewling urgently, he tried to struggle up and got another ringing slap. Mirwaiz ripped the cloth from his body and grabbed his hips. He screamed through the rag again and again as the most intense pain he had ever known seemed to split his body in two. The man’s huge sweaty bulk thrashed and pounded at Chandu for what seemed like an eternity. Suddenly he howled and beat upon Chandu’s back with his fists, pulping the bruises. Chandu fainted. Mirwaiz dragged him out to the veranda and tied him by his neck to a post as if he were a goat to be slaughtered. When Chandu came round it was dark and damply cold. He curled up into a ball and whimpered. The pain still beggared belief; his thighs were sticky with blood. What future could await him? More of this, every day of his life? Snores shook the hut, but even so he tried to keep his crying quiet, pushing his elbows into his stomach to quell the pangs of hunger. The ball of rags was still in his mouth: it hurt his bruied cheek too much to try and pull it out. Thirst burned his throat even as he fell into a fitful, vision-haunted sleep, awaking around midnight. He had to get water: he quested above him and found that with some effort he could wiggle the loop of rope off the post. He rolled off the veranda and fell to the mud below, winding himself. Wearily he crawled to a puddle and pressed his face to it, letting the rags soak the muddy water, then squeezing it down his throat. When he had had enough he just lay there. Perhaps a crocodile would come and finish him off. He prayed to Shiva Mahadeva, not like a yogi, but like a pashu, an animal that has borne too much. Please, Lord, cut my fetters and free me from this pain. But he remained chained to his body. In the morning Mirwaiz lumbered out of his hut and roared to find Chandu gone. Then he jumped down onto the mud, saw Chandu by the puddle and kicked him. ‘Cheating me out of your price in the Kumarkhali market, eh?’ Chandu felt a huge wave of relief wash over him; so he was to be sold as a slave. That sounded like paradise compared to Mirwaiz. Chandu was trussed like a pig and loaded up in Mirwaiz’s boat. As they entered Kumarkhali children ran after them, shouting ‘Mad Mirwaiz! Mad Mirwaiz!’ as he swatted savagely at them. The marketplace was full of fisherfolk, loud with their cries. Mirwaiz got a place in the slave The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 99 quarter by scowling ferociously at the other traders. Then he struck a pose and yelled in a curious mooing voice, ‘Who’ll buy this fine young specimen? Fine young worker, serve you faithfully. My lord? A house servant for your every need? Yes?’ In a short while a crowd gathered, if only because this looked like free entertainment. ‘Why’s he got rags sticking out of his mouth?’ someone asked. Mirwaiz glowered, then hooked a huge forefinger in Chandu’s mouth and removed the ball with some difficulty. ‘Who’ll buy this fine young thing? Look at those muscles, strong as an ox.’ This drew a laugh from the crowd. Mirwaiz pinched Chandu cruelly. ‘Stand up straight,’ he hissed. ‘Who’ll give me fifty pieces of gold for this young lad?’ ‘Fifty pieces of gold! You must be joking.’ ‘Fifty and no less! He’s worth double that!’ ‘He’s covered in bruises. Where did you get him, Mirwaiz?’ ‘Yes, let the poor child go!’ ‘Fifty pieces! Fifty pieces! See, his ears are pierced for earrings. What a show he’ll make as your doorkeeper. Fifty! Fifty pieces, good people! Or he goes home with me.’ ‘No!’ Chandu cried. ‘Good fishermen, please save me. This man will do terrible things to me. He has already …’ Mirwaiz punched him in the throat. Air exploded from his mouth; he collapsed on hands and knees, choking and hacking blood. ‘What did you do that for?’ someone cried. ‘No one wants a damaged servant.’ Mirwaiz raised his voice defiantly above Chandu’s distress and yelled again, ‘A bargain at fifty pieces! Come, kind sir, you look like your wife could use some help at home.’ Chandu watched them all through a mist of tears. He knew he was going to die: he’d felt like this once before, when he’d almost drowned in the river before Bajja saved him. But there was no Bajja this time. Then someone bent down to peer into his face. Through a blood mist he stared at the vision and decided he must be hallucinating. The crowd had parted reverentially to let the new man through, and now they whispered excitedly behind their hands: Pir Baba was bound to put this fat ruffian in his place. Mirwaiz rubbed his hands together and pasted an ingratiating smile on his bloated features. ‘I see by your habit that you are a Pir,’ he said greasily. ‘This boy can sing like a nightingale. Why not …?’ he trailed off, shrivelling under Pir Baba’s glare. ‘I mean, I just gave him a little jab, he’ll be singing like a nightingale as soon as he gets better. Fifty pieces of gold?’ Pir Baba pulled a purse from his belt and threw it at Mirwaiz’s feet as if it were a particularly disgusting kind of offal, picked up Chandu in his arms and ran from the bazaar to the little Sufi hospice on its margin. He burst into Daud’s apartments yelling for help. Daud took one look at Chandu’s blue face, clamped Chandu’s head between his knees, ran his knife blade through the fire, then cut carefully into Chandu’s throat below the prominence of the adam’s apple. Chandu coughed again and again, spraying blood and mucus from the hole. Daud held him through the paroxysm, then when he was breathing somewhat, let him lie on his side, supporting his head. He looked up at Pir Baba. ‘Is Rustum the smith still here? Please send him to me.’ Daud broke the silver spout from his wine decanter and told the smith what he wanted. ‘I’ll need a new dagger blade too; I had to burn this one.’ When Rustum had gone Daud sponged Chandu’s forehead. ‘A touch of fever coming on, I think. He won’t be able to speak till his throat is healed, and perhaps, not even then.’ He began making up a sleeping draft. ‘It shall be as God wills,’ said Pir Baba, holding Chandu’s hand. ‘I rescued him from a brute in the marketplace who was trying to sell him. Someone, probably the brute, has beaten him horribly.’ He frowned. ‘The child looks familiar.’ Pir Baba studied Chandu keenly. ‘In fact he looks like the priest’s son from Gajangal, but how is that possible?’ Chandu’s eyes flickered open. ‘Do you know me, child? Squeeze my hand if you do.’ A pause, then a gentle pressure on his hand. Pir Baba’s eyes filled with tears. ‘Poor child. What a tale he must have to tell.’ The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 100 ‘Later, Pir Baba. Let him rest now. Here, drink this.’ Daud carefully poured little trickles of his sleeping draft down Chandu’s damaged throat, until he fell into a deep, drugged sleep. An hour later Rustum came back. He had beaten the silver into a ring with a slight, blunt flange; Daud carefully fitted it into the hole in Chandu’s throat. ‘There, now it won’t close until we want it to.’ He began to dress the rest of Chandu’s wounds. Over the next few weeks Chandu lay in a haze of pain and discomfort. Horrible visions visited him: Bhairavdas, now ten feet tall and fanged like the monsters in his texts, roaring that he had betrayed his ancient blood. Parvati, metamorphosed into a man, marrying a milkmaid; Bajja with a flensing knife, removing his skin with ferocious efficiency. He thrashed in terror, his wounded throat moaning, until Daud had to tie him to the bed and dose him to the limit with opium. Pir Baba never left his side during this time, not even when devotees from far and wide nearly broke the door down in their desperation for his blessing. He took to speaking to the crowds once a day from Chandu’s window. He also talked to Chandu incessantly. His gentle voice became a thread below Chandu’s terrors, which as his pain lessened he learned to grasp and follow home to himself. At last the fever became intermittent, then ceased altogether. Daud fed him with soups and juices that would not hurt his healing throat, for it was painful to swallow. Soon Chandu could walk and was allowed to take the air in the hospice’s little garden, full of mango trees and mynahs with startling orange beaks that flashed among the branches. Chandu found the deep shade comforting to his healing skin; every day he would make several circuits of the garden, then sit under his favourite tree. There Pir Baba walked and talked to him, filling the silence with tales of his Persian childhood and his wanderings in Sindh and Gujarat. And Pir Baba sometimes sang to him, and told him about music, that most generous of arts. For music and dance are fleeting like the moment, and the artist shapes air with the body and lets it go, leaving nothing, no record, no monument, not a scrap of paper nor a fragment of stone, except perhaps the subtle magic of love in the hearts of listeners. And thus the musician and the dancer are the poorest and richest of artists. ‘You are a salik, a seeker,’ Pir Baba told him. ‘You are one of God’s chosen, who have to walk their path towards their own soul’s heart. Your troubles have already taken you past the first stage of ammarah, or prideful mind. You are now filled with remorse and regret, which is lawamah, or reproving mind. You must now work towards mutmayanah, the peaceful mind freed from evil. And at last it will be given to you to achieve mulhimah, or mind inspired by love, which can do no other but the will of God.’ He looked closely at Chandu’s face. ‘Does this talk give you pain? Perhaps it reminds you of your past life, for I know your father was a great scholar and adept.’ He placed his hands on Chandu’s shoulders. ‘I know it is a heavy burden to be son to such a father. But Allah has given each of us the capacity to bear just so much light and no more. You have to find your own enlightenment; you cannot borrow your father’s.’ And Chandu wept because he knew that it was true. A month later Daud removed the ring from Chandu’s throat and let the wound heal. ‘What’s your name?’ was the first question Daud asked him, and he answered in a weak, breathy voice, ‘Kalu.’ ‘Well, Kalu,’ said Daud, ‘You are well now, and I must go on to Gaur, but Pir Baba will stay for a while yet, and Rustum has taken a liking to you. He says if you have nowhere to go he’d be happy to have you join him in the smithy. How does that sound to you?’ Pir Baba said gently, ‘I know exercises for the voice which will help you, child. I will stay here until you are well. Eventually I will have to leave, for a Pir must travel the countryside succouring the people, but since I have set my heart on having you for a disciple, I will wait till you are ready to come with me.’ Kalu bowed his head, too overcome to express any thanks in his strange new scrap of a voice. ~~~ In all Pir Baba spent a year at the hospice, which was not so large a sacrifice because Kumarkhali The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 101 was right on the river and so accessible by boat for a large number of people. While he was there the khanaqah doubled its size from the generous donations they brought, which allowed Pir Baba to set up a soup kitchen, a library and a clinic. His one regret was that Daud, now ensconced in Nusrat Shah’s court in Gaur, was not there to supervise the last, but Daud sent a young physician from the city, Fadl Khan, to help. Every evening, once he had finished his duties in the smithy, Kalu would come to the hospice for singing lessons with Pir Baba. Together they would chant the traditional phrases of zikr, over and over again. At first Kalu winced to hear the sounds he was producing, and sometimes he stopped altogether, but Pir Baba would look at him and sing ‘Tu hi tu,’ with such a cadence that his lips would move of their own accord. If he sang without sound Pir Baba would lean towards him, place his ear next to Kalu’s mouth and give him such a look of sorrow that Kalu would croak a few notes out of guilt. Yet at some point his self-consciousness would dissolve into the hazy light of the lamps flickering among the pillars of the hall, and he would come to himself with a start, to hear the sounds of his own ravaged voice dying away. ‘Be naught, be naught, be naught, so that you will be forever,’ he sang with Pir Baba, echoing the words of the guide who takes travellers to the City of Love. Hesitantly he became a humble visitor to the realms that Pir Baba walked with such assurance, holding fast to Pir Baba’s hand. Slowly it became easier to slip into that trance, where the sound of his voice no longer troubled him because he was listening to the melody inside the song, and the sharp fetters that had bit into his throat started to loosen. His voice began to grow sleek under the caress of music, and Pir Baba, finding real talent there, began gently pushing him to take possession of his new medium. Into his zikr he poured the rhythms of the boatmen’s songs he had heard as a child, making Pir Baba clap his hands in delight, and one day he sat all afternoon and varied endlessly a line from Hafiz of Shiraz, ‘I am the slave of love, I am free of both worlds.’ The day declined into evening, and when he opened his eyes he saw the lamps were lit again. Pir Baba was sitting close by, his eyes closed in bliss: he slowly awoke and looked at Kalu, his gaze saying what needed no words: Kalu’s contest with silence had been won. Soon other youths came, pleading to be taught, and one by one Pir Baba took them in and trained them. Kalu loved the singing as much as he enjoyed his new job with Rustum, for his long suppressed wish to learn something useful was at last being fulfilled. At first he found he had to volunteer for jobs around the forge, because his master never compelled him to do anything. Indeed when Kalu picked up his first piece of bright hot metal and hit it with a hammer, Rustum hovered with such an expression of concern that they both burst out laughing. After that Kalu gradually tried his hand at the more dangerous tasks, and the constant labour hardened his muscles and bones, tempering the soul that had been tried already in the fire. By the time Pir Baba decided to leave, Kalu had changed beyond recognition. He helped with the preparations to go, bid a tearful farewell to Rustum and his family, and joined Pir Baba’s entourage of singers. The townspeople, some of them openly weeping, assembled at the riverbank to see them off. Pir Baba’s movement through the towns and villages of Bengal soon came to resemble a triumphal procession. Everywhere they went, music followed them: they sang songs by Rumi and al Hallaj, Amir Khusrau and Sa’adi. ‘I am the truth,’ they sang, their voices weaving harmony, ‘I am the real; in me you see Him: in Him you see us both.’ From time to time they had news of Daud: he was rising rapidly in Gaur. His habit of making himself discreetly useful soon won him a place of trust in Nusrat Shah’s court. His first letter to Pir Baba was full of excitement: word had come to Bengal of a new emperor who had marched in triumph to Delhi, conquering all before him as befitted his name of Babar: the lion. He was descended from Chingiz Khan on his father’s side and Tamerlane on his mother’s; he called himself ‘Mughal’ but he was mostly Turk. The Afghans who ruled the principalities of the east, among them Nusrat himself, watched in dismay, certain that it was only a matter of time before Babar coveted their thrones. This was just what Daud wanted: he fell in with Nusrat Shah’s plan to set up a preemptive alliance of Afghans in the east, and went with the deputation to Sher Khan, regent for the The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 102 boy king Jalal Khan Lohani of Bihar. Sher Khan had once been an officer under Babar, he had had a hard struggle in early life and Daud quickly realized he concealed a tough, observant and capable mind under a mask of bland diplomacy. Sher Khan treated the deputation well and made smooth but slippery promises, but no sooner was Daud back in Gaur than he heard that Sher Khan had accepted from Babar the estate of Sasaram in south Bihar and opted out of the Afghan alliance on behalf of the Lohanis, ignoring young Jalal Khan’s protests. Babar struck through Bihar at the isolated Nusrat, and in spite of a courageous fight from Makhdum Alam, governor of the western territories, Bengal was vanquished. The fate of the province hung by a thread, but Daud noted with extravagant admiration how Nusrat confounded the Mughal Emperor with conciliation and delay. He sent tokens of secret alliance to Bahadur Shah of Gujarat: rebellion grew there so that Babar soon had pressing business to take care of on the western frontier and needed to resolve the Bengal problem speedily and cheaply. Outmanoeuvred, he accepted Nusrat’s submission, left him in charge at Gaur, taking only a rich tribute and a few small territories. Some months later Daud reported Babar’s death and Sher Khan’s adroit second betrayal of the Afghans in return for the ancient fortress of Chunar. Indeed it was hard to tell who he admired more: Sher Khan or Nusrat Shah. ‘Ruthless as the tiger of his name, Sher Khan will sharpen his claws on Bengal should the Husain Shah dynasty ever weaken,’ Daud wrote. ‘But my master is a cunning old campaigner.’ Pir Baba chuckled as Kalu read the letters to him: it was clear that Daud was back in his element. Shortly afterwards, Daud left for Delhi to see the court of Babar’s son, Humayun, for himself. One night in a tiny hospice, hardly more than a collection of sheds, on the edges of an obscure town in Rajshahi, Kalu sat singing the Name. He was alone in the little hall, and he was struck by the way his music seemed to fill the air and populate it. Closing his eyes he sang lines by Bullah Shah, his soul afloat on the stream of melody. Suddenly he felt his eyes open and scan the tapestry of flames from the little lamps in niches. In that glow there formed the outline of a city, seen from above, with gracious parks and beautiful buildings, and happy people walking by lakes and gardens, or sitting, their shoulders dusted with petals, under the great trees spread like monsoon clouds over their heads. He spread his arms to dive into the vision, but came to himself to find only the bare bamboo-mat ceiling above his outstretched fingers. Later, when he told Pir Baba of the vision, the pir smiled and placed his hands on Kalu’s head. ‘You are specially chosen,’ he said softly, ‘to have seen the City of Love, Ashqabad.’ ‘But what is it?’ ‘A place which lovers, all kinds of lovers, make out of their love. Its walls are music, and if you look closely at its stones you will see that each grain in them is a musical note. If you want to live in it you have to love something with all your being, whether it is the Name, or a woman, or even a tree. Lovers think they are alone in their passion, but all love is the same and draws them together without their knowing, like a great sparkling net. When they love, they walk the streets of that city, and smell the fragrance of its flowers; their feet stir the dust of its squares, their bodies are painted with the light and shade of its trees. Everything in that city is there because someone loves it. If you love, you own the key to its gates. To remain there forever, you must expand your love to embrace the world, even the bad things in it, but especially you must love the lovers. For love is the most abused thing on earth. Everywhere there are obstacles to it, hatreds of it, people who want to chain it and destroy it and hurt it, because love is dangerous to them and their way of thinking. Love breaks rules, knocks down walls, inspires the weak to stand up to the strong, turns the evil away from their villainy. It does all this with towering courage, taking so many wounds, so much calumny, so there must be a sanctuary, somewhere, where no one hurts love, or the world will end.’ Pir Baba smiled at Kalu. ‘Whom do you love, child?’ Kalu looked down. ‘A girl,’ he said. ‘A woman who broke down walls for me.’ The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 103 Fifteen The Commerce of Secrets Bajja sat naked upon her rock by the stream that flowed at the foot of Dhumavati’s hill, her dark body carrying the gleams of sunlight as steadily as if it were made of oiled stone. She filled her lungs and began the first sound-particle of the sacred syllable ‘Aung’. ‘Ah’ pulled the air into every crevice of her body: ‘U’ pressurized that store, ‘Ng’ vibrated like the aftermath of a struck gong, forcing the power inward so that the smallest structures within her body danced and scintillated. Then the great space, the meditation chamber below the skin of consciousness opened like a universe within, a huge area of blackness where thoughts loomed like banks of clouds, and the connections of thing to thing snapped like mental lightning. In this space she could investigate the truth of things, or query her own soul, or simply gather herself into herself until she was an arrowhead of focused consciousness, trained and disciplined to a point. Then she could direct that force to any place within her, or outward to an object or a living being. She held the charge until she was satisfied, then leaped from the stone and slipped into the stream. This was the last heat of summer, already carrying a promise of rain in its damp unpleasant fug. She swam lazily back to the bank and sat with her feet in the cool water, combing out her hair. After a while her hunter’s senses made her turn. Fernando was watching her. She nodded. ‘Come. Sit by me.’ For a moment he did not move, transfixed by the shape her spine had acquired in the gesture of turning, each vertebral boss marking the curve. Then he came forward and sat by the water. She grunted and flicked her comb at his britches, the only clothing he wore. ‘Take it off.’ He slipped it off and laid it aside. She smiled. ‘Now your body can’t lie.’ ‘I would never lie to you.’ ‘Concealment is also a lie. You’re healed from your fever now. Why don’t you return to the city?’ ‘I told you, there are men who mean me harm there.’ ‘You have friends, wealth, power. You can fight them.’ ‘I’m tired of fighting. I’ve fought them before, to no avail. Besides, since my body is telling the truth, you know the other reason.’ She smiled. Then she threw her comb aside and pounced on his chest, her thighs pinning his arms to his sides. Above him she grinned her lazy grin, as if she hadn’t just knocked the wind out of him. ‘What will you do about it?’ she asked. ‘I don’t know,’ he said helplessly to her shape outlined against the clouds. ‘What must I do? Please teach me.’ ‘No, I’ll show you. Watch and learn. And keep your eyes open, Frangi, because I won’t show you twice.’ And she was gone. He lay there for a moment, dazed, then sat up. He looked down at himself and saw a thin red leaf-shape cupping his heart, a double parenthesis in blood left by her nether lips. A recoil, and then a kind of awe, smote him, that she had marked him so casually with this unclean thing that women were supposed to hide in shame from girlhood. It wakened a thirst in him; he sprang to his feet and ran up the hill to the temple. She was there, tucking the ends of her loincloth between her legs like the men who worked in the fields. He said, ‘It was you who put the handprint on my kurta when I was bathing in the lotus pond, wasn’t it? Why?’ She grinned. ‘I’m a washerwoman. Perhaps I wanted more custom?’ ‘Don’t joke with me, Bajja. Do you know what I was thinking while I was in the water?’ The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 104 ‘Something sad,’ she said, taking her bow and arrows down from the wall. ‘I was thinking of the woman who was my lover, whom I abandoned long ago to the hands of evil men when I came here. Perhaps I caused her death. My heart tells me so, even though my head insists I did all I could to save her.’ ‘Why didn’t she come with you?’ She set the end of the bow against her foot and strung it with a convulsive grunt. He raised open hands. ‘How could a woman come so far, in rough boats with uncouth men, to a land hardly known even by the wisest?’ ‘Hah. If these men you speak of had tried to bind me, I would have fled, with you or on my own, to any land that offered freedom. Did you love her?’ His long silence made her look up from her work. ‘You didn’t.’ ‘I don’t know.’ ‘What sort of love doubts itself?’ ‘One that is born of pity and shared terror, perhaps.’ ‘Ah. So in its parentage there was no passion, no transgression.’ ‘Are they the same?’ ‘Nearly.’ ‘There was transgression as the world sees it. She was a Jewess, a Yehudi. Her father was imperilled by powerful men, who accused himand meof practicing forbidden arts. I had sheltered him; I sheltered her.’ ‘But you did not give your life for her, nor die by her side. Why not?’ ‘My heart did not tell me to.’ ‘Indeed. And without that prompting, your standing by her would have been a lie. Nor did her heart tell her to follow you into danger and the unknown.’ ‘No.’ She set gentle fingers on his chin and kissed his lips. He turned away. ‘Don’t feel sorry for me.’ ‘I’m not,’ she said. ‘Maybe you will never understand what I’m doing.’ And she was gone. He sat down cross-legged by the altar and closed his eyes. It seemed to him that a great fire blazed within him, burning the mark upon his chest from crimson to brown. ~~~ ‘Well, child,’ said Dhumavati as she skinned a jungle fowl, covered it in Bajja’s spice paste and spitted it on a stick, ‘tell me what you recall from yesterday’s teaching.’ The night was preternaturally dark, for above them hurried the joyful monsoon, veiling the sky like the face of a woman travelling in secret to meet her lover. Deep in the heart of the towering clouds lightning flashed silently, making a momentary flower of light in their giant feathery folds. Bajja shook out her hair on the wind, letting the coolness touch her shoulders. ‘Dualities are binary opposites that make up the world: life and death, light and darkness, male and female, pain and pleasure. The child first learns distinctions through them.’ ‘And is each of these opposed to the other?’ ‘No, but … I am not sure how they stand.’ Dhumavati’s eyes flashed. ‘This is non-duality: there can be no life without death, no man without woman, no light without darkness. Each needs the other like a lover and partner: their relation is not conflict, but maithuna, copulation. Yet the unformed mind, seeing their eternal coupling, is like a child who knows nothing of sex, viewing her parents making love: to her it appears they are locked in mortal combat. She fears for one, or wishes the other to win. O child! In maithuna there is no winning or losing. The combat of love is an end in itself, and the participants desire nothing more than to make it last forever.’ She fastened burning eyes on Fernando. ‘Hence there can be no victory of good over evil, as you term it. The moment good shall triumph over evil, there will be no good, for one cannot exist without the other.’ ‘But the triumph of good does not annihilate evil; merely consigns it to hell, for otherwise the The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 105 devil would have disappeared when he was flung from heaven,’ Fernando said mildly. ‘It is on this very point that I questioned the Church’s teaching and was accused of upholding the Manichaean heresy.’ He squatted a little way from the fire, close enough to be included, yet not intruding. ‘Ah, the Tantra of Mani. Daud spoke to me of this. So your Church is non-dualist?’ ‘After a fashion. They say that good and evil can’t be opposing forces because God is allpowerful. What we think of as evil must, therefore, be in reality part of his plan. I asked the learned fathers if God is therefore all-powerful but not all-merciful, for a creator that ordains evil upon his creatures has no mercy. But my real objection is that the effect of this doctrine is to make the men of the Church believe they too need have no mercy. They think they can inflict pain and suffering if it is for the good of the soul, even destroying life with horrible tortures, for is it not God who ordains everything they do?’ Dhumavati asked, ‘Does not the mother chastise the child for its own good?’ ‘Their chastisement is no longer that of parents teaching children, if it ever was. The Church punishes all questions except those sanctioned by it, and even these are looked on with suspicion. To hold ideas that are unapproved by the fathers is called heresy. The Church pursues and kills all heretics and seizes their property. As the Church’s extravagance has grown, so have the cries of “heresy” in every quarter. These days it is enough to know Hebrew and associate with Jews to be called a necromancer.’ ‘But this Pico who wrote your book knew Hebrew, did he not, and dabbled in their sacred knowledge? Yet he was left unmolested.’ ‘He was too well known and too wise to be made the prey of the Church, but many muttered against him, and now the Inquisition hounds his followers.’ ‘Hmm. And what has he to say about the nature of the world?’ ‘His ideas are expressed in nine hundred conclusions that he wished to have debated by a forum of wise men in Rome when he was a young man of twenty four, but I have only the text of the introductory oration that he wrote. Thirteen of his conclusions were condemned as heretical, and he wrote a defense of them to no avail. They related to the magic of the Hebrews in which I was only imperfectly instructed, for my guru was torn from me by the Inquisition before I could taste the nectar of its heart. But I can tell you that this discipline has two parts. One stems from the secret story of the creation of the world that is encoded within the Book of Genesis. The other is the Heavenly Chariot that gives knowledge of how to control the powers of things. The techniques for this are again double: there is a calculus of language, and an art of the Sephiroth, or emanations. Hebrew is the sacred tongue of God, and the Hebrew names of all things have magical power over them. Rightly construed, the numbers hidden in the holy names can be used by the adept to make the world do his bidding. The Sephiroth are intermediaries between the mind of man and God himself. To understand them is to understand the nine worlds and the layers of being between here and heaven.’ ‘Is this power of language like our seed mantras?’ ‘Not quite, for it assigns meanings and values to letters, and decodes holy writ by a system of substitution and transposition.’ ‘And what has it to say of the self?’ ‘The Sephiroth are said to reside in the body of man like the chakras, connected by channels in the same way. But there is no system of yoga to awaken them, unless the doctrine of alchemy hides practices of which I am unaware. In general, I believe the Hebrew art concerns the nature of the world, of magic and of god, and has less to say of the nature of man, unlike your tradition.’ He coughed. ‘I could be wrong.’ Bajja said, ‘The Brahmins think Sanskrit is the tongue of God, or that’s what Chandu told me, and the Turkis say it is Arabic. And now you say it is Hebrew. Why not my tongue as well? Or does God only talk to gentlemen?’ She grinned, and turned the fowl on its spit. ‘Now tell us what your art says of man and woman.’ The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 106 ‘One of the secret versions of the creation story says the first human was a hermaphrodite, half man and half woman, back to back. But the creature could not engender, so God split them and left them to go out into the world, and so each half seeks its other, to unite with it in marriage.’ Bajja looked amused. ‘What of souls who are attracted to more than one? Have they many halves, or what?’ Fernando shrugged. ‘The lore says simply that the soul seeks its half and the Holy Spirit joins them in matrimony. Perhaps some souls only seek the more intensely, or are mistaken.’ ‘Hah! And what of your goddesses? Tell us their names and attributes.’ ‘I am afraid there are none in the Christian faith, although the common people worship the Virgin Mary. She is the mortal mother of Jesus Christ who was impregnated by the Holy Spirit and is known as the “God-bearer”. She is prayed to as intercessor with her son.’ Dhumavati scowled. ‘An intercessor is powerful, but not powerful enough. What of the older goddesses you spoke of? Isis of the land of kings? Ishtar of the Chaldeans? Demeter of the Greeks? Are they worshipped?’ ‘In certain alchemical and magical rites, but they are not goddesses like yours any more, whose names the common people chant. They are known only to learned men who read in the books of magic, and they are rarely invoked. The Church went to great lengths to stamp out goddess worship among the Romans, who were the first people to be Christianised.’ Bajja said with disappointment, ‘We would know more if we could question a wise woman from his land. Are there yoginis in your country?’ ‘No. Jesus never took a wife, and the men of the Church do likewise, though in practice they often have concubines and abate none of the pleasures of the flesh. Women sometimes retreat to nunneries, but mainly they pray for people’s souls, shun the society of men and practice austerities. These days I hear the Church has taken to burning wise women, even if they are only hedgeherbalists who cure headaches and help with children’s gripes. The Inquisition is taking too much of an interest in them.’ Bajja grunted and tore a leg off the jungle fowl. ‘I wasn’t talking about your Church, you fool. Are you seriously telling us that your religion of love has nothing to say about women?’ ‘Enough of this,’ said Dhumavati, dividing the rest of the fowl with her knife and proffering part of it to Fernando. ‘Now listen, both of you. The duality of man and woman is the most convincing of all, yet it is an illusion. The soul has no gender: it acquires gender from the flesh, and in successive births it may change gender according to the body that receives it.’ Behind her head the darkness of the monsoon lit up suddenly with a mighty flash, and a few drops of rain blew in on the wind, making the fire spit. Dhumavati licked meat juice from her fingers. ‘Not only that, but the duality of man and woman is not fixed, for as we know there are those who are neither, or a bit of both, and to them is vouchsafed a wisdom about men and women that only they know. The mysteries of this duality of man and woman are unfolded in the texts where Shiva instructs Shakti, or Shakti Shiva. They are the archetypes of all lovers who seek wisdom in each other. For the most powerful teaching,’ her gaze raked them keenly, ‘is given by a woman or man to a man or another woman in the act of love, for that is when every limb of the body is awakened by bliss to an awareness of the universe that is close to the divine. This is why we have the chakra ritual, where we traffic in the secret knowledge in words, and gestures, and deeds. I will tell you more of this tomorrow, and of the power of the Mother Herself from whom everything comes.’ She looked up at the sky. ‘Praise Her, at last the rains are here.’ In the circle of firelight, fat drops began to fall, brilliant as diamonds, plopping into the dust to leave little craters like miniature crowns. In no time at all the heavens opened and let down curtains of water that put the fire out and washed the remnants of their meal into the bushes. Then Dhumavati rose and danced an avid dance of welcome, her long limbs flourishing against the darkness, water spraying from her fingers as her arms beckoned the clouds. ~~~ The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 107 Bajja sat with a look of fierce concentration on her face, conning the lines of a book. She was inordinately proud of her hard won skill in reading, but she tended to hide away while she laboured with the signs of meaning. So she was halfway up a mango tree, with her elbows propped on a branch and the leaves laid out on its broad back shading her eyes. From here she could see the temple like a black jewel set in its surrounding greenery, encircled by its wall, with the plume of smoke rising from its summit. Fernando stood below, hidden from her by the leaves, longing to speak but afraid to break her absorption—he knew from experience that such a transgression would earn him a royal snarl. So he sat down in the shade with Daud’s book, and was soon so deeply involved that he jumped when she laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘What is that you’re reading?’ ‘A gift from Daud. It’s an Arabic translation of the Vajrachintamani. I’m trying to instruct myself in your traditions.’ ‘Really? Why?’ ‘Perhaps to answer questions of my own, to fill the hole that the death of faith has left in me. And also to be worthy of you.’ She smiled. ‘Books alone won’t do that for you. But understanding might. What is this “faith” and why has it died for you?’ ‘Faith is the one treasure that a Christian must possess, if he is to continue to call himself a Christian: faith in the idea that Jesus is the Son of God and that he came to earth to save mankind. Yet my studies have unsettled me to the point where I can no longer believe. My guru, Father Solomon, taught me of older faiths. In those legends, many of the old gods died to save mankind: Dionysos of the Greeks, for example, or Thammuz of the Chaldeans. And there were many Sons of God also, among the heroes of past ages. Hercules had a mortal mother and a divine father, and so did Theseus. There were sects who ate a sacramental meal like our Eucharist, where we partake of bread and wine that become Jesus’ body and blood. Even the times of his birth and death were taken from the cult of Mithras, the sun god, that many Romans followed in his age. Sunday is sacred to us because it was the Sabbath of the sun worshippers, and the number of apostles is twelve, they say, for the twelve months. Even the cross is a pagan symbol, the tau of the Greeks, the ankh of the Egyptians.’ ‘Mithras. Mitra. The Sun god. The Brahmins worship Mitra, but he is one of the old Vedic gods, who no longer have temples erected to them. Like your Chaldean goddesses.’ ‘Yes, Daud told me often that I would find such links here. You see, the Church pretends that the only truth is the one it peddles in the marketplace of faith. Yet anyone who reads in the old books will see that some of this was taken from older sources and so cannot be revelation as they choose to insist: their faith is a human artefact. So I thought to myself, then who is Jesus? I believe he may have lived, and it is possible he was condemned to death for preaching the religion of love. But beyond that, I cannot believe.’ She frowned. ‘So what? You have been put upon this earth to question and understand, not to believe. Why d’you think your god gave you a brain? Of course all faiths are human artefacts: that is their glory. Your job is to enlarge your mind by mastering them.’ He laughed with a touch of pain. ‘If you were to stand on the soil of Florence and say this, they would be binding the faggots to burn you before the words had left your mouth.’ ‘Good thing I’m not in your Florence then. You’re standing under a tree of Chittagong, which produces the largest and most luscious mangos for miles around. You must throw this belief away like a mango skin sucked dry, pluck another and draw the nectar from it.’ ‘If I were to do that, I would cease to be who I am. Yet I can’t go back. Bajja, what shall I do?’ She waved impatient hands. ‘Be someone else then. That is open to you.’ ‘Can you change me, Bajja? If anyone can do it, it is you.’ ‘What’s in it for me?’ He spread his hands, indicating himself from head to toe. She looked at him critically. “I will do The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 108 it only on the condition that you let go of your past and stop whining about belief. You are here, and there’s nothing your Jesus can do about it. Find some other way of being that doesn’t need his permission.’ ‘Accepted.’ She took his shoulders and delicately kissed his forehead. ‘That seals the pact. Now demonstrate to me your hunger.’ ‘What?’ She sighed and flipped the pages in his lap. ‘If you had read your book with attention you would know that the disciple must convince the guru of the intensity of his hunger if he is to be worthy of the secret teachings. Like this.’ She slipped a hand between his legs, under the book, and squeezed his sex. ‘You will only know the truth when you are helpless in the face of it, like a baby, or a man in the grip of an overmastering passion. Now will you lie down, or do I have to knock you onto your back?’ ‘No, no,’ he grinned. ‘I quite understand, Guru Ma. I lie down and implore your indulgence.’ ‘That’s better. Like all traders in knowledge, I insist on payment beforehand.’ She sat astride his chest. ‘The first thing I will do is wipe that grin off your face.’ ‘I assure you that I … ah!’ Her knees imprisoned his hips as she captured his sex between her hands and slid it into hers with a greedy leap, then she leaned down and whispered, ‘Maithuna to the uninitiated looks like mortal combat between two enemies. Do you fear for your life now, Fernando? Ah, I can’t call you by this Frangi name. I’ll call you Phani, the snake. You saw me kill the priest’s snake, didn’t you?’ His only answer was an inarticulate groan. ‘Shall I kill you, Phani? I could, you know. Would that please you?’ ‘Do as you wish with me.’ She moved a little and kissed his lips hard, forcing his head into the soft earth. With her mouth against his she said, ‘What do you believe?’ ‘I believe that you are the most extraordinary woman I have ever … ah! That’s unfair, you’re not letting me finish what I have to say.’ ‘It was abundantly clear what you were going to say. Don’t waste my time.’ ‘I can’t think with you doing this to me.’ She sprang up. ‘That is because your mind is undeveloped.’ ‘Hey!’ he stared with incredulous disappointment at her back disappearing into the gloom of the forest, then got up and ran after her, not caring that he looked ridiculous with his loincloth tented by his erect manhood. As he came out from the shade she turned and laughed derisively at the sight, but not for long because he launched himself at her, throwing his arms around her and fastening his lips upon her mouth, so that they fell in a tangle of limbs in which each wrestled for a tighter hold upon the other, gasping and straining. He forced her legs apart but she wrapped hands round his head, arched her back and thrust his face into her sex until he thought he would drown in her, only letting go at the threshold of pain. And then just as their bodies’ pleasure climaxed in each other she asked again, in a husky voice still trembling with laughter, ‘What do you believe?’ ‘I believe in love, Bajja. I believe in you.’ He held her tight. ‘I will be whoever you wish me to be.’ ~~~ Bajja’s studies proceeded, and Dhumavati watched her progress with approval. Fernando she tolerated good humouredly, occasionally crossing swords with him in a wary friendliness. ‘Are you sure he’s the right one for you?’ she asked one day. ‘Will he take you to the city of love?’ Bajja thought for a long moment, then shrugged. ‘He’s the one I found.’ Dhumavati grinned. ‘Don’t frown, my child. You are a yogini: love for you can never be more than a tool. Or an experiment. Be alert: one day he might ask that you make it your whole life.’ Bajja shook her head with contempt. ‘No, Dhumavati Ma. That will never happen.’ The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 109 ‘Walk away if he does, child. For a while he will follow you, but even love weakens with time, and then he will make you choose between the Tantra and him. Be prepared.’ In the month of Ashwin they set out on their travels, the three of them. Fernando now wore garlands of flowers and bones like his two companions; his hair was long and lustrous and fell in a dark cascade to below his shoulders. The hard exertion of the forest had melted away the softness of the years in the city and restored his muscles to their youth, and only the faint wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, put there by Chittagong’s strong sun, showed that he was thirty-five. Around his upper arms and wrists were twined strings of rudraksha beads, and he carried a stout staff and a begging bowl. A long dark red tilak was drawn above his brows. Bajja in addition wore an apron of delicately wrought bone beads, threaded together in a lattice of magical significance. Dhumavati inspected them with approval, and they shouldered their small bags of books and ritual objects and set out. Gajangal had changed since the priest had left and failed to return. The Sufi khanaqah was thriving, and the most important people in the village spent more time there than at the temple. The temple still housed the linga, but puja was no longer performed and now more often than not the Vaishnavs would sit and sing in its courtyard. Shankardas had nothing but smiles for them, and Indrani would put before them leaf-plates of payesh. Whenever they came, she would ask about her son and daughter, but there was no news. And she would sit and listen to their songs of love and shed silent tears. They passed on to Pir Baba’s old hospice, greeted Harimadhav who was now known as Raunaq Ali, and took a boat for the city. Dhumavati was well known among the boatmen; they crowded round to touch her feet and seek her blessing, ask for remedies for this difficulty or that ailment. Dhumavati took her pick of the ships going to Noakhali, and they were ushered aboard a smart merchantman captained by an Armenian. As they were boarding the ship Fernando saw Bairam Khan standing on the docks. He wrote a note for Alamgir and had Bajja give it to the customs officer, who looked around sharply, but Fernando had disappeared under the ship’s awning. As they set off he kept his face turned away: the riverside brought back too many memories. Instead he played with Bajja’s hair, admiring the bright rough kinky strands as they blew about on the wind. Against the luminous water her profile was rapt. The wide horizon amazed her, and when they burst into the open sea she cried, ‘You saw this every time you set out on your voyages? I wish I could have been a sailor, instead of a washerwoman.’ Fernando laughed. ‘It was a dangerous, hard life, though profitable.’ She stared out to sea with hungry eyes. ‘Did you kill people?’ ‘Sometimes. When there was no option. But all that’s behind me now. The Frangis have destroyed Chittagong. Now only they and their creatures can trade here.’ They hopped from port to port on country traders. At each place they visited, Dhumavati would go to the marketplace and sit telling her beads in a prominent place, until one of the traders would come and show by secret signs that she too was a siddha, an adept. Then they would go with her to her house, where the adepts of the town would meet with them at night. Some of them were householders, plying a humble trade to disguise their real calling; others were wanderers, sporting the signs of renouncers and wisdom-seekers. Slowly Fernando learned of the many schools and sects they belonged to, but even with all their shadings of practice and theory there was a curious lack of rancour among them. They were all equal: all Tantrics following different routes to the same goal. Some of them practiced severe austerities, sat at the counsels and hardly spoke, their eyes seeing a landscape visible only to themselves. Others lived near human habitation, ministered to those who needed their skills, and were usually quite talkative. Sometimes they had disputation, which Dhumavati relished and took part in with gusto, but the issue was rarely the correct interpretation of doctrine and no one ever won in any recognizable sense. Much of it he did not understand, for they often spoke in what he could only imagine was code, though Dhumavati must have instructed Bajja in it for she seemed to follow easily. A closely reasoned argument, citing texts The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 110 from the six schools, might be answered with a song or a lewd dance, and then everyone would nod as though an important point had been scored. Stories would be told, of blood and violent acts, or of lovemaking, or of pollution, for before Fernando they would not reveal any but the most superficial layer of meaning. In their councils Fernando often felt as if he had only half an eye, and half an ear. At night the two women would slip away to the chakra. Fernando would be left at the house of their host. One day he asked Bajja, ‘Why won’t you take me with you?’ She regarded him with amusement. ‘You will have to submit to the desires of any woman in the chakra that wants you. I thought your ways were against such practices.’ He paled. ‘Is that so? What do you do at these meetings? Are there other men? Do you lie with them?’ Her smile grew broader. ‘You do, don’t you? It is a witches’ sabbat you celebrate? You really practice those rites?’ She grinned. ‘Quick, gather the tinder and the fire-drill and set up a stake in the marketplace.’ ‘Bajja, why?’ Then he looked at the ground. ‘Are you testing me?’ ‘Set aside this weakness. Do you think I haven’t known men before you? I am no village wench to be wrapped up like a bauble and given to a husband. I am of the tribe of Tara, and I have taken men of the tribe who pleased me long before you even set eyes on me. What right then have you to rule me?’ her eyes flashed suddenly. He took her hands and laid his forehead on them. ‘I am sorry, Bajja. Please don’t be angry. But I want to follow you in this wisdom. Didn’t you promise that you would change me?’ She kissed his head with passion and tenderness. ‘So you wish to be my sadhaka, my initiate?’ She regarded him. ‘There is a ceremony. It will test you to your limits, for all must be tested, by themselves or others. I almost died in the burning ground before the secret world was opened for me. Can you bear it?’ He nodded. ‘If this is what I must do to be worthy of you. I place myself in your hands.’ ‘Now quiet yourself, my love.’ She drew him to lie by her, and opened her thighs. The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 111 Sixteen The Darkness of God ‘We have made a terrible mistake in coming here,’ Pir Baba said sadly. ‘I should have been more circumspect in answering the royal summons of this new Sultan, Ghiasuddin Mahmud Shah. Now I’m in the unpleasant position of having to refuse to bless a king, because I’ve only just discovered that he’s a murderer. What sort of a man murders his own brother and his little nephew to get the throne?’ Kalu shook his head. ‘You couldn’t have known, Pir Baba, neither about Sultan Nusrat Shah’s assassination, nor of young prince Firuz’s. This Mahmud Shah knew we were in rural Faridpur where the gossip of the court does not reach. He was banking on your not finding out till you got here.’ ‘He was banking on my not asking, for now that he has welcomed me in the public durbar I cannot turn my back on him. If only Daud had arrived from Delhi a little earlier, he would certainly have warned me away in time. And I thought it was God calling me to counsel a king in the ways of righteousness. Hah! Not in this world.’ Pir Baba sat sunk in gloom as Kalu hammered away at the sword-blank on his anvil. Since he’d come to Gaur, Kalu’s forge had prospered; everyone seemed to want quality weapons at any price. ‘We shall do what is right in the sight of God, of course,’ Pir Baba finished wearily. Kalu gave him a kind look. ‘Yes, but first let us take counsel with Daud, since he’ll know how to do that without getting killed. Let me finish tempering this blade, then I’ll come with you to his house.’ Kalu finished work and changed into his street clothes, a fine muslin kurta and tahband with a white silk turban, locked up the forge and went out with Pir Baba into the crowded streets. Afternoon was shading into evening, and shopkeepers in the metalworkers’ quarter were setting out their wares under multicoloured awnings hung with lanterns. Kalu stopped at the perfumiers’ quarter to buy some attar for Daud, then they crossed the Bridge of Five Arches and made their way to Daud’s house, a sprawling bungalow in the shade of the Dakhil Darwaza. In the blue-and-gold tiled courtyard a servant washed their hands and feet in scented water, then ushered them into Daud’s prized garden of roses, the cuttings for which he had brought with much care and cost from Delhi. Daud was bending over a bush bearing beautiful half-blown dark red blooms. On seeing them he straightened, snipped off two buds and tucked them into their buttonholes. ‘There, my first Shiraz roses for you. What news, Pir Baba?’ ‘I see nothing but darkness ahead. I have been tricked: now I must either bless an unrighteous man, or face his wrath. For my part I would rather answer to God in the next world than a sultan in this.’ ‘Don’t be in such a hurry to leave the world just yet,’ Daud grinned, accepting the attar from Kalu and dabbing a little on his wrist. ‘Delhi is watching, and Emperor Humayun doesn’t like this Mahmud any more than you do. Our august uncle-of-a-sultan is making enemies right and left, including my good friend Makhdum Alam, who has held the border till now against the Afghans of Bihar. Soon Makhdum will join Sher Khan.’ ‘Is war coming then?’ asked Kalu. ‘No wonder people want my weapons.’ Daud nodded. ‘There is fighting already on the western borders. You know that Sher Khan is regent for Jalal Khan Lohani of Patna. Jalal is a young fool to match our old fool here in Gaur, and Mahmud has secretly invited him to flee and take refuge here, to produce the pretext he needs to invade Bihar. Jalal thinks Mahmud will fgo to war to reinstate him, but I suspect the boy will meet The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 112 the same fate as Prince Firuz.’ Pir Baba held his head. ‘I understand nothing of this, Daud. I am a simple man; I don’t have your taste for politics.’ ‘That’s why you need me, Pir Baba. Mahmud thinks he is cunning, but he’s an arrogant oaf. Wait a few months, and the Khan may solve your problem for you.’ ‘I can’t wait. The Sultan wishes me to bless him in the Bara Sona Mosque at Friday prayers. Will your Sher Khan finish him before Friday?’ Daud put his head on one side. ‘A holy man like you shouldn’t waste his time on such matters. I think you should go to Delhi, see the darga of Nizamuddin Aulia, meet with scholars like yourself and sing for the good and great of Humayun’s court. I can arrange an escort for you, armed to the teeth. Just say the word.’ ‘No, Daud, I’m an old man. I can’t fare so far, though my heart yearns at the prospect.’ Daud opened his mouth to respond, but a sudden burst of song outside the gate forestalled him. They became aware of a commotion outside; they could make out now the words Hare Krishna! sung by many throats. They hastened to the gate to see. A host of people dressed in saffron robes and carrying the little hand-cymbals of the Vaishnavs were dancing along the road to the Dakhil Darwaza. Daud listened, then beckoned a neighbour. ‘What’s happening?’ ‘They say Sri Chaitanya has been absorbed into the idol of Jagannath. Krishna heard his call at last, and Radha has at last found peace in the arms of her lover. So these people are going to dance and sing all the way to Puri.’ The man shook his head. ‘Their faith must be strong to make them brave the jungle full of demons and wild beasts.’ ‘Curious people,’ said Daud as they returned to the garden and the procession passed by. ‘They too worship One God with song and love’s devotion, as we do, yet they are so different.’ He looked at their anxious faces. ‘Pir Baba, there’s one man of honour who will do you the reverence you deserve. You’ll have heard of him as a traitor, even from me, but that’s just politics. Go to Sher Khan, Pir Baba. He is a wayfarer on the Sufi path, as unlike our ruler as this attar is to ditchwater. Take refuge with him: and perhaps you can counsel him in righteousness until the day we must call him master. Kalu here has a strong right arm; he can go with you and keep you safe. Don’t worry about Mahmud; I’ll make sure he sends no vengeance after you. In any case, his star will not shine for long.’ Kalu nodded. ‘Daud is right, Pir Baba. It’s the only thing to do. Let’s get ready and leave immediately.’ They made their preparations with great stealth, and that night, hidden in palanquins belonging to Kumari of the Mahadev Temple and muffled up in embroidered shawls she had lent them, Pir Baba and Kalu made their way across the darkened city. Kumari was currently embroiled in a tussle of wills with the Sultan (which he was sure to lose) over a young dancer he had his eye on, whom she would not relinquish. She was most willing to help Daud arrange Pir Baba’s escape. Daud’s guide was waiting for them at the gate called ‘Hide and Seek’, and got them through unchallenged. When they were out of sight of the city they got down off the palanquins and mounted fast horses. They left the main road and took a narrow village path. Their guide lit a torch to show the way between the thorny thickets on either side. They would take the less frequented and more dangerous route through the forests and hills to the south, so as to avoid the fortress in the Teliagarhi pass where Mahmud’s men would be watching. Their escort, twenty armed men, had ridden ahead earlier in the day and now rendezvoused with them in the copse beyond the village. They rode on in a tight group, making for the forests of Jharkhand. At dawn they made camp in a dense mango grove, whose shade even at midday was a deep green twilight. A young soldier cooked rice and meat in a pair of big pots for the two dozen men. Pir Baba was looking visibly brighter; he never felt entirely happy unless he was out on the road. Kalu tried to share his mood. ‘It’s strange to think that here I am, fleeing from Gaur, when my father also fled the city before I was born,’ he told Pir Baba. ‘Only he went east, not west.’ The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 113 ‘But we will return, inshallah.’ Kalu shrugged. ‘My father was trying to return as well.’ Pir Baba shot him a keen glance, catching something strained and unhappy in Kalu’s tone. ‘His journey is not yours, Kalu. Your fate is your own.’ ‘My fate,’ Kalu said bitterly, ‘is yet to consume my sins, and no doubt has more trials left for me to burn them off.’ ‘Why should you think that? You are a jannati. When I hear you sing the Name it seems as though heaven itself is singing to me. Have you not suffered enough to burn away your sins? What’s the matter?’ For Kalu had hidden his face in his hands. ‘Do you remember when you first called me that? It was when you came to Gajangal, and the people wouldn’t let me and Bajja come to you. You said, “they are jannatis, they know the way to heaven”…’ Pir Baba laid a hand on Kalu’s shoulders. ‘Why does the memory grieve you, my son?’ Kalu did not answer. Pir Baba’s hand fell to his side. ‘Bajja,’ he said softly. ‘Many days when we have talked I’ve wondered why you never mention her name, Kalu. In the village you were inseparable, much more than a brother and a sister. I saw you always together.’ He paused, but got no reaction. ‘I’ve thought it strange that when I asked of her you should be silent, or answer me with vague unfocused words.’ He paused again. Silence. ‘Come, Kalu, lighten your burden by sharing it with me, for a sorrow that stays this strong after so many years must be a heavy one indeed. Tell me what occurred between you and her.’ Kalu took a deep, ragged breath. ‘I have done her great wrong, perhaps even caused her death. You know that my father was taking me to Gaur to apprentice me in the Tantric arts. I did not tell you that my guru was to have been a woman, a temple sevika like Kumari. Do you know that Kumari was my father’s teacher? He spoke of her with … with affection, I suppose, as much as my father ever allowed himself to feel anything for anyone. But at the time when we left Gajangal, I was a child. I had no understanding of the world; the thought of being instructed by such a woman in the ways of magic frightened me. So I begged him to let me take Bajja as my teacher instead. I thought he would refuse; at the most he would reprimand me. To my horror he asked her to meet him at midnight in the temple, and forbade me to be present. That night I lay awake in torment, wondering to what evil I had betrayed her.’ He shuddered. ‘The next day I ran there at the crack of dawn. He was alone. He wouldn’t speak to me: he made us leave that very day, and I had no chance to find out what became of her: my father prevented me, and his orders could not be disobeyed.’ Kalu’s eyes flashed with rage and pain. ‘He said she had run away; he told me to forget her. A few days later he was dead. I never had a chance to learn the truth from him.’ ‘Why didn’t you go back to Gajangal to seek her, once you had regained your strength with us? You should have told me, I would have made every …’ ‘No, Pir Baba, I had no right. After what I did…’ ‘But you were hardly more than a child.’ Kalu shook his head. ‘I was the priest’s son. I thought I could bend even her to do my bidding. I thought that if I wanted her, that was all that mattered, and the world should cast some spell and bind her to me. No, if I ever was a jannati, I have lost the way to heaven. When I sing the Name, I pray that she is happy and well, and that she has forgotten me. All I have left of her is this name I bear, which she gave me in secret. It’s short for Kalketu, the hunter.’ Pir Baba looked infinitely sad. ‘I too will pray for her, as you know I do for you. I have watched you grow, Kalu, I know you’re no longer that spoiled child: you are a man of twenty-six, tried in adversity and pain, yet still full of love and gentleness. Why do you do yourself the injustice of living in your memories? You have torn out that part of you that did wrong: now let the wound heal.’ Kalu only shook his head. Pir Baba watched him with sad affection. ‘Why don’t you take refuge in Him? I know your heart longs to.’ The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 114 ‘I can’t give up this name I bear. It’s a sign, so that maybe even after all the transformations we two have undergone she will know me if she sees me, and perhaps … no for that I cannot hope.’ Pir Baba sighed. ‘I pray to Allah that someday your heart finds peace. Now sleep if you can, Kalu my son, for we have many miles to go.’ ~~~ The City of Love is beautiful but unforgiving. Entering it in the first flush of love is easy: then the paths are strewn with sweet flowers and the trees throw welcoming shade over one’s head. Staying there is another matter. Some, when the impossible magic of love finally fails, accept their exile philosophically and journey back alone, to dream now and then of its cool avenues and fragrant riverbanks. Hosts of them can be seen leaving the city by the southern gate, each one invisible to the other, so that though they travel in a crowd each is wrapped in a loneliness more impenetrable than the dark of the grave. Others, turning one day to their beloved, see that the beautiful roofs above their heads have melted away unnoticed (who knows when), and the two of them stand in a humdrum yet tolerably fruitful field, where with a modicum of labour they can get their life’s bread and coexist with a certain amount of mutual irritation and gratitude. Others, waking suddenly to find themselves stranded in the desert, thrust away all consolation and run weeping back to bruise their fists on the gates. They are the ones who importune travellers by the way, imploring them to give them back their citizenship of the dream, crying Love me! Love me! like lunatics or gods. Still others, ambushed by reality, stand stock still a while in the middle of the road, look within themselves as in a difficult book, till they find, after much study, the true secret of love. But these last are the unseen few who sing to themselves in their joy, recognizable only to each other. They are neither magicians nor sages, nor adepts nor kings, but the rarest of creatures, happy people. They need no lovers, for the world loves them, and they love the world. Fernando consented to undergo the ceremony. Dhumavati shrugged when Bajja told her. ‘Have you explained to him the consequences?’ she asked. Bajja nodded. Dhumavati left to collect the ritual objects and prepare the potions they would need. He spent the day in isolation, thinking about the ordeal he would undergo, and how it would change him. As the cold stars of a new moon night faintly outlined the bones scattered around the appointed place, seven naked female siddhas led him, garlanded, to the platform of earth that Dhumavati had prepared. It had a stake driven in at each corner, to which Bajja bound his hands and feet. Upon his chest Dhumavati drew a mandala, while the siddhas circled, chanting mantras that praised him, the sacrificial victim. Then they began a slow, stately dance, the starlight gleaming on their oiled breasts, their hair occasionally obscuring the sky. Dhumavati, holding a great copper bowl, stepped onto the platform and placed her foot against Fernando’s sex. Slowly, contemplatively, she ground the ball of her foot into his flesh, kneading him with her roadroughened toes. The chanting of the women peaked with a soft wail; their thighs tensed as they gathered themselves to spring and turn in unison. The thump of their feet vibrated through the earth into his back; while above him Dhumavati’s towering form played gently, delicately with him. The hard-soft pressure of her calloused sole on his sensitive skin made him shiver: he had a sudden vision of the statue that had stood before her temple, and his flesh rose in yearning to her touch. Then she knelt and poured from her bowl a few drops of some whitish liquid, spread it upon his groin and began working it into his skin. It was sticky, but as her fingers rubbed and teased him all feeling slowly seeped away, until he felt her touch bluntly, as if underneath his skin he was a corpse. He had the curious feeling that his sex was now detached from him, that it had become something else, something not entirely human. And the women were praising it, coveting it, beseeching it, taunting it. He was now a helpless spectator, watching the women talk directly to this power that had been drawn out of his body. Dhumavati stood up. Her teeth gleamed in a slow grin. Bajja handed her a knife made of flint on a tray, she took it and knelt again. Coldness entered his body, just where the tight whorled hair of his sex thinned onto the smooth skin of his belly. The air touched him more deeply than it should. The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 115 Fear squeezed him then, but gentle hands took hold of his head and held him back so he could not see. Another bowl appeared above his head through the mist of smoke and mantras, and dripped something aromatic and burning, like wild ginger juice, onto his tongue: its feral fragrance seemed to violate his nostrils. Around him lithe bodies danced, whirling on one foot, then the other. From where he lay they looked like giantesses. As they danced, their bone aprons clacked, their garlands dropped perfume and rottenness on the earth. In one hand they held cudgels of bone, in the other, skulls. Their hair stirred the smoke into ghosts of themselves. Now they were pouring libations on his sex, but he could feel nothing. Someone had lit a fire on his tongue: he could feel the flames licking his lips. He struggled to call for water to put it out, but his throat seemed paralysed. Neither could he struggle against his bonds. Great heat spread slowly through his body: he could feel it hissing as it consumed him. Dhumavati loomed out of the haze again. In her hands she held cupped a huge clod of earth, out of which grew a plant. This she placed on Fernando’s chest: it felt like a small mountain. He sobbed for breath as the plant’s graceful white trumpet-shaped flowers nodded at him among its dark green, unruly leaves. They sprinkled water on the plant and on Fernando: he tried to cry out at the searing heat of it, but was mute. His pulse hammered against his eyes, making him see several of everything, as though all things around him had turned into choirs of ghosts. His mind seemed to be entangled in a soft, complex net, made perhaps of the smoke itself. He could no longer hear the mantras: he could not tell if the women were still there or had abandoned him. And someone was talking to him. He looked around vaguely. ‘Fernando.’ His eyes fastened on the plant. The flowers were looking at him. He could even hear their individual voices, like the harmonizing of a chorus, only speaking, not singing. Their white throats gaped at him, smooth and pure, with drops of honey trembling on the tips of their tongues. There was no doubt about it: the flowers were talking to him. ‘Fernando. Answer us.’ ‘Yes?’ he said. It didn’t occur to him to notice they were speaking his native Spanish. ‘You’ve given up your chance of immortality on this earth for the love of a woman who professes never to belong to a man. All your treasures are hers now. You can never be a householder: there will be none to bear your name. Your seed is contained, by the grace of the mother’s knife that slashes the flesh to liberate wisdom.’ He closed his eyes. ‘I know. Salvation must be paid for.’ ‘Salvation?’ The flowers’ voices were mocking. ‘Come, Fernando, in this cult of blood and sex what salvation is there to be found? Don’t fool yourself, amigo mio. The only salvation you’ll find here is in the heat of hellmouth, between the thighs of women who glory in their filth. Poor fool, look well at where your search has brought you. You lie on a dungheap, drugged and helpless, stained with your own blood. Like a child you’ve eaten red holly thinking it candy, and now the poison works in you.’ ‘Taunt me. I care not. Was not even Jesus tested in the wilderness?’ ‘Open your eyes then, Fernando.’ He opened them. It was she, standing before him, dressed in white like the flowers, indistinct as though a veil had fallen over her form. ‘Esther.’ He could barely whisper. The white form wavered. The face came closer. He watched a red drop appear on her neck, and slide down. Then another. Soon the front of her dress was wet with blood. She stood there, swaying. A ragged sob came from her torn throat. ‘My darling!’ he cried. ‘Untie me! Let me come to you! Dhumavati! Set me free! I must stop them! I must stop it! Stop it! Stop….’+ But the flowers above his head were huge as sails, and they laughed at his fear and his guilt like tin carillons. He lay there for three days and nights, fed water and milk by the women. All that time, the plant sat upon his chest. Sometimes the flowers whispered to him in Esther’s voice, and he would whip The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 116 his head from side to side. He had no defense: the drug had stripped him bare. Blood-guilt lay upon his hands. No expiation would ever wash them clean. On the morning of the fourth day, he was quiet. Four silent women untied him and carried him on a litter down to the riverbank. They washed him and salved his wrists and ankles and the dried wounds on his belly. He ate, and was allowed to sleep, still woozy from the drug. His mind felt raw, but curiously alive and open and filled with feeling, ready to try anything, but also quick to grieve or rage at the slightest pain or hindrance. Three days he lived in a tiny hut by the river, seeing no one, not Bajja, not Dhumavati. A little child would bring his meals and run away without a word, and he would spring up and call endearments after it. He laughed and cried and shouted to himself in the gloom of his hut, but always in the melting mess of his emotions there was a little hard point, watching him. That little hard point coldly presented him with questions. They were the same questions that had clawed at him in the drug haze. He turned away from them, and contemplated the sky through his doorway. On the seventh day the siddhis came with clothes and ornaments and bowls of sweet-smelling paste. All day they groomed him, teasing the tangles from his hair, bathing him, smoothing his skin with sandal paste and turmeric, creaming the scabs from his scars. At evening they dressed him as a bridegroom and led him to the forest. In the centre of a glade they made him lie down upon a bed of flowers, and retreated with their weapons to the periphery. Then they all faced outwards, taking guard. Bajja came silently through the darkness, the natural musk of her body her only adornment. She knelt where he lay palely in the moonlight. With deft, gentle hands she slipped each bracelet and chain from his body. He looked at her calm, round face against the stars and knew at last what had sustained him through this ordeal. She slipped to the ground and kissed the scars on his belly. The pact was sealed. Her lips moved lower, her tongue slipped into the crevice at the top of his thigh and curled around his balls. He sighed, and the pain of his becoming dissolved under her diligent lips. What more can be told of that night? The cataloguing of touch would be futile: of breasts and thighs and lips and tongues, of sex to sex, of blood to blood. For these are not what lovers remember. To tell such a story requires the press-ganging of the senses, the regimenting of facts and details, the reporting like a spy from the territory of evanescent feeling. Fernando and Bajja tasted each other’s bodies with a hunger of the soul that mere flesh could not feed. For a little while, the inadequacies of the body dissolved into a soaring torrent of consciousness, so that they flew side by side, wingtip to wingtip, in the turbulent sky of their mutual revelation. The inflexible solitude of the mind was broken just this once for them, so that these little minutes torn out of their lives became a universe, a sanctuary, and on the dawn an already fading memory. In the days that followed, Bajja, Dhumavati and Fernando wandered the countryside without reference to time and season, liberated from every necessity but the imperatives of their desires. Bajja and her lover were now free to be teacher and pupil. Dhumavati watched over them as they explored their love and grew in strength and self-mastery. They read in the Vajrachintamani, refining their knowledge of the pedagogy of the flesh. The book enumerated the names, degrees and instructions of positions of lust and titillations of the flesh, sometimes with diagrams, yet Bajja taught him that these things were not ends in themselves, but windows. She explained them to him, a finger in his anus, stroking a nameless part in him that made him shiver with bliss. ‘The siddha responds to everything in the world,’ she whispered softly, as he writhed on the forest leaves, ‘with the sharp awareness you now have of my finger. Your task is to make your mind such an instrument, that the contemplation of the most abstruse of mandalas is to you an experience as pierced with glee as this.’ But he could only moan, and she laughed quietly and tickled him. At other times he told her of the lands he had visited, of the men and customs he had witnessed. He told her of the Merchants of Light and the books they had read. As far as he could remember he recounted the myths of the Greeks and the Romans, and the wisdom of the Hebrews. They spoke of The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 117 Vajrayogini and Lohita Tara, of Moses and Timaeus. Together they read Pico, he translating for her. ‘Listen,’ he said, ‘Pico says each man is born with seeds of vegetative, bestial, and intellectual nature in him. It is up to him to cultivate whichever he chooses, and thus make of himself what he wishes, for there is no way of being a man that is not learned. “And if, satisfied with no created thing, he removes himself to the centre of his own unity, his spiritual soul alone in the darkness of God, who is above all things, he will surpass every created thing.” Is this not the dark of tapasya? Are not we too, in search of that unity within?’ And she said, ‘But your doctrines talk not of seeking, but of obeying. You speak of the darkness of god but your gods are only one side of existence: white or black, male or female. How easy it is to round off this duality by saying “good or evil”.’ ‘The wise know better. Pico himself tried to be a crucible in which the best of east and west could become one, like the red and white elixirs of the alchemist.’ ‘But you say the end result of all his learning was to confirm his faith. How can that be? Any faith held by a human must be limited by space and time, for we are finite beings, yet knowledge is infinite and unbounded. Or was he simply saying this to salve the enmity of your priests?’ ‘Perhaps. Yet does not all wisdom indicate that in spite of everything there is a spirit who watches over human affairs? That there is order in the universe, and meaning?’ ‘The cosmos is so vast we cannot grasp its age or its extent, while you and I are finite parcels of flesh and blood, illuminated by thinking minds. That is our triumph and our tragedy. Why should we think ourselves heroes of its story when all we do is take up a mote of its space for a little while?’ ‘Wherein then lies the meaning of life?’ She tapped her forehead. ‘Here.’ But he continued to look doubtful. In this he found an unlikely ally: Dhumavati. One day when Vajra was speaking in this vein Dhumavati snorted and said, ‘You talk like an Ajivika.’ ‘And that is?’ ‘A sect who claimed that the universe had nothing to say to man, that there was no god, no heaven, no hell, no moral law. They withdrew from the world and practiced severe austerities, and thankfully there are none left.’ ‘I don’t say that. Why can’t there be a moral law without god?’ ‘Because people won’t accept it. Just as the child obeys only through fear of punishment from its parents, so the man obeys from fear of god.’ ‘Exactly,’ said Fernando. ‘There is a chain of being from god to man to the animals, linking great and small, such that each one is above the other by heaven-sent decree.’ At this Bajja laughed, but Dhumavati said, ‘You and I know that is nonsense, but preach your doctrines to the people and see if anyone understands. I tell you now, they’ll either interpret your words as license to do as they please, or be crushed with terror at the thought of a world without god.’ As they roamed the villages and towns, Bajja would ask the people, ‘Every life ends in death, yet we live as though life has no end. Are the priests right when they tell us our karma is foreordained? If there is dharma in the world, then what is the use of gods?’ They would bow and say, ‘You are Vajra, the power of the thunderbolt.’ And for a while they would listen reverently, but then would drift away. At last, exasperated, she stopped in mid-sentence and invited the few who remained to speak to her of their lives. Hesitantly they began to tell her their joys and sorrows. She found herself reacting to their stories, giving advice, solving difficulties. It seemed that the very habit of mind that made her a bad consoler also made her a good untangler of problems. The next time she visited that town, people were waiting for her: they’d brought their friends and relatives for her to hear and help. When they saw her approaching, little children ran to tell their parents, and people flocked to where she was, bearing their sick and infirm, imploring her for guidance. And they always came bearing The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 118 gifts. Bajja would have escaped to the jungles, but Dhumavati’s hair was now streaked with white. These days the old woman preferred to be where there were people and music and cooking fires and gossip, and she protested plaintively whenever they left. She gloried in the popularity of her disciple, and took almost as much pleasure in the gifts. Over the years, without really meaning to, Bajja became necessary to these hosts of people; they sought her with a hunger she found impossible to understand, till it seemed the very roads were paved with their pleading faces. Then she longed for the forest and the stealthy sounds of birds and beasts, while the hunter in her roared and beat against the walls of her head. That was when she turned away from people, even from Fernando, and if he followed her with attempted consolation she would snarl like a tiger. And in the dark of the night, surrounded by the quiet breathing of her friends and followers, she would struggle with what she had become. The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 119 Seventeen The Power of Blood Martim Affonso de Mello bowed low with a flourish, trying surreptitiously to swat a fly away from his nose. ‘… and so, O great Sultan, protector of traders, light of the east, father of your people, we have borne here from afar the good will of the Estado da India towards your august self and your realm in the form of these poor gifts, and we wish that you will smile on our commerce with the Indies to our mutual benefit…’ He waited in a deferential half bow while the interpreter caught up with him. Mahmud waved an impatient hand. ‘Yes, yes. Your intentions are well known. Our respective officials can work out the details later. For now enjoy the hospitality of the palace. All you see is for your pleasure.’ He waved a hand vaguely at the plates of sweetmeats and delicacies the girls had laid upon the marble tables a short while ago, patted his turban with an impatient hand and prepared to leave the garden. These Franks were a particularly rough lot from South Chittagong about whom he had just received letters from his governor, and he would be glad to see the back of them. Daud clapped his hands. ‘Music!’ The young maidens with their instruments, scattered in picturesque little knots on silken rugs beneath the fragrant trees, began to play, and the Sultan’s female bodyguard escorted him along the petal-lined pathways back to his rooms. As the Frangis’ eyes followed the women warriors as they marched down the smooth paths, a gong boomed. From the dark of the grand gateway in the north wall of the garden sprang Kumari, her body draped in red silk and fine gold tissue that floated from her arms like clouds in the dawn sky. She flashed into view in a patch of sunlight on the steps from the arched doorway to the marble seats where the Frangis stood. With her were two young girls, their breasts full, their waists strong and slim like the trunks of young trees, jewelry sparking on their arms and heads, setting off the milder glimmer of their long dark eyes. The mellow sunlight of the afternoon, filtered through the leaves, threw mottled shadows on their limbs as they began their dance, softly at first. The Portuguese stood among flowers and the tables of luscious food, their mouths open like yokels at a fair. The magnificence of the palace had awed them enough on the way in, but they had never seen anything comparable to these three women. Such light in their magical eyes, such hair, such language in their limbs, such grace and strength seamlessly combined. Daud retreated into the shadows and watched out of the corner of his eye the galleries in the high walls that surrounded the bower. Kumari’s dance was not as energetic as her two pupils’; she was, after all, well past sixty, and she preferred to keep her feet on the ground. But she needed no flourishes: her eyes carried such a rich freight of mocking, joyous, hugely intelligent life, that she paupered the pretty charm of youth. The carnal wisdom of those eyes pierced the flesh of any man she glanced at like an infinitely pleasurable skewer, and yet they also held a sad mercy, a knowledge of the many ironies of the world. The searing flame of her regard undressed them not only of their clothes but of their skins, and when she danced there wasn’t a man who watched her who wouldn’t have given his fortune to follow the languid beckoning of her speaking eyes. And now she danced the bittersweet pain of parakiya, unrequited, forbidden, illicit love, the love which is the best teacher of all, the love of the stolen wife, the forbidden paramour, the debt-shackled courtesan. Her eyes fluttered surrender a moment before her hands swept like sword cuts through the air; her gaze crackled with anger just as her body melted, pouring itself into shapes of love. How well she knew that sweet poison, how her face alone shifted like quicksilver between invitation, and fear, and love, and pain, and teasing, acting out the eternal drama of desire. She dropped her gold tissue veil. The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 120 There was a schnik! as the galleries suddenly sprouted arrows, but even that was drowned in the tzing! of swords drawn from under the silken covers of the instruments. The Franks looked up into dozens of beautiful kohl-rimmed eyes, each staring steadily along a weapon. De Mello dropped the plate of kababs he was holding. Before it hit the ground his sword was out of its sheath. Arrows thunked into his shoulder. The blade bounced on the grass at Kumari’s feet and lay still. ‘Come,’ said Daud softly to the cursing nobleman cradling his bloodied arm, ‘An old cut-throat like you should know better. Throw down your weapons, all of you. It is suicidal to draw swords when you are covered by archers.’ He raised a hand. ‘Bluster will get you nowhere. We know you have been plotting with Khwaja Shahabuddin of Chittagong to overthrow the Sultan. Governor Khuda Baksh Khan of South Chittagong has intercepted the five ships you called from Goa to attack the city. You, de Mello, led the riots in Chakaria until Khuda Baksh Khan Sahib executed your nephew and swore you to keep the peace. We know all about you. Take them to the dungeons.’ It was late at night when Daud got home. He was very tired, but happy that the latest party of Frankish freebooters had been neutralized without too much bloodshed. Before he slept, he sat down to write a letter to Pir Baba. Should anyone have read it, they would have thought it was about the squabbles of rival schools of music. Daud’s personal servant took it, sauntered casually through the bazaar to an inn by the gate, mounted a fast horse and raced along the southwest road. ~~~ Now and then Fernando would be touched with disquiet about his life, but the habit of deference to the two powerful women who, like a binary star, had ruled his life for so long, prevented him from voicing his fears. Occasionally, when he passed a khanaqah and heard the singing, he felt tempted to seek out Daud and Pir Baba, but he suspected that although Daud might appreciate his present situation, Pir Baba would not. His past was almost effaced from memory, like an old scar that has changed colour to disappear against healthy skin: by living in the moment he had buried the little knot of questions that had failed to dissolve in the drugs of Dhumavati’s bowl. He was happy; he had no reason not to be. It was evening. There were people already in the open field beside their host’s house. Some of them carried slaughtered animals, or firewood, or pots of liquor. Dhumavati was among them, directing them to lay out the offerings in their host’s courtyard. Greedily she counted the pots of palm wine. Bajja and Fernando sat in the inner courtyard, waiting for the people to settle down so they could make their entrance. Like strolling players, Bajja thought with a wry smile. The offerings collected, Dhumavati sat down a little way away in the lotus position, her body completely still. There is a certain kind of stillness that quiets noisy people and makes them sit and grow watchful: she was producing it now, controlling the crowd before Bajja should take her place and begin. Bajja emerged from the hut. Immediately people prostrated themselves before her. Then they bowed to Fernando, but their eyes never left Bajja. She sat upon the platform at Dhumavati’s right hand. Fernando took his place on the other side. One by one the people came, with this problem and that. Bajja spoke to them; Fernando let his mind wander. When they had all gone it was past midnight. Bajja slumped against the wall of the hut. ‘Enough. You go to the feast without me.’ ‘Hush now, you’ll make me lose count.’ Dhumavati was arranging little columns of silver coins on her antelope skin. ‘Dhumavati Ma, I’m weary of this flat land. Everywhere there are too many people and not enough trees. Let’s go north, into the hill forests.’ ‘In a little while.’ Dhumavati looked up, and her face softened with concern. She came over and began rubbing Bajja’s shoulders. ‘The forest discipline is important, but people have to see us and pay homage. I’ve spent my whole life in savage places, pursuing knowledge. I’ve learnt the value of clean mats and good wine.’ She worked her thumbs into Bajja’s knotted muscles. ‘Just a few more days, then we’ll go.’ Bajja closed her eyes. ‘I’m bored to death.’ The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 121 She flung herself down on a mat as Dhumavati scooped up her silver coins and left for the feast. Fernando came and buried a hand gently in her hair. ‘Are you truly so weary of this life?’ She grunted and turned away. He lay down beside her, trying to see her face. She sat up. ‘This isn’t how it should be. We are scholars of the esoteric lore, not village magicians.’ ‘But scholars of the esoteric lore tend to live on fish entrails.’ She laughed. ‘Nothing wrong with fish entrails.’ ‘So let’s leave, Bajja.’ He waited for a long time, but she did not speak. ‘Bajja? Are you angry? Speak to me.’ ‘No.’ He paused a moment. ‘Tonight we’re alone together, at last.’ His hands were gently pulling her elbows, inviting her to lie down again, but his voice sounded unconvincing even in his own ears, too bright and shiny like a counterfeit coin. ‘What’s the matter, Bajja?’ Her face stayed turned away. Then she said, ‘Do you remember, a long time ago, you said to me “I will be whatever you want me to be”?’ ‘How could I forget?’ ‘You shouldn’t have said it.’ He frowned, but she had gone out into the moonlight. He got up to follow her, but the way in which she melted into the shadows told him she didn’t want to be followed, and he stayed where he was. ~~~ Mahmud was on his throne, acting the great sultan again. He had recently raised the height of the platform in the throne room, on which the throne stood after the Persian manner. People had to stand at the other end of the hall and contemplate his face high above their heads. Now Jalal Khan Lodhi knelt on the lustrous Chinese green and gold tiles that seemed to run away from him in every direction. Mahmud’s face was very grim, but his expression in fact bore little relation to Jalal Khan’s actual words since Mahmud could hardly hear him. At the foot of the steps to the throne, Daud was better situated. Jalal Khan was nervously trying to explain how he, fortified with the best of Bengal’s army and fighting alongside the great Ibrahim Khan, had nevertheless managed to return ignominiously defeated from a battlefield soaked in blood. Ibrahim’s body lay cut into a thousand pieces on the field of Surajgarh, and Jalal Khan now had to supplicate for his life. He muttered on, describing the ferocity, cunning and ruthlessness of Sher Khan with equal parts of fear and fascination. He told of how Sher Khan had watched and waited while Taj Khan, the ruler of the fortress of Chunar, had angered his own sons by marrying a young girl called Lad Malika: when Taj Khan’s eldest son killed his father in a fit of rage, Sher Khan struck, killing the boy and marrying Lad Malika for himself. Thus, with a fox’s trick, he had won himself Chunar. Chunar was a fist of granite on the banks of the Ganga, protected by swift water and high walls; once he had it, nothing could touch him. And at Chunar he had raised a demon army that had shredded the might of Bengal. Sher Khan was no gentleman: he might be educated in the ways of the Sufis, but no amount of piety could substitute for breeding. What could one do against such a man? It was almost beneath one’s dignity to fight him. Jalal Khan finished his sorry tale. He remained, bowed and kneeling, while Daud made his leisurely way to the throne to report what he had heard, which he did in a few choice sentences. Mahmud’s face darkened. ‘I gave honour and gold to this puppy when he came whimpering to me. I sent him with my best general to win back his patrimony. And this is how he repays me?’ Daud shrugged. ‘We will have to raise more levies to replace the men lost at Surajgarh. That will mean new taxes, for we have spent a lot of gold digging new tanks, now that the river’s level is so low, and the marsh-water is unfit for drinking.’ Mahmud snorted. ‘Find the money from somewhere. That’s your job, Daud.’ ‘Yes, huzoor. And the prince?’ The Sultan waved a weary hand. ‘Why don’t you …’ They looked up as a young messenger The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 122 hurried into the room. ‘Huzoor, the captain of the guard sends me with urgent news. A Frangi ship has just tried to cannonade the quayside, and a squad of men with muskets and swords attacked the prison house, trying to free their countrymen. We fought them off before they could breach the doors, but they have set fire to the city on their way out. We need more reinforcements to help fight the fire!’ ‘I go, huzoor,’ and Daud ran after the messenger, leaving white-faced Jalal Khan still kneeling on the polished tiles. The fire had been started along the palace walls, apparently to create a diversion and cover the Franks’ retreat, and it had spread to some flower sellers’ huts. Daud organised a bridge of boats out to where the river ran sluggishly in the middle of its marsh, from where a bucket chain ferried water to put it out. The Franks had fled: clearly they had been unprepared for the size and might of the fort, or they would never have tried to storm it armed only with pop-guns. They were no doubt wiser now. Frowning, Daud went to check on the prisoners and got a nasty shock. Sultan Mahmud was in the courtyard, sitting high above its filth on a golden sedan chair, surveying the lice-ridden, skinny Frangis in their chains with deep distaste. Daud cursed silently. Mahmud was rattled: he’d come to strike some deal with these animals. This could be dangerous. Two years of studied neglect in Gaur’s cells had left only the toughest of the Franks alive. De Mello stared at Daud like a hungry tiger. ‘Daud,’ said Mahmud lazily. ‘I was just about to summon you. The fire is out? Good. Now interpret for me; these men seem to think I ought to know how to speak the gibberish of Chittagong.’ Daud smiled blandly, fixing his eyes upon the spot under Mahmud’s ear where a quick knife stab would kill him in seconds. ‘Of course, huzoor. Tell me what I must say and it is done.’ ‘Tell them the might of Bengal bows to no one, and I will not tolerate any more sorties by their puny king. Tell them I am willing to treat them well if they will command their countrymen to leave Gaur unmolested. I need advice and help to defeat this Sher Khan. If they bring up the troops of the Estado da India to fight for me, I will release them and treat them with all honour. If they refuse, they die tomorrow.’ Daud’s face remained carefully expressionless. He turned to the prisoners, wrinkling his nose. ‘I spit at thee, foul Moor,’ growled de Mello in Chatgaiyya. ‘Shut up, pirate, your lives are between my fingernails. Now listen carefully. My master is not amused by that little trick your countrymen just played. He has had them skewered on red hot iron staves and eaten alive by dogs. Now he wants aid against the ruler of Bihar. If you agree to get for him men and gold he will order your chains struck off. If not, I shall have the pleasure of crushing you.’ The Franks looked at each other. ‘What trickery is this?’ asked de Mello. Mahmud tossed a bag of gold at his feet with a flick of a wrist. ‘Tell them they may rent a house, bathe, array themselves and come before me this evening. I am not minded to fight two enemies. Tell the big ape.’ ‘Well, Senhor? The money is for you to sweeten your carcases such that you no longer offend his nose. My master is generous. You are to come before him this evening and parlay. I shall interpret.’ Holding Mahmud’s gaze, de Mello bent and picked up the bag of gold. Then, with an awkward little bow, he raised it to his forehead. ‘Your servant,’ he said. Daud managed to grind his teeth without making any noise. ~~~ ‘I’m so tired,’ Bajja sighed. ‘I want to sleep tonight. Can’t you do this puja without me?’ ‘Without you? Rudrapratap paid us forty extra pieces for your presence. Oh Bajja, heart of my heart, help me carry the things, please? I swear this is the last I’ll ask of you. I’d have said no, but the man wouldn’t listen. You know how these big landlords are.’ Dhumavati was struggling under a The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 123 huge bundle of wood, incense, cotton rope, vermilion, knives, copper utensils and a huge iron kharga. Resignedly Bajja got up and took the unwieldy bundle from the old woman. They walked through the dark rice fields to the landlord’s vast estate. They were let in through the back way by Rudrapratap himself: the rest of the household no doubt had orders to stay out of their sight. He took them to his largest storeroom, still strewn with wisps of straw and odd fragments of coarse cloth. In the middle some flagstones had been removed and a small pit dug in the crude shape of a small human figure. Rudrapratap took Dhumavati aside and whispered, ‘I have dosed our victim as you said. It’s the youngest son of a subject of mine who’s agreed on condition that I let his family go free of his debt.’ Dhumavati made a face. ‘I will bring the child to you.’ He turned to leave, but she clamped a hand round his arm. ‘I said an open field,’ she said coldly. ‘If you want us to perform the puja in this storeroom, you’ll have to pay another twenty pieces of gold.’ He turned somewhat pale, but nodded and scurried away. Dhumavati crouched on the floor. ‘Landlords! Merchants! You’re right, Bajja, it’s time we were rid of this scum. Oh, my aching joints.’ She settled herself in the lotus position, and unpacked the ritual objects. With lime and red ochre, she began to draw a yantra around the pit. Then she lit a sacrificial fire. ‘Pay careful attention, you two, I won’t do this for your benefit every day, and soon you’ll be carrying out the rituals on your own. This landlord wants a spirit planted in this room to guard his wealth. He has already been looted once by the soldiers, and what with all the wars that’ve been going on he fears it’ll happen again. He wants a powerful curse on anyone who violates this room.’ Bajja looked up sharply, but just then the landlord returned, half carrying a boy of about eleven whose face was slack and eyes unfocused. Dhumavati flicked the boy’s eyelid. ‘You’ve given him too much. How will he respond to the mantras?’ The landlord looked crestfallen. Grumbling to herself, Dhumavati made him lay the boy down upon her yantra. She anointed his neck and torso with sacred oil, coughing a little in the smoke from the fire. ‘You must wait in the courtyard,’ she told the landlord. ‘A spirit when liberated is dangerous to all around it. We are protected, but upon you it will fasten like a leech. Do not enter until I call you.’ He left with alacrity. Dhumavati marked Bajja’s forehead with ash, consecrated the kharga, and placed it reverently in her hands. ‘Repeat the mantras after me.’ She began chanting in a cracked voice, with pauses in between to cough while Bajja repeated her words. ‘Dhumavati Ma?’ Fernando asked hesitantly. ‘What are you doing? Who is this boy? Why does his face look like that?’ Dhumavati glared at him. ‘Don’t interrupt. Bajja, now repeat after me…’ ‘I thought you didn’t believe in this. Bajja? Bajja, why are you listening to her?’ Bajja stood still, the heavy kharga hanging down from her hand. Only her eyes moved, from one to the other. Her expression was unreadable. Dhumavati hawked and spat, wiping her mouth. Fernando got to his feet. ‘Dhumavati Ma, you said rituals and pujas were superstition. Why did you agree to this? Why are you involving Bajja in it? You know how she feels about …’ ‘The boy is almost dead already from the opium.’ Dhumavati said hoarsely. ‘He will die sooner or later. The sacred time is passing. We must finish this quickly.’ She turned on her heel, savagely, and faced Bajja. ‘Do it. His soul has been bound to this spot already by my mantras: the killing is a mere detail. Come, Bajja, take your place by his head. As for you, Phani,’ she went on, ‘you’ve killed enough people, in your time. Why the sudden squeamishness?’ ‘That was in the heat of battle against men who were my equals. Not like this: murdering a helpless child for something none of us believe in, just because someone has paid us gold.’ ‘Hah!’ Dhumavati interjected. ‘Wasn’t your Christ sacrificed to your god, and don’t you eat his body and blood?’ The Host? I explained that to you: it’s only bread and wine.’ ‘But you must believe it to be flesh and blood or the ritual means nothing.’ ‘No, no, the whole point of Christ’s death was to end sacrifice, and all the pain and sorrow it brings. This child is in your power. There’s no one here. Let’s pretend to kill him and smuggle him The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 124 out of here. What good can come of this?’ ‘And will you smuggle him out under your loincloth? That landlord’s men will finish you if you try to double-cross him.’ She took a step towards him, her eyes shining with a kind of rage. ‘The esoteric discipline is all very well, but we roam the countryside unmolested and unarmed because people know we do this.’ A sweep of her hand took in the bound boy, the kharga and the little clusters of ritual objects. ‘This is what the common people recognize as magic: this messing around with clay and vermilion and skulls and blood, this doll-play. They fear the power of blood, which we hold in our hands even as we bless them, and they know it. Every so often, we must kill to keep the stories alive.’ She glared at him. ‘Once I thought like you: I grieved over the folly of people’s desires. But time has taught me that one ignores them at one’s peril.’ She turned back to her work. ‘Let’s get it over with and go home.’ Fernando sat speechless as she chanted the final mantras. ‘The spell is complete, Bajja. Cut off his head with one stroke.’ ‘No! Dhumavati Ma, this is sin. You will be increasing your burden of karma. The door of heaven will be closed to you.’ ‘Pah,’ she said. ‘I’d swing the kharga myself, but my shoulders pain me. Come, Bajja.’ ‘Bajja, don’t do this, if you have any regard for me. Don’t soil your hands. Please look at me, my love.’ ‘Shut up, you. Who are you to tell her what to do? Are you her husband? You’re not fit to be her follower. You cannot touch the edge of her wisdom. If you can’t bear to watch, go outside.’ ‘Don’t listen to her flattery, Bajja. She’s tempting you to mortal sin. Believe me, I know what blood-guilt is. Bajja, my love, if you love me, turn aside. Look at me. Bajja!’ Bajja moved. Fernando saw her arms rise smoothly above her head, her eyes slitted with concentration. The steel shone with a dark radiance like her own skin, perfectly balanced above her centre of gravity. Then her shoulders bunched and the blade fell. The clang and the burst of sparks shocked them both into numbness. The kharga stood by the boy’s head, its point dug deep between two crude flagstones. Before it had finished ringing she was gone. The boy still breathed. Dhumavati cursed. ~~~ The camp stretched away to the horizon, a city of coloured canvas, with off to one side the brown smudge of the baggage animals’ enclosure. Horses and elephants were tethered near their handlers. Syces and mahouts hurried between the tents, carrying fodder and tackle. Stores were secured, fires kindled, harness overhauled and weapons checked. The routines of army existence were winding down for the night. Sher Khan dropped the tent flap and turned back to the lamplight inside. ‘What news from Daud, O murshid?’ he said to Pir Baba, as he began laying out a beautifully illuminated map on the table. ‘What keeps Mahmud’s war settlement? We will need gold soon, the treasures of Bihar are almost spent.’ Pir Baba was sitting among the cushions with a plate of sweetmeats from Benares; a rare luxury in that spartan camp, but Sher Khan liked to indulge the old man if he could. When the day’s business was done, the two men would talk of big and little things. This waiting for the fruition of a plan was a trial even to the most seasoned soldier, and Sher Khan missed his wife, the feisty mistress of Chunar, although his two sons were with him, strong lads steady in war and cool-headed like their father. Today Kalu was not with them; too much inaction made him restless, so he was out tonight riding with the patrols. ‘The Franks are still meddling in Mahmud’s affairs, Farid,’ Pir Baba said, licking his fingers. ‘Diego Rebello and Affonso de Mello are tavern brawlers; they have no sense of strategy or policy, the danger lies in their links with the Estado. Daud has sown doubt about their ability to bring aid from Goa and caused two of their messengers to miscarry. He’s managed to persuade Mahmud that the army needs more time to recoup after Surajgarh. Mahmud knows he must capitulate now that The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 125 Teliagarhi is in your possession: he is cut off from Delhi and the rest of al Hind. He wants peace for gold; it is the Franks who scare him with their talk of fighting.’ Sher Khan nodded. He looked for a long moment at the illuminated gem that was Gaur on his map, rolled it up and sat back with a sigh. ‘Pir Baba, it pains me that you must wander with me; this is no life for a man of your age and holiness.’ ‘On the contrary, Farid, it is the best suited for both. I have always been a wanderer, you know that. And they say in this land that it is the aged who leave their families for the forest life. Besides, one day I wish to go on Haj, if Allah wills it.’ Pir Baba’s voice was amused. Sher Khan looked unconvinced. ‘I’ve wandered since I was a boy. My own father threw me out of his house, and since then I’ve lived by my wits, serving this man and that as opportunity offered. I’ve grown good at living on my wits. But I want some day to have a home, a place to rest; peace and prosperity and an end to these campaigns.’ ‘Yes, my disciple,’ said Pir Baba. ‘But the world today is not good. We have far to go before the law lives in the hearts of its guardians, not on the point of a sword.’ ‘I have long dreamed of such a world, Pir Baba. But I see no way to make it a reality.’ ‘If Allah approves of your dream, He will put the power to achieve it in your hands. You wish perhaps to build a City of Love here on earth?’ ‘Yes, but how can a man of the sword build such a city?’ ‘Build it first in your heart.’ There was a deferential cough outside, and Kalu entered and bowed. ‘Huzoor, we’ve intercepted the war settlement. Thirteen lakhs of gold in six strong carts, covered with straw.’ They were a party of about two hundred men, travel-worn and dusty. Their leader presented Sher Khan deferentially with a scroll. Sher Khan gestured to his treasurer, who began inspecting the carts. Heavy clinking sacks were unloaded from them. ‘Tally it and secure it by nightfall,’ Sher Khan said to him. ‘And give these gentlemen food and shelter.’ He walked back to the tent with Pir Baba. ‘My thanks to Daud: he has prevailed over the Franks. There will be peace until the next throw of the dice.’ The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 126 Eighteen The Fury of Kings Bajja was gone. Dhumavati listened with a stony face as Fernando raged, blaming her greed for their misfortune, calling her a murderer, a fraud, a manipulator, a stupid old woman. She waited for his fury to calm, then she laid a hand on his hot neck and said sadly, ‘It isn’t merely I who has driven her away.’ That shredded his temper all over again. ‘Are you trying to blame me?’ ‘Yes, Phani, yes. You tried to glue a yogini to your bosom. You might as well have tried to wed the wind.’ Dhumavati smiled sadly. ‘The yogini is a seeker, and you no longer had anything to give her. Did you think she would stay with you for love alone?’ She sighed. ‘You’re right, Phani, I was greedy, but I’ve paid for it. And so have you.’ ‘What will become of me now?’ ‘Go home, Phani,’ she said gently. ‘You’ve taken what you could from the traditions: its time for you to go back to the world. Seek out your old friends. Leave word in the hospices for Daud. Or return to Chittagong and get news of Alamgir.’ ‘There’s nothing left of all that. It’s been fifteen years since we left Gajangal. My friends are scattered, my hopes are dead. All I had was Bajja, and I’ve driven her away.’ She shrugged. ‘I’m going to the city. There’s always space for another old woman there. For us it’s either the city or the forest: there is no middle road, and if I weren’t a fool I’d have remembered that.’ She gave him half the gold they had accumulated, and left to find a riverboat to take her to Gaur. Fernando set out, moving listlessly south, in search of whom or what he could not say. Wherever he found a Sufi khanaqah he left a message, but the trail was cold: Pir Baba had passed through some years ago, they said, by now he could be anywhere. Daud had not been with him. Somewhere along the way Fernando had his hair cut and his beard shaved, and dressed as before in kurta pajama. He looked carefully at the face in the barber’s mirror. He was forty-six now, and his eyes were shadow-haunted. The countryside too had changed. Sultan Mahmud’s preoccupation with Gaur’s troubles had encouraged lawlessness in the provinces, and Fernando was obliged to buy a sword in Bogra after he narrowly escaped being set upon by raiders. He travelled warily and kept his own counsel. The rumours he heard weren’t encouraging, and the fishermen at Noakhali warned him that the Sandwip channel was thick with Magh ships. Luckily he met a trader he had once known, who agreed to take him to Chittagong in a fast jaliya for a double handful of gold. ‘No one knows for sure who rules there,’ he said over the swift shlup-shlup of the oars. ‘Hamza Khan has fled, and it’s either the Frangis or the Maghs. Probably they’re fighting each other in the streets even now.’ With this cheerful thought they made landfall some way from the city. Hiding his face in his turban, Fernando entered the city. Instead of the war-hushed wasteland he’d expected, the place was crammed with ships and traders. Hanging around the docks, he gathered that Hamza Khan, having received no aid from the capital, had fled northwards some months ago. Now the Maghs were in charge, and for the moment they were sharing power with the Franks. It was widely rumoured that Mahmud Shah was dead and Gaur in the hands of an invader: some said it was Sher Khan, others said the Emperor Humayun. Not that anyone cared: trade was booming, as it usually did when the taxmen failed to show up. He decided to scrape up his courage and head for Dianga. The quay was thick with the hearttugging shapes of caravels and carracks, full of the old familiar shouting, scraping, bumping and The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 127 creaking. Fernando got quickly clear of the docks. He stood a while debating whether to go to his own house and see what had become of it, or try Alamgir’s: he opted for his own. The house was clearly occupied; at the gate a hulking Afghan sentry challenged him. ‘Who is the master of this house?’ Fernando asked. ‘Yuhan Kurut.’ Fernando’s heart leaped. That was the name by which Johannes van der Groot was known. He scribbled a note and asked the sentry to send it inside. Minutes later Johannes came running out, arms spread wide. ‘Fernando! My brother! We had almost given up hope of ever seeing you in this world again. Daud was asking after you: he is coming on the next tide. Come, come, this is still your house, and Balaram has kept it neat for you all these years. He won’t believe his eyes when he sees you! You arrived just in time, for in five days I leave for Antwerp. This calls for a celebration!’ Johannes released him and held him at arm’s length, looking at him. ‘How thin you’ve become! If you hadn’t written that note, I would never have recognized you as our handsome young Fernando.’ ‘I have been in a strange land, full of peril and bliss,’ he replied, and little by little the story of his wanderings came out. As he told it he could feel the past settling into a frame: he had been led astray, he had been self-deluded, rapt in a dream, seduced by the flesh. Telling it now in words to a fellow Frank, he felt the enchantment dispelling from his blood: the woman he had loved had been a depraved being, and the quest for enlightenment had been a snare over the pits of hell. Yet a part of him wept and raged that he was betraying the best of himself to heal his wounds. Struck by the human soul’s relentless self-salvation, he surfaced suddenly to hear Johannes say, ‘ … my brothers in faith no longer follow the rule of Rome, so it’s safe for me to return home at last.’ ‘What did you say, brother? The Pope is no longer heeded in the Netherlands?’ ‘Much has happened while you were roaming the jungles of Bengal. A man called Luther defied the Pope, and his action was the spark to the fuse of Protestantism. Now all of northern Europe is in the grip of organized schism, so that whole bands call only their conscience the rulers of their souls. Such a band is the Family of Love, which my kin in Antwerp have joined. I am returning to be with them, for my soul is fired with their spirit.’ ‘Can such a thing be?’ ‘It is happening as we speak. The Family of Love holds the Bible but a story, and places nothing above reason and judgement, not even God and Heaven. For us Christ was nothing more than a great one of the earth, and we recognize neither King nor Church nor nobles, nor rich nor poor, but bow only to the rule of love.’ Johannes smiled. ‘I understand your wonder, brother. There are still Catholics in the land, and in some places there have been backlashes from the Church, but what is freedom worth without a good battle? And fear has lost its teeth in Antwerp; the Inquisition can denounce, but they can no longer burn.’ Fernando clasped Johannes’ hands. ‘Will you take me with you?’ ‘Will I? I will fall at your feet and beg you to come. I was feeling most saddened at having to leave my friends; together our sorrow will be halved.’ He poured more wine. ‘Alamgir and most of the others are in Arakan, but he plans to return with his son’s family to Chittagong, for now that Gaur’s power is diminished he sees a most piratical future. Nayakam is in Sumatra, running a successful pepper plantation, and richer than Croesus. Daud has written me a long letter; I will show it to you, and I have hopes of seeing him before we leave. He will weep and smile to hear your story.’ Johannes raised his glass. ‘To the Family,’ he said, with radiance in his suncreased face, ‘and its new son.’ And, smiling too, Fernando drank. ~~~ The Emperor Humayun put down his pen and looked up in irritation. ‘Find me a rhyme for “love” that is not chewed over like a stale toothpick!’ he cried to his aide-de-camp, who was ducking into the tent with his helmet in his hand. ‘Er, Your Majesty, there is a deputation from Mahmud Shah of Gaur.’ The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 128 ‘What does he want now? No, tell him I am reducing Chunar and will pulverize Sher Khan in his lair. And in the meantime, let me finish this poem. “Show me the way to the City of Love, where the soft voices of maidens…” ’ ‘My lord,’ said a smooth voice behind the aide’s shoulder. ‘An acceptable rhyme is possible if you mix Arabic with Persian.’ Humayun laughed. ‘And why would I mix them so barbarically?’ ‘Because the language of Delhi possesses in its treasury the united wealth of the dar al Islam. Just as gold and silver alloyed make electrum, so the two great streams of east and west come together in you.’ Daud bowed deeply. ‘Daud Suleiman ibn Shams al-Basri, my Lord, at your service. My master, Sultan Mahmud of Bengal, asks why you tarry here at Chunar when Gaur pants under the Afghan’s heel.’ Humayun waved a goblet. ‘I am striking at the very heart of Sher Khan’s power. Wine? My best Shiraz.’ Daud thanked him graciously. ‘In that case may we stay to see the fortress reduced? Then once this great task is accomplished I may return to my master and give him the glad tidings. Gaur will welcome you with rose-petals strewn before your horses’ hooves, and pretty maidens will dance and sing your praises.’ The Emperor’s eyes lit up. Daud dined with him that evening, praising his bravery and foresight. He answered Humayun’s questions about Gaur’s magnificence, of which the Emperor had heard much, though he took care not to whet the emperor’s appetite for Gaur’s wonders too keenly in case he should saddle up and ride off forthwith to see them. He reassured Humayun of Sher Khan’s affection for Chunar, and told him that its reduction would break the Afghan’s heart. A fortnight later, a man came to say that Gaur had fallen, and Mahmud, grievously wounded, had fled. Humayun, recalled to his mission, gave orders to lift the siege and march on. A somewhat smaller army set off from the blackened walls of Chunar towards Gaur. The journey was made shorter by poetry and song, and at last the high ramparts of the city came into view. Humayun admired the great shining gates as the army rode up to them: their gracious span was large enough for two loaded elephants to pass side by side. But the pocks of shells had marred the lustrous tiles in places, and dark stains lay here and there on the bricks of the streets. They entered what seemed to be a ghost town. No people came to greet them, only a confused sound of weeping blew their way on the wind now and then. The beautiful facades of the villas wore a forlorn air, the gardens were deserted; even the street dogs and the wandering cattle seemed to have fled. At the palace a wounded guard, his face grey from loss of blood, raised himself with difficulty from his pallet by the gate. Two of the Emperor’s men quickly dismounted. He told them what they had already guessed: the Afghans had sacked the city and emptied the treasury, taking more than sixty million gold pieces and clearing out everything of worth they could carry. A huge baggage train had left for the fort of Rohtas, where Sher Khan and his family had tricked the former ruler into giving up his fort. The Emperor was thunderstruck. So Sher Khan had not been at Chunar at all? But he was quickly consoled at the thought of having won Gaur so cheaply. ‘Sher Khan must be a barbarian, to leave such a city to rot and run away with baubles,’ he remarked. Daud soon established the emperor in the Sultan’s apartments, and took him on a guided tour of all Mahmud’s marvels, including a jade fountain from China and a golden songbird from Byzantium gifted to him by the Franks. Then he sat down and planned a tour of the city for the Emperor to take the following day. It was very late when Daud took his leave and retired, exhausted. His eyes were half closed as his servant-man helped him unbuckle his armour. He woke to find something squarish wrapped in silk by his bedside. Judging that it could wait, he washed and dressed before he opened it. Then the silken cloth fell from his fingers. It was the Vajrachintamani, its red leather still vivid as a wound. He called his servant-man. ‘Who brought this last night?’ The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 129 ‘A woman came with it at dawn. I did not wish to wake you …’ ‘Where is she? Find her and bring her to me.’ The man returned moments later with Dhumavati, in a red sari, white-haired now but still stately and handsome as he remembered her. ‘Murshida!’ ‘You are very kind,’ she responded. ‘But I am a guru no longer. Just a foolish old woman.’ ‘Nonsense, Dhumavati Ma, you never stopped being my teacher. But tell me how this book came into your possession, for it was a gift from me to a Frangi friend.’ ‘I know. He was my pupil for a while. Now he has gone back to his people. He left me the book. I am sorry I had to use it to secure an audience with you, but I am sorely diminished, and there are only so many ways to get past armed men for an old hag like me. Can you find me a job in the palace?’ ‘Certainly, if my friend Kumari still lives, as I fervently hope she does. But …’ He stared openmouthed at the man who had just come in. ‘Pir Baba! What are you doing here?’ Pir Baba smiled and embraced him. ‘I came to tell you that Farid requests that you keep the Emperor here.’ ‘Indeed? He loves music and dancing and fine food, and if Gaur has none of these things it is not the city of Kumari. Is she safe?’ ‘Of course. Apart from emptying the treasury he has done the city no harm. Kumari showed your seal to Farid, and he gave her a gift of rubies.’ ‘Good. Humayun is already half in love with the city, and he has given orders that no looting or defacing is to take place, which will take up all his time for his brothers can’t stay two months without squabbling over spoils.’ Pir Baba left; he was staying at the khanaqah by the Bara Sona mosque. Daud took Dhumavati to Kumari’s temple complex by the lake on the edge of the palace grounds. It was untouched, the white limestone carvings of its outer walls filled with blue shadows from the thick-leaved jaam and mango trees that sheltered it. Kumari welcomed Dhumavati with great courtesy, for she recognised the secret signs of an adept. She dressed her in white silk and silver, combed out her white hair and plaited it with strings of pearls, let her choose bracelets of intricate mesh, and anklets of silver bells. The gleam of the jewels woke once again the lightning of her long eyes, and the shadows of sorrow that had dimmed her face began to lift. Kumari regarded her with appreciation as she put the final touches to the kohl of her eyes; when she finished they looked like sisters, one gold, one silver, with that fineness of carriage and luminosity of face that only old women who have seen much of life can have. Then they went with Daud to be presented to the emperor. Soon all around the palace the sound of stonemasons repairing the damage of the siege could be heard. Humayun planned a library and a public bath. He repaired the Bridge of Five Arches and rode round the city on a magnificent horse, wondering at the jewelled mosques and gracious gardens. ‘If Delhi were half as beautiful as this, it would be paradise.’ Daud wrinkled his nose at the smell from the river and nodded sagely. That night in the pillared audience hall, Dhumavati, Kumari and her girls danced as if before an assembly of the gods. Light caressed the rubies on their upper arms and hair and flashed on the flame-coloured silk of their saris as they danced Shiva’s winning of Parvati. Velvet parcels of coins landed at their feet as they whirled over the marble, each girl standing upon an inverted image of herself as if she was a pillar of fire linking the three worlds. Everyone who watched exclaimed that they could not possibly surpass themselves, but the next night they appeared in midnight blue lit with sapphires and blue topaz, to dance the story of Urvashi and Pururavas. Kumari’s face was radiant in Urvashi’s first love, tender in her married bliss, taut with tragedy at the final reckoning. By the emperor’s side a small boy prepared fragrant paans laced with opium. Humayun asked Daud, ‘Why do you call this Gaur? Does not the word mean graveyard? Why do you insult such grace with so mean a name?’ Holding aloft his sixth goblet of wine he cried, ‘I rename this city Jannatabad! City of Heaven!’ And thunderous applause rose from the gathering of nobles. The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 130 The days were busy with improvements to the city. The baggage train’s carts and animals were put to work cleaning up the rubble of the siege. Humayun consulted with his engineers on where would be the best place for a pleasure garden after the Persian manner, and insisted that his generals send to Agra for rose-cuttings. Prince Askari, when asked to help, demanded exorbitant quantities of Bengal muslin, elephants, eunuchs and gold. Prince Hindal rebelled in Agra, putting paid to any hopes of Shiraz roses. Dusty men sometimes came with news of Sher Khan’s troop movements in the jungles; Humayun, annoyed at being interrupted at his plans to revitalize Jannatabad’s lakes, would thrust gifts into their hands and send them away. Each night began with feasting, not only in the palace, but in the camp as well. No soldiers drilled in the fields outside the Ekdala fort. More news came, of flying Afghan raiders operating out of the dense Jharkhand jungles, harrying the supply columns and threatening to cut communication with Delhi. Humayun appointed Zahid Beg his viceroy in Bengal, but the man responded languidly, ‘Ah, huzoor, could you find nowhere else to kill me than in Bengal? This place is called Bulghakpur, home of rebellion, for whoever holds it throws off his ties to his master, and moreover it is known as a “hell stuffed with sweets”. And I have not such a sweet tooth, nor a desire for damnation.’ The emperor dropped the subject and devoted his attention to the singing of Pir Baba and his followers, while unnoticed above the palace roofs the southwest wind freshened, hurrying the rains, making cranes raise their long beaks expectantly to the skies. That night the Pir was inspired to ever-greater heights of lyricism by his disciples, and the concert went on till the small hours. The east was bright when Kalu packed up the instruments and prepared to take them home. Daud, Dhumavati and Kumari came bringing handsome presents from the emperor. ‘He was well pleased with tonight’s qawwali, Kalu,’ Daud said. ‘He’d like to hear you sing solo, tonight or the night after.’ ‘His name is Kalu?’ queried Dhumavati. ‘I thought he was a Turki.’ ‘No, Kalu is from Chittagong like you and me, from the village Gajangal, in fact, and he clings stubbornly to his idolater name though he is a better Muslim than I am, is that not so, Kalu?’ But Kalu was staring at Dhumavati. She returned his look, her eyes narrowed. He whispered, ‘Aren’t you the woman who danced in the ruins? The one who told Bajja …’ ‘Bajja?’ asked Dhumavati sharply. ‘What are you to her?’ ‘Dhumavati Ma, I am the priest’s son. Chandu. From Gajangal.’ Her eyes widened. ‘Chandu! Bhairavdas’s son!’ Tears sprang to Kalu’s eyes. ‘I am no longer Bhairavdas’s son, for he is dead, and if I have any guardian in the world, it is Pir Baba, who with Daud saved my life. Now I am a qawwal, as you see.’ She chuckled and embraced him. ‘Strange are the ways of the Mother, little Brahmin priestling. You are a man now, don’t look so grieved. All that is behind you. And you sing like an angel.’ Pir Baba smiled at the look in Kalu’s eyes. ‘Ask her,’ he said. ‘No, I will ask what your heart whispers, for she was my jannati too. Dhumavati, what news of the girl, Bajja?’ ‘She was my follower till some time ago, and I taught her all I knew of the tradition. She was greater than any adept I had ever seen, but in my foolishness I angered her and she left. So did her sadhaka, the Frangi, Fernando whom we called Phani.’ ‘Left?’ cried Kalketu in agony. ‘For where? Why did she go? What happened? Can you tell me where to seek her? Please, Dhumavati Ma, show me the way to her.’ Dhumavati sighed. ‘It’s too long a tale to tell, but I can guess she will have headed for the mountains and the jungles. I kept her from them for too long. You will find her there.’ ‘But where? The hills are vast. How can I find her among them?’ Dhumavati shrugged. Pir Baba said gently, ‘Are you not Kalketu the hunter? My dearest child, the question is not whether you will find her, but whether, knowing what you do, you will have any bliss if you don’t set out and look.’ ~~~ The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 131 Rebellion was spreading in Agra, threatening Delhi itself. The Emperor could stay no longer. Yet half the army seemed to have melted away, though what was left was still formidable. Humayun gathered his men and headed sorrowfully westwards, abandoning his beloved Jannatabad. Daud, now a trusted aide, went with him. Some days later, a rather crumpled and soiled letter came to Pir Baba’s khanaqah. ‘Beloved Pir Baba, ‘And so the story closes: Humayun, utterly routed at Farid’s hands, has fled in disarray to Delhi, leaving many of his followers drowned in the Ganga at Chausa. I am awed at how Sher Khan (or Sher Shah as we must henceforth call him) got the better of the Mughal. At first I thought Humayun would show sense and capitulate, since he and his men were in no condition to fight. But what should the fool then do, but ask Farid to save his face with a mock fight, so that he would not have to tell a tale of uncontested surrender? What folly! Farid solemnly agreed. Then a little later his men raised an alarm that the Cheros (a fierce tribe of the country) were coming. But of course it was the pick of Farid’s army in disguise, who overran the Mughal camp with almost no resistance. Humayun fled across the Ganga on a water carrier’s inflated waterskin. He is now in Delhi, but his authority is severely challenged on all sides. ‘Bengal is won. Farid will return to Gaur shortly as its rightful conqueror, and I with him, and perhaps for a while there will be peace. But I am weary of politics. My time with Humayun endeared him to me, and I am ashamed of the role I have played in his defeat. He was a better man than any of his enemies, barring Farid: his only fault was that he had too large a heart to know the cunning of the fox and the belligerence of the rat. But what sort of a contest pits good against good? I am sick at last of it all. ‘I wish to become a simple trader once again, but no more in al Hind. I have a mind to go to Guangdong in the empire of China, where they say real fortunes can be made. I will come to Gaur to say farewell to you all, and then go south to Chittagong. A few friends still remain there: I will drown my sorrows in their tears and begin a new life.’ ‘Your faithful follower, ‘Daud’ ~~~ Fernando raised his goblet and watched the rubies sparkling in the mellow evening light. They were sitting again, the two of them, on his veranda which was now Johannes’ and would soon be nobody’s, put up for sale by their banker. Daud, leaner, older, with a few white streaks in his jet black hair, accepted a glass from Balaram. He raised it in turn. ‘And so it ends.’ ‘Yes, jaan. So it ends.’ ‘You’re certain you wish to go to Europe, Fernando?’ ‘I am. The Netherlands is where I was happiest, in my youth. My needs are modest; I’ll work at whatever comes to hand.’ Daud glanced at him. ‘I have your book, the one I gave you. Dhumavati gave it me. Do you want it back?’ Fernando shook his head. ‘I thought as much. I’ll keep it then. It’s made enough mischief.’ ‘No…’ Fernando covered his eyes with a hand, rubbed the two aching spots below the inner arc of his eyebrows. ‘Neither the book nor the woman are to blame. It was I. I almost touched enlightenment, but it slipped through my fingers and smashed on the hard floor of the world. I will never see it whole again.’ ‘At least you saw it. All I can say is: I have watched many men’s folly, but never tasted folly myself. And so I remain a fool.’ Fernando grunted with laughter. ‘It has a very bitter taste, my friend. Be glad.’ Daud gave him a keen glance. ‘Would you rather never have tasted it?’ ‘No.’ The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 132 ‘That’s wisdom, my friend. For my part, I’ve spent my days hunched over the chessboard of life, planning, outwitting, foreseeing. I never thought to look up and be dazzled by my opponent’s smile, nor to sweep away the board and step into the unknown. Not even when life toppled my king and forced me to cry “Shah Maat”!’ ‘Not even with Dhumavati?’ Daud looked away. ‘Surrender to Dhumavati could never have been anything but absolute,’ he said softly. ‘And if anything has ever terrified me in this life, it’s the thought of absolute surrender. When I’ve given my body to women, it’s been like a man might give a morsel to a kitten, to watch it play and amuse him. That was wisdom, I thought. That was how the game of love is won. No surrender, only self-control.’ Fernando suddenly buried his face in his hands. ‘O Daud, all my life I’ve surrendered, and look how it has torn me to shreds.’ Daud put a hand on his shoulder. ‘So together we make one wise man.’ And in spite of himself Fernando laughed in his tears, and clasped Daud’s hand in turn. ‘What will you do?’ ‘I’ll go to Macao or Guangdong, trade in simples perhaps, find myself a concubine who can cook and keep house, live out the rest of my days in mellow dullness.’ ‘I can’t imagine you doing that, jaan.’ ‘Come with me and see for yourself.’ Fernando shook his head, smiling. ‘Johannes has won my heart. I long to see this Family of Love he speaks of.’ Daud got to his feet. ‘Now that age chills me I falter at the thought of going among strangers. But it can’t be helped.’ ‘Come with us, then, to Antwerp. There are Turkis there, traders. And the Family of Love recognise no distinctions between men, neither of wealth nor race.’ Daud chuckled. ‘I wish I could say the same of myself. No, your family is too loving for this old sinner. I have no longer that old fire to change the world; it doesn’t always leave the world a better place, and even if it does, it costs too many good men and too much grief.’ ‘Why not stay with Pir Baba? You say he’s lost his best devotee; can’t you take his place?’ ‘I can’t sing, jaan. Pir Baba would only be grieved by a mute nightingale. Besides, Farid is headed for Delhi, and Pir Baba has often longed to sing at the dargahs there.’ Daud shook his head. ‘I must wipe the slate clean. As must you.’ They embraced for a long moment. Fernando wept. Daud tried to murmur some consolation, but ended up weeping as well. Then they stood in silence, watching the stars come out. Above them Orion flashed: Kalketu the hunter, aiming his arrow into time. The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 133 Nineteen The City of Love Kalu shaded his eyes and looked into the rising sun. He had been walking for days, occasionally coming across a village, mostly not seeing a soul. He was now in the fertile, jungle-thick land between the Padma and the Brahmaputra, bounded to the north by the Himalayas. The city was far behind him. As he walked, memories surfaced in his mind, like fish rising to the surface to suck down a morsel of time in their white mouths. He thought of Bhairavdas. The anger had long dissolved, leaving behind only regret. Silently he apologized to the memory of his father: he had not been worthy. This no longer gave him pain. Without his noticing, the remnants of his father’s teachings had danced to Pir Baba’s music, and the fragments of wisdom and skill, legend and story that he had picked up from so many places over the years had woven themselves into the intricate, delicate tapestry of himself. He whose place had been fixed in the firmament of Gajangal was now the most rootless wanderer of them all. He who had been meant to eat only the purest had become a beggar in the marketplace of faith, living on scraps of comfort from the hands of more fortunate beings. How many merchants cried their wares there: ‘Buy my rice! This alone sustains life! This alone and no other!’ But he had learned that any rice quieted hunger, and in the desert he had survived with no rice at all. The villages he passed became less like what he was used to. The weather was colder; the monsoon thundered across the sky, beating upon the hills like a besieging army trying to break a city. At night he was compelled to take refuge in the villagers’ barns. These people were tribals: hospitable and carefree, they shared with him their food and shelter. He had nothing to give them, but sometimes he sang for a while in return. They didn’t understand any of his languages, nor he theirs, but no matter: they communicated quite well without words. They would give him little gifts, of steamed rice, salt pork, dried fish, bits of wild honeycomb or bunches of bananas, and send him on his way. Once he met a bald old man who cackled, ‘Yes, go north! There all the Brahmins are blacksmiths!’ and stalked away, thrashing the puddles with his stick and singing in a cracked voice, ‘Shaper mukhete bhekere nachari / Tobe to rashik raaj!’ ‘When the frog dances in the snake’s mouth, the rule of love is fulfilled!’ Every so often Kalu would come upon a stream, swollen by the rains, where he would quench his thirst, cool his feet and fill the water-skin he carried. Often he found the spoor of beasts here and there, and once he heard the cough of a leopard in the undergrowth. And once he held his breath and stood quite still as a full-grown rhino emerged from the trees, sniffed the air and trotted across the stream, to disappear on the other side. Luckily the wind had been towards him. One day he came upon a group of people rejoicing, bearing a little child in their midst. He asked them, with gestures and the few words he knew of their tongue, what was the matter. One of the women mimed the child lying flat on the ground as if dead, then springing up and raising her arms to the sun. He looked puzzled, at which she clapped her hands to her belly and made an agonised face, then flung them away and grinned. He understood: the child had been healed, and they were celebrating. Who had healed her? They did a curious, snorting, hunched-up dance and pointed east, into the hills. He shook his head. Man or woman? he asked. Woman, they said. His heart beating wildly, he took off rapidly east. Soon he had left the fields behind and was entering the true jungle. At first the going was tough, but then the land began to slope upwards and the trees to let in a little light. The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 134 On the third day he heard music. In a little clearing he came upon a young boy perched atop a buffalo, playing a flute. The boy watched him warily, setting aside his instrument. Kalu hesitantly asked, woman, his hands sculpting her body in the air. He did the snorting, hunched-up dance: even if he didn’t know what it meant, the boy might. Then he asked, how far? The boy examined him very slowly from head to foot. Kalu stood still and tried to look as harmless as possible. Then the end of the flute turned to point northwards, stabbed a couple of times in that direction. Kalu nodded, took a piece of honeycomb out of his pack and gave it to the boy, whose eyes lit up like the moon coming out of eclipse. He climbed on. Here and there he saw trees with their bark rubbed off, about two feet from the ground, and somewhere in the undergrowth, beasts moving. He heard a snorting, squealing cry and glimpsed a brown body crashing through the bushes. Pigs! So that was what the dance meant. He laughed quietly to himself, but doubts assailed him in the next instant. Could this be a false trail? Then through the trees he saw her silhouette on the summit of the hill ahead, and his mouth went dry. It was a long climb out of the jungle and into the clear space that crowned her hill. But she was still standing there when he emerged. She saw the pale dot of his face rise out of the shadows. When he was just a few feet away, she spoke. ‘Kalu.’ He stopped, too overwhelmed to marshal words. For a long moment he wrestled with his feelings. Then he said. ‘You were the first human being to speak to me on this earth. If it pleases you, I wish you also to be the last.’ ‘Why? Are you planning on leaving it anytime soon?’ He tried to answer, but tears overtook him. ‘Kalu, you fool,’ she said, gathering him into her arms, ‘Why did you take so long to find me?’ ‘I can’t tell you the journey I’ve had to make to come here.’ ‘Well, that’s a pity, because I’d like a long tale to while away the hours before evening.’ She settled herself in the low fork of a mango tree that had been split by lightning, which in spite of its wound was heavy with fruit, nearly ripe. Kalu sat at her feet. ‘Before you begin, let me tell you what I’m doing here. I herd pigs. The Hajongs hereabouts pay good money for leather and salt pork. I am in no way a teacher or a guru or an oracle, so don’t expect anything of the kind from me. Furthermore, you’re here on your own responsibility. You are not my follower, nor my lover, nor anything to do with me. You are simply a fellow traveller, whose path happens to cross mine just at this moment in time. Don’t imagine for a moment that you’re anything more than that. Is that understood?’ He sat with his head bowed. A solitary tear splashed into his lap. Then he said, ‘Whatever you desire.’ ‘That’s not good enough. Tell me what’s in your heart. I’ll know if you’re lying.’ He raised his head. ‘May I tell you the story of how I came here?’ ‘All right.’ He began with their departure from Gajangal the morning after she had disappeared, and recounted each event meticulously, leaving out nothing. At times it was difficult to continue, but she sat unmoving as a stone image as he spoke. Her face was in shadow, so he could not read her expression. He talked as if he was alone. At last he finished, and silence descended upon the hilltop. It went on for so long that the trance of memory that had settled over Kalu’s mind dissipated, returning him to the present, and he began to fear he had been dismissed. But just as he became sure that he should get up and leave, she spoke. She began to tell her own tale, in the same bleak, testamentary tones he had used. Then she finished, and silence fell once more. This time he knew better than to doubt her. He sat with his gaze on her face, ready to answer any question, attentive for any sign or gesture. She got up and waded into the mass of her animals, The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 135 selected one and chased the herd away. When they had gone, she wrestled it to the ground with a practiced twist of the hips. She bound its legs, then drew a long knife from the bole of the split tree and stabbe dit through the heart. Then she took up a huge kharga and split its belly from sternum to pubis in a flood of blood and entrails. She skinned it with a flensing knife, scraped the hide and carried it to a stone cistern, full of water wine-dark with fermenting leaves. In this she laid the hide, and weighted it with huge stones. Next to the tank he noticed a rude shelter, more a storeroom than a dwelling place. From this she took out a number of earthenware pots. She returned to the mango tree and built a fire, then set a hindquarter of the pig to roast. The rest she cut up into strips, salted and stored in the pots. Then she dealt with the entrails. All this she did without a word, and it was getting dark when she finished and washed the clotted blood from her limbs. Her last task was to go round the clearing and light torches on bamboo poles along its margin. Kalu sat in the warmth of the fire, content to watch her, knowing that all this was necessary before she spoke again, and knowing that the sacrifice of the pig had been her acceptance of his presence. She handed him a green guava and sat down opposite him with one for herself. ‘Salt is expensive around here,’ she said at last. ‘I pay for it with healing.’ He nodded. ‘I saw the child you healed in the village below.’ ‘The people here take magic for granted, like salt pork. Only the very wise or the very ignorant can do that. It matters not to me which they are.’ ‘I understand.’ She regarded him frankly. ‘Down there you were beloved of kings. You sang for the most powerful man in the land. Here on this hillside only the leeches will love you, and the pigs don’t care for music. What will you do?’ ‘I sang for myself, the kings only sat and listened.’ ‘I thought you sang for god.’ ‘There is no god.’ She grinned. ‘You’re supposed to say, “There is no god but god”.’ He shook his head. ‘Gods are like that kharga. We make them because we need them. But it’s only the presence of people that makes a kharga a kharga.’ ‘Oh, very deep, very deep, Sadashiva.’ He winced. ‘I was never known by that name.’ She shrugged, and turned the meat on its spit. He breathed carefully, working up courage to ask his next question. ‘Why did you leave the Frangi?’ ‘He wouldn’t stop following me.’ He considered this. ‘I’ve followed you since I was a child.’ ‘You were always Kalu. You never expected me to turn you into something else. That was your job.’ Did you … care for him?’ ‘Why would I have wasted time with him otherwise?’ ‘And Dhumavati? What about her?’ ‘She grew old. The old are like children, except that there’s no hope of their ever growing up. Age destroys everything, even wisdom, as one day it will destroy us too. She grew addicted to the wealth and fame my followers brought her. I hold no grudge against her, nor against the Frangi. They did what they had to do.’ ‘Do you hate me for … for sending you to my father, that night?’ ‘No. You gave me an opportunity. You and I both wanted freedom at whatever cost. Such people always, in the end, get what they desire.’ She looked at him. ‘So, was it worth it? Freedom, I mean.’ He nodded slowly. ‘When I tell of the past, it’s like a story about someone else. I am no longer that child Chandu, nor the initiate Sadashiva. I am Kalu, in so far as I’m anyone.’ ‘And you never saw a woman you liked and gave her your body?’ He thought. ‘I saw women I liked. But never enough.’ ‘Why? You could have been happy down there, with a wife, children, a house and some land. The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 136 You could have made good money from your singing. Why don’t you go and try it?’ ‘Bajja, no. If I were to take a wife, she would have to be equal in wisdom to you. And I have found no one equal in wisdom to you.’ ‘You can’t have looked very hard, then,’ she sniffed. ‘Don’t you know women hide their wisdom in that world down there?’ ‘I know that. I know the signs of a wise woman. I met many who were learned and some who were wise. But none of them could skin a pig like you, as well as talk philosophy.’ She chuckled, took the meat down, cut slices from it and licked her fingers. ‘Do you know of the city of love?’ he asked, and held his breath. ‘Yes.’ ‘Have you been there?’ The sweep of her hand took in the hillside, the circle of fires, the pigs huddled around her shelter, the meat and the cloud-troubled sky. ‘I am in it now.’ And, he realized, so was he. They finished their meal in silence. Then she laid him down below the mango tree, took him in her arms and kissed the scar upon his throat. She slipped from his shoulders his ragged shift, and he unwound her loincloth from her waist. Her skin tasted of woodsmoke and pork fat, of iron and a little of blood, while the fresh green smell of guava lingered round her lips. He still had about him the tang of city streets, of incense and dungheaps, of cloth-of-gold and rags, with the hint of Sufi wool and the linseed oil of lamps. Above them the clouds were dense as mango leaves, bringing another year of life to lay at the feet of the hills, reminding all who live of the imperious surrender of love. This was the land’s true spring, when plants grew as if a spell had been cast upon them, when birds danced and mated and seeds of all kinds woke and raised their heads. And they told each other the tale of their coming to this little space among the trees once again, but this time without words, using instead the traceries of veins, the stretch of skin, the curve of ribs and the fireglance of eyes. Their lips spoke to each other without the medium of sound. The fire put a rim of flame along her side and thigh that rippled and moved with her movements of desire. And he cupped her hips in his hands and took her to him. She raised her head and her arms, so that to him she seemed to grasp the vaults of vapour boiling overhead, and her hair was the biggest, most untameable cloud of all. Lightning split the sky like a river delta, and she laughed. Her breasts were darker than the night, her shoulders as wide as the clearing’s mouth. He made a sign of adoration, and unbidden his voice cascaded from his lips, singing Rumi: How hard I’ve looked for a gift to bring You. Nothing seemed right. This was gold offered to the gold mine; that was water to the Ocean. With every gift I proposed I was taking spices to the Orient. It’s no good giving my heart and soul, for you have them already. So— I’ve brought you a mirror. Look at yourself and know me. He sang and sang until her body sank down upon his and her lips drank the notes from his lips and her tongue beat against the roof of his mouth and she turned the harmony of his song into a carillon of cries. So that their mingled voices populated the woods, and bid the deer go rut, and excited the pigs into a chorus of raucous squealing, woke the birds from their sleep and startled the mice in their burrows. And the snakes slid from their holes and danced in the blood-warm rain, for though they had no voices to add to the song, their bodies wreathed each other like smoke and danced the dance of ending and beginning, for a snake pillows both alpha and omega upon the vastness of the waters. And the man and the woman remade their world in the fire of creation that is the heart and secret of every discipline, which is given to only a few adepts to know, and which The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 137 demands in return everything they have, their best energies, their dearest possessions, their most vital years, yet is still cheaply won. The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 138 I have got lost in the city of love; I’m being cleansed, withdrawing myself From my head, hands and feet. I have got rid of my ego, And have attained my goal. Thus it has all ended well. O Bullah, the Lord pervades both the worlds; None now appears a stranger to me. Bullah Shah (Mir Abdullah Shah Qadiri Shatari) c.1680 – c.1758 The City of Love © Rimi B. Chatterjee 2007 # 139