A Season for Martyrs: A Novel (10 page)

“It’s best you stay away from the presence of the Honored King,” said the bejeweled flunkey who barred Jeandal Shah’s way into the
darbar
. “He is not in good temper, having been caught up in domestic strife, and he would not want to see anyone who might remind him of his displeasure with his queen. I suggest you go home today and try again tomorrow.”

Jeandal Shah cursed at the man, but the flunky refused to grant him an audience with the Mir, and Jeandal Shah grew panicky, knowing that the British ship would soon move up the river and it would be too late to stop them. Jeandal Shah knew that he who controlled the waterways—its veins and arteries, pumping precious lifeblood through the land—controlled Sindh, and whoever controlled Sindh was halfway toward ruling the western areas of India; the Indus reached up like a jugular vein right into the heart of the Punjab, and once the British were allowed to contaminate those precious waters with their missionaries and merchants, troops and weapons were sure to follow.

Jeandal Shah could not bear to think of the foreigners traipsing all over Sindh, the English army boots treading the land that held the bones of innumerable scores of Sufi saints and holy men. They had no fear of Allah, nor any respect for the Prophet, peace be upon him. They would disturb with impunity the shrines where the saints rested, and destroy the source of the spiritual energy that shimmered over Sindh like a magnetic shield, protecting its people from harm.

When he was finally granted his audience with the Mir a few days later, he tried to present this line of argument to the king, who listened attentively to Jeandal Shah’s words, but his abstracted look revealed that his thoughts were not with Sindh, but in the
haveli
where his queens lived. He was not worried about where Burnes wanted to go; instead, he feared who might be with Raaniya Bibi when his back was turned.

“Huzoor,” said Jeandal Shah. “Sindh grows weak. The Pirs who are entrusted with the spiritual affairs of this land are falling prey to greed and corruption.”

The Mir rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “How so, Jeandal Shah?”

“The descendants of the saints have broken their vows of asceticism! They are far too interested in the vulgar affairs of daily living. They are accepting presents from the British political officers! The British know that all they have to do is have the Pirs in their pockets and we are their slaves!”

“Hmmm …” pondered the Mir.

“Huzoor, your generosity to the Pirs is unrivaled. Land, money to keep up the shrines, a seat in the
darbar
for their representatives—everyone knows you have been more than magnanimous with them, and astute in your knowledge of what will keep them loyal to you. But they are now weak and spoiled. Look at them, their white robes, their jeweled turbans! They are acting like kings in their own right!”

“Are they?” said the Mir, showing some interest for the first time in the conversation.

“The people of Sindh are simple folk, Huzoor. They just increase their tribute to the Pirs and promise them allegiance to the end of their days. But they worship false idols, who can be bought by the highest bidder! The British suspect this, and think that is the perfect time to gain a foothold into Sindh. They want to spy on our forts, to ferret out our weaknesses, and so destroy us!”

“You really think so?”

“Why else is this Burnes here, Huzoor?” Jeandal Shah bowed his head and waited for the king to see reason.

“Well, then. Why don’t you go and receive him, and accompany him up for the first leg of his journey? That way you can make sure he’s not up to any trickery.”

“Huzoor, that’s not good enough! He must be stopped—”

“Oh, Jeandal Shah, I’m sure you will think of something. I have more important matters to attend to, anyway. Now go, and do not fail me.” And with that, the Mir clapped his hands. A courtier immediately rose to his feet and called out, “The
darbar
is finished for today!”

Jeandal Shah found himself being escorted out by the same flunky who had stopped him from seeing the Mir all the days before. He angrily shrugged off the man’s hand on his elbow, and went to his rooms in the palace to try to figure out what to do. He paced up and down all evening, muttering to himself about the foolishness of men who were so deeply bewitched by a woman’s charms that they could no longer think straight. Even kings could fall victim to female witchery; but the safety of Sindh was at stake, and men of honor could not sit idle and allow besotted kings to let its soil slip through their fingers like the grains of sand on a beach.

By the morning prayers before the first light of dawn, he decided that he would use his own initiative, so he raced to Thatta, near the Hujamree, to summon the help of his cousin, Sayed Sikandar Shah, a minor official at the Mir’s court. It was a journey of some ninety miles; it took him nearly two days to reach Thatta, and by then Jeandal Shah was almost certain the British ship had already sailed up the river.

“Wake up, cousin, wake up!” shouted Jeandal Shah, pounding on the door of Sikandar Shah’s chamber in his
haveli
in Thatta. It was all but impossible to rouse his cousin from one of his magnificent afternoon naps: Sikandar Shah was a hugely fat man, far too fond of mangos and
lassi
and huge fried breakfasts. His corpulence was the stuff of legend: no horse could carry him, so he had to move around in a specially built cart pulled by two mules, and his trousers were made from sixty
thaan
of finest cotton, instead of the usual forty.

“What? What is it?” said Sikandar Shah, appearing bleary-eyed at the door. “Is it dinnertime already?”

“Come with me. Immediately. It’s an emergency!”

“But where?”

“There’s no time!
Hurry!
”

Jeandal Shah had already had Sikandar Shah’s peculiar means of transport readied, and he pushed, prodded, and bullied his cousin into getting dressed and taking his place onto the cart, glancing worriedly all the while at the sun as it moved across the sky. Finally the procession set off, the bad-tempered mules pulling the cart, Sikandar Shah groaning that his stomach hurt without at least a cup of tea and a
paratha
to fill it, while Jeandal Shah galloped ahead on his horse, his sword glinting under the afternoon sun as they hastened toward the mouth of the river.

By some miracle of God, the ship was still waiting at Hujamree, Burnes having been unable to find a pilot to take them across the bar. Furthermore, they’d taken the wrong route, ending up in the shallow mouth of the river rather than the deep water, stuck in mud as they’d attempted to plow up the channel.

“We’re not too late, hurry, hurry!” shouted Jeandal Shah, as he dug his spurs into the flanks of his horse. He jumped down from his mount, but the unfortunate Sikandar Shah could not move as quickly, and had to be helped off the cart by two servants. The quick climb down to the riverbank elicited much moaning and groaning from Sikandar Shah, while Jeandal Shah danced impatiently around him, his sword half unsheathed; he was not sure whether he wanted to use it on the British interlopers, or on his own cousin, so slow was his progress.

Jeandal Shah could not see if Burnes himself was standing on the deck of the ship, a fine British galley with proud sails that were now unfurled and filled with wind. A second ship was moored behind them, and men clambered up and down the masts, across the decks, readying both vessels for the journey north. Jeandal Shah instructed one of his men to approach the ship and summon Burnes to the shore.

“Do you think he’ll come himself? Or send a lesser man?” asked Sikandar Shah.

“He’ll have to. We’re here, aren’t we? Protocol demands that he meet us himself,” said Jeandal Shah. He’d brought his full cortege, including his drums and the official drum-beater, although he usually liked to leave them behind when making visits to his home. He was not a man who enjoyed the pomp and circumstance of royalty, preferring to keep a low profile and a simpler appearance when moving among his own people.

But this was a circumstance that demanded as much show as could be summoned up.

Sure enough, within fifteen minutes, Sir Alexander Burnes was on the shore, climbing up to meet them on the small path that led up from the bottom of the riverbank to the top of a dusty knoll. The British spy was a man of medium height and average appearance, and Jeandal Shah wondered how this ordinary-looking man could be the head of such an important operation. Sayed Sikandar Shah was at least three hundred pounds and Jeandal Shah himself was six foot, four inches tall; their magnificent stature, at least, announced their importance, while this man looked no more significant than a twig on the branch of some not-very-tall tree.

After the necessary courtesies were exchanged through an Indian interpreter whom Burnes had brought with him from the ship, Sikandar Shah stepped forward with a letter in his hand. “It is my duty as an officer of the government of the Mir of Hyderabad to inform you that you do not have permission to sail upriver. An embargo is laid upon all your vessels: you are confined to your boats, and urged by my master the Ameer to abandon this journey and take a land route instead. Here is a letter explaining all of this.” He did not reveal that the letter had been written by Jeandal Shah that morning.

The British man spoke a few words to the interpreter, who translated, in Hindi, “We have come from Bombay bearing a gift of horses from our King William IV for His Highness the Maharaja Ranjeet Singh of Lahore … we have sent letters to the Ameer to request permission for this trip. …”

Jeandal Shah said, “We know all about this gift. Tell him he’s to take them by land or not go at all. You’ve sent the letters, but they haven’t arrived, and we’re not fools.”

The translator whispered, “Honored sirs, I can’t say it that rudely!”

At the same time, Sikandar Shah spoke up. “If your agent desires, he can make an appeal to the Ameer in person, but that will require him to moor the ships and come to Thatta next week to discuss the ships’ safe passage with the proper state ministers. Perhaps the ship will be allowed to sail, without yourselves on board, of course.”

“His Highness the King will be very displeased to hear that his gift, offered in good faith, is being delayed in this manner, and will lodge a complaint with your leader the Mir. …”

“Tell him we’ll take very good care of his gift!” said Sikandar Shah.

“He doesn’t trust us?” Jeandal Shah growled, his hand on his sword.

“No, honored sirs, it’s not that at all,” stuttered the translator, a small, dark-skinned Goan who had no desire to return to Goa without his head. “It’s just that he’s concerned for the welfare of the horses; they are very fine steeds, they cannot take the heat; this is why they couldn’t go by land, and he won’t leave them alone, he says …”

All the while Alexander Burnes was examining the two Sindhis as if seeing them through the wrong end of a telescope. His eyes narrowed, and Jeandal Shah realized the British man thought they were lying, or at least bluffing, and that there was no real impediment to their plan of action. But he did not venture this opinion and instead nodded curtly, agreeing to come to Thatta to negotiate the terms of his ships’ passage. Then he burst out in English, “How the bloody hell do you expect twenty horses to go up the river to Lahore by themselves?”

“What did he say?”

The translator, shivering, related this last sentence to the two men, while Burnes fixed them with a cold, angry stare. Jeandal Shah was getting ready to draw his sword, but after a pause, Sikandar Shah said earnestly, “Well, if they’re such special horses, as you say, surely they must know how to sail a boat?”

Nobody spoke for a full minute. Then suddenly Jeandal Shah guffawed with laughter and slapped his cousin on the back. “That’s a good one, cousin! That’s a good one!” Then he bent forward and said to the translator in a low voice, “How many horses are there, really?”

The translator shivered. “One dray horse and four dray mares.” At this, Jeandal Shah clanked his sword menacingly. The translator turned tail and ran, and Alexander Burnes cast one last furious glance at the two Sindhis before following him back to the ship.

Jeandal Shah and Sikandar Shah rode back to Matiari, congratulating themselves the whole way on having aborted the infidel British spying mission. Sikandar Shah celebrated by throwing a huge feast in which he gave several drums of
biryani
to the poor at the shrine of Shah Abdul Latif Bhitai, a distant ancestor of both men. The great Shah-Jo-Risalo was recited, with its grand verses telling the story of Marvi and her long captivity under Prince Umar Soomra; and as it was a Friday, two healthy young rams were brought to the
maidan
and made to fight. Everyone retired to their beds, full, happy, and suffused with a glow of patriotism. The honor of Sindh had been saved!

But only God knew what magic Alexander Burnes used on the Mir’s ministers at Thatta, because in eleven days’ time, Burnes received permission to travel up the Indus as originally planned.

Jeandal Shah had been appointed Burnes’s official host or
mehmandar,
and he and another man of rank, Sayed Zulfikar Shah, were assigned specially to escort him out of Sindh by the Mir’s head minister. But Burnes sweetly replied that he would neither return to the sea, nor go to Hyderabad to put his case before the Mir, since, he claimed, he already had permission to traverse the water route to Lahore. No amount of argument, cajoling, or appealing to the man’s sense of decency or honor could make him change his mind. “I do not care if my honored host is a descendant of the Prophet,” said Burnes, in fluent Hindi—another sign of witchcraft, thought Jeandal Shah to himself, smarting mightily from the insult to his lineage. Burnes continued: “I have been insulted, abused, starved, and twice turned out of the country by persons of low rank. But if you wish, I can go to the Mir and inform him that your detaining me has breached the treaty between the Sindh government and the government of Britain.”

Sure enough, he appeared before the Mir, and in front of Jeandal Shah’s disbelieving eyes, spoke with the tongue of a snake until the Mir agreed to let him use the water route beyond Hujamree.