The Assassin's Song (2 page)

He stood with mild amazement beside a pale blue man-made lake, contained by banks of red stone painted with designs in pink and blue; in the middle was an ornate pavilion where played and relaxed royal women in bright clothes and long black hair, the tinkle of their pretty voices echoing off the water like birdsong. All around the water stood three-foot-high carvings that, the sufi confirmed as he approached closer to one, then another, depicted the god Shiva. He was standing on the bank of the sahasralinga talav, tank of a thousand Shiva shrines, whose fame had spread as far away north as Samarkand and Ghazna, whose sultans and generals always kept an eye open for opportunities to foray into Hindustan and plunder its legendary wealth. The mystic stood staring at the closest icon in wonder. Shiva's one leg was bent and raised in a gesture of dance, two hands poised in midair; the smile was mischievous and immediately infectious. Here was a god who liked to play. The sufi had been told during his
long voyage, and often with a horrified look on the face of the informer, that the people of Hindustan worshipped not only idols of men and women, but also images of animals and, if that were not strange enough, the human procreative organs as well. (“And may God bring destruction on the infidels!”) Some would sacrifice humans and eat the flesh of the head, others mutter nonsense syllables or roar like a bull after bathing in sand. But Nur Fazal himself was an exile for his beliefs and did not take to judging others too easily. There are meanings within meanings, he had always been taught; the truth lies shrouded behind a thousand veils.

He was reminded of a home in the north and west now being ground to dust under the hooves of Mongol horses, and drenched in the blood of his folk and his loved ones. He remembered his spiritual master whom he'd left there, at whose instigation he had taken on this long journey.

He was brought around from his memories by approaching sounds— footsteps and human exclamations, accompanied by a sight that brought him a smile.

A young pandit, a priest in a gleaming white dhoti, a tuft of hair collected into a topknot on his otherwise close-cropped head, was striding towards him with all the exaggerated sense of gravity that seems incumbent to a short stature. His chest was bare, and around one shoulder ran a ceremonial white thread. From the opposite side, the stranger noticed, approached two older, bald-headed priests draped around the whole body in white; a race was on for who would reach the interloper first. It was the young topknot who did so, as he exclaimed, “What are you doing in these premises, you Mleccha, impure Muslim? And you dare to cast eyes on the Lord Shiva himself—out with you!”

The sufi had turned and now smiled at the pandit, as the companion he had brought with him translated the scolding.

“And can't your Lord even speak for himself?” the sufi taunted.

At this, the two white-robed ones, who had come to a stop and were staring, gave off a volley of titters. The topknot turned pink in the face.

“Shiva does not speak to such as you, impure one!” he said angrily. No sooner had he uttered these words than he could have bitten off his tongue.

The sufi threw no more than a casual gaze upon the red statue. To the young pandit's amazement, with a great big thump the Cosmic Dancer raised his already high stone foot, leaned forward, and jumped on the
ground. In dancing steps, with the gait of a monkey, Shiva ran to the lake and returned bearing a jug of water. “Jadoo, jadoo!” cried the white-robed ones in a fret, having lost their humour. The young pandit gaped from the ground, where he had tripped himself. The sufi accepted the jug from Lord Shiva and washed his feet. The god meanwhile was back at his place. “There, I have even washed my feet now,” said the sufi to the young priest. All who were around noticed that the blue lake had emptied. Fish were wriggling in the mud, and the princesses and their maids were screaming frantically as they scrambled up the shore, their bright wet garments clinging desperately to their voluptuous bodies.

By this time a few more people had appeared, and then some soldiers in armour came, flanking an eminence, at whose commanding sight all the men bowed and the young monks among them cowered but stood watching from a distance. He was a large muscular man, dark as polished blackwood. Unlike the priests and monks, the eminence was elaborately clothed in embroidered short trousers and jacket, the belt at his waist glittering with gold and precious stones; his muscular arms, wearing amulets and rings, were crossed, his legs stood apart. He was the chief minister, Rajpal—the sufi heard it whispered—and he glared at the stranger, pointed at him, then nodded at the soldiers; the visitor was escorted away to face the king.

They approached a large hall open at the sides, its tiled roof supported by gilded posts, and on the top of which banners of various colours flapped in the wind. They passed a gauntlet of cavalry on fine Arabian horses, elephants bearing their mahouts, and a company of soldiers in armour bearing swords and long spears. The entrance doorway was ornately carved; inside, seated on the ground, were perhaps a couple of dozen people. And directly before him, in the distance, prominent like the sun, seated on a gold throne and surrounded by priests and officials, was the king of Gujarat, leaning forward curiously. The sufi bowed. He had still not been touched.

It seemed that a discussion of some importance had been interrupted for his sake. The chief minister gestured, and he stepped forward along a blue runner in the company of his escorts.

His Majesty Vishal Dev, self-styled King of Kings and Siddhraj the Second, then spoke.

“You have performed a feat that has much impressed our priests,” said Vishal Dev to the sufi, with an amused, disarming smile. “You seem to have many talents. Tell us your name.”

“The feat but performed itself, Great King,” said the sufi, through his interpreter. “My name is Nur and in my language it means ‘light.’ ”

“Then tell me, O Light, what brings you to Gujarat? I understand that men of your faith in the north would like nothing better than to break the statues of our gods and force us to worship your one God, who does not show his face yet makes many threats. Have you come to spy, then, on behalf of your Sultana Raziya of Delhi—or is she dead now?”

“No, Great King, I am but a scholar and a man of God. My name means light, Your Majesty,” replied the sufi astutely, “but you truly are the sun itself in these realms. Your kingdom is known far and wide outside Hindustan as a haven of tolerance where differences in belief are not persecuted. There is but one Truth, one Universal Soul, of which we all are manifestations and whose mystery can be approached in diverse ways. That is my creed, and if called upon to advise or comfort, this is what I teach.”

“You speak with a sweet tongue, like all your compatriots from the west—but they also forge a hard steel where you come from, as my people have learned to their dismay and terror,” said the king. “In Patan we have always welcomed poets and philosophers and we encourage conferences and debates. Perhaps during your stay you will grace us with your presence in the afternoons for discussions of a learned nature.”

A ripple of excited murmuring ran rapidly through the hall at the king's proposition; for it was the practice in court that the strictest examination be passed in the knowledge of the holy Vedas and the poetics of the sacred language before a scholar could participate in debates and discussions.

Vishal Dev leaned sideways to give ear to his chief priest, Nagada, a tall thin man with an obsequious smile but cold eyes, who had come forward to speak with him.

The raja, having heard the priest out, clapped his hand once, then grinned at the sufi. “My guru Nagada suggests that perhaps you would like
to compare your impressive stuff with the magic of our local practitioners. What a great opportunity to exchange knowledge! Perhaps you can then give us your views on how the human mind can affect inanimate matter.”

“I am your servant, My Lord.”

The assembly stepped outside. The king was seated once more upon his throne, an attendant holding his royal chhatra over him. On both sides of him again stood the priests and ministers. The common nobility sat on the ground as before.

There was a buzz of excited chatter and polite laughter among them, as though a contest in gymnastics or wrestling were about to take place; a drink of cold green sherbet was proffered to the king and his advisers, then to the others. The king put a betel leaf into his red mouth to chew. The sufi too was proffered the sweet drink, but in a crude earthenware glass, which he knew would be destroyed, having touched the lips of an impure one, as he was considered in this country. He refused the betel leaf, finding the practice—which stained the mouth and lips red—repulsive, even though his unstained mouth was considered a sign of the vulgar and foreign.

The following three demonstrations then took place.

The pandits had gathered into small clumps grouped according to their status and denominations; the chief among them, Nagada, stood by himself, as did the minister Rajpal. Nagada gave a nod to the pandits and one of the Brahmins, as the dhoti-clad topknot priests were called, stepped forward. Crossing his arms, he threw an imperious gaze into the distance, where children were flying kites in the company of attendants. All eyes followed that gaze, towards the bright patches playfully riding the air. Suddenly a red kite separated from the rest, flew off arrogantly in the shape of a hawk, soared high, and described two circles; as a child's cry rose, followed by other similarly pitiful cries, the hawk flew to each of the other kites and with its sharp beak tore them into pieces; finally it began to fly higher and higher. The gathering of nobles cheered, “Sadhu! Sadhu!”— but then immediately fell silent because the bird began to shed its feathers, as if it were melting, until finally it dropped like a stone to the ground.

The visitor had not said a word, had hardly moved from where he stood before the throne. His face was serene, as if he might not even have looked upon the spectacle. But it was conceded that somehow he had won.

All eyes fell on Nagada, and he gave the briefest nod towards a whiterobed
group. These were the Jain monks, as the sufi had learned by now; the Jains and the Brahmins were always bickering and competing for the attentions of the king.

A fat priest stepped out, eagerly nudged forward by young supporters who could not hold back their excitement.

The priest, who was called Dharmasinha, was well known for the humiliations he had wrought upon unwary foes in just such gatherings. Many a visitor had been shamed out of town by his wiles. Today Dharmasinha was carrying a staff. Casting an angry, disdainful look at the visitor, with a mighty grunt and a heave he threw the staff up. Everyone turned to follow its rise. High above the assembly it hung suspended, awaiting a command. “Beat the impure one!” roared Dharmasinha, pointing a finger at the sufi. “Whip him! Cast him off !” The long stick paused in midair, eager to obey its master's bidding; the crowd held its breath. The king smiled broadly. Then the stick drifted down. It moved a length towards the sufi and paused. Then it turned on one end, approached the startled Dharmasinha, and started beating him on the backside, driving him away. The spectators laughed, even the young monks, even the king.

But not Nagada. He motioned to the young priest who had first accosted the sufi outside. The priest hurried off and after a while, during which more sherbet was passed around, returned followed by a strange, wild-looking woman. She was also dressed in white but her robe was dirty; her hair was dishevelled, her eyes were red, her flabby, grimy face angry and defiant. Her name, whispered around the assembly, was Panuti; and there were two pet snakes around her neck.

Panuti came forward and glared contemptuously around her. Then with quick despatch she took one of her pets, four feet long, by the neck and put its head in her mouth; she pushed the rest of it in, gradually swallowing it until finally the tail disappeared inside her. Her throat stretched, her eyes bulged, her body bent backwards. Finally she became still. The snake seemed to reach the belly, for the woman made a motion in her throat and abdomen that indicated so; then, from behind her, from under the skirt, the black snake appeared and slithered away. There were cries of awe, loud and uninhibited. There were smiles all around, though edged with a tremor of revulsion. Panuti's eyes gleamed pleasure, her eyes sought out the sufi's. This was a match.

Then, and this was her mistake, she took the second snake by its neck and also swallowed it. It disappeared into her mouth, and arrived in her belly. She straightened up, became still, and she waited. The snake did not come out. She coaxed, stroked her belly, it would not eject. She began to writhe and bend, all to no avail. She squatted and strained, and in anger and panic she beat on her stomach. Finally, hopelessly, she started to whimper, then looked up at the stranger and wailed.

“Have no fear,” said the sufi to her gently. “The snake only lost its way momentarily—there she comes out to follow her mate.”

And out it came.

As the sufi Nur Fazal walked soft-footedly back to the city, the lake was once more full of water, the fish swimming happily; the royal maidens were back in the pavilion, the kites were again flying in the air; on a lawn, young monks were noisily playing with a ball and sticks curved at the lower end, having formed themselves into two opposing teams. The sun was low in the sky and a priest somewhere was chanting Sanskrit slokas, the syllables of the strange tongue rising clearly, churning meaning out of the air, reminding the traveller of his distant homeland where the chantings were as clear but in Arabic. How dissimilar and yet how so completely alike had God made human beings. When the ear-adorned red-lipped Nagada searched his own soul, would he not find the same truth as he, Nur, did when he searched himself for the mystery of his existence?

And, he thought, the world was in turmoil everywhere; how long would it take for that turmoil to reach here, for this world of the moonfaced Gujaratis to drown in blood … for that is what he had escaped from, seas and seas of blood.