Madhulika Liddle by Crimson City

Author:Crimson City
Language: eng
Format: epub

like me – with no authority, no power – to go about questioning people or trying to investigate a crime that is no concern of mine.’

Shireen looked as if she was going to protest, but after a glance at Muzaffar’s face, she remained silent.

She sat there, eyes lowered, long curling lashes brushing her cheeks. A glossy curl had broken loose of its moorings under her dupatta and now lay on her shoulder. Muzaffar reached out and caressed it, letting his fingers curve through its silken length. Shireen looked up and smiled at him, a small but genuine smile of warm affection.

‘You smell wonderful,’ Muzaffar murmured.

‘It’s an attar,’ she said. ‘Of jasmine. Too often overpowering, I think –

but this one is special: so delicate, so elegant, don’t you think? Zeenat Aapa’s friend, the wife of that nawab – brought it for me as a wedding present. It’s from Kanauj. The best attars are made in Kanauj, you know. I didn’t know,’ she added, in a beguilingly naïve way. Muzaffar could not help but smile. Shireen was all honesty, all openness. He could not resist the temptation to bend forward and kiss her.

‘Come, my love,’ he said, getting to his feet. ‘Let us go and have our dinner. It is late, and we have both had a tiring day.’

The munshi who managed his jagir, his estates, came to spend half of the next day in discussions, bringing with him the news of his master’s lands, and taking back with him the decisions, the money, and the greetings that Muzaffar sent for those who lived and worked on his land. There would be some rancour, for Muzaffar had been forced by powers beyond his control to extract revenues despite a poor crop. He had tried to be fair by ensuring that the burden of paying those taxes was distributed in such a way as to be heavier on the relatively wealthy farmers. They would smart at it, but they

– and the rest of the populace – would perhaps also be grateful, even if grudgingly, for the wells Muzaffar had ordered dug, the seed he had

ordered bought and distributed, and the gifts he had sent: sugarcane, grain, jaggery, cloth. These were hard times, and the hardest hit were – as ever –

the poor. Guilt weighed on Muzaffar even as he bade farewell to his munshi.

The next three days were days of ennui. Muzaffar loitered about the house, trying to find things to do. He took a round of the entire haveli, all the way from the dalaan where he entertained guests, to the stables and the storehouses, into the very private depths of the mahal sara. He noted down what needed to be repaired or refurbished, had long discussions with his steward Javed, and gave instructions for some plaster to be relaid, some sections to be painted, and some new sheets to be purchased for the mattresses in the dalaan.

He tried to read, but even this – one of his favourite pastimes – was unsatisfying, because he found it well-nigh impossible to concentrate.

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