The Architect's Apprentice Read online

Jahan’s uncle’s eyes glinted when he saw the coins. He said, ‘Don’t mind the lad, my Lord. What does he know? The calf is yours. Do with him as you wish.’

  Once Chota’s fate was sealed, Jahan took it upon himself to make the elephant ready for his long journey. He fed him remedial herbs that would ease digestion; washed and oiled and perfumed his skin; trimmed the pads under his feet; clipped his nails – all the while knowing that it wasn’t he who would be accompanying Chota when the time came to climb aboard. A mahout, five years older and supposedly experienced, had been appointed for the task. A stumpy youth with a protruding chin and close-set eyes. He was called Gurab – a name the boy would never forget. One did not forget the name of one’s enemy.

  A massive cage was sent from the palace, its corners welded in gold and silver, its bars adorned with flowers and tassels. Upon seeing it, Jahan’s eyes brimmed over. Chota, frisky and of good cheer since the day he was born, would be kept in chains and put under lock and key like some common criminal. Try as he might to accept that this was the only way the animal could go by water, he could not bear the thought. Withdrawing into misery, he ate and spoke little. His sisters were worried; even his uncle left him alone.

  Gurab dropped round every now and then to see how things were coming along and, as he put it, to make familiar with the beast. Jahan watched him like a hawk; and his heart warmed when the elephant paid his new mahout no heed.

  ‘Hold this!’ Gurab would shout, lifting the cane in his hand.

  Chota would stay put, not even glancing at him.

  ‘Come, grab this stick!’ Jahan would yell from another corner and the elephant would veer towards him, ever so obedient.

  A few times the two youngsters had come close to exchanging blows. Even so, since Chota listened to no one save Jahan, to make things easy it was agreed that the boy would travel with them to the port of Goa. There, the elephant would be loaded on to the vessel that would take him to Istanbul, and Jahan would return to Agra.

  The morning they set off, Jahan’s eldest sister pulled him aside. Inhaling ever so slowly, she held her breath deep down in her lungs, not yet ready to let go either of her breath or of her brother.

  ‘You are leaving,’ she said, as if it needed to be announced.

  ‘I’ll help Chota and come back with uncle,’ said Jahan, putting into his sack the bread she had baked. ‘Just for a few days.’

  ‘The road can be short or long, who knows. This morning I asked myself, if Mother were here, what would she counsel you? I prayed to God that He would let me know so that I could tell you, but nothing came.’

  Jahan kept his head down. He, too, wanted to know what his mother would have told him had she been alive. When he looked outside, he saw the elephant, glowing. The peasants had painted his trunk in swirling colours and embellished his mantle with sequins. As he watched him, these words spilled from Jahan’s mouth: ‘Be kind to the beast, and to the weak, she might have said.’

  His sister’s eyes, which had been dark and doleful, now lit up. ‘That’s right. Whatever you do, she would have said, don’t hurt anyone and don’t let anyone hurt you. Be neither a heartbreaker nor heartbroken.’

  The clouds above the Port of Goa rolled away across the pewter sky, bringing them the favourable wind they had been awaiting for days. The anchors were raised, the sails were hoisted, a pair of old and torn breeches was thrown into the water to expel bad luck. Gurab was rigged out in an embroidered jacket the colour of dead leaves. Next to the tatters Jahan wore, his clothes shone like a maharaja’s. Scowling at the boy, Gurab said, ‘You better take yourself off. We don’t need you any more.’

  ‘Not going anywhere until the ship leaves.’

  ‘You brat,’ Gurab said.

  Jahan pushed him. Caught unawares, Gurab tumbled down, soiling his jacket. He stood up and hissed, ‘I’ll kill you.’

  Jahan dodged the blows with ease, savvy about how to protect himself – thanks to the training of his uncle, who was watching the brawl from one side, amused. Being taller and older, Gurab could have roughed him up, but he didn’t. He had seen the madness in the boy’s eyes, that brittle savagery. For him, Chota was but one elephant among many. For Jahan, he was like no other – his best friend, his milk brother.

  ‘Plague upon thee,’ Gurab said, but he had already stopped fighting.

  Still shaking, Jahan went to Chota. Just standing beside him deepened the sadness creeping into his heart. He said, ‘Fare you well, my brother.’

  The elephant, now shackled, swung his trunk.

  ‘You’re going to be fine. The Sultan will welcome you and the Sultana will adore you, by my troth.’

  And with those words the boy strode away, wiping his tears, though he could not go far. On impulse he hid behind a wall to spy. After a while, Gurab returned, having cleaned his jacket. Confident that he had got rid of his rival, he scoffed, ‘Ay, big beast. From now on it’s you and me. If you don’t obey me, I’ll starve you to death.’

  Getting the elephant on to the vessel would be no mean feat. Chota had not even glanced at his cage. When the moment came, Gurab instructed the elephant to move – a command that went ignored. He smacked the elephant with his cane. Chota didn’t budge. Gurab hit him again. Jahan’s mind began churning. If he entrusted his milk brother to this ogre, the elephant might not make it alive to the Ottoman lands.

  By now, the khalasi had finished loading the freight into the ship. Chota and his cage were among the last items on the dock. Upon Gurab’s call, four men appeared and tied ropes around Chota’s torso. Not liking this at all, the elephant trumpeted and rumbled. Though not yet a year old he was strong. The four men became ten, half pushing half pulling in unison. As soon as the elephant was shoved into the cage, the iron door was shut and bolted. Chota turned back, slowly, a painful look in his eyes, only now understanding that he was trapped. The cage was fastened with chains from above and hoisted with the help of a tackle. Chota, already in mid-air, stared about, not at anyone in particular but towards the distant lush forests and the misty valleys where elephants plodded along, free and reckless.

  It was then that something caught Jahan’s eye. Ahead of him a crate lay on the ground; some of its planks had peeled off, leaving an opening through which he could see its contents: parcels wrapped in cloth. They would carry this to the ship at the end. He glanced at the elephant; he glanced at the crate. Making sure no one was watching, Jahan sneaked into the half-filled crate. His lips curved into a smile at the thought of his uncle searching everywhere for him. He waited, still as a stone. After an eternity, he felt a jolt, a bounce that jarred every bone in his body. The porters were carrying him, and not as gently as he had hoped. As the crate was thrust aside with a thump, he knocked his head against the timber. He was on board.

  The carrack in which he found himself was named The Glowing Sun. She had four masts, and large castles fore and aft. On the main mast, where some sunburned sailor sat inside the crow’s nest, were bonnets that could be added depending on the wind’s whim. There were seventy-eight seamen. In addition there were a small number of missionaries, pilgrims, emissaries, merchants and gadabouts.

  Jahan was careful not to go out in broad daylight. As soon as the rays of light on the floorboards receded, he crept out and searched for the elephant. It didn’t take him long to find him: he was on the other side of the hold, which was horribly dark and damp. The mahout was nowhere to be seen. When he noticed the boy, Chota made a sweet, chirping noise. Jahan sat next to the animal, telling him he would make sure he arrived in Istanbul safe and sound, and that only then would he return to his sisters.

  The next morning, his stomach empty as a dry well, Jahan was up on the deck. From a sailor who had no idea who he was and didn’t much care, he managed to get some water and bread. On the way back he visited Chota. He was alone, again. Gurab, apparently, had no intention of spending time inside the hold. Emboldened, Jahan began to visit Chota more often – until he was caught.

  ‘You!’
a familiar voice roared.

  Jahan turned around to find Gurab by the entrance, his eyebrows arched into the middle of his forehead. ‘Damn you! Why’re you here?’

  ‘Why are you not here? Every time I come Chota is alone.’

  ‘Hang thee! What is it to you? It’s the Sultan’s damn beast. Not yours.’

  They kept shouting at each other, though neither seemed willing to come to blows. The sailors came running at the commotion and took them to the Captain – a swarthy man with a penchant for opium and high-heeled leather boots, which clattered as he paced about.

  ‘One elephant, two tamers,’ the Captain said. ‘One of you is too many.’

  ‘I was chosen for this task,’ Gurab said. ‘He’s only a boy.’

  ‘I care for the animal. He doesn’t!’ Jahan inveighed.

  ‘Quiet!’ the Captain said. ‘I’ll decide who goes, who stays.’

  He never did. Day after day, Gurab and Jahan waited in suspense, avoiding each other, watching over the elephant in shifts. They were treated well, surviving on contributions of salted meat, biscuits, hard-tack and beans. Chota, however, unhappy with his diet and with the atmosphere in the hold, lost weight day by day.

  The sailors were a superstitious lot. There were words you should never utter, for they invited bad luck. ‘Sink’, for instance, or ‘rocks’ or ‘disaster’. You should not say ‘storm’, even if you found yourself in the midst of one. If you heard the chant of mermaids, you ought to throw a pinch of salt behind your left shoulder, because it was the devil calling. The crew had incantations, which they repeated often; they whistled, though never at night; and whenever they heard something they disliked, they spat and stomped their feet. Certain things they regarded as harbingers of doom – upside-down buckets, tangled ropes, bent nails and pregnant women on board.

  Jahan was surprised to learn they were fond of rats. Since the rodents were known to abandon a ship bound to go down, their presence was a warm assurance that everything was fine. Yet when a crow landed on one of the masts, it was cursed and chased away. One of the sailors explained to the boy that he had gone to a sorcerer before they raised anchor and had bought three auspicious winds for the journey. He would have liked to purchase more, he said, but this was all he could get for his silver coin.

  Nonetheless one afternoon the rats disappeared. The sky, a blameless blue, turned black. Shortly afterwards came that which should never be said out loud. Rain pelted down in buckets; cloudbursts hit them full in the face; and the waves, getting higher every passing minute, began to spill on to the deck. The storm-sails could not be raised. The rudder, broken down, was swept away. It is the end, Jahan thought. Little did he know that it was, though only for him and the elephant.

  On the third day of the storm a group of sailors descended the stairs to the hold. One glance at their grim faces and Jahan felt his blood chill.

  ‘Ay, the beast must go,’ said one man through half-closed lips.

  ‘We should never have had him on board,’ butted in his chum. ‘White elephant! Dark omen. It’s all his doing.’

  ‘You think we brought on the storm? Are you out of your minds?’ Jahan said, but his words were muffled by the sailors’ grumbling. No one was listening to him. Helpless, the boy turned to Gurab. ‘Why don’t you do something?’

  ‘What can I do?’ Gurab answered with a shrug. ‘Go talk to the Captain.’

  Out and up dashed Jahan. It was hell on the deck. Seething, swelling, the sea slapped them from all directions. Drenched and dizzy, holding on to the rails so as not to be swept away, Jahan found the Captain barking orders. Grabbing him by the arm, he begged him to come downstairs and appease his men before they harmed the elephant.

  ‘The boys’re rattled,’ the Captain said. ‘They don’t want a white elephant on board. Don’t blame ’em.’

  ‘So you’re going to throw us into the water?’

  The Captain gawked at the boy as though the possibility had never occurred to him. ‘You can stay,’ he said. ‘The creature goes.’

  ‘I can’t let Chota drown.’

  ‘He can swim.’

  ‘In this weather?’ Jahan shouted on the verge of crying. A new thought came to him, a glimmer of hope. ‘What do you think Sultan Suleiman will say when he learns what you’ve done to his gift?’

  ‘Better the wrath of the Sultan than the sea’s.’

  ‘You say it’s bad luck to have a white elephant on board. What will happen if you kill it? That’s bigger bad luck!’

  Chewing his moustache, the Captain said, ‘I’ll give you a boat. There’s an island not far off. You’ll be fine.’

  A rowboat was lowered. Gurab and Jahan stared at it wide-eyed.

  ‘Jump in,’ said the Captain.

  ‘Hey, I got nothing to do with the elephant,’ said Gurab. ‘It’s not mine.’

  ‘Well …’ The Captain turned to Jahan. ‘How about you?’

  The boy did not feel he was making a decision so much as accepting a decision that had already been made for him. Without a word he stepped into the rowboat, scared witless.

  ‘It’s like the story of the Prophet Solomon,’ said the Captain before another wave smashed on to the deck. ‘Two women claim to be mother to the same baby. The fake one says, split him into two. But the true mother won’t agree to that. See, now we know who is the real mahout, and who is the impostor.’

  Chota was brought up to the deck; wild with fear, his feet kept slipping on the wet boards. After a few attempts they gave up trying to move him into the boat and shoved him into the sea. He fell down with an ear-splitting squeal. The water, dark and furious, opened its mouth and swallowed the animal as if he were a mere empty shell.

  When Jahan stopped talking, he saw that Princess Mihrimah was staring at him in horror. She asked, ‘How did you survive?’

  ‘We were washed ashore on an island. From there we were saved by another ship,’ he replied. ‘Behemoth, was the name.’

  She gave a smile of relief. ‘Were they nice to the elephant?’

  ‘No, your Highness. They were horrible. The sailors got sick midway. Scurvy, the worst kind. Someone said elephant flesh was the cure. They almost killed Chota. Captain Gareth saved us. We owe our lives to him. The rest, you already know. We arrived in Istanbul and were brought here.’

  ‘Pity, your tale has ended,’ said Mihrimah with a sigh. ‘If you had kept talking for another thousand days, I would have listened without cease. I was fond of daydreaming about your feats.’

  Jahan felt awful when he realized how stupid he had been to finish the story. He could have made it much longer. What if the Princess left now and never came back? He began to panic. Just as he was cudgelling his brains for another way to continue with the tale, he heard a sudden wheezing and hacking. Hesna Khatun was bending down, her face suffused with red, her breath coming out in ragged gasps. She was having an asthma attack. The Princess and the mahout, each giving her an arm, walked her to the tree and helped her to sit down. Deftly, Mihrimah pulled out a pouch tucked in the nursemaid’s sash, opened it and brought it to the woman’s nose. A sharp odour pervaded the air. So this was it, Jahan thought. The smell he had picked up on the Princess, time and again, was from the wild herbs the nursemaid carried with her everywhere. Meanwhile, the woman was inhaling deeply. Bit by bit, her breathing calmed.

  ‘Let’s go, dada,’ Mihrimah said. ‘We shouldn’t tire you.’

  ‘Yes, Serene Highness,’ the woman responded, as she arranged her headscarf and rose.

  Mihrimah turned to the elephant and said, in a tone of tenderness, ‘So long, Chota. You’ve gone through so much, poor thing. Next time I shall bring you the best treats in the palace.’

  She added with a swift sideways glance, ‘I am glad you did not leave the elephant alone, hyacinth boy. That was so kind of you.’

  ‘Your Majesty –’ Jahan said, but could not continue.

  Just then she did something he could never have imagined her doing, not in a hundred year
s. She touched him. Placing a hand on his face, she pressed lightly on his cheek, as if searching for the single dimple that was now hiding behind a blush of embarrassment. ‘You have a good heart, mahout. I wish we could spend more afternoons together.’

  Dazed and smitten by her affection, Jahan could not move, could not breathe, let alone utter a word of gratitude. There was no time to rejoice or to invent new stories. Once again all he could do was to watch her leave him and wonder if she would ever come back.

  ‘Hey, mahout, where the hell are you?’

  Jahan went to see who was yelling outside his shed. It was the Chief White Eunuch, arms akimbo. ‘Where were you?’

  ‘I was cleaning –’

  ‘Go get ready. The Grand Mufti needs the beast.’

  ‘Wh … what for?’

  Carnation Kamil Agha took a step forward and slapped him on the face. ‘What are you asking? Do as I say.’

  With the help of the tamers, Jahan fastened the howdah on the elephant’s back. When Chota was ready, the eunuch gave them a look that bordered on contempt. ‘Off you go. Sangram will show you the way. A heretic is on trial!’

  ‘Yes, effendi,’ said Jahan, though he didn’t have a clue what that meant.

  It was a drizzling, bustling Friday morning. Jahan and Sangram, sitting inside the howdah, plodded along through the hilly streets. What the Chief White Eunuch refused to reveal, Jahan was able to extract from Sangram. Their task was to collect the Grand Mufti and carry him to a square where he would question a Sufi preacher famed for his impious views. That a royal elephant had been assigned to the service of the Chief Religious Officer was the Sultan’s way of showing his support for the ulema.* The Sultan himself was not attending the court case – and had turned down the Grand Mufti’s invitation – an indication that he wished to give a wide berth to theological debates.

  As they were passing by the ancient graveyard that overlooked the Golden Horn, the elephant stopped abruptly. Jahan prodded him with his cane, but the animal stood transfixed.