A cold whisper hissed to Devadatta's ears, chilling and clear, "You think you can challenge me?" He spun around, but there was nobody there. But where is he? Suddenly, he realized he was standing alone in the middle of a festival ground, a place tha...
In the years shadowed by the past's sorrow, Shah Alam sought solace in Katwa, a quaint town nestled on the western banks of Bengal, cradled by the confluence of the Ganga and Ajay rivers. Katwa, with its strategic position at the crossroads of vital waterways, had long been a place of significance. The town thrived under the imperial decree that granted English tradesmen the right to conduct their business tax-free, a testament to the emperor's favor towards foreign commerce. However, this gesture of goodwill towards the English did not sit well with the local Nawab. His discontent with the emperor's policies created an environment of indifference towards the emperor's adversaries, making Bengal a haven for dissenters and rebels alike.
In this atmosphere of political apathy and strategic advantage, Shah Alam found the perfect cover for his dual existence. While outwardly embodying the ascetic life of a Sufi, inwardly he was anything but passive. Bengal's indifference to the emperor's enemies provided him with the anonymity needed to plot his revenge, its bustling markets and thriving port a façade behind which he could gather his forces, unnoticed by those who would seek to thwart his plans.
Before visiting his father Asad, on the day of tragedy, Shah Alam had arrived with a strong group of 200 soldiers. They were stationed near Beharampur as a guest of Nawab of Murshidabad. He left with only 10 of his bravest men, and they were lost in a terrible fight on that fateful night.
Shah Alam did not give up. He gathered his remaining soldiers and built a special mosque near the Ganga River in Katwa. But this was no ordinary mosque; it looked more like a fortress and had deep tunnels on three sides, with one side open to land. These tunnels connected to a secret passage that led to the river, hidden deep underground. To the untrained eye, he was but a Sufi saint, embracing a life of spiritual contemplation and peace. Yet beneath this cloak of tranquility, Shah Alam harbored a fervent desire for vengeance, silently forging an army from those who shared his yearning for justice.
Shah Alam created a small community around this mosque fortress. To avoid drawing attention, everyone had a disguise. Some became to be tea sellers, while others became cotton merchants. This clever disguise allowed them to blend in with the locals and go about their business without anyone suspecting their true purpose.
After some time, Shah Alam began sending out some of his men disguised as cotton merchants to Delhi. Their mission was to gather secret information that could help Shah Alam in his plans. These disguised soldiers became his eyes and ears, collecting valuable details without being noticed.
One day, during a quiet meeting in the shadowed corners of the mosque, Shah Alam spoke with one of his closest allies, who had just returned from Delhi.
"We've received word, my lord," the ally began, his voice low and urgent. "The emperor has discovered our location. He's sending soldiers to investigate Shahi Masjid."
Shah Alam's response was calm, yet filled with resolute strength. "Let them come," he said, a spark of determination in his eyes. "We are prepared."
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The distinct call of a peacock pierced the air, a sound Shah Alam knew all too well. It was a signal he had taught his soldiers to use, a method of communication crafted from the mimicry of bird calls!
One evening, as the golden hues of sunset embraced the Shahi Maszid, a group of Farrukhsiyar's soldiers arrived unannounced. Their presence, meant to intimidate, only served as a reminder of the unresolved past.
"Allah hu Akbar," a soldier called out, his eyes scanning the serene compound with a mix of curiosity and skepticism.
"Shah Alam, we've heard of your spiritual endeavors," the leader, a stern man with the bearing of authority, declared as they stood in the mosque's expansive courtyard. "The Emperor appreciates your dedication to peace. He sees it as a sign of your submission."
With a serene smile, Shah Alam faced them, his voice steady, "Tell your Emperor, I am but a humble servant of the divine. The politics of thrones and power never concerned me."
The soldiers, satisfied or perhaps choosing to believe the facade presented, departed as swiftly as they came, their boots echoing off the stone. As the soldiers departed, the air seemed to thicken with unspoken words and unseen tensions.
Shah Alam turned his gaze back to the horizon.
Yet, as night fell over the river of the Ganga, a shadow lingered.
One soldier, curiosity or perhaps a sense of unfinished duty anchoring him, stayed behind, concealed within the darker recesses of the masjid.
