The World Beyond

The World Beyond

SANGEETA BHARGAVA

For my father
without whom this book
would not have been possible

Table of Contents

Title Page
Dedication
CHARACTER LIST
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Author’s Note
GLOSSARY
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Copyright

C
HARACTER
L
IST

N
AWAB
W
AJID
A
LI
S
HAH
/A
BBA
H
UZOOR
/A
BBU
–
the last king of Avadh

B
EGUM
H
AZRAT
M
AHAL
/A
MMI
–
one of Nawab Wajid Ali Shah’s wives

S
ALIM
/C
HOTE
N
AWAB
–
Nawab Wajid Ali Shah’s adopted son

A
HMED
– Salim’s cousin

D
AIMA
– Salim’s wet nurse

N
AYANSUKH
– Daima’s son

C
HUTKI
– Daima’s daughter

R
ACHAEL
B
RISTOW
– an English girl

C
OLONEL
F
ELIX
B
RISTOW
– Rachael’s father

M
RS
M
ARGARET
B
RISTOW
– Rachael’s mother

P
ARVATI
/A
YAH
– maidservant

R
AM
S
INGH
– Parvati’s husband

S
UDHA
– Rachael’s companion and maid

C
HRISTOPHER
W
ILSON
– Rachael’s childhood friend

Chapter One

S
ALIM

It was 1855. The month of Ramzan, the holy month. Prince Salim and Ahmed pushed their way through the bustling narrow by-lanes of Chowk. Chowk – the grand old bazaar of Lucknow, the haunt of the famous courtesans, the hub of the city. There was not a single article in all of Hindustan that could not be found in Chowk. You needed the keen eye of a huntsman, that’s all.

A light breeze brought with it the aroma of khus – the cool refreshing smell of summer. Salim paused to look at the rows of decanters in the perfume shop. Ruh gulab ittar – made by distilling the heart of rose petals; musk ittar – procured from the scent that is found in the gland of the male musk deer; jasmine, tuberose, sandalwood …

‘Which ittar is an aphrodisiac, Salim mia? Musk or rose?’ Ahmed asked.

Shrugging his shoulders, Salim moved on. He didn’t know, neither did he care to know. If love meant having a dozen wives in your harem like Abba Huzoor, he didn’t care. He would sooner man an army than settle squabbles between numerous wives. Just then his ears pricked up, like a deer’s at the sound of a tiger’s footfall. He could hear the sound of ghungroos and the fall of feet in time with the tabla. A husky voice was reciting the dadra – ‘dhaa dhin naa dhaa tin naa’. Looking up at the apartment above the shop, Salim found a eunuch standing in the doorway dressed in a woman’s attire.

She winked at him. ‘Come upstairs, sweetheart. I’ll get you whatever your heart desires.’ She bit her lower lip coquettishly and played with her long plait, as she measured him from the top of his nukkedar cap to his short-toed velvet shoes.

Averting his gaze, Salim looked at Ahmed. He was grinning at the eunuch and trying to look past her into the house, hoping to catch a glimpse of the prostitutes who resided there. Shaking his head at his cousin, Salim pulled him roughly as he hurried along. Nay, Ahmed was not just his cousin. He was more than that. He was his brother, his best friend, the keeper of all his secrets.

‘Why did you choose today of all days to come here, Salim mia?’ Ahmed shouted above the din.

‘No, thank you, I don’t want any,’ Salim said brusquely as he pushed aside the garlands of jasmine a vendor had shoved right in front of his face.

‘D’you know what Ahmed-flavoured keema tastes like?’ Ahmed asked as he wiped the beads of perspiration from his forehead.

Salim’s brows knitted together. ‘What?’

‘Well, you’ll come to know today. Because if this crowd doesn’t make mincemeat of me, Daima surely will.’

Without bothering to answer, Salim hastened his pace. Daima mustn’t come to know he’d been to Chowk. As they passed Talib’s Kebabs, Ahmed dawdled and sniffed appreciatively. Salim had to admit – he sure did make the best kebabs in town, the type that melt in your mouth. The pungent smell of fried onions, garlic and grilled meat tickled his taste buds.

‘Thank goodness it’s the last day of Ramzan,’ Ahmed muttered, as he eyed the kebabs one last time.

Salim walked purposefully towards a little shop at the end of the road. It was almost hidden from view by the bangle man’s stall.

‘Show me those green bangles, bhai jaan,’ said one of the women gathered around the stall.

‘Bhai jaan, do you have those red ones one size smaller?’ said another.

‘Bangle man, can you give me two of each colour?’ clamoured a third.

Throwing a cursory glance at the women, Salim strode into the music shop. There before him was the choicest collection of musical instruments that had ever been seen in Hindustan. Bade Miyan smiled at him, bowed slightly and pointed to a sarod. Salim’s eyes lit up as they rested on the instrument.

As he bent down to pick it up, a slender white hand reached out for it as well. Their hands touched. Salim looked up and found himself gazing into a pair of eyes as blue as the Gomti at the deep end. He could see no more. The woman was clad in a burqa. He looked at her hands again. They were as soft and white as a rabbit. On her little finger she wore a delicate gold ring with a single diamond.

Salim hastily withdrew his hand and with a slight bow said, ‘It’s all yours, ma’am.’

The woman nodded slightly and their eyes met again. Just then he felt a sharp kick and almost yowled in pain as Ahmed’s foot hit the corn on his big toe. But the lady in the burqa was still looking at him, so he suppressed his scream and the urge to slam his fist into Ahmed’s face and grinned instead – a broader grin than he had intended. Then, lowering his gaze, he left the shop.

‘What if her father was just behind us, Salim mia?’ asked Ahmed. ‘He’d have surely beaten us up if he had seen you gaping at his daughter like that.’

‘Whether her father would’ve beaten us up or not, you’re getting bashed for sure,’ Salim said, waving his fist at him. Ahmed ran off laughing with Salim hobbling after him.

Sitting down on the takhat, Salim took off his khurd nau with a curse. He gingerly rubbed the corn on his big toe and cursed Ahmed yet again.

‘So finally you’re here, Chote Nawab?’

It was Daima. Salim smiled affectionately at her as she gestured to the eunuch Chilmann to bring in the basin. Chilmann, who wore the clothes of a man but swayed like a girl. The butt of all the jokes in the palace.

Salim washed his hands and face.

‘Where did you rush off to this morning?’ Daima asked, as she stopped pouring water and handed him a towel.

‘Bade Miyan wanted me to see the new sarod that was delivered yesterday,’ he replied carefully as he wiped his hands. He had never been able to lie to Daima. He looked at her now, noticing for the first time that her hair had begun to match the white of her sari. He waited for the lecture to come – a prince has no business nosing through dilapidated bazaars like a common man.

‘Where is it?’ she asked.

‘Where’s what?’

‘The sarod …’

‘Oh. Actually there was a young maiden in the shop …’

‘So of course, our Chote Nawab let her have it …’ Daima clicked her tongue. ‘This chivalry of yours is going to destroy us one day.’

Salim hugged her from behind. ‘There’s no need to be so dramatic, Daima. It was just a sarod after all.’ Then turning to Chilmann he said, ‘Tell Rehman to have Afreen and Toofan saddled by four.’

‘You’re going out again?’ asked Daima.

‘I won’t be late. And no, I haven’t forgotten that it’s Chand Raat.’

‘Yes, finally, the last day of Ramzan … just look at the way all this fasting has made your bones stick out.’

Laughing, Salim took off his cap absent-mindedly and placed it on the stool. Yes, thank goodness the fasting period was almost over. He was missing his hookah.

‘And mind you, don’t be late for namaz tomorrow … you know how it upsets your father.’

‘Ya Ali, dare I displease Abba Huzoor on Eid? How is it, Daima? He never misses a namaz, not a single one!’

‘Chote Nawab, the day
you
remember to say all the five namaz, Allah mia will be so pleased, he will personally come down from Heaven to bless you.’

Salim grinned. He ran his fingers through his hair as he watched Daima’s receding form. She had nursed him as a baby and was the closest he had known of a mother’s love, his own mother having died during childbirth. She fawned on him and made sure everyone called him Chote Nawab and paid him the utmost respect, even though he was not the heir apparent. Just an adopted son of the ruler, Nawab Wajid Ali Shah.