Authors: Sangeeta Bhargava
Outside the study, he leant back against the rough wall and let out a loud sigh. He looked up at the sound of giggling. It was Rachael. ‘Ya Ali, why did you stop me from mentioning my father?’ he asked in a low voice, glancing anxiously towards the study as he spoke.
Rachael put her chin in the air. ‘Papa doesn’t like him. He might have withheld his permission. Come now, let me show you the way out.’
‘What d’you mean?’ he asked, following her. ‘And what if your father comes to know?’
‘We’ll deal with it when we have to,’ she replied, as they reached the front garden, almost tripping over Brutus who was running between her heels, one ear standing upright and the other drooping woefully.
Salim didn’t say anything but looked over the fence at the nearby field. He could discern some English boys playing cricket. An occasional shout of ‘catch it’, or ‘six’, could be heard, followed by grumbling or cheers.
‘Your father tells me you’re leaving for the hills for two months?’ he asked as he unfettered Afreen from the eucalyptus tree.
‘Yes. Mother’s feeling miserable in this heat,’ Rachael replied as she stroked Afreen’s hairy muzzle.
‘I shall wait for your return,’ Salim said as he swung his legs over the horse. He touched his cap lightly and bowed slightly.
Rachael put up a hand to shade her eyes, smiled up at him, her nose crinkling up as she did so.
He smiled back at her and was soon flying towards Kaiserbagh.
It was late afternoon in September. Salim sat down at the piano. He could scarcely believe he was seated at the same piano he had seen RayChal play for the first time about three months ago. Yes, it was just three months since he first set his eyes on her and only his second visit to her home in the cantonment. Yet he felt as though he had known her all his life.
‘Chute Nabob?’ said Rachael.
Salim suppressed his laugh and said, ‘You can call me Salim.’
‘Salim, that’s a nice name. Pray tell me, does it mean anything?’
‘Salim was the son of the Mughal Emperor Akbar.’
‘Akbar – I know him,’ Rachael announced proudly, ‘but I never heard of Salim, I fear. Was he as famous as his father?’
‘He was more famous for his love affairs than affairs of the state,’ Salim chuckled. He ran his fingers over the keyboard, before turning to Rachael. ‘He fell in love with a tawaif called Anarkali. Almost threw away his empire because of her. He even went to war against his own father, the mighty Akbar, all for the sake of his love.’
‘How romantic. What happened then? Were they finally betrothed?’
‘No, they drugged Salim, and while he lay asleep, Emperor Akbar ordered his men to bury Anarkali alive.’
‘What? What d’you mean?’
‘A wall was built around her, brick by brick.’
‘No!’ Rachael covered her mouth in horror.
‘That’s what they say, anyway. No one knows for sure what exactly happened. But they say Anarkali was never seen again.’
‘I would willingly die a thousand deaths if someone loved me like that,’ Rachael said softly.
Salim closed the distance between them and put his forefinger over her lips. ‘Shh, you mustn’t speak of dying.’ Then with mock urgency, he cupped her yielding face in his hands and drawled, ‘Have you ever thought what would become of me if you were no more, my Anarkali?’
Covering her head with a scarf, Rachael got into the act. ‘Oh, Salim!’
Salim pressed a key forcefully on the piano, then looking Rachael straight in the eye, whispered hoarsely, ‘Oh Anarkali! I pray to Allah that all the years left of my life may get added to yours.’
Rachael quickly slid the scarf off, exclaiming, ‘Oh no, God forbid, I don’t want to spend the rest of my life in a widow’s garb. I love colours.’ As she spoke, she held the edges of her dress and twirled around. Just then Brutus came yapping into the room, getting caught up in the excitement. Rachael picked him up and gave him a twirl as well.
‘Masha Allah!’ Salim whispered under his breath, as he watched her, mesmerised. Her long magenta skirt swirled and billowed. Her hair swayed. A shaft of the setting sun came in through the window, caught her golden hair and set it ablaze. Anarkali could not have been more beautiful. He was sure of that.
‘Phew, sir, you smell!’ Rachael said as she put Brutus down. ‘I think it’s time for your bath.’
‘Have you had him long?’ Salim asked as he attempted to straighten the dog’s tail. Brutus was not amused and tried to bite his hand.
‘No. I was out riding, about four months previously, when I came across a puppy. He was crying most pathetically. I tried to find his mother, but alas, she was nowhere to be seen.’
‘And so, of course, you brought him home?’
‘I hid him in my room. The next thing I knew mother was holding Brutus by the scruff of his neck. Dangling him before me, she screamed, “Now Rachael, was it you who brought this brat into the house? He has chewed my new shoes, the ones Amy sent last week from Paris.”’
‘Just then Papa came into the room. “I don’t remember giving anyone permission to bring a dog into this house,” he said, looking at me sternly. Mother glared at me, hands on her hips. I opened my dry mouth and was about to speak when Brutus started barking at me accusingly. I looked at him in disbelief and exclaimed, “You too, Brutus?” Everyone started laughing then and Papa gave me permission to keep him.’ Rachael fondled Brutus’s furry ears as she concluded her story. ‘And so it came to pass that he was named Brutus.’
Salim smiled and tried to pat him. ‘He doesn’t like me much, does he?’ he said as Brutus barked at him yet again.
‘I think he’s a little jealous,’ Rachael replied.
‘Ya Ali, it’s getting late. I’d better leave,’ said Salim.
But Rachael was too busy tickling Brutus’s stomach to hear him. He smiled indulgently as he looked at her, shook his head and left the room.
‘Salaam, sahib,’ the gatekeeper saluted Salim as he opened the gate for him. He knew him well by now and did not quiz him anymore. He had been coming to Rachael’s house for over a fortnight. Even Brutus did not bother with him anymore. He gave him a cursory glance, rolled over and went back to sleep.
Salim sat down on the stool, his back straight. He positioned his hands over the keyboard and looked at Rachael. She nodded her approval. He looked at the black notes before him with full concentration, then ran his fingers over the keys.
‘Ouch, that hurt!’ he yelped as Rachael picked up the metal rod that stood near the fireplace and rapped it sharply across his knuckles.
‘It was supposed to hurt,’ she said. ‘How many times have I said that you must keep your hands raised while playing?’
Salim pulled a face. ‘You’re a hard taskmaster,’ he said.
‘Back to your lessons, sir. Let’s not dally. Play that piece for me again.’
From the corner of his eye Salim looked at Rachael as he played the little jig by Haydn again. She was pushing back a lock of hair that had fallen over her forehead as she listened to him play.
‘Gently, gently,’ she said. ‘Don’t bang and don’t stop at the end of each bar. One note should flow into the next like this … …’ Rachael’s fingers waltzed across the keyboard faster than a magician shuffling a deck of cards. Then she turned the page of her music book. ‘Now, this next tune is an exquisite piece. It is a sad song; the lover is yearning for his lost love. So play it softly – gently – pianissimo.’
Salim watched in fascination as her deft fingers danced over the keys. He had never seen anyone immerse themselves in music like this, other than Abba Huzoor. And for the first time in his life he found himself wishing time would stand still. Somehow he knew this moment of magic and serenity would always stay with him, and give him succour and redress in the turbulent times to come.
Rachael stopped playing the piano abruptly and looked towards the door. Salim followed her gaze as the sound of footsteps echoed through the hallway. He stared at her, then leapt to his feet and sat down in front of the tabla and began beating the two drums. Rachael, too, hastened to the harmonium.
Salim continued to play the tabla, his head shaking and eyes half-closed as Colonel Bristow peered into the room. The colonel looked at Rachael, who was seated primly before the harmonium pumping its bellows. He caught her eye, nodded slightly and quietly left the room.
It was Jamghat, the traditional kite-flying festival, one of the few times in the year when Salim was up early. The sky was chequered with colours that morning. As though Allah Mia, getting bored with the pale blue when looking out of His window, decided to do some spray painting.
Salim stood on the terraced roof of his palace. He concentrated hard as the thread of his kite got enmeshed with that of his opponent’s.
‘I wonder what they’re cooking for lunch,’ said Ahmed as he sniffed the air appreciatively and looked down from the palace rooftop towards the kitchen.
Salim shot him an angry glare, then turned his attention back to the kite. ‘Ahmed, stop thinking about food for once and give me some more thread … fast …’
Ahmed spun the spool hastily, but it was too late.
‘Ya Ali, it’s been cut!’ Salim exclaimed as he watched the kite spiralling towards the ground. He grimaced as a handful of street urchins swooped down on it. They gave a whoop and a jiggle of delight as they grabbed the little silver purse attached to it.
‘I wonder what would happen if you sent a message to your English mem through your kite,’ said Ahmed, as he narrowed his eyes to study Salim’s face.
Chuckling, Salim tied another kite to the spool. ‘And what if the letter got intercepted by her mother and she thought it was from Abba Huzoor? Then I’ll be sitting and twiddling my thumbs while she and Abbu have an affair.’
Ahmed threw back his head and laughed. ‘So you’re having an affair with her.’
‘No, we’re simply teaching each other music, that’s all.’
‘Enjoy, Salim mia, enjoy. But don’t make the mistake of falling in love; otherwise remember what happened to your namesake’s Anarkali.’
‘RayChal’s not a tawaif.’
‘No, she’s worse. She’s English, a firangi!’
Squaring his jaw, Salim rubbed his fingers where the fine glass pieces on the thread had cut them. He did not like what Ahmed had said, and certainly not what he had implied. Humbug. RayChal and he shared a special kinship owing to their mutual love for music. That’s all. What did Ahmed know about women and relationships? For that matter, how much did
he
know about women?
He walked to the edge of the terrace and looked down. All he could see were some maids replacing the long khus mats that hung over the archways with thick padded curtains, a sign that winter was approaching. Salim bent down and picked up another kite. Bah! He’d best forget women and concentrate on his kite. He was supposed to be one of the best kite-flyers in the land. Wouldn’t do his reputation any good if he lost this one as well.
Chapter Ten
R
ACHAEL
Holding her hands over the fire, Rachael rubbed them together to warm them. It was late January. Winter was in no hurry to leave. Mother had pulled her armchair close to the hearth and was waiting patiently for her to begin. It was strange how the furniture, the curtains, the upholstery in the room did not match. What was stranger was that it never bothered Mother. She was so particular about everything else that it came as a surprise. But then Mother never did look upon this house as her home. For her, home was England. This stay in Lucknow was a pilgrimage she had to undertake before returning to her real home.
Rachael pulled up a stool. Sitting down on it, she opened her book and began reading. At the sound of footsteps she stopped and looked up. ‘Papa, won’t you join us?’ she asked.
‘Ah well … perhaps,’ he said, as he sat down heavily on a chair.
‘Pray tell me, is something the matter?’ Rachael asked as he let out a long sigh.
‘Not really,’ Papa replied. ‘It’s just that I have to leave for Calcutta tomorrow.’
‘How come? And so suddenly?’ Mother asked.
‘Oh, I don’t know for certain,’ Papa replied. ‘But some major changes are going to take place in Oudh soon. Dalhousie’s army has reached Cawnpore.’
‘What? An army? What for?’ Rachael asked.
Just then Ram Singh arrived, bowed slightly and gave Papa his pipe. Papa lit it and breathed out a curl of smoke.
Mother waved the air before her irritably. ‘Mr Bristow, you know how this smoke bothers me …’
‘There might be war,’ Papa said. He looked at Rachael. ‘I want you to discontinue your music lessons immediately. Is that clear?’
‘But why, Papa?’
‘Do as you’re told, girl,’ said Mother. ‘It never was a good idea to let our daughter be tutored by a native.’
‘Yes, Mother,’ Rachael replied morosely.
‘Good,’ said Papa as he slapped his thighs and got up. He turned to look at Rachael when he reached the door. ‘I hope I’ve made myself clear – I don’t want to see your teacher here again.’
Nodding her head slowly, Rachael walked over to the window. It was a moonless night and the garden was plunged in darkness. War? Whatever could that mean? Rachael could not comprehend. All she felt was an inherent sense of loss at ending the music lessons. She so looked forward to them each day. Why must they be stopped? It filled her with an inner rage. What did war have to do with music?
Rachael looked around the music hall. It looked different in winter. The khus mats had been replaced with thick padded curtains. Red Persian carpets woven with silk and gold threads covered the floor. Several charcoal braziers kept the room warm. She looked at Salim. He too looked different. He was wearing a colourful coat of brocade instead of the angarkha that he normally wore.
‘How did you manage to get permission to come to the palace today?’ Salim asked.
‘I didn’t.’ Rachael lowered her gaze as Salim looked at her. ‘Papa’s gone to Calcutta.’ She paused and licked her lips. ‘He thinks there might be war.’
‘That’s ridiculous. Rumours, that’s all.’
‘He doesn’t think it’s a good idea to be in touch with a … umm … Indians at this time.’
‘I see.’ Salim picked up a sarod and began tinkering with its strings.