Authors: Sangeeta Bhargava
‘Aren’t you going to say something?’
Salim kept quiet and continued tuning the sarod.
She looked at him, then spread her palm over the strings of the instrument so he could not play it anymore.
He looked at her.
‘Don’t be upset, Salim. Papa is away for a week. Let’s make the most of it.’
A small smile lifted the edges of his lips. He covered her hand with his and whispered, ‘You’re right.’
Rachael got up and rubbed the carpet with her bare big toe. ‘Pray tell me, are all the rooms in the palace as opulent as this one?’ she asked.
‘Come; let me take you around some of our palaces. Then you can see for yourself,’ Salim replied.
‘Umm … what if someone espied us?’
‘Don’t worry. They’re taking a siesta.’
‘How many palaces does your father own?’ Rachael asked.
‘Ninety. Maybe a hundred. Who knows? Never counted them,’ Salim answered with a shrug.
Her eyes twinkled as he gave her a mock salute and said, ‘After you, ma’am … err … RayChal.’
The carriage entered a fortified enclosure through a gateway and stopped before an imposing rectangular building. Rachael alighted and followed Salim to what looked like the balcony of a long vaulted hall.
‘This is one of the largest arched ceilings in the world, with no pillars to support it,’ he said as she looked up in amazement. He then asked her to wait as he walked the sixty yards to the other end of the hall. He looked across at her and clicked his finger. She was astounded. It sounded as clear as though he had clicked his finger right next to her ear. Then he gestured to her to put her ear to the wall. He put his lips near the wall across the hall and whispered, ‘I like you better when you don’t tie your hair.’ Rachael blushed, then looked at him in fascination. She could clearly hear what he had whispered sixty yards away!
‘Our walls have ears, you know,’ he said with a grin as he walked up to her and led her up a flight of stairs.
‘Crinoline dresses were not meant for walking up steep and narrow steps,’ Rachael muttered under her breath, as she gathered her skirts. Now where is he? she wondered in frustration, as she reached the top of the stairs and found herself facing three narrow passageways.
‘I’m sorry, milady, I had forgotten you weren’t wearing breeches today,’ Salim mocked, leaning against one of the doorless archways. ‘Try not to wear a tent next time you come to the palace,’ he added as he watched her trying not to trip over her dress.
Rachael glared at him. Again those eyes were laughing at her. Teasing, mocking, provoking.
‘Don’t worry about me. I’m sure I would have found my way.’
‘I’m sure you wouldn’t. This part of the palace complex is not called Bhul Bhulaiya for nothing.’
‘What’s that?’
‘It’s a labyrinth of hundreds of narrow stairway passages. Anyone who’s not familiar with the palace is bound to get lost in this maze. But those who know the place well, for them there is a hidden passage here that leads to the River Gomti.’
‘I fear I don’t understand.’
‘See, if the palace is under attack, we can make our escape to the Gomti, while the enemy loses its way in the labyrinth.’
‘That’s ingenious.’
Salim held out his hand as they came upon some more steep narrow stairs. Rachael hesitated.
‘Trust me, you’ll find it easier.’
Rachael gingerly gave him her hand. His hands were callused, from holding the bridle too often. The stairs led them into another hall. There was a long pool with coloured fountains running across the centre of the room. On the walls hung pictures of all the nabobs of Oudh, Salim’s ancestors.
Looking at Nabob Wajid Ali Shah’s portrait, Rachael remarked, ‘You look nothing like your father … except your hair, perhaps.’
‘True, I take after my mother.’
‘Heavens!’ she suddenly exclaimed. ‘I fear we shall have to cut short this tour. I’m getting late for my class.’
‘Class?’
‘I teach some native children English. Every Wednesday.’
‘Oh, so you’re also busy converting us heathens into civilised little Christians, I presume?’
‘Of course not! I’m not a missionary. And anyway, what, pray, is wrong with being a missionary? They are simply spreading the word of Christ.’
‘Who the hell are they to decide that their religion is right and ours is blasphemous?’
Rachael was taken aback by the vehemence with which he spoke. ‘Look, I teach simply because I enjoy the company of children.’ She picked at her pagoda sleeve. ‘Perhaps because I never had a sibling to play with. I lost my three-year-old brother when I was born.’
‘I’m sorry.’
She looked at him. He did look repentant. Her face softened. ‘Do not vex yourself. I was too little to be affected.’
‘You can borrow some of mine. I have over forty brothers and sisters.’
Touching her right cheek theatrically, Rachael exclaimed, ‘Ya Ali,’ with mock horror.
Salim threw back his head and laughed. Still shaking with laughter, he looked at her. He stopped laughing abruptly. He was gazing at her lips, now her eyes. Rachael lowered her gaze and wished he would not stare at her like that. She felt he could look right into the core of her heart, into her very soul, and she found it disconcerting.
Rachael wondered gloomily where Salim was. The last six days had flown so fast. Papa would be back home tomorrow. Then she would not be able to see Salim again – for how long, she could not tell. She looked out of the window of the music hall at the high wall that surrounded the zenana. How time had flown. Why, it was just yesterday that Salim had led her into this room for the first time. She thought of all the unique structures he had shown her since then. The darbar hall, the vaulted ceilings, the portraits, the little balconies from where the begums could sit behind a purdah and watch the court proceedings. But there was a section of the palace that was still a mystery for her. The zenana.
Daima entered the room. ‘Chote Nawab will be here soon … can I get you anything?’
‘Daima, pray can you take me to the zenana?’ She clutched her hands urgently. ‘Please, Daima?’
‘I’m not sure Chote Nawab would approve.’
‘I’m sure he won’t mind.’
‘Ah well, follow me.’
‘Oh thank you, thank you, Daima.’ Rachael hugged the old woman and was about to kiss her cheek, but then, seeing the sombre look on her face, she kissed her hand instead. Daima tilted her head slightly like she often did when admonishing someone, but her face had the slightest flicker of a smile.
Rachael adjusted the hijaab that Daima had tied over her head, before entering an inner courtyard. It was deserted, perhaps because of the heat of the sun. Even though it was still winter, the afternoon sun was scorching hot.
The courtyard was flanked on all sides by long corridors. The corridors on the left and right led to several doors which in turn led to the rooms of the begums. The doors right in front opened on to a splendid hall which was packed at the moment.
A strong smell of ittar greeted Rachael as she entered this hall. Mother always wore a perfume from back home. It had a light, flowery fragrance, as light as a butterfly alighting on a petal. So unlike the perfume these natives wore. It clung to you and filled your nostrils with a smell so strong it ceased to be fragrant at all.
Rachael looked about her with undisguised interest. Some of the begums sat gossiping; some were playing chaupad, some chess. There was a small stage at one end of the hall. A small group had gathered there and were listening to the domnis narrating tales of yore. Loud voices made her turn. The two begums playing chaupad were squabbling.
‘I refuse to put up with your cheating anymore,’ shouted the fair begum with long hooped earrings, as she angrily took a puff on the hookah.
‘Oh yes? Don’t try to play the innocent with me,’ spat out the other begum. She paused, chewed her paan furiously before continuing. ‘Shakina found some chillies and lemon under my mattress this morning. Don’t I know who’s trying to do voodoo on me! And then she pretends to be an angel!’
Rachael looked at her with interest. Her paan-stained lips were the same colour as her dress.
‘I should have married a grass-cutter,’ said the begum with the hooped earrings. ‘I would have been the only wife and I wouldn’t have had to put up with you!’ She then yanked the chaupad sheet and threw it on the floor.
The other begum grabbed some of the counters and threw them at her.
Daima rushed to the scene. ‘You two should be ashamed of yourselves, quarrelling like a bunch of unruly children … Is this behaviour worthy of a begum?’
She pulled Rachael away and took her to a begum who sat on a rug, doing calligraphy.
‘See how well she writes? It’s her ambition to write the entire Koran single-handedly,’ Daima explained.
Rachael watched in fascination as she weaved out Urdu letters one after the other. ‘Daima, can I try?’ She tried to lean closer to the begum, when her left hand knocked over the silver inkstand. ‘Oh dear me,’ she muttered, her hand covering her mouth as rivers of black ink began to run over the begum’s handiwork.
Daima smacked Rachael lightly on her head. ‘Hai Ram … This girl is useless.’
Sticking out her tongue, Rachael looked across the hall. She saw Salim standing in the doorway. He did not look pleased. She swallowed and plucked at her sleeves. Why, oh why, was she always in trouble?
Chapter Eleven
S
ALIM
It was a cold morning on 1
February 1856. Salim stood on the balcony of his palace watching Daima feeding the pigeons. They were busy pecking at the seeds, making a low guttural sound as they did so. He snuggled his chin into his qaba as he read the lines again:
Restless and troubled
Passed the sleepless night,
My love has departed
To what land I know not.
Abba Huzoor was a fine poet, no doubt. Salim wished he could write like him. But whenever he sat down to write, he ended up staring at the paper. Words failed him. Ah well, he may never get into his good books because of his writing, but at least Abba Huzoor was pleased with his hunting abilities. He had called him one of his able sons.
But what would he think of his able son if he came to know he had been teaching an English girl Hindustani music in his own palace? Abba Huzoor hated the English. Unlike his predecessor Nawab Nasir-ud-Din Haider, who admired English dress, mores and mannerisms, he shunned everything English. And that girl – RayChal – why did she have to go to the zenana yesterday? What if one of the begums had mentioned it to Abba Huzoor? He would have been dead by now.
He had stormed into the zenana when Chilmann had informed him of her whereabouts. But when he had seen her squatting in the centre of the room with the other begums, he felt as though she had always been a part of his family. And then when he saw Daima chiding her for something, just as she always scolded him, he watched her stick out her tongue and grin shamefacedly at Daima. After that he could not bring himself to scold her.
He had been brought up in a zenana full of women. Yet in his entire life of twenty-two years, he had never come across a woman like her before. Ya Ali, he was again thinking about her. What was wrong with him? What was it about her that held him thus captive? Was he in love with her? No. This was not love. He simply enjoyed her company and loved flirting with her. It was all in good fun, that’s all.
Then why was he always thinking about her? The way she talked, the way she laughed, the way she played the piano, the harmonium, her fingers light and feathery, the way she walked, the way she said his name. The way her eyes shone when she smiled, the way she crinkled her little nose. Why, he could even recall what she smelt of – lavender and roses. And why, oh why, did he feel depressed simply because he could not give her music lessons anymore?
And what was that about the war? True, Dalhousie’s army had reached Cawnpore but that didn’t mean the forces would be turned on Avadh. Why, just last night he had attended one of Abba Huzoor’s kavi samelan. Abbu looked unperturbed.
Salim smiled a small wry smile and looked down at the garden below. The blades of grass were bent double by the strong northerly wind and were whispering to each other the rumours that were rife throughout the city.
‘Salim mia.’ It was Ahmed. He came rushing to the balcony. ‘Salim mia, have you heard?’
‘Heard what, Ahmed?’
‘The Resident has presented a treaty to His Majesty from the Governor General of India, Lord Dalhousie, asking him to abdicate the throne.’
Turning his back to Ahmed, Salim looked again at the blades of grass. His heart sank. So the rumours were true.
Salim strode into the Zard Kothi Palace. Abba Huzoor was pacing the black and white tiled floor and muttering, ‘What have we done to deserve this?’
His brother Sikandar Hasmat, his minister, the Residency lawyer Muhsee-ud-Daula, the deputy Sahebud-Daula, the finance minister – all of them stood still with lowered heads.
Abba Huzoor ordered Saheb-ud-Daula to read the treaty aloud – the treaty that had been sent by Lord Dalhousie. That firangi had managed to gobble up the states of Punjab, Burma, Nagpur, Satara and Jhansi in the last ten years. Now he wanted to swallow Avadh, the bloody glutton.
Saheb-ud-Daula touched his cap lightly and started reading. Abba Huzoor stood with his back to the rest, leaning against a pillar. Saheb-ud-Daula read two lines, broke out in a cold sweat, got a lump in his throat and could not continue. Abba Huzoor snatched the papers from him and commenced reading it himself.
Salim’s hands curled into fists. Why didn’t Saheb-ud-Daula throw those papers in the Resident’s face when he gave them to him? Putting Abba Huzoor through this humiliation!