Authors: Sangeeta Bhargava
It was Rachael who broke the silence. ‘What’s that small domed building?’
Salim looked across at the building with a single chamber and a small minar at each end. ‘Qadam Rasul.’
‘What’s Qadam?’
‘Qadam means “feet”. It’s a shrine. It has a stone which bears the footprints of the prophet Mohammad.’
‘Oh, it must be a sacred—’
‘Not anymore. The Company has turned it into a store for gunpowder.’
‘What? But why choose a holy shrine for that? Surely there are other buildings? Aren’t they sensitive to the sen—’
Salim gave a derisive laugh. ‘Company and sensitive?’ He grew sombre and lowering his voice said, ‘Let’s not spoil this evening. Talk about something else.’
They walked a few paces in silence.
‘I wish we had a harmonium or sitar with us. You could continue to teach me then,’ said Rachael.
‘I can still teach you.’
‘How?’
‘Singing is as significant a part of Hindustani music as playing an instrument. To become a good singer, you must master sur and laya. Now, sing after me …’ Salim closed his eyes, and making movements in the air with his right hand, sang, ‘Sa re ga ma pa dha ni sa.’
‘Saaa ray—’
‘No, listen to me again. Sa re ga ma …’
Rachael cleared her throat and tried again. ‘Saaaa …’
Salim threw back his head and laughed. ‘Ya Ali, I’ve never seen someone make such exquisite music and yet sing so terribly.’
Rachael’s face turned red. She reddened easily. Heat, embarrassment, excitement, any emotion whatsoever, made the blood rush to her face, right up to the ears.
He cupped her face in his hands. ‘It’s all right. You’re human. You can’t be perfect in everything.’
A small smile lifted the corners of her mouth and slowly spread to her eyes. Her nose crinkled. He took her hand in his and together they ambled out of the park, the sun setting slowly behind them.
Ever since Salim had given shelter to Ahmed and his family in the palace, he had insisted the two friends have their lunch together in his parlour. The two of them were now seated before the dastarkhwan, partaking of their meal in silence.
‘Ahmed.’ Salim broke the silence.
‘What is it, Salim mia?’ Ahmed asked, not bothering to look up from his food.
‘Umm … some more kebabs?’
‘Oh, all right, just one more. I’ve already overeaten.’
Ahmed picked up a gelawati kebab and put it on his plate.
‘Ahmed.’
‘Yes?’
‘Nothing. Can you pass me the chicken?’
‘Yes, of course.’
Ahmed handed him the bowl of chicken curry. Salim took his time selecting a piece, then put it on his plate.
‘Ahmed.’
‘Yes, Salim mia?’
‘Umm … would you like some more korma?’
‘Salim mia, whatever it is you want to get off your chest, say it. Otherwise we’ll be here until judgement day.’
‘I think I’m in love.’
‘Who with? That angrez?’
‘Yes, that angrez.’
‘Salim mia, you’re going to get killed. And get all of us killed as well.’
‘Why? Haven’t nawabs married Englishwomen before? Have you forgotten Vilayati Begum?’
‘It was different then.’
‘Ya Ali, what was different? People fell in love then and they fall in love now.’
‘Times have changed. The English used to respect us then. They regarded us as the inheritors of profound ancient wisdom. Now they call us heathens, pagans, savages. And we call them pig-eaters. Have you forgotten what happened just two months back in Khushnuma Palace?’ Ahmed asked bitterly.
How could he forget? Salim swallowed a morsel. It tasted bitter like karela. He was filled with renewed anger as he remembered how Ahmed’s family had been turned out on the streets by the angrez, without their purdah. Such shame, such indignity. Even prisoners of defeated kingdoms were not treated as harshly as the people of Avadh were being treated.
Daima entered the room. ‘Chote Nawab, have you finished? Should I remove the dishes?’
‘Yes, Daima, and please ask Chilmann to fill my chillum. The tobacco has finished.’
‘I’ll do it for you, Chote Nawab … Chilmann has been asked to leave.’
‘Oh,’ Salim muttered. He had forgotten the Company had fired most of the servants last week.
Ahmed shook his head sombrely. ‘This is not good. Making so many people who worked for His Majesty unemployed …’ He paused to place a paan in his mouth. ‘Any news from His Majesty?’
‘Huh! It’s been almost a year since Abba Huzoor left Lucknow and he’s still clueless whether he’ll get his kingdom back or not,’ Salim replied. He nodded to Daima to bring in the jug of water, before continuing. ‘It has been four months since Janab-e-Alia reached England. And she has not yet been given an audience with the queen. I always knew it was useless to pin hopes on that Queen Victoria.’
He got up abruptly and washed his hands. ‘Believe me; nothing’s going to come out of it. We should have fought against these angrez and chased them out of the country.’
‘I heard a huge crowd turned up in London to see them,’ Ahmed said as he warmed his cold hands over a coal brazier.
‘Who? To see Janab-e-Alia? Yes, I suppose the English think us strange just as we think they’re weird – with their hooped dresses and wigs and skin as white as—’
‘Balai.’
‘You have to bring food into everything?’
‘And you still want to marry that angrez?’
‘Ahmed, she’s one of them, and yet not like them. She’s not one of us and yet not unlike us.’
Ahmed shook his head.
Salim looked at his friend and let out a long sigh. He would never understand. It wasn’t just her beauty. Nor the love for music they shared. What he admired most about RayChal were her guts. She was a woman and yet she was never afraid. Like Begum Ammi. She was almost like a man in that. And then that fiery passion, her zest for life – he had never seen that in any of the women in the palace. Added to that was her childlike innocence; the pleasure she derived from even the smallest thing.
Salim shook his head again. No, Ahmed would never understand all that. And more.
Chapter Fifteen
S
ALIM
It was March. Exactly a year since Abba Huzoor had left Lucknow. Salim sat on the takhat in his room, a chapatti in his hand. He turned the chapatti over once more. ‘You mean to say thousands of these are circulating throughout Hindustan at the moment?’ he asked Nayansukh.
‘Yes, Salim bhai,’ Nayansukh answered, leaning against the wall.
‘And the purpose is?’
‘I’m not sure. Some say they contain a hidden message …’
‘Is that so?’ Salim held the chapatti up to the light. ‘This one doesn’t have any message.’
Nayansukh clicked the heels of his boots together. ‘In the basti they’re saying they are to appease goddess Durga. But the soldiers in my battalion think the Company ordered their distribution to see how fast a message can be relayed throughout the country. No one knows for sure.’ He paused and twirled his moustache thoughtfully. ‘Others are saying they’re just a symbol. A signal to all chapatti eaters to unite and chase the firangis out of our country.’
Salim was silent. Was it possible there were others who felt like him? He straightened the qatat hanging on the wall. Maybe the time had come to settle matters with the Company.
‘Salim bhai, there’s widespread unrest in the country. Most Indians hate the firangis. A single match is going to set the entire country aflame.’
Salim walked over to his desk. Tapping his fingers on it thoughtfully, he asked, ‘What happened in Berhampur?’
‘They were asking the soldiers to bite cartridges greased with pig and cow fat.’
‘Ya Ali, that’s against our religion.’
‘Exactly.’ Nayansukh banged his fist on Salim’s desk. ‘The Company has already taken our lands and property, even our self-respect. Now it wants to take away the only thing we have – religion.’
‘So did the soldiers do it?’
He watched Nayansukh cross and uncross his legs. He looked inconspicuous in his boots and dhoti.
‘At first they refused. How could they do something so heinous? Then Colonel Mitchell threatened if they did not obey his orders, he would blow them up.’ Nayansukh paused, untied his cummerbund and flung it across his neck.
Salim listened to him thoughtfully. He did not say anything for a long moment. The smell of wax made him realise it was getting dark. Daima had started lighting the candles. ‘Nayansukh,’ Salim spoke slowly. ‘If they asked the sepoys in Lucknow to bite those cartridges, would you do it?’
Nayansukh twirled his moustache arrogantly. ‘Never. Not in a million years.’
Holi, the day the rainbow left the heavens and walked the earth.
‘Holi hai, Holi hai,’ Chutki chanted as she covered Salim’s face with a pink powder and put a generous helping on his hair as well. Salim smiled as he smeared some red colour on her cheeks.
‘Let me get some thandai for you, Salim bhai,’ Chutki said as she scurried off.
Salim sat down on the parapet. He watched the others run after one another with handfuls of coloured powder or water syringes full of coloured water. Ahmed sat in a corner stuffing himself with gujias. It had become a tradition to celebrate Holi at Daima’s house every year. He missed Abba Huzoor. He used to partake of Holi with full fervour.
Chutki returned with a glass of thandai. Ah, thandai! Made from nuts, seeds, cardamom and saffron and laced with the intoxicant bhang and the fragrance of roses. So cool, so refreshing, so uplifting. He was in another world by the time he had finished the third glass.
Both Ahmed and he were singing boisterously as they made their way home. They stopped as they passed Rachael’s house. She was stepping out of her carriage.
‘Good morn— good afternoon,’ Salim boomed, as he got off his horse. Rachael stared at his and Ahmed’s smeared faces with horror and ran inside.
‘RayChal,’ Salim called.
He saw her hesitate as she heard his voice and step back out of the house. Warily she walked towards him and searched his face. ‘So it
is
you,’ she said with a laugh. ‘I would have never recognised you if you hadn’t said my name.’
Salim smeared some pink powder on her cheeks. ‘Holi hai,’ he said. Her cheeks were so smooth, like the keys of a piano. She looked surprised.
‘Pray tell me why you did that?’
‘Holi is incomplete if you do not play it with your sweetheart.’
‘What the hell is going on? Who are these ruffians, Rachael?’
Salim scowled. It was Colonel Bristow.
‘Oh no, Papa,’ said Rachael. ‘This is Salim. He’s my …’ She smoothed her hair and licked her lips before continuing. ‘My music teacher, remember?’
‘Ha, so it is. The ruffian.’ He turned back to Rachael. ‘Now go inside and wash that off your face.’
Salim’s hands curled into fists. How dare he call him a ruffian? If he wasn’t RayChal’s father, he would have punched his nose. He fidgeted with his cummerbund as Colonel Bristow turned his attention back to him and Ahmed. He stood still, his chin jutting out as the colonel looked him over with disgust.
‘Don’t you know? A gentleman always dresses up formally before meeting a lady? Be off with you,’ the colonel said as he dismissed them with a wave of his hand.
Salim’s intoxication evaporated. Ya Ali, this man will be a tough father-in-law, he thought. Would RayChal ever be able to coax him to let him marry her, he wondered gloomily.
As they reached the forest at the edge of Gomti, Salim stared ahead, his jaw dropping as a riot of bright orange blazed before his eyes. ‘Fire,’ he gasped as he charged ahead. He blinked twice. It wasn’t a fire. Just a cluster of rhododendron trees laden with their orangish-red blossoms.
Ahmed shook his head as he caught up with him. As they trotted around the deep end of the Gomti, Salim shouted yet again. ‘Ya Ali, blood!’ The water was red. Salim stared at it.
‘Salim mia, you’re drunk. It’s not blood, it’s Holi colour. You mistake tesu for fire, red colour for blood! Now don’t mistake me for a firangi and shoot me!’
But Salim wasn’t listening. He kept staring at the swirling waters, at the river as red as blood, a chill numbing his bones. It seemed ominous.
The month was April, the year 1857. Salim looked at the shimmering reflection of the golden domes and minarets of Macchi Bhawan in the Gomti. It felt as though he was looking at the palace of the sea god. Little did he know he would never see that reflection again.
He dived into the river. The water was a little cold for this time of the year. He thought of Rachael. He had not been able to see her since that brief meeting on Holi. He cut the waters and swam faster and faster as he recalled the words of her father. He had called him a ruffian. He dipped his head underwater and remembered how he had mistaken the tesu flowers for fire and the red colour of Gomti for blood. And again a chill of dread shivered down his spine.
‘Salim mia.’
Salim’s head came above the water. He wiped his face with his hand as he looked at Ahmed.
‘Mangal Pandey has been hanged, Salim mia.’
‘What? Who’s that?’
‘The sepoy in Barrackpore. The one who refused to bite the greased cartridges.’
Salim swam to the shore and pulled himself out of the water.
‘It was a public hanging, mia,’ said Ahmed. ‘A warning to the Indian sepoys. This is what awaits them if they don’t obey orders.’
Salim did not say anything. He picked up his towel and began to dry himself. Whether the public execution would instil fear in the sepoys or incite them to revolt, only time would tell. Until then he would wait and watch. Watch and wait. And then he would act, when emotions were high and the blood hot.
May 4
1857. Salim and Ahmed were on their way to Kaiserbagh Palace when they noticed a crowd gathering at the jelo-khana of Macchi Bhawan. They were pouring in from all directions. Salim looked at Ahmed questioningly. Ahmed shrugged his shoulders, equally clueless. Then he looked around and tapped the shoulder of a young lad standing next to him. ‘Err … what exactly is happening?’ he asked.
‘You don’t know? The Company is about to hang Abdul Rehman.’