Authors: Sangeeta Bhargava
Salim coughed slightly. ‘You know why I’ve brought you here, don’t you?’
‘Maybe, but I want to hear it from you.’
‘I want to make you a part of my harem.’
Rachael raised a brow. Now that kind of proposal she had not heard before.
‘I don’t mind, as long as I’m the only woman in it.’ She whipped her gaze to his, expecting to see his eyes mocking her. But they were serious today, dead earnest.
He noisily poured two glasses of sherbet and handed her a glass. ‘It’s not true that all nawabs have millions of wives. Nawab Safdar Jang had only one wife and he was besotted by her. He did not have a single mistress or concubine or—’
‘That’s all very well – but you’ll have to go down on your knees and propose,’ Rachael playfully suggested. She sensed he was tense. For some reason he was not his normal self today. It was as though he were a mine, waiting to explode.
‘Ya Ali, I can’t do that. In all my life I’ve bowed before just two people – Allah and Abba Huzoor,’ he replied haughtily.
‘Then I’m afraid you can’t have me,’ Rachael said, shaking her head and clicking her tongue mischievously.
But he was still tense and his chin jutted out even more than it normally did. She noticed the vein in his forehead tauten. It always did whenever he was stressed.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘You forget I’m not English. I do not know the Englishman’s ways. I’ll do it my way.’ So saying, he pulled her to her feet. ‘Let’s not tarry, it’s getting late.’
Rachael looked at him, bewildered.
Neither of them spoke on the way back. Rachael could not understand what had gone wrong.
Rachael sat in the front garden of her bungalow. She took a sip of tea and looked around. This was the only time of the day when the garden could be enjoyed. It was not too warm, the sun having just set. At the same time there was enough light to prevent mosquitoes and other creepy-crawlies from venturing out yet.
It was 17
May 1857, the middle of a scorching summer. The blades of grass had turned yellow. Even the bees seemed weary of the heat and buzzed slowly as they collected honey. Brutus sat by her chair, lazily watching a yellow butterfly, too hot to give it chase. The bluebells were dead, the geraniums had all but vanished and the hibiscus flowers drooped as they panted for respite from the heat. The leaves of her favourite guava tree were caked with dust.
She wondered what was eating Salim. He was not his usual self of late. The other day, when he had taken her to Lal Barahdari, it seemed he wanted to propose to her and yet … She had wanted him to propose. She wanted him to make her his. It did not matter anymore that he was a native. In fact, it never had.
She looked across at Papa. He was smoking his pipe and looking at some papers. She nibbled at her sandwich then pushed the plate aside. Everybody was homeward bound. The clippity-clop of carriages and the bells around the cows returning from the meadows could be heard in the distance. The sky was covered with birds flying in all directions. They seemed extra noisy today.
‘Hello, Christopher,’ said Papa.
Rachael looked in the direction of his gaze. Christopher was sauntering towards them, still in his uniform. His cheeks were still sunburnt and looked a shade deeper than his red jacket. It was a pity, for they detracted from his boyish charm. She gave him a small smile as her father patted the chair next to him. He was the last person she wanted to speak to right now. Christopher nodded at her slightly before taking a seat. They had not spoken much since their row. A wall of cold politeness had replaced their old camaraderie.
Christopher helped himself to a sandwich before turning to Papa. ‘I’m afraid I’ve some disturbing news, sir.’
‘Yes?’ said Papa.
‘The sepoys in Meerut have mutinied.’
‘Is this related to the hanging of that Pandey fellow?’
‘It’s not just that sir. Eighty-five soldiers of the 3
Light Cavalry refused to fire the cartridges of the Enfield rifles on religious grounds.’
‘What a load of superstitious nonsense.’
‘Well sir, there were rumours the cartridges the soldiers were required to bite off were greased with cow and pig fat. And religion forbids Hindus and Muslims from touching it.’
‘Oh yes, you can’t mess with their religion,’ said Rachael. ‘They take it seriously.’ She remembered how furious Salim had been when he had thought she was a Christian missionary.
‘Were they greased with animal fat?’ Papa asked.
‘I think there was some truth in the rumours, sir. The eighty-five sepoys who refused to even touch the cartridges have now been sentenced to imprisonment with hard labour for ten years. This sentence was read out before all the troops of Meerut, on the infantry parade ground. The sepoys were then stripped of their uniforms and were made to remove their boots. They were then shackled in chains.’
Rachael shook her head slowly. ‘They shouldn’t have been publicly humiliated like this. After all, they’re soldiers, not common criminals.’
‘I agree,’ replied Christopher. ‘Some of those soldiers were old, having served in the army for twenty to thirty years. They were heartbroken and were sobbing like little children.’
‘Dear me,’ Rachael said. ‘Either way they stood to lose. Even if they had obeyed and used those cartridges, they would have been shunned by their own family and village and pronounced outcasts.’
‘Now all the native soldiers of Meerut are in full revolt,’ Christopher said. ‘They’ve massacred the English and rode through the night towards Delhi. Sir Henry is expecting some trouble in Lucknow as well and feels it would be a good idea to move all the women and children to the Resi—’
‘Oh, Lawrence is being overcautious,’ interjected Papa. ‘There’s no need for that. If the people of Oudh didn’t raise their arms when their nabob was deposed, they’re not going to do so now.’
Rachael looked at Papa. Somehow she did not feel as complacent as he did. Christopher’s tidings made her apprehensive.
The skies suddenly darkened and within minutes there was dust flying everywhere.
Rachael sprang to her feet. ‘Goodness, it’s a dust storm,’ she exclaimed.
The three of them ran indoors, coughing and spluttering. Ram Singh and Ayah hurried outdoors to take the tea inside. The sandwiches and the tea were already covered with dust. They then hurried from one room to another closing all the windows, but the beds and furniture were already covered with a layer of grime.
Rachael stood by her window and watched the raging wind as it bent the trees double, the air swirling with dust. It was followed by thunder and lightning and a heavy downpour. A branch of her guava tree broke with a loud crash. She shuddered. Somehow she got the feeling that this was just the beginning. That a bigger storm was yet to come.
Rachael smiled to herself as she looked at the little necklace. She had been going to the orphanage every morning to read to the sick children. Today, just as she was leaving, Kalan had shoved something into her hands. ‘For you, madam,’ he said. It was a little necklace made of a handful of marigold flowers, stitched clumsily together. She was surprised, as he was the shyest of the lot. She had never heard him utter a single word before.
The carriage entered the gates of the Bristow residence and halted before the main entrance. As Rachael stepped out, she noticed a woman in a white sari. Daima? What was she doing here? And what was she carrying? It was a silver tray covered with a velvet cloth. There were other women as well, each one wearing a colourful dress and carrying an equally colourful tray.
‘Daima? What a surprise!’
Daima looked at her, her face grim, her lips a thin straight line. Without saying a word she brushed past her. All the other women followed her in silence.
‘What was that?’ Rachael asked Papa as she stepped into the house and closed her parasol.
‘That was what comes of getting too cosy with the natives.’
‘Pray tell me what you mean?’
‘The nabob’s son …’
‘Yes?’
‘The audacity of that—’
‘Why, what’d he do?’
‘Apparently he has taken a fancy to you and wants to make you his concubine!’
‘What?’
‘You heard me.’
Rachael fumed inwardly. So this is what Salim meant when he said he would do it his way. She should have known better. A mistress indeed! And to think she had thought he loved her and was going to propose to her!
* * *
It was 30
May 1857. Rachael looked at the rows of small beds that lined the biggest room of the orphanage. The windows had been closed to avoid invasion by the little black army of flies and mosquitoes. How could the children sleep in this sweltering heat without a fan she wondered.
She removed the strip of cloth from Kalan’s forehead. His temperature was coming down. It was a good sign. Mrs Rodriques entered the room.
‘I think you better stay the night,’ she whispered.
Rachael looked at the sleeping child, then turned her attention to the caretaker of the orphanage. ‘Pray tell me why?’
‘It’s not safe. They’re expecting trouble. There are rumours. The firing of the gun at nine o’clock tonight will be a signal for the sepoys to revolt.’
‘But I must leave. Papa will be worried sick if I don’t get back home.’
Kalan stirred. Rachael patted his head gently. Dilawar, a fair boy with soft golden curls, muttered in his sleep.
‘How will you go?’ Mrs Rodriques whispered.
‘My carriage is waiting outside.’
‘Not anymore. I think the driver has deserted.’
‘Oh dear, but I must go home.’
‘Let me see if Mr Rodriques is able to arrange something.’
Rachael wrung her hands as she paced the room. So now they were expecting a mutiny in Lucknow as well. She felt apprehensive. She wondered how Salim was.
Stop
, she told herself. It was over. She was never to think about him again. Whatever it was they had between them was over. She would have nothing to do with him ever again.
Wrapping the shawl around her head and shoulders, Rachael stepped into the palanquin. Mrs Rodriques turned to the palanquin-bearers.
‘If anyone asks, you are to tell them it is Nawab Wajid Ali Shah’s begum.’
The palanquin-bearers nodded and were soon huffing down the street.
Rachael peered through the curtain. The streets were deserted. What if the rumours were true? But then it was late. The streets would be deserted at this time of the night anyway.
A loud yelp made her start. One of the two sepoys walking down the street had kicked a stray dog who limped away yowling in pain. They were now coming towards the palanquin.
‘HALT !’
The palanquin stopped moving. Rachael held her breath. She covered her nose with her hand. A foul smell was emanating from a nearby drain.
The tall and stout sepoy tapped on the palanquin and asked, ‘Who’s in there?’
One of the palanquin-bearers stuttered, ‘H-His Majesty’s begum, Begum …’ then turned to his companion for help.
‘Begum Mahal,’ his companion supplied.
‘Yesss. Begum Mahal.’
Rachael sat still, her back straight as she pushed a truant lock of hair back under the shawl.
‘How do we know? What if you’re hiding an angrez?’ He again tapped the palanquin. ‘Begum sahiba, show us your hand.’
Rachael swallowed.
The other sepoy now spoke. ‘Leave the poor woman alone, Shekhar. Bloody firangis didn’t even let His Majesty take all his wives with him.’ He patted one of the bearers on the shoulder. ‘Go, take her home quickly. This is no time for a lady to be out on the streets.’
Rachael slowly let out her breath. She wiped her moist hands and then her face.
A few moments later, she heard a gunshot. Loud and clear. It must be nine o’clock. She was still a few minutes away from home.
There was a prolonged silence after that gunshot. All she could hear was the laboured breathing of the palanquin-bearers. She looked out of the curtain again. Now there was just one more street to cross. It was then that she heard it. The sound of muskets amidst shouting and drumming. It came from the native cantonments.
The palanquin turned the corner. She could now see her bungalow at the end of the road. It looked exactly as it did every night. A rectangular white house, shrouded in darkness, except for the faint light that could be seen at some of the windows. She almost collapsed with relief.
She sprang out of the palanquin as it stopped near the gate. She opened the gate, a little puzzled. Where was the guard on duty? Why had he not stepped forward to open it for her? She knocked on the door. There was no response. ‘Ram Singh,’ she called out and knocked again. Where was Brutus? She walked around to the back of the house. Yes, her window was open. She pulled herself through the window.
She ran from room to room shouting, ‘Papa, Brutus, Mother, Ram Singh …’ but they were nowhere to be seen. ‘Papa,’ she shouted one last time on a frustrated sob. She then collected herself and went into Papa’s study. No, he wasn’t there. She opened his drawer and took out his gun. If she was going to be alone at a time like this, she had better equip herself.
Then she went towards the servants’ quarters. Ayah’s house was empty as well. Hearing some voices, she rushed into Sudha’s quarters. She was horrified to see her surrounded by three to four natives. ‘Please forgive me. Let me go,’ Sudha was pleading, her hands joined.
‘Forgive you?’ the man bellowed. He slapped her hard across the face and sent her spiralling to the floor. Then he pulled her to her feet by yanking her hair. ‘Do you know the entire village is laughing at us since you ran away from your husband’s funeral pyre?’ He raised his hand to slap her again.
Rachael caught hold of his hand. ‘Leave her alone,’ she commanded.
The men turned to look at her now. One of them eventually spoke. ‘You keep out of this, memsahib. This is family matter. You not interfere.’
‘Yes, memsahib, you leave,’ Sudha uttered. ‘You see, these be my uncles and brothers.’
‘I’m not leaving you alone with these brutes, Sudha. Don’t any of you dare touch her,’ she challenged, as she pulled out Papa’s gun.
Sudha’s brother instantly caught hold of her hand and twisted it hard. Rachael screamed in pain. Her grip on the gun loosened and it fell to the floor. He pushed her hard. Her head banged against the wall and soon she was plunged in darkness.