Authors: Sangeeta Bhargava
Daima was silent.
Rachael continued. ‘I know not what Papa did or said that day. But if I’d been there, I’m sure it wouldn’t have happened.’
Daima kept her silence.
‘I’m sorry, for whatever he said,’ she whispered. She took out a silver chain that she always wore around her neck. ‘My mother gave this to me when I was a few months old. I want you to have it.’
Daima stared at her for a few moments, then closed Rachael’s fingers over the chain. ‘No, my child, your mother gave it … It must mean a lot to you.’
‘You are Salim’s mother. That makes you my mother as well.’
‘That you should think of parting with something so precious for you, is gift enough for me,’ said Daima, her eyes becoming moist. ‘Now put it back around your neck before you lose it,’ she gently chided and left the room with a bundle of clothes.
Rachael watched the rains from the balcony of the palace. It was astounding how the monsoons transformed the entire country. The grass that had wilted and turned yellow just a couple of days back was now parrot green. The flowers that had drooped under the glare of the sun now smiled gaily like little girls in colourful frocks. As she watched, the rain slid down the domes and minarets of the palace and ricocheted off the waters in the pond below.
She wondered how Mother was coping. Mother could never decide whether she hated the Indian summers more or the monsoons. For the rains had a life of their own. They brought in their wake a swarm of fireflies, cockroaches, bats, lizards, red ants, frogs, white ants, moths, beetles and crickets, none of which Mother was fond of.
But the rains had a magical effect on Rachael. They lifted her heart and made her forget all her worries. As she continued to look out of the window, she noticed some children playing in the garden and ran down the steps to join them. The first few drops hit her hard, but once she got used to it, it felt wonderful. The children were surprised to see her. They went all shy and quiet at first, but seeing her exuberance, recommenced their games. They held hands and danced and skipped while the thunderous rain and her silver anklets sang in unison.
She was soon soaked to the skin and her clothes clung to her. But she didn’t care. She was having far too much fun to stop now. She saw some movement in the grass near the pond, and turning to her little friends, put a finger to her lips. Quietly she crept up to whatever it was that was hopping about, and picked it up. It was a frog.
She showed her catch to her new friends who had crowded around her. The frog stared at them with petrified beady eyes. Rachael stroked its slippery back. It was shivering. ‘I think he’s scared. Let’s put him back.’ She left it gently where she had found it and watched it hop into the pond croaking.
Ribbit ribbit
. The smell of rain, the smell of moist earth filled her senses. She sat down on the swing while her little friends pushed the swing higher and higher. She laughed and shook the droplets from her hair. She saw a peacock showing off its exquisite fan of feathers. Spreading her dupatta over her arms, she chased the peacock round and round the garden, much to the amusement of the children. Then a loud clap of thunder followed by a sliver of silver thread sent her and her little friends scurrying indoors. She splish-sploshed into her room, still laughing when she heard ‘RayChal’.
She swung around, her long hair flying, to find Salim standing at the door.
Chapter Twenty-One
S
ALIM
Salim stared at Rachael as she swung around to face him, her golden wet hair flying as she did so. As the maid began to light the candles in the chandelier, a thousand Rachaels stared back at him, wet hair caught in midflight.
He gazed at her, then at her reflections in the chandelier, then at her again. ‘Subhaan Allah!’ he whispered huskily. He waved his hand dismissively at the maid. She bowed and backed out of the room quietly. He walked slowly towards Rachael. She shivered slightly as his breath caressed her. Whether it was his nearness or the cold that made her shiver, he could not tell. A wisp of wet hair clung to her cheek. A drop of water slid from it and stood trembling on her lip. He picked the drop carefully with his finger and kissed it. A soft red glow began to creep up her face.
Smiling, Salim put his finger on his lips, then pointing to her lips, raised his brow, his eyes seeking permission.
Rachael smiled, her eyes twinkling, her nose crinkling as she whispered, ‘No.’
‘Just one small kiss?’
She shook her head slowly from side to side. ‘No.’
He put his right hand over his heart theatrically, sighed loudly, ‘Ya Ali,’ and left the room. Reluctantly he crawled towards his room. Was it his imagination or did he feel a dull ache where his heart was? The way RayChal had looked at him, dripping as she was from head to toe, he had wanted to hold her really tight; he loved her with such intensity that it hurt. Ya Ali!
Salim entered the house behind Kaiserbagh Palace, at the northern end of Nagina-wali Baradari. Begum Hazrat Mahal sat on a takhat drawing on her hookah. She was talking to some shadows on the other side of the khus mats. As a hot blast of wind shook the mat on the doorway, the smell of khus wafted into the room.
Raising his right hand to his forehead, he said, ‘Aadaab, Ammi.’ She raised her right hand in reply, her gold bracelets clinking, and indicated that he be seated. A eunuch, looking ridiculous in a parrot-green kurta, entered the room with an abkhora of water and offered it to Salim.
Salim looked at Ammi as she sat there, leaning back slightly on the oblong pillow, her brows furrowed in concentration. She could not have been more than twenty-six years old. He could see why Abbu had fallen for her and why all the other begums were jealous of her. It wasn’t just the beauty and charm she exuded. It was also her intelligence and the courage and conviction with which she spoke. He loved Daima, it was true, but this was the woman he idolised. But apparently she did not think the same of him. Otherwise, would she not have put forward his name for the coronation?
Ammi raised her right hand and the maid requested the men on the other side of the room to stop speaking. ‘Begum Sahiba would like to say something,’ the maid announced.
‘We have listened to your grievances,’ said Ammi, her huge gold nose ring swaying as she spoke. ‘Now we want to ask you – what should we reward you sepoys for? For plundering our people and destroying their shops and business? Or for murdering innocent babies and women? Or for sleeping at your posts instead of fighting?’
She pulled her soft transparent dupatta, that had slipped slightly, back over her head. ‘You should be ashamed of yourselves. It has been days since we surrounded the Residency and you have not yet succeeded in capturing it. The British flag still flies high over the Baillie Guard.’ She paused briefly to wipe the perspiration from her forehead and to draw on her hookah. ‘Now go away, all of you, and don’t come back unless you have proved yourselves to be men.’
Ammi whispered something to the maid.
‘Begum Sahiba would like to speak to Raja Jia Lal Singh in private,’ the maid announced.
There was much shuffling, whispering and coughing as the men left the room.
‘Raja Jia Lal,’ said Ammi, after the rest had left.
‘Yes, Begum Sahiba, I’m here.’
‘Raja Jia Lal Singhji, you will have to speak to these sepoys and tell them to stop bickering about petty matters. If we want to throw the firangis out of our country, we’ve got to stand united. Otherwise prepare to be their slaves for another two hundred years.’
‘Yes, Begum Sahiba, I’ll try my best to drill some sense into their heads,’ answered Raja Jia Lal, from the other side of the mat.
‘Now if you’ll excuse me, my son is here and I wish to speak to him,’ said Ammi.
‘Aadaab, Begum Sahiba,’ Raja Jia Lal said as he prepared to leave.
‘Aadaab,’ Ammi replied.
Salim looked at her. She was tugging at the pearls and rubies that had been embroidered on the pillowcase with gold and silver threads.
‘Any problem, Ammi?’
‘No. These sepoys should be concentrating their efforts in ousting the Company … instead of plundering and looting and creating anarchy in the kingdom.’
‘You’re right,’ Salim replied. He paused, then added, ‘You sent for me, Ammi?’
Ammi took a long draw at her hookah. It made a gurgling sound. ‘You’re upset with us?’ she asked eventually.
‘Ya Ali, why would I be?’ Salim replied, averting his gaze.
‘Because Birjis has been crowned and not you.’
Salim fidgeted with the sword tied to his cummerbund. ‘I’m sure you had good reason.’
‘You know what happened to Nana Saheb, as well as in Jhansi. The Company refused to acknowledge the adopted son of Laxmibai as the heir apparent. We did not want to take any risks.’
Ah yes, Dalhousie’s famous Doctrine of Lapse. Denying Indian rulers the right to adopt an heir. The company had used the doctrine to gobble up Nagpur and Jhansi. No wonder Ammi did not wish to take any chances. Salim felt a little ashamed for doubting her intentions.
‘Besides, Birjis’s coronation was just a ceremony to establish leadership. The real king is still your Abba Huzoor. Once we have defeated the firangis, we will hand over the kingdom to him,’ Ammi continued.
‘Of course.’
Ammi got up and walked over to him. She took his right hand in hers and patted it. ‘We have a difficult job on our hands. Do we have your support?’
‘Ammi, it is there even without the asking.’
She turned away and sighed. ‘These men were here today asking to be paid. Now where do I get the money? I had a mere twenty-four thousand rupees. It’s all gone.’
‘What about the treasury?’
‘We cannot touch the king’s treasury. It won’t be right.’
‘We can melt the silver and gold from the thrones and other furnishings and ornaments.’
‘That’s an excellent idea, Salim. Why didn’t we think of it before? That should take care of our problems for a while. We have already set up a foundry to produce arms and ammunition. So that has also been looked into.’
‘We can also repair all the guns that were disabled by the Company during annexation.’
‘That’s right,’ said Ammi with a smile.
Salim coughed. ‘Ammi, I’ve heard that some of the begums have been writing to Abba Huzoor against you.’
‘Let them. They show their love for him by writing long woeful letters and sending him a lock of their hair. We’ll prove our love for him by restoring his kingdom.’ She looked at Salim arrogantly, challenging him to oppose what she had said. Salim merely nodded.
She continued speaking, her eyes flashing angrily as she spoke. ‘These are the begums who refused to let their sons be crowned for fear of the firangis. We were the only one who had the courage to put our son on the throne.’ She sat down on the takhat and pulled at her hookah. ‘You know, Salim, we don’t care what they say. They are like hyenas who will willingly partake of a lion’s kill, but will shy away from the kill itself.’
Salim sat in silence for a while as she angrily smoked the hookah. When she did speak, she was solemn.
‘The time has come for us to avenge what the firangis have done to us. The way they deposed your father.’ Her voice had risen sharply. ‘The way they threw out our family from Farhat Baksh, the way they hung our sepoys for refusing to forsake their religion, the way they’ve destroyed our places of worship like Qadam Rasul …’
Salim looked at her. Her jaw was set and there was a fire smouldering in her eyes. He remembered the destruction of his music hall, the auction of the animals, the bombardment of Macchi Bhawan.
‘Yes, Ammi,’ he said quietly. ‘It’s time to avenge their wrongdoings.’
It was evening. A momentary hush had fallen over Lucknow. Salim recalled what Ammi had said to him. ‘We’ll prove our love for him by restoring his kingdom,’ she had said. He walked wistfully to the large mulberry tree and sat down heavily on the circular marble parapet around the tree. He looked at the garden. It was empty except for a handful of men busy at work. The gardener was collecting all the twigs and leaves that had been broken by the downpour that morning. The sweeper was sweeping the water that had collected in puddles into the gutters. A maidservant was picking some marigolds for the evening prayers. It was such a contrast to the hustle-bustle and noise that filled these gardens every year on this day. The day Abba Huzoor celebrated his birthday.
Daima had narrated to Salim how the most learned astrologers in the land had been summoned to the court by Salim’s grandfather when Abba Huzoor was born. Their task was to prepare his horoscope. They made exalted predictions for the little prince. However, there was one small hitch. There was a likelihood the prince might renounce the world and become a priest. To prevent that from happening, the astrologers suggested the prince be made to wear the saffron robe of a holy man on his birthday.
And so it came to pass that on every birthday, Abba Huzoor would smear his body with the ash of pearls and don saffron robes. He would sit on this parapet under this very mulberry tree while beautiful damsels danced and musicians played on their shehnais. All his begums would be dressed in saffron as well. The gates of the Kaiserbagh Palace would be thrown open for the public and any and everyone could come and join in the festivities as long as they wore saffron clothes.
Salim rose slowly. He squared his chin as he watched a parrot peck at the mulberries. They had to defeat the firangis. Chase them out of this land and bring Abba Huzoor and those happy days back to Lucknow. Yes, he would do all he could to support Ammi in her endeavours.
Chapter Twenty-Two
S
ALIM
Salim put down his gun and pulled himself out of the trench. There was a lull in the firing. He was bored. How many more days would he have to spend outside the Residency before it finally fell? He looked at the main building, which was an enormous three-storeyed structure. Built with bricks on a raised piece of land, to the east of Macchi Bhawan, it had spacious rooms, verandas, porticos and countless windows. Salim knew his great-grandfather had built it for the English Resident. But what year was it? He thought hard. Must have been somewhere around 1800, he concluded.