Authors: Sangeeta Bhargava
He looked askance as Nayansukh exclaimed, ‘Oh no, I think I’ve fired my last bullet.’
Ahmed looked into his bag. ‘I’m also running out of cartridges.’
‘Salim bhai, there’re a lot of unused cartridges and bullets on the other side of the wall—’ said Nayansukh.
‘Don’t even think about it,’ interjected Salim. ‘You will be shot even before you pull yourself over the wall.’
Nayansukh said nothing but kept looking around. Salim watched him suspiciously as he walked over to some street children playing in a gutter nearby. There were about seven or eight of them. They were trying to catch some tadpoles. ‘Madan, hurry, hurry, catch it,’ yelled the smallest boy in the group. Madan swung around and did a little jig as he held a tadpole aloft by its tail. He wore a vest, which was torn at several places, over an oversized pair of shorts. His bare feet were caked in mud. But his grin – Salim had never seen anyone so happy in a long time. ‘Oye, Billu,’ Madan called out to the little boy. Billu shrieked then burst out laughing as Madan swung the tadpole in front of his face.
Salim raised a brow questioningly as Nayansukh crawled back stealthily into the trench a few minutes later with Madan, Billu and another boy. Nayansukh ignored him and turning to the children asked: ‘So did you understand? We will keep the firangis busy this side with our firing. And while we do that, you sneak in …’ He pointed with his right hand. ‘You must go over that low wall, all right? Quietly collect as many unused bullets and cartridge—’
‘What is cart—?’ Billu asked.
‘This,’ said Ahmed as he held up one for all to see.
‘What’s all this, Nayansukh?’ Salim asked. ‘Putting the lives of these children at risk?’
‘Exactly, Salim bhai. Children. They’re our safest bet. The firangis are not going to fire at children.’
Nayansukh gave Madan a shove. ‘Go now and wait for my signal. Remember, when you get back, I’ll give all of you a free meal.’
‘Yay,’ the boys shouted in unison and ran off to do his bidding.
Salim stared after them, still unsure. Then he bellowed ‘Fire!’ His men started pelting bullets at the firangis. Through the corner of his eye he saw Nayansukh raise his hand to signal to the kids and watched them scramble over the wall.
A few minutes later some shots were heard at the far end. Salim raised his hand to signal to his men to stop firing. He listened. Silence. A solitary eagle circled the Residency, then flew away screeching. Salim, Nayansukh and Ahmed looked at each other.
Then there was a thud as three bodies were flung over the wall. Salim ran towards the sound, followed by Nayansukh and Ahmed. The three of them stared in stunned silence at the bodies lying in a heap, covered in blood. They were not laughing anymore, their mouths still. Billu’s body lay right on top. A wisp of hair had fallen over his forehead, his lips soft and red. He looked even more innocent in death. But his eyes were wide open. They were cold and stony and stared at Salim accusingly.
Salim did not know how long he stood there, gazing at the three crumpled-up bodies. Finally, he looked at Nayansukh, his jaw taut, eyes smouldering. ‘They are Hindus,’ he said curtly. ‘Make sure they get a proper cremation.’ Nayansukh slowly nodded. Salim walked back stiffly to where the rest of his troops stood.
* * *
Later that night, Salim entered the room he was sharing with Ahmed. It was in one of the looped houses surrounding the Residency. He ran his fingers through his hair and wondered how many more nights he would have to spend here. As he discarded his wet clothes he remembered the look on the children’s faces at the mention of a free meal. And then their dead bodies, heaped on top of each other like rag dolls. He lay down on his makeshift bed, his hands folded behind his head, and stared absently at the ceiling. He thought of all the comforts of the palace, of Daima, Chilmann, all the servants who attended to his every need. He wondered how Abba Huzoor was coping in Calcutta.
‘Salim mia?’ It was Ahmed.
Salim rolled on his side and looked at Ahmed as he settled down on the adjoining bed.
‘Did you tell Rachael?’ Ahmed asked.
Salim did not reply immediately. He walked over to the window, then answered softly, ‘No. I want to, but I just can’t.’
‘But this is not right, Salim mia. You’re hiding something so huge from her? What if something happens tomorrow? What if her parents get killed?
Then
will you tell her? What’ll you say? “I fired the shot that killed them”?’
‘What do I do? Should I drop everything? Stop all this fighting and go back to Kaiserbagh?’
He turned his back to Ahmed and looked out of the window. The troops were singing and dancing on the street. Turning back to Ahmed he said, ‘Ahmed, I haven’t a clue what I should do. On the one hand there’s Abba Huzoor, the promise I made to Hazrat Ammi, and on the other …’ He picked up a surahi and finding it empty smashed it to the ground.
‘Why get cross, Salim mia? I was merely giving you advice as a friend. The rest is up to you and up to your … your … whatever she is of yours,’ said Ahmed, pulling a sheet over himself and closing his eyes.
‘I don’t want to lose her, Ahmed, I don’t want to lose her,’ Salim whispered hoarsely. He looked at Ahmed when he did not reply and heard him snoring. Salim gave a small smile. So like Ahmed to say something that would keep him awake all night and promptly fall asleep himself.
But Ahmed was right. What was he to do? On the one hand was his father, his men. He could not be unfaithful to them. On the other hand was his love. He felt torn. He could not betray his father, but neither could he his love. She trusted him. Believed everything he told her. Ya Ali. What was he to do?
Salim stood in an eight-foot narrow trench a few yards away from the firangis defending the Residency, with Ahmed and some sepoys. They watched as the last of the twenty-five guns was pushed into position. They had also succeeded in erecting barricades in front of and all around the guns. Now they were waiting patiently for his signal to fire.
Salim waved his hand irritably as a mosquito whirred in his ear. He narrowed his gaze as he spotted an old woman in the garb of a beggar carefully laying mines, just two hundred yards from the firangi defences.
‘Is that woman mad? What’s she doing here?’ Ahmed said.
‘Shhh! Just watch,’ Salim hissed. He held his breath as a firangi soldier spotted her. She hastily sat down.
‘Hey, who are you, what’re you doing here?’ the firangi asked gruffly.
‘I poor beggar,’ the woman coughed. ‘Just resting me old bones. I go as soon as I get life into them.’ She wiped her face with the edge of her tattered sari.
The soldier looked her over and dismissed her. Salim silently rejoiced. But a few minutes later he was holding his head in his hands dejectedly as a drop of rain fell on his forehead. The drizzle turned to thick rain and the sepoys watched in dismay as it washed away the old woman’s efforts.
Salim watched with disgust as some sepoys dawdled to their posts just then, after spending a night consuming bhang. That, too, just after Ammi had reprimanded them. With a laid-back attitude like that, how were they ever going to budge the garrison at the Residency? Ya Ali, didn’t they realise time was running out? Soon relief would be reaching the English troops from Kanpur. After the victory at Chinhat, Salim had expected Sir Henry and his men at the Residency to surrender within days. Alas! They were more resilient than he had thought.
Life in the Residency could not have been easy, he mused. For one, it was housing way too many more people than it was built to hold. All the women and children who had been evacuated successfully from the Marion cantonment. Not to mention those who had made their escape from neighbouring towns. And what about the injured and the sick? How were they coping?
Pursing his lips, Salim shook his head disapprovingly at the sepoys who were waving their bayonets in the air. They had placed chicken or kebabs at the ends of their bayonets and were waving them at the firangis posted at the Baillie Guard. Yes, food must surely be scarce in the Residency. Most of the traders had stopped selling them food, even at abominable prices.
‘I’m already starving,’ Ahmed grumbled. He fumbled in his pocket. ‘And just two paan left. Those, too, dried up in the heat,’ he said as he put a paan in his mouth. ‘Salim mia, you know what happened two days back …’
‘What?’
‘The children, Salim mia.’ Ahmed stopped speaking to spit out some betel juice. ‘What happened shouldn’t have happened.’
Closing his eyes, Salim shook his head from side to side. What atrocities man commits in the name of war. Those innocent children. Did they deserve to die in that manner?
The rains finally abated. Salim looked around at his troops and gave the signal. Instantaneously the sound of muskets firing filled the air. Muttering ‘Ya Ali’, he loaded his gun, only his hand being visible over the trench. He fired. As the cloud of dust settled, he saw the sprawled bodies of the two firangis he had just killed.
A bullet grazed a couple of inches over his shoulder. If he was not in the trench, he would have been shot, he realised, his heart pounding.
A sepoy fired a block of wood at the firangis. Salim shook his head. Chucking wood, copper coins, stink-pots or even stray bullets was not going to make a dent in Sir Henry’s defences. What they needed was to blow up the place. Just like the firangis had blown up Macchi Bhawan. But he would never order his men to do that as long as there were women and children in the Residency.
Salim cursed loudly as it started to rain again. He was tired of this rain, tired of standing in the trenches in damp clothes day in and day out. Ya Ali, when was it ever going to stop? The smell of the rain mingled with the smell of gunpowder, and with that fizzled all hopes he had harboured of capturing the Residency that day. The damn bloody rain. It had foiled their plans yet again. And those firangis – they surely did have nerves of iron; he had to give them that.
A sense of panic had gripped the city since the news reached them that firangi troops under General Havelock and Sir James Outram were marching towards Lucknow. Sepoys, as well as civilians, poured into Alambagh to defend their city.
Salim narrowed his eyes. It was raining hard and difficult to discern what was happening ahead. He steadied Afreen and peered through his binoculars. He could now perceive Hazrat Ammi in the thick of battle. She rode the tallest elephant and was charging ahead, her sword raised. On either side of her rode Raja Jia Lal Singh and General Syed Barkat Ahmad. Two French soldiers rode beside them. What a woman, Salim mused, as he watched her slash a firangi’s head off with her sword.
But the firangis were ripping them apart. They had captured five guns so far. Salim looked on in dismay as some of his men began to retreat. He put down the binoculars and kicked Afreen hard. Just then something caught his eye.
Bringing Afreen to an abrupt halt, he looked through the binoculars again. Was it Ahmed? He was slumped over the back of his horse. He looked again and blinked. ‘Ahmed,’ he shouted. But the rain, the clanking of the swords, the groans of the men hurt, the neighing, the trumpeting, the firing of shells and muskets, drowned his cries.
Choking back a lump in his throat, he looked heavenward. Ya Allah, please don’t let anything happen to my Ahmed, he silently prayed. Slowly, he inched his way through the fighting men, towards his friend. Jumping off Afreen when he was a couple of yards away from him, he sloshed through the mud to reach his side. ‘Ahmed,’ he cried again as he dragged him off his horse and onto Afreen’s back, then galloped towards the outer walls of Lucknow.
‘Salim mia,’ Ahmed whispered in a weak voice. Salim gripped the reins tightly and continued to gallop at breakneck speed until he was sure they had left the firangis far behind. Then he patted Afreen’s mane and made her slow down. He looked around in desperation through the blinding rain until he spotted a mud house. It looked deserted. Bringing Afreen to a halt, he tied her to a nearby tree. Next he heaved Ahmed over his shoulder and carried him inside the house.
Panting heavily, he looked at Ahmed. Blood was oozing out of his left arm. There was blood everywhere – on the floor, his clothes, even his boots were caked with blood. But he was lucky. Damn lucky. The bullet had just missed his heart. Salim tore his waistband and tied it tightly around his arm. With the remnant of the waistband, he wiped the mud and perspiration from Ahmed’s face.
‘Are you all right?’
‘Still alive, Salim mia.’
‘Isn’t this the same arm you broke when we fell off that guava tree? When you were ten?’
‘Same one, Salim mia.’
‘Can I get you anything?’
‘Nihari-kulcha and perhaps some kebabs.’
Salim glared at him. ‘Ya Ali! Kulcha and kebabs. And I almost got a fit thinking you were dead.’
Ahmed smiled tiredly. ‘Water will do for now.’
Salim smiled at him and shook his head. He must get him to the palace soon and checked by the palace doctor. He was losing too much blood.
‘How did we fare in the battle?’ Ahmed asked.
‘The relieving English forces are moving steadily towards the Residency,’ said Salim as he slowly fed Ahmed some water from his cupped hands. ‘This is the first time in three months, since the uprising started, that we’ve been defeated.’
‘Don’t worry, Salim mia, we’ll bounce back.’
‘I hope so,’ Salim replied gloomily. He spoke slowly. ‘Otherwise we’re doomed. If the firangis lose, they will simply go back to their motherland. But if
we
lose, we will be hanged, each one of us.’
Salim walked up the steps of the palace. He was relieved Ahmed was out of danger and in safe hands. But alas. They had lost the battle in Alambagh. The firangi army under Havelock and Outram had succeeded in entering the Residency. But … there was still hope. How were the firangis going to leave the Residency? After all, it was still surrounded by thousands of his men. And how was the already heaving Residency going to cope with the additional men?
As he walked down the corridor, deep in thought, he saw Pyaari begum and Dulari begum approaching him. Oh no, not them. If only he could ignore them. He couldn’t wait to get out of his muddy wet clothes and go to the hammam.