Authors: Sangeeta Bhargava
‘Greetings,’ Salim said, raising his right hand to his forehead.
‘Greetings, Chote Nawab. So what news do you bring from the field of battle?’ asked Pyaari begum.
‘Not good, I’m afraid. We just suffered our first defeat. But Ammi says we mustn’t lose heart.’
‘What else can she say?’ said Pyaari begum.
‘Yes, she doesn’t want this struggle to end so she can carry on with her paramour Mammu Jaan,’ said Dulari begum.
‘Huzoor, what’re you saying?’ asked Salim, bewildered.
Pyaari begum put a paan in her mouth and said, ‘It’s not just us. All of Lucknow is talking about her lover.’
‘We’ve even heard Birjis Qadir is his son,’ said Dulari begum, as she played with the ends of her dupatta.
‘What utter nonsense,’ said Salim. ‘Stop spreading these rumours, for Allah’s sake. She’s doing a commendable job of an acting regent. You should be giving her your support instead of slinging mud at her.’ He took off his turban and was about to stomp off when he saw Rachael feeding pigeons in the inner courtyard of the zenana. He smiled, the begums’ gossip and the defeat in Alambagh momentarily forgotten.
The begums followed the direction of his gaze. ‘Go, Chote Nawab, we won’t keep you. Go to your guest.’
‘Guest or something else?’ quipped Dulari begum. The two women giggled.
‘Chote Nawab, I know you wouldn’t like to hear this. But it’s a fact – as long as we’ve traitors like Begum Hazrat Mahal and spies like your English friend in our midst, we’ll never be able to defeat the firangis.’
‘That’s enough. If we lose, it’ll be because of people like you.’ Salim plucked at his sleeve to get a grip on his temper. ‘Now listen carefully, you two. I don’t mean to be rude, but RayChal is my guest and I will not have anyone speak about her in that manner. If I ever catch you indulging in harmful gossip like this, I will have you thrown out of this palace.’
‘How many mouths are you going to shut, Chote Nawab?’ Pyaari begum asked with a contemptuous smile, then turned on her heel and left.
Chapter Twenty-Three
R
ACHAEL
Rachael let go of the pigeon she was playing with as soon as she espied Salim. He sounded angry. His voice rose sharply and she heard him say, ‘RayChal is my guest and I will not have anyone speak about her in that manner …’ What had they said about her that made him so angry? But she was pleased he had stuck out his head for her.
She approached him quietly after the two begums left. His clothes were muddy, stained, wet and untidy. He hadn’t shaved. But stubble suited him, she decided. He looked ruggedly handsome. ‘Salim?’
‘What?’ he asked sharply. ‘I mean, yes RayChal?’
She lowered her gaze and looked at his clothes. She realised with a start that they were not just covered in mud. There was blood on them.
She pointed to a bloodstain and exclaimed, ‘That’s … that’s blood.’
‘Yes.’ Salim hesitated, then conceded, ‘It’s Ahmed’s.’
‘What? But how?’ Rachael looked him straight in the eye. She could perceive her question had rattled him.
‘We were in … we were trying to control an angry mob.’
‘Pray tell me, is he all right?’
‘Yes, he’s fine now. His mother and the palace doctor are taking care of him.’
‘I’d like to go to
my
mother.’
Rachael watched as Salim quietly sauntered towards the far end of the courtyard, picked up one of the pigeons and stroked its head. Then he turned to her. ‘You want to be cut into bits? Do you know the moment you step out of this palace you’ll be killed?’
‘I’m sure I could disguise myself. You know, don a burqa or something?’
‘I suppose we might be able to smuggle you out of the palace safely. But how in Allah’s name do you think I’m going to sneak you into the Residency? Do you know there are as many as forty thousand sepoys surrounding it right now, thirsting for English blood?’
‘Forty thousand?’
‘Maybe even more. Look, I’ve promised you I will take you to your parents as soon as it’s safe. Trust me, will you?’
‘How much longer? I’ve been here for ages. I miss my parents.’ Rachael sulked.
Salim let go of the pigeon. For a long moment only the flapping of wings and the soft cooing of the pigeons could be heard. He rubbed the back of his neck and sighed tiredly. ‘RayChal, please, not now. I’m wet, I’m tired, I’m hungry. We’ll talk about it some other time.’
Rachael screwed up her nose at the smell of pigeon droppings and watched Salim walk away. Something was not right. The way he hung his head, the way he walked, the way his shoulders drooped. He didn’t just look tired and hungry. He looked defeated.
Later that evening, Rachael sat hunched before a low mahogany table, her brows furrowed with concentration. She dipped her quill pen into the ornate silver inkpot that stood at the edge of the table. ‘Alif,’ she said aloud, as she wrote an alphabet on the paper before her. ‘Be … pe … te …’ She looked at her handiwork dubiously, not pleased with what she had written. Urdu was much more difficult than she had anticipated.
Daima entered the room with a tray of food. She removed the cover. There were some rotis and lentils. ‘Hai Ram, I brought the wrong tray,’ she exclaimed and hurried back to the kitchen.
Rachael waited for her impatiently. The smell of hot freshly prepared chapattis and yellow lentils cooked in butter ghee and cumin seeds had whetted her appetite.
Daima soon re-emerged and placed the plate on the round, grey, marble-topped table.
‘Pray tell me whose plate that was, Daima?’
‘What plate?’
‘The one you took back?’
‘Umm … Salim’s.’
Rachael’s spoon cluttered to the floor. She looked at her food. ‘Rice, chapattis, vegetables and chicken curry for me and just chapattis and lentils for Salim?’
Looking down, Daima replied, ‘Food and money are both becoming scarce, child … we are having to ration.’
‘But then why all these extra dishes for me?’
‘You are guest … we can go to bed on hungry stomach but have to make sure our guest has been fed well.’
Rachael did not know what to say. She had lost her appetite. She ate slowly and quietly. Daima placed a glass of water next to her plate.
‘You know, when His Majesty was king, over a hundred dishes used to be cooked every Eid … this year we could manage just five.’
‘Daima, where does Salim disappear for days?’
‘God alone knows what these boys are up to … Mind you, Salim is good boy … it is that boy Ahmed who leads him astray.’ She started fanning herself and Rachael.
Rachael wanted to say it was the contrary but refrained from doing so.
Daima continued speaking. ‘Now that most of the servants are gone, I have to attend to everything … since morning to night I’m working … I’m not complaining but at this age it becomes difficult sometimes.’ She put another chapatti on Rachael’s plate. ‘I feel bad serving daal roti to Chote Nawab … when His Majesty was still king, every day was a feast … but not once has my boy complained … when I gave this plain food to him the first time, he said, “Daima, we need food to appease our hunger … And this food’s doing just that … But make sure our guest has enough to eat.”’
Rachael found it impossible to eat now. ‘Daima, from tomorrow, pray serve me the same food as Salim.’
‘I cannot—’
‘Please Daima, I’m not a guest anymore.’
‘But—’
‘For Salim’s sake?’
Daima patted her head lovingly. ‘You good girl … you’ll keep him happy.’
The next morning, Rachael was seated on the carpet of her front room, a chessboard before her. A female attendant stood behind her, head lowered, waving a fan slowly to and fro. Across the board sat Saira, consternation written on her face. She kept nodding her head vigorously as Rachael picked up each piece and explained its move. Rachael stopped speaking and looked at her impatiently, wondering if she had comprehended even a word of what she had said. She sighed with relief as Salim entered the room.
‘A game of chess?’ he said. ‘I didn’t know you could play.’
‘Well, you’ll be surprised to know I’m a champion player,’ Rachael answered.
‘Oh really?’ Salim dismissed Saira with a wave of his hand.
Saira raised her right hand to her forehead, bowed and backed out of the room.
Rachael swallowed as he folded his arms across his chest and walked purposefully towards her. His eyes twinkled as he said, ‘In that case I challenge you to a game. If you win, you can ask anything of me. But if I win …’ He looked at her lips for a long moment before continuing. ‘If I win, you will let me give you a kiss.’ He looked at her then, his eyes smiling, baiting, challenging.
‘Just one?’
‘Just one.’
Raising her chin in the air, Rachael looked at him, her eyes unflinching. ‘I accept your challenge, Chute Nabob.’
Salim sat down on the carpet. ‘You go first,’ he offered graciously.
‘All right, here comes my soldier.’
‘And here’s my horse.’
Rachael crinkled up her nose as Salim contemplated his next move.
‘Why do you always scrunch up your nose? As it is, your nose is so small …’
She leant over and pulled his nose. ‘At least when you’ve got a small nose, nobody can pull it.’
‘Ya Ali, that hurt.’
‘I know. Your turn.’
Saira entered just then and placed a bowl of fruits on the table. ‘Chote Nawab, is there anything else you need?’ she asked.
‘No, that’ll be all. Now leave us in peace.’
‘Very well, Chote Nawab.’ She bowed respectfully and tiptoed out of the room.
‘Pray hurry up and make your move,’ Rachael said impatiently, as she played with her silver earring. Not that she was winning. Salim had made some intelligent moves, especially the last one, and now her side of the board was facing the inevitable.
‘Check,’ he drawled. ‘Try and save your wazir, I mean queen, Miss Champion.’ He drew on his hookah and leant back against the oblong pillow. His hand stroked the velvet pillow cover absent-mindedly as he watched Rachael.
Rachael frowned. ‘Ah well, I suppose I’ve lost,’ she finally conceded.
Salim’s eyes smouldered as he slowly reduced the distance between them. He gradually raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. He was about to lower his lips to hers when she covered his mouth with her hand.
‘Wait,’ she said. ‘The deal was –
one
kiss.’ She caressed the spot on her right hand that he had just kissed. ‘And you already have.’
She crinkled up her nose and, laughing, ran into her bedroom.
October was the month of festivals, so Rachael had been told by Daima. She sat on her haunches on the rug in a little room in the zenana, surrounded by marigolds. They were making little garlands for the numerous Hindu gods Daima worshipped. Daima put a needle through one of them. ‘See, you put the needle through the flower like this, then you pull the thread and—’
‘Ma,’ Chutki burst into the room. She stopped speaking as soon as she saw Rachael.
Rachael was surprised at her appearance. She wore a white kurti with no jewellery. She had not tied her hair and it looked unkempt. Nor had she put any kohl in her eyes.
‘Ma, what is this angrez doing here?’ she asked, hands on her hip.
Daima raised a finger to her lip. ‘Shhh … She’s our guest.’
Chutki wrung her hands. ‘How can an enemy be a guest? What’s she doing in Salim bhai’s palace?’
‘Her house was burnt down … She’s just staying here with us till we hear about her folks’ whereabouts,’ Daima answered quietly.
‘If she doesn’t have anywhere to stay, why doesn’t she go back to England where she belongs?’ said Chutki. ‘And take the rest of the firangis with her.’
Rachael shifted uncomfortably. She picked up a marigold and tried to push the needle through it.
‘What was it you came to talk to me about?’ Daima asked as she finished making the garland.
‘I’ll be reaching home a little late this evening. Tell Nayansukh bhaiya not to worry.’
‘What are you so busy with these days? Are you hiding something from me?’ asked Daima.
Chutki’s eyes shone. ‘I’ll tell you when the time comes,’ she said.
Daima pulled Chutki aside. ‘The knowledge that Rachael is in Kaiserbagh mustn’t leave the palace grounds, do you understand?’ she hissed.
Chutki threw a venomous look at Rachael. ‘Yes, I understand,’ she spat out and stomped out of the room.
Sighing, Daima patted Rachael’s head and said, ‘Beta, don’t mind what my daughter said … Her fiancé was killed by the Company a few months back … That’s why she’s become so bitter.’
‘Oh,’ Rachael said softly. She remembered the last time she had met Chutki in Meena Bazaar. She had been happily shopping for her trousseau. It must have been devastating for her.
Daima spoke again. ‘I have seen much, suffered much over the years and have learnt to keep a rein on my emotions … but she’s young, her blood is hot, her emotions raw … she doesn’t know how to control her tongue … I don’t know where she is all day … This is the first time I have seen her in the palace since Gangaram’s death …’
But Rachael wasn’t listening. She was too stunned by what Chutki had said. So much hatred. She had no clue. Did Daima also hate the English? Did all the Indians feel like that? What about Salim?
Chapter Twenty-Four
S
ALIM
Salim watched from the tower as Colin Campbell’s army approached Sikandar Bagh. So this was the second relief sent to Lucknow. When had the first relief come? Was it September? It seemed so long ago. It had been a disaster for the firangis. But this one? Salim swallowed as he watched the army rolling towards him like a huge wave. The outcome could be different this time though, he thought as he pursed his lips.
He held up his binoculars and looked disdainfully at the smartly dressed Sikh regiment. Bloody kafirs all of them. Most of the other regiments wore no uniform at all. Some wore outfits patched with pieces of curtain cloth. They looked ridiculous. Yes, five months of incessant fighting had left both sides handicapped. Why, even he had not washed or changed for almost a week. Daima was sure to box his ears when he got home. He absently rubbed his stubble as he discerned another regiment.