Authors: Sangeeta Bhargava
A shiver ran down his spine. They were the Highlanders, the freshly arrived troops that his men had been talking about. They were dressed in kilts, with plumes on their bonnets, and looked formidable. Like the rakshas in Ravana’s army that Daima had so often narrated to him as a child.
A young lad in the front line caught his attention. Unlike the rest, he looked small, almost delicate. Why, he must be just sixteen. His cheeks were flushed with excitement as he laughed and talked to his comrade. This must be his first war. Salim remembered the first battle he had engaged in, just five months back. How raw and inexperienced he had been then.
Putting down the binoculars, Salim went around all the rooms, patting a soldier here, praising another one there. Having satisfied himself that every loophole, every single window and door had been covered, he went downstairs to the room at the far end, the one overlooking the inner courtyard, to take up his position. Stationing himself on the window ledge, he looked around the room. This room had been used for dining not so long ago. The soldiers had rolled up the carpets and sheets and bundled them into a corner. A chandelier still hung from the ceiling, looking morosely at the bare floor.
Salim slouched against the wall. The firangis had been firing incessantly at the solid brick wall for over an hour now. That wall was the only barrier that stood between his troops and the foe. How he wished they would give up and go away. No, he wasn’t afraid. Not anymore. Just tired. Even his soldiers were exhausted, disillusioned, unwilling. He did not know how to motivate them anymore.
He straightened up as the shouts of ‘Long live the Queen’ rent the air and looked out of the window. The Highlanders had finally succeeded in making gaps in the wall. They were now charging into the building with a deafening roar. Salim’s heartbeat quickened as he held up his musket.
Shouts of ‘Har Har Mahadev’ and ‘Allah-o-Akbar’ followed, as they clashed with the enemy. The window ledge over which Salim stood opened on to a corridor, enabling him to fire at the firangis as they came round the corner. Between exchanging shots, he happened to glance at the peepal tree that stood in the centre of the inner courtyard and noticed something curious.
At the bottom of the tree were innumerable jars of water. As soon as a firangi approached the jars to quench his thirst, he was instantly shot. Salim whistled his admiration at the sepoy’s aim and tried to spot him atop the tree but couldn’t. He was well hidden by the foliage.
Salim fired at the enemy incessantly, stopping only to reload his musket. His men were fighting bravely but they were outnumbered. The floor of the room was gradually getting covered with bodies. Some of the wounded sepoys lay writhing, groaning, trying desperately to crawl out from under the dead bodies that had fallen over them, crushing them. Salim closed his eyes for a split second as the desperate cries of the soldiers thus trapped tore at his heart.
As Salim was reloading his musket, Naseer, who stood at the adjoining window, pointed excitedly. ‘Chote Nawab, look.’
Salim looked out of the window. He saw a group of firangis run frantically out of the building onto the courtyard, then round the back, chased by a black cloud of bees. He smiled faintly. ‘If the bees manage to get under those jackets, their backs will be redder than the jackets they have on,’ he chuckled.
‘I was thinking more about them two men in kilts,’ Naseer guffawed.
Salim laughed aloud.
A moment later Naseer had been hit from behind and fell out of the window with a thud.
Turning sharply to see who had shot him, Salim was surprised to see the young Scottish lad he had spotted earlier that day. Salim hastily fired. Missed. The lad pointed his gun at Salim. ‘Ya Ali,’ Salim shouted in dismay as he realised he had fired his last cartridge. His shout distracted the lad. He hesitated then fired. Salim ducked, then quick as a leopard he threw his musket and drew his sword. With a shout of ‘Allah-o-Akbar’, he charged towards the lad and plunged his sword into his stomach.
The lad now lay on the floor, covered in blood. Salim shook his head slowly as he looked down at his beautiful face, his smooth cheeks. He had not even begun to shave. Salim closed his eyes momentarily and his Adam’s apple moved. What would RayChal say? Would she approve? Why, she threw a fit for killing a mere ant … She would never approve.
No
. She would understand. He’d make her understand. She
had
to …
He winced as the sound of Scottish pipers reached his ears, over the shouts and agonised screams of the wounded. The next minute he was spluttering and coughing as smoke began to fill the room. His jaw dropped and eyes grew wide as he heard a crackling sound. The building was on fire. Shouts of agony could be heard as sepoys fell victim to the flames. Oh no, what was he to do? They were surrounded by the enemy and now their garrison was in flames. They were doomed, he thought, as he swiped his hand across eyes that were beginning to smart. Covering his nose and mouth with the ends of his turban, he stumbled over the dead bodies, rushing towards the door. Suddenly, something hit him hard. He let out a loud wail as he dropped his sword and clutched his head. He fell to the floor, unconscious.
It was dark when he came around. Except for the red glow of dying embers. He felt a heavy weight on him and realised that dead bodies lay over him. He pushed them aside with all his might. All around him lay piles of bodies, sometimes as high as five feet. The smell of stale blood and burning flesh was overpowering and oppressive. Salim covered his mouth with his hands as bile rose in his throat.
He swayed and wobbled as he took a few steps. He felt weak and dizzy. The lump on his head hurt when he moved his head even slightly. Stumbling out into the garden, he licked his lips. They were parched and tasted of gunpowder. He shivered. At least the air in the open was less stifling. Perceiving a dead body underneath the peepal tree, he walked towards it. It must be the sepoy who had been firing from atop the tree. Salim looked at his still frame now. He wore a red jacket and silk trousers. As Salim bent closer, he realised he was not a sepoy. It was a woman.
‘Ya Ali, it’s Chutki!’ he exclaimed. He stared at her in disbelief. It could not be. His Chutki, his little sister? She had been hit by a bullet in her jaw, which had then passed through her neck. Salim pulled her into his arms and held her close to his heart. Why? He knew she hated the firangis since they had killed her fiancé. But that she would go to war to avenge his death …
‘So you want me to protect you?’ he had asked her as he watched her tying a rakhi on his wrist on Raksha Bandhan.
‘Let it be, Salim bhai. I can fight single-handedly against anyone.’
‘Oh really? Well, if you’re that strong, let’s see if you can wrestle your gift from my hand.’
He held out a closed fist. Chutki tried her best to open it but couldn’t lift even his little finger.
Salim clicked his tongue, ‘Tut, tut.’
‘What, bhai?’ Chutki sulked.
Salim finally relented and slowly opened his fist. A beautiful pearl necklace with matching earrings sparkled at Chutki.
He smiled as he watched his delighted sister hold the necklace up against her neck and squeal, ‘Thank you, thank you, Salim bhai,’ before throwing herself in his arms.
‘Wear it the day after your wedding when you leave for your in-laws. It’ll remind you that, no matter where you are, I’ll always be there for you.’
So much had happened since then. Her fiancé had been killed and now …
He looked at her still face, his eyes glittering. ‘My brave little sister,’ he whispered and kissed her forehead tenderly. He had not kept his word. His little sister had needed him and he had not been there for her. He had failed her, failed Daima.
Ya Ali. What was he going to say to Daima? How was he going to face her? She had told him once there was nothing sadder than a mother whose life exceeds that of her child. Salim closed his eyes and let the tears run down his cheeks.
He stood up slowly as a sliver of light appeared on the eastern horizon. He took off his turban. He spread it out and covered Chutki with it. She looked so small now, so frail. Lifting her stiff cold body, he dragged his feet towards the northern gate.
Salim walked all the way to Daima’s house, carrying Chutki’s dead body in his arms. It was early morning when he reached there. He quietly placed Chutki’s body in front of the tulsi plant in the courtyard.
Just then he saw Daima come out of the house carrying a copper lota of water. Her eyes were half closed, her feet were bare and she was muttering her prayers. She turned towards the east, looked at the sun and joined her hands. She then lifted her hands and began pouring out the water from the lota, muttering some prayers under her breath. Her thin cotton sari blew in the morning breeze and she shivered slightly.
She then turned to pour the remaining water on the tulsi plant. He watched her as she noticed the dead body. Her eyes flew to his face in alarm. She had turned white. She raised an eyebrow questioningly.
Salim lowered his eyes and nodded. Daima shook her head slowly from side to side in disbelief. Dropping the lota with a loud clang, she dragged her feet to where Chutki lay. With trembling hands she lifted Salim’s turban cloth away from her face. She covered her ears with her hands and screamed, ‘
No!
’ With tears streaming down her face she touched the wound on Chutki’s neck gently, tenderly, as though it still hurt.
Salim lowered his gaze as she came towards him. ‘What happened, Chote Nawab?’ She spread out her empty hands. ‘All my dreams?’ Grabbing hold of the front of his angarkha, she started sobbing hysterically. Salim slowly put his arms around her as her body heaved with spasms of sobs.
After a long time she moved out of his embrace and looked at him. ‘Her marriage had been fixed for next month,’ she sobbed. She sniffed before continuing. ‘First her fiancé … now her …’ She again grabbed Salim’s angarkha. ‘You were supposed to carry her doli, not her funeral bier.’
Salim stood motionless, his feet apart, his hands hanging helplessly by his side. He looked heavenward as he struggled to swallow his tears, his eyes becoming red with the effort. A single tear slid down his cheek and fell noiselessly to the ground.
Salim cursed himself yet again for not staying back at Kaiserbagh. Ahmed had just arrived to tell him there had been intense fighting for the last three days, while here at the Residency the firing had petered out. Salim signalled to his men to stop firing and be quiet. They listened carefully. Yes, there was no sound coming from the Residency. They had stopped firing. Perhaps the firangis were preparing to surrender.
A shout of ‘Har Har Mahadev’ and ‘Allah-o-Akbar’ rent the air as the sepoys charged jubilantly into the Residency. As Salim pushed past the Baillie Guard a fetid smell of decaying dead bodies greeted him. He could see bloated bodies of dead horses carelessly pushed into ditches and covered with flies. The garden was in ruin. Trenches ran across the flower beds and the lawn. The neatly arranged flowers and shrubs had been replaced by wild thorny shrubs, tall wild grass and weeds. Not a single living soul could be seen. The Residency was deserted. The firangis had not surrendered. They had made their escape with all the treasure they had looted from Kaiserbagh.
Salim covered his mouth and nose with his hand as he entered the banquet hall. It smelt of vomit, blood and decay. It must have been used as a makeshift hospital, as bandages covered in fresh blood, basins half filled with water, and vomit lay around. Salim gagged. Ahmed staggered outside, retching violently.
With much trepidation Salim entered the Residency. There were clothes, utensils, beddings and some valuables that had been left behind. He picked up a rag doll that lay on its face on the floor. It must have belonged to a little girl. He wondered how much hardship the children must have had to endure. It was not their fault and yet …
Most of the windows had been smashed and glass lay everywhere. The walls were covered with holes made by their intermittent firing over the last five months.
The sepoys gave a whoop of delight and went on a rampage, looting the boxes and trunks of their valuables.
A loud explosion made everyone stop in their tracks. A sepoy had stepped onto a hidden mine. His body was blown to smithereens. Salim smiled scornfully as he watched the other sepoys commiserate for a few seconds, then go back to their looting. They looked jubilant. But this was no victory. The firangis had escaped. For five long months they had bravely held out. And now on 19
November 1857, they had made their escape to safety.
‘Is RayChal inside?’ Salim asked the female attendant.
‘Yes, Chote Nawab,’ the attendant answered, bowing low, her right hand raised to her forehead. ‘She’s in bed. I think she not well.’
‘I see.’
Salim entered the khwabgah. Rachael lay in bed, her eyes closed. She was wearing the same white dress she had worn when he had brought her to the palace. She looked out of this world in white. Almost ethereal.
Saira was massaging her forehead with a balm which smelt of eucalyptus oil. She opened her mouth to speak as soon as she saw Salim. Salim hastily put his finger on his lips and indicated that she leave the room. Saira bowed low and left the room quietly, walking backwards.
Salim began to massage Rachael’s forehead. Her forehead creased into a frown. She felt his hairy masculine hands with her fingers and her frightened eyes fluttered open. She relaxed when she saw it was Salim.
‘You gave me a fright,’ she said as she started to sit up.
‘Don’t get up.’ Salim held her shoulders lightly and made her lie back. ‘You’re not well?’ he asked as he squatted on the carpet beside the bed.
‘I’ve got a slight headache, that’s all.’
She smiled and crumpled up her nose as Salim took her hand in his and stroked the diamond on her ring.
‘I feel like a queen, lying on this enormous bed, with a prince sitting at my feet.’
‘You
are
a queen,’ Salim whispered. ‘Queen of my …’ he left the sentence incomplete as he placed the palm of her hand on his heart.