Authors: Sangeeta Bhargava
Salim closed his eyes. He could hear her laughter, smell the light lavender perfume she wore. How soft and delicate her skin was, just like muslin. And her lips felt like a lychee dipped in sweet mango chutney. He shook his head. Why, oh why, did these memories keep clinging to him like a shadow?
He bent down to put on his boots. He thought of the last time he saw her in Dilkusha. How her lovely blue eyes had turned cold as she spat out the words, ‘I hate you, Salim.’ How he had flinched when she said those words, as though she had slapped him.
Grimacing, Salim felt the tip of his sword with his finger, then put it back in its sheath. Today’s battle was going to be crucial. In the last two weeks the firangis had managed to capture Dilkusha, Chakar Kothi, Martiniere, Sikandar Bagh, Shah Najaf, Qadam Rasul, Moti Mahal, Tehri Kothi, Farhat Baksh and Begum Kothi. Today they were bound to attack Kaiserbagh. After all, it was the stronghold of Ammi, the queen regent.
Whatever happened, they could not let Kaiserbagh fall into the hands of the firangis. He picked up his rifle, fitted the bayonet and put it firmly on his back, adjusting the strap.
He felt something hard in his pocket and pulled it out. It was a silver bracelet. He smiled as he remembered how RayChal had dropped it when she had come to the palace for the first time to learn music. She was late and was hurrying down the steps when she dropped it. Just like Cinderella. Salim kissed the bracelet and put it back in his pocket.
He put on his turban. Ya Ali, why did he feel as though someone was twisting his stomach in a thousand knots? He had faced enemy fire several times these last few months, so why this fear? Why this chill running down his spine? He looked heavenward before stepping out of his room, raised his arms, closed his eyes and muttered, ‘Allah, be with me.’
Salim put his head on Daima’s lap and closed his eyes. She gently massaged his forehead and gradually the creases disappeared. He abruptly pulled her hands away from his forehead and looked at them. They looked like a roti left in the open all night – dried, mottled, crumbly. But hands that gave the best massages in all the land. He kissed them, closed his eyes and put his head back on her lap again.
‘We’ve been beaten, Daima. All’s lost.’ His voice was anguished, defeated, tired. ‘The firangis will be here any moment now.’
Daima patted the hair that had fallen over his forehead. He turned his eyes towards the window. He could hear muskets being fired in the distance.
‘We fought as hard as we could, Daima. Men and women – every single one of them. There was not a tree in the garden that did not have soldiers hidden among the branches. But it was in vain.’
‘You want to cry?’
He got up hastily. ‘Ya Ali, no. Remember what you said to me as a child, Daima? Whenever I came crying to you? “You’re a man,” you’d say. “And a man cannot cry.”’
‘Salim mia.’ Ahmed and Nayansukh rushed into the room, panting. ‘They’re here. We’ve got to run.’
‘Outram’s forces are killing even the innocent civilians, raping girls. They didn’t even spare Darsh Singh’s eight-year-old daughter,’ Nayansukh said.
Salim drew out his sword.
‘No, mia,’ said Ahmed, raising his hand. ‘They’re too many. We’ve got to escape to safety with Her Majesty and Birjis.’
‘Give me a moment,’ Salim uttered and went into his khwabgah. He looked at the faded red kite that hung on the wall. Its tail was slightly torn. It was the first kite he had captured from his opponent. Ahmed and he had run over half a mile to retrieve it.
Next to the kite hung the sword that Abba Huzoor had given him when he had turned sixteen. He touched the jewels studded on the hilt. He looked at the silver platter that stood in a corner; the platter on which his dinner had been served when he kept his first fast of Ramzan. He looked around at the room that had been a mute witness to his childhood, his coming of age, his falling in love. He closed his eyes for a split second, swallowed, pushed the curtain aside and walked out.
He looked at Nayansukh. ‘Let’s go,’ he said hoarsely. ‘Ahmed and I will leave the palace first. You follow in ten minutes with Daima.’
Nayansukh nodded. ‘Yes, Chote Nawab. And we’ll meet at our usual place. At the edge of the Gomti.’
As he quietly scrambled towards the stable with Ahmed, he noticed a handful of pink roses blooming in the garden. Not pink – greyish pink. As though the wind blowing from the cemetery had dusted them with a film of ash. He jumped onto Afreen’s bare back and shouted, ‘Come, sweetheart, run for your life.’
Once they were outside the palace complex, he looked back at his home, his palace, his Kaiserbagh. He could still hear the firangis revelling over their loot and the sounds of destruction. Like a pack of hyenas fighting over the lion king’s leftovers.
They passed bodies of sepoys recently killed. Some of them were holding swords raised over their heads, some held rifles as though about to shoot. They looked alive, as though they had been frozen in time. There were others with severed arms or legs. The putrid smell of death and decay was everywhere. Salim stepped over the body of a sepoy who had been cut into half and almost shrieked. He covered his ears as the agonised screams of sepoys being tortured rent the air.
‘Ya Ali, I can’t bear this anymore. I’m going back,’ he said.
‘Don’t be foolish, Salim mia,’ Ahmed said. ‘They’ll chop you up like a vegetable. There are hundreds of them. What’ll you do alone?’ He looked over his shoulder at Salim. ‘Let’s proceed to the Gomti and wait for Daima and Nayansukh and news of Her Majesty.’
Soon they were on the banks of the Gomti. Salim looked at its waters. They were red. And this time he was sober. It was indeed blood. Numerous bloated dead bodies floated down the river. He covered his face with his hands and sank to the ground. He wept. He could not stop his tears anymore. His body was racked with sobs.
‘Salim mia, get a hold on yourself.’ Ahmed’s arm slid around his shoulder comfortingly. ‘Daima will be here any minute.’
‘I’m not a man, Ahmed. That woodcutter was right. RayChal’s father was right. I’m a coward.’
‘No, Salim mia. You fought like a lion. We were simply outnumbered. And outsmarted.’
‘This is not what we wanted. I just wanted to win back my father’s kingdom. Where did we go wrong?’ He swiped the tears from his face with the back of his hand. ‘Abba Huzoor knew all along this would happen. He loved Lucknow too much to see it destroyed. That’s why he abdicated quietly. If only I’d understood.’
‘Sal—’
Ahmed and Salim looked at each other as they heard the sound of approaching horses, then turned slowly in dread to see who it was. They were his own men.
‘Have you any news of Ammi?’ Salim asked them.
‘Yes. We heard she has escaped with His Majesty, Prince Birjis.’
Salim turned to the sepoys, his hand leaning against the trunk of the tree. ‘Is that true?’
‘Yes, Chote Nawab. She walked all the way to Ghasyari Mandi. The prince had been wrapped in a carpet and sheets. We heard that her father was carrying him. She then went in a palanquin to Ghulam Raja’s house.’
Salim did not say anything. He merely looked at the sepoys thoughtfully.
‘Don’t worry, Chote Nawab. There are still at least a hundred thousand of us. We will defeat the firangis yet.’
‘Chote Nawab,’ someone called out in a high-pitched voice. It was Daima. She came running to him, crying hysterically, and fell at his feet. ‘Chote Nawab, they’ve taken him … Please save my son, I beg of you … they’ll kill him.’
Chapter Twenty-Nine
R
ACHAEL
Rachael sat on the windowsill, overlooking the gardens of Alambagh. Well, it couldn’t be called a garden anymore; what with all the trenches ripping it apart, and machines and cannons strategically placed, it looked more like a battlefield. Why, it was a battlefield.
Although it was spring, there was still no sign of life. Most of the trees and shrubs had been destroyed. No sparrows’ nests or baby mynahs chirping for more food. Not a single green leaf or shoot in sight. Just decaying flesh and broken bones. The smell of mogra and roses had been replaced by the smell of death. No matter how many bodies the soldiers burnt or buried, the smell of rotting bodies just didn’t go away. She saw Ayah lighting a fire using cow-dung pancakes. She hastily turned away from the window as smoke and the foul smell of the cow dung fire wafted into the room.
She thought of Salim. She missed him, missed him as a soldier misses a limb once it’s been amputated. She had tried to hate him but she couldn’t. No matter what he did, no matter who he was or whose side he fought on, she would continue to love him. He wasn’t even aware she was still in Lucknow. She worried about him. She had heard that Kaiserbagh had fallen. And that all the rebels had either been killed or fled. What if he had also been killed? No, no, she mustn’t think like that. Oh God, please don’t let anything happen to him.
She heard some soldiers talking and laughing in the adjoining room.
‘Hush, someone’s approaching,’ she heard Christopher say.
Then the thud of the cartridge and the sound of rifles being loaded.
‘Hey, relax, it’s not a rebel. Just a servant,’ said another soldier.
‘Let’s have some fun,’ said Christopher.
Some loud shouts and shrieks made her look out of the window again. She watched grimly as a few soldiers hiding behind windows and pillars pelted handfuls of stones and pebbles between the native servant’s feet.
The poor servant, thinking he was under fire from the enemy, ran helter-skelter, his arms raised in the air, muttering, ‘Jai Shri Ram, God save me, save me. I no sepoy. I humble servant. Please no kill me.’ The soldiers guffawed and jeered.
‘Why, it’s Ram Singh,’ Rachael exclaimed under her breath and ran outside.
‘Stop it, stop it all of you,’ she shouted.
Ram Singh ran to her and fell at her feet. ‘Oh, missy baba, I so glad to see you. I thought I going to die.’
She held his arms and helped him to his feet. He was still shaking. ‘Don’t worry, Ram Singh. They were just playing a prank on you.’
‘Prank? I almost die of fright! You know, baba, I risk my life to come here. I risk my life every day taking care of your house in the cantonment. I sleep hungry but make sure your dog has eaten. Still we treated badly. Parvati tell me one soldier slap her and make her lick his boots clean.’
‘What?’
‘They say Indian dog spill English blood. As she also Indian, she has to pay for that sin.’
‘But she didn’t even take part in the revolt.’
‘Yes, the reward we get for being loyal.’ Shaking his head, Ram Singh sat down on his haunches. ‘I never tell you till now, but when you a baby, Parvati nurse you.’
‘Yes, Ayah did mention it to me a couple of times.’
‘We also have baby. Baby boy. Parvati feed him after feeding you. But not enough milk for two babies.’
‘Oh!’
‘Yes, not enough milk for Kartik. He die.’
Rachael covered her mouth in disbelief. ‘And yet she loves me so much? Not once has she been bitter towards me.’ Her voice was thick with emotion. She was horrified. Ayah lost her baby because of her. Her baby died so she could live. And despite all that, Papa and Mother were so rude to her. Treated her and Ram Singh like slaves!
She remembered the story Ayah and Ram Singh had told her when she was little, about Panna Dai, the maidservant of Prince Udai Singh, who was just a baby then. Or maybe she was his wet nurse. Rachael wasn’t sure. But she remembered the story clearly. Her eyes had brimmed with tears and disbelief when she first heard it.
Rana Sangram Singh, the ruler of Chittor, had been killed in battle. His brother Banbir wanted to usurp the throne and came charging into the palace to kill baby Udai Singh, the heir to the throne. Panna Dai, hearing the news, quickly put her own baby in the royal cot, and kept Prince Udai Singh in her arms. Thinking the baby in the cot was the prince, Banbir drew his sword and killed him. What agony, what pain must Panna dai have gone through as she watched her own baby being slain!
Rachael’s eyes filled with tears. Ayah was her Panna Dai.
‘Baba?’
‘Yes, Ram Singh?’
‘I forget. I come to tell you I finished repairing outhouse. You can come there today. It not comfortable, but better than this.’
‘That’s excellent news, Ram Singh. Mother and I will come there today itself. Not sure about Papa, though.’
‘You don’t have to wear these native clothes anymore, you know,’ said Mother, as Rachael walked into their makeshift bedroom.
‘I know. I wear them because I like them.’ And they remind me of Salim, Rachael wanted to add. ‘I have some good news for you, Mother. Ram Singh was here. The outhouse is ready and we can move there today itself.’
‘Oh, thank the good Lord,’ said Mother. ‘Finally a place of my own. You have no idea how I’ve lived these past few months.’ Mother stopped speaking. She walked over to the gilt-edged mirror and fiddled with the lace on her cuffs and collars. ‘Ayah,’ she called out.
Ayah hurried into the room. ‘Yes, memsahib?’
‘Help me get dressed and pack. We’re going back to the cantonment.’
‘Yes, memsahib,’ answered Ayah cheerily.
Rachael pulled out a pitara from under the bed.
Mother sat down on a chair as Ayah brushed her hair.
‘Although, I have to admit, this place is better than the Residency,’ said Mother. ‘There were so many of us, crammed in that hellhole.’
‘Yes, memsahib,’ Ayah humbly agreed and helped her put on her shoes.
Rachael picked up her bodice, petticoat, chemise and stays and put them in the box. She gathered the chador and began folding it. A soft smile flickered over her lips as she remembered how Salim had wrapped it around her.
Mother handed Rachael her skirts to put in the box. ‘And you know what the funniest part was, Rachael?’ she asked.
‘What?’ Rachael asked as she pressed down on the clothes. The pitara was almost full.
‘We felt bad when we had to leave the Residency. Despite all the hardships, the dangers, we didn’t want to leave.’
‘Mother, you’ve told me all this several times. But not once have you asked me what happened to me. Pray tell me, are you not curious to know where I was, how I survived?’ Rachael asked, with a tinge of bitterness in her voice.