Authors: Sangeeta Bhargava
Her declaration was greeted with oohs and aahs and mirth. Ayah went to fetch Brutus a bowl of water while Sudha scraped some leftover pudding from the dish for him.
Once Brutus had been fed and watered and lay contentedly on his rug, Mother commenced her tour of the house. ‘Sudha, why have these dead flowers not been replaced?’ she said, as she lifted the bunch of flowers from the vase in the living room and handed them to her.
‘Sorry, memsahib, I do it right away. You see, they alive yesterday.’
‘And Ram Singh, I want you to remove all the cobwebs behind the khus mats at once. I felt mortified last night when Mrs Wilson noticed them.’
‘Very well, memsahib,’ replied Ram Singh.
As Mother lifted a khus mat to point out the cobwebs to Ram Singh, a lizard fell on her. She screamed and shook her garments vigorously to get rid of the hideous creature.
‘Mother, pray sit down and have your breakfast. You can instruct them after you’ve eaten,’ said Rachael.
Mother sighed and sat down at the table. ‘Oh, these dim-witted natives. They have again put the wrong cutlery.’
‘Pray do not vex yourself, mother. They’ll learn eventually. Your breakfast is getting cold.’
But Mother was already marching towards the kitchen. She yanked open the cutlery drawer and, lifting out a spoon, waved it at Ayah. ‘This is the spoon—’ She could not finish as a cockroach darted out of the drawer. ‘What the—?’ she gasped, horrified.
Poor Mother. ‘You don’t like this country much, do you, Mother?’ Rachael had asked her once.
‘I hate it,’ she had barked in reply.
Yes, Mother hated India. She hated the uncouth natives; the heat and the dust; the hot curries and the leathery Indian bread; the smell of perspiration, strong spices and cow dung. Above all she hated the country for swallowing her only son.
Rachael squinted as the glaring sun beat down on her as soon as she stepped out of the house later that day.
‘Good afternoon, missy baba,’ Ram Singh greeted her.
She smiled and crinkled up her nose. ‘Afternoon, Ram Singh.’
She had known Ram Singh since she had learnt to walk. When she was two, Mother had often asked him to keep an eye on her. She would throw her toys out of the window, then clap her hands with glee as he ran outside for the umpteenth time to pick them up.
When she was older, he and his wife Parvati often told her tales from the
Ramayana
and
Mahabharata.
They would tell her about the cousins, the Pandavas and the Kauravas, and how they waged an eighteen-day war against each other. Or how Lord Ram was the only mortal who could lift the celestial bow to win Sita’s hand in marriage. She would listen in awe as the monkey god Hanuman set fire to Lanka with his tail, or Lord Krishna lifted an entire mountain on his little finger to save his fellow villagers from a thunderstorm.
The couple would often quarrel over details. Angrily, Ayah would pull the edge of her sari over her eyes so she could not see her ignoramus husband’s face anymore, and stomp off. Ram Singh would shake his head at her receding form, and then continue the tale.
Today, as Rachael passed the servants’ quarters, she halted. ‘What’s that lovely aroma coming from your house, Ram Singh?’
‘Missy baba, my son ask wife to make kheer. You like taste some?’ he added hesitantly.
‘Yes, why not?’
She followed Ram Singh but hesitated at the doorstep. In all the years that she had known him, she’d never been inside his house. Even as a child she had understood it was not the done thing. Sahibs and memsahibs did not mix with the natives. But then Ram Singh and Ayah weren’t just any natives. They were almost like family. Rachael lifted her right foot determinedly and entered the house. The door was small and she had to bend down to enter. A peculiar smell greeted her – a mixture of sweat, food, incense and camphor.
‘Oh, missy baba, I no knew you come. Welcome, welcome. You sit, baba, over here. No, here,’ Ayah chattered, wringing her hands as she spoke.
‘You sure, missy baba, you like to eat in our house?’ Ram Singh asked her for the third time.
She now suspected he had invited her out of politeness, but had not expected her to accept the invitation. But she couldn’t possibly refuse now. She sat down quietly on the chair that he had dusted and put out for her. He then excused himself and followed his wife to the kitchen.
‘Parvati, hurry up and serve food. If barre memsahib and sahib come and find missy baba here, they skin me alive,’ Rachael heard him say, and she felt guilty for putting him to such trouble.
She looked around. The room was too small for even one person to live in. The roof was low and there was just one small square window in the entire house. Rachael wondered how Ram Singh and his wife survived in this heat. The only furniture in the room was a charpoy, a wooden table, a chair and a cupboard.
‘No, no, no, I’m happy eating on the floor,’ Rachael insisted when she saw Ram Singh clearing the clutter from the table. And before he could protest, she had settled down on the threadbare rug on the floor. The floor felt hard, but she said nothing. She did not wish to add more to the couple’s discomfiture.
Ayah placed a plate of food before her and started fanning her with a punkah.
‘I’m not eating alone. Where’s your plate?’ Rachael asked.
‘Oh no, baba, how can I eat before husband?’ Ayah answered shyly as she continued to fan her.
‘Ram Singh, come and join me,’ Rachael called out to Ram Singh, who had stationed himself at the door and looked out nervously every two minutes.
‘No baba, you eat. I eat later.’
‘Look, I’m not going to eat alone. Either you or Ayah eats with me or I’m going.’ Rachael started to get up.
‘Oh no, missy baba, you know not how bad it is for a guest to leave table without eating,’ said Ram Singh. Reluctantly he sat down on a small chatai and gestured to Ayah to bring his food.
Rachael licked her lips. She had never eaten without any cutlery before. She was relieved when Ayah handed her a small teaspoon she had managed to dig out. She spluttered as she took the first mouthful of the vegetable pulao. It was spicy and hot, but oh so delicious. ‘Where’s Kalyaan?’ she asked as she took another mouthful. What was that special aroma – was it the bay leaves, the green cardamoms or the black ones? How come English food always smelt healthy but never exotic like this?
‘He eaten and gone to tend the horses,’ said Ayah.
Rachael smiled as she thought of Kalyaan. Many an afternoon she had spent with him as a child; until the fateful day when she had that fall. That was the last time she played with him. For thereafter, much to her consternation, she was whisked off every afternoon to Granny Ruth’s – that’s what everyone called her.
Mother took a siesta every afternoon with clockwork regularity. She locked her bedroom door and nobody, not even Papa, was allowed to disturb her then. And certainly not her. But Rachael could never bring herself to sleep during the day. The world outside beckoned her. She’d creep out of the house and join Ram Singh’s son in his games. He’d defeat her at a game of marbles or teach her how to climb a tree. That afternoon, as she was climbing the guava tree, the branch snapped and she had a nasty fall. Mother had to be woken up and, of course, she was not pleased. She was scandalised to learn her daughter had been climbing trees. Rachael had to endure an hour-long lecture on the impropriety of playing with the natives while the nurse tended to her wounds.
Granny Ruth was a frail old woman with a high-pitched nasal accent. At first Rachael abhorred her, until she introduced her to the enchanting world of music. From then on, Rachael began leading a secret life every afternoon, when only she and her piano existed. Her notes would rise to the skies and inhabit a world full of laughter and ecstasy. By the time the afternoon ended, her face would be flushed, fingers aching and eyes starry.
‘You not liking food, baba?’ Parvati asked.
Looking down at her food, Rachael realised she had been daydreaming. ‘Umm … What’s this?’ she asked, pointing to the bowl Ayah had just placed before her.
‘Kheer … sweet?’
Rachael took a spoonful. A kind of dessert. Tasted a little like rice pudding. Just then she heard the creak of a rusted gate being opened and the sound of horses trotting to a halt and neighing.
‘Oh my God, sahib here. I going to be skinned alive,’ Ram Singh groaned.
‘Shh, listen to me, Ram Singh. Tell me when they are inside the house and I will sneak into my room through the window.’
Stepping out of Ram Singh’s house gingerly, Rachael looked around. No one was about except for the gatekeeper who sat yawning at the post. She glanced across the garden. Everything was still, as though drugged on opium. She lifted her skirts and scurried to the back of the house where her window was, as a hot gust of wind hit her.
Suddenly she heard someone coming. She held her breath and closed her eyes. Then she heard a small bark. She opened her eyes slowly and found Brutus wagging his tail, his tongue hanging out and his little head cocked to one side as he looked at her.
‘Oh Brutus, it’s you,’ she exclaimed as she slowly let out a sigh of relief. Her heart was still thumping rapidly as she reached for the window latch.
‘Rachael?’
She froze. It was Papa.
Chapter Three
S
ALIM
Salim had just returned to his rooms after offering the Eid prayers. He was relieved Daima wasn’t around. Despite her warning yesterday, he had managed to oversleep and reach the Jama Masjid late. Although he had slipped into the prayer hall quietly after washing his hands and feet, he had espied Abba Huzoor noticing him from the corner of his eye.
He walked over to the latticed window and looked out into the courtyard below, while the barber prepared his shaving foam. There was a hum of activity – servants ran helter-skelter, completing last-minute preparations for the Eid celebrations. New expensive carpets from Persia were being rolled out in the hall. As usual, food was being prepared in all the six royal kitchens.
Salim sat down on the takhat and the barber began to apply shaving foam to his cheeks. He thought of the girl in the burqa whom he had met the previous day. She had the most beautiful pair of eyes he had ever seen – cool, calm and as blue as the sky at midday. It irked him, however, that the girl for whom he had felt a tug for the first time in his life was not Muslim. She was English. Damn, but she played the piano so well!
Just then Ahmed entered the room. ‘Eid Mubarak, Salim mia,’ he said.
The barber stepped aside as Salim got up to embrace his friend. ‘Eid Mubarak, my friend. Eid Mubarak.’
Salim sat down on the takhat again and the barber recommenced his shaving.
Ahmed walked over to the painting of a European lady in her boudoir that hung on the wall. He ran his finger alongside the frame, then turned to face Salim. ‘Can I ask you something, Salim mia?’
‘What is it, Ahmed?’
Clearing his throat, Ahmed looked around. ‘Salim mia, the girl we saw yesterday. You sure it was the same girl? An English mem in a burqa?’ He put a paan in his mouth. ‘I think you’ve lost it, Salim mia. You’ve started hallucinating. Better start visiting the tawaifs.’
‘I’m absolutely sure,’ Salim replied, an edge of irritation in his voice.
‘But if she was Eng—’
‘Look, I don’t wish to have anything to do with an Englishwoman. So can we please drop the subject?’
Ahmed’s smile vanished. ‘Oh well, I must get going. Ammi is waiting for me. I’d just come to wish you “Eid Mubarak”,’ he mumbled and left the room before Salim could stop him.
The barber wiped Salim’s face with a towel, packed his shaving kit, bowed and backed out of the room. Salim looked out of the window. He sighed as he watched Ahmed dodging the servants at work in the courtyard. He shouldn’t have spoken to him in that tone. He could still remember the first time he had met him. It was Eid on that day as well. He was about five years old then. Upset the wind had torn his new kite, he had stomped into the palace.
‘The biggest kite in the whole of Avadh,’ the shopkeeper had assured him. ‘The king of the skies,’ he had added with a wink as Salim reluctantly handed him all his eidi.
Some king, Salim thought ruefully. Well, the king was in shreds now. He was about to throw a tantrum for Daima’s benefit when he saw him – a boy with a round face and a cheery dimpled smile. His maternal uncle’s son, he was told.
‘Eid Mubarak,’ the boy said.
‘Eid Mubarak,’ Salim replied. ‘How old are you?’
‘Four.’
‘What?’ How could it be? He was plumper and taller than him.
‘Here, you can have mine,’ the boy said, as he handed a surprised Salim his kite.
Since that day in 1838, the two of them had stuck together like the two drums of the tabla. Each incomplete without the other.
They had got into many scrapes together. They had fallen from the guava tree, been chased by a mad bull, been punished by the moulvi at school. They had tried to learn to whistle through the gap between the teeth when they lost their first baby tooth; they had kept their first fast during Ramzan together; they had even visited Lol Bibi’s kotha together at the age of twelve, only to be chased by the gatekeeper. They had been together when Salim had almost killed the woodcutter. Yes, killed him, almost.
An involuntary shiver ran down Salim’s back. Even after six long years … he pursed his lips, shook his head and tried to think of something else.
Somehow news of their antics had always reached Daima. And always, much of her scolding was directed at Ahmed. She never was fond of him. She felt relatives like him were parasites, a drain on the royal treasury. If only she knew who the real scroungers of the treasury were. Moreover, she firmly believed Chote Nawab could do no wrong.
Ahmed soon got used to her tongue-lashings. The good-natured soul that he was, he would cheerfully listen to her. Like the time when she scolded them for playing in the rain and her vitriolic tongue got the better of her.
‘Nothing will happen to you, you son of a rhino,’ she scolded, waving her arms accusingly at him. ‘But our Chote Nawab here, he’s of blue blood. He’ll be struck down with pneumonia.’