Authors: Sangeeta Bhargava
Ahmed had simply strolled over to the basket of fruit and dug into the juiciest apple. Daima stared at him while he busied himself crunching and slurping the apple and licking the juice that ran down his fingers.
Yes, that was Ahmed. He never answered back, which strangely fuelled Daima’s anger even more. For him, there was a simple solution to every problem – food.
Little wonder Eid had always been his favourite festival. As boys, the two of them had loved waiting at night on the terrace to catch sight of the moon; the new clothes, the lip-smacking food. Above all, they had loved hoarding all the money they received as eidi, to buy kites.
They had always been welcome in the kitchen, especially the day before Eid, when the chef could not taste the food because of his fast. In Salim and Ahmed he found willing guinea pigs.
‘What else would Chote Nawab like to have?’ the chef would ask.
‘Anardana pulao,’ he would answer, dipping his paratha in the thick sweet and sour mango murabba and licking his fingers. He loved anardana pulao more for its appearance than the taste. Half of each grain of rice was fiery red and the other half white, thus giving them the appearance of pomegranate seeds.
But what Ahmed enjoyed eating most of all as a child was siwaiyaan – vermicelli cooked with milk, sugar and lots of dry fruits and topped with balai, or clotted cream.
Salim ran his finger over the rim of the cut-glass lamp that stood on the stool, then looked out of the outer window facing the palace gates. Ahmed was crawling towards the gates, his shoulders slouched. Salim pursed his lips. He had better make it up to him tomorrow.
Salim took his seat at the dastarkhwan and hastily glanced around. The floor of the banquet hall had been covered with Persian carpets, over which starched white sheets had been spread. Abba Huzoor had taken his seat of honour, flanked by his mother Begum Janab-e-Alia and his wife Begum Khas Mahal. It was difficult to imagine such a big man with so much grace, and yet he was one of the most graceful and dignified men Salim had ever met.
He was, however, glad to be seated far from him. Who’d want to be admonished for being late for prayers on Eid? He stifled a smile as he saw Choti Begum, who sat next to him, looking at Begum Khas Mahal’s new gharara with envy. She saw him watching her and showed him the henna on her hands.
‘It’s beautiful,’ he said politely.
‘Thank you, Chote Nawab,’ she replied, blushing, and looked away. She was not much older than him.
He wrinkled up his nose. He would never let his wife apply henna. It smelt of rotting mint leaves.
The servants started bringing in the trays of food. One of them almost tripped over the edge of the sheet spread out over the carpets.
There were hundreds of delicacies. Several varieties of pulao – anardana pulao, moti pulao where the grains of rice were made to look like pearls; several types of bread: chapattis, parathas, and sheermal – unleavened bread made with milk and butter with saffron on top. There was quarma and zarda and a variety of kebabs; biryani, lentils and fried brinjal. Then there were the murabbas, pickles and chutneys – accompaniments to the main meal. For dessert there was rice pudding, sohan halwa, jalebi, imarti and other sweets. And of course, siwaiyaan, without which Eid would be incomplete. There were pieces of meat carved in the shape of birds and placed on platefuls of pulao – it seemed they were pecking at the grains of rice.
Stealing another glance at Abba Huzoor, Salim was filled with a mixture of awe and pity. He was wearing a new brocade angharka, a heavy gold necklace, a pearl necklace and earrings. Salim could never bring himself to wear jewellery. Too much of a bother. Abba Huzoor, however, always made the most of such occasions. Perhaps it was to convince himself more than anybody else that he was the ruler of Avadh and not a mere puppet in the hands of the Company.
Salim turned his attention to his little brothers, who were making big plans about their eidi.
‘I’m going to buy a hundred marbles,’ boasted little Jamaal.
‘I’m going to spend all my eidi on jalebi,’ Birjis Qadir announced as he stuffed his mouth with gulab jamun.
‘That’s my marble,’ little Salman wailed.
‘I was just looking at it,’ Jamaal retorted.
Birjis Qadir clapped his hands loudly. A hush fell in the hall and all eyes turned to the little prince, including Abba Huzoor’s.
‘Jamaal, we order you to give back the marble to Salman,’ said Birjis Qadir, looking sternly at his cousin.
Jamaal scowled as Salman yanked the marble out of his hand.
Salim smiled. He patted Birjis Qadir’s head lovingly as he helped himself to another shami kebab. ‘I think you’re fit to be a king,’ he said to the little boy. Little did he know his prophesy would soon be fulfilled.
Birjis grinned. He was eleven, the son of Begum Hazrat Mahal, Salim’s stepmother and a woman he openly admired.
Salim turned towards the entrance as he heard everyone clapping and cheering. It was the head chef. He entered the hall with a flourish. He held a silver tray with the biggest pie Salim had ever seen. As soon as the pie was cut open, a host of little birds were revealed. There was a sudden cacophony of sounds in the hall – the astonished excited chatter of the children, the amused prattle of the grown-ups and the twitter and flutter of feathers, as the birds tried to fly away.
Looking at all the happy faces, at the sumptuous banquet spread out before him, Salim sighed. Why did lavish preparations like this make him feel as though he was living on borrowed time?
Salim slouched over Afreen as he and Ahmed trotted along. It was the morning after Eid. The festivities were over and had left him feeling bloated and lethargic. Even the air was still and languid. He looked up at the cloudless sky and groaned inwardly. It was going to be even warmer than yesterday. He felt sorry for the servants who were following them on foot.
As they neared the parade ground, Salim looked askance at the marching soldiers. Although they looked smart in the Company’s scarlet coats and black trousers, they were sweating copiously. The commanding officer bellowed attention and the sepoys halted in neat rows before the dais, with a click of their heels.
Salim grinned and shook his head as he watched Nayansukh, who stood right in front of the platoon. He was twitching his nose at the Sikh sepoy who stood right next to him. Must be the smell of the curd they used for their long hair.
The commanding officer now ordered his men to stand at ease. He then shouted, ‘First company, first platoon, step forward and pick up your rifles and cart—’ He was distracted by a figure approaching him from the west. It was an elderly soldier who was jogging towards the podium, panting.
Salim sat upright and cupped his right hand over his eyes to get a better view. Why, it was Ramu kaka, Nayansukh’s uncle. Salim tugged Afreen’s rein and brought her to a halt.
While the rest of the soldiers stood still, Ramu kaka walked up to the dais, his hands joined in supplication.
‘You’re late,’ barked the commanding officer who now stood over him.
‘It not my fault—’ Ramu kaka muttered.
THWACK!
The officer had slapped Ramu kaka right across his cheek. Salim was aghast and looked at Ahmed in disbelief. Ahmed was equally bewildered. With an exclamation of ‘Ya Ali’, Salim pulled Afreen’s rein. He was about to charge into the parade ground when Ahmed put a restraining hand on his arm.
‘Don’t lose your cool, Salim mia,’ he said quietly. ‘Remember, this is the Company’s army, not your Abba Huzoor’s.’
‘But how can that firangi slap a man double his age?’ Salim asked. ‘Does he have no respect?’
The commanding officer raised his hand again. Ramu kaka cowered. Just then another hand stopped the officer’s hand in mid flight. It was Nayansukh’s.
‘This man is old enough to be your father,’ Nayansukh hissed slowly through clenched teeth. ‘I will break your hand if it goes anywhere near Ramu kaka again.’
The commanding officer turned on Nayansukh. ‘How dare you, you uncouth barbari—’
The other firangi soldier, who had been quietly standing on the podium until now, hastily came between the two hostile men. ‘Let it go, sir. Don’t lower yourself fighting with a native. It’s not worth it, sir.’
The commanding officer looked disdainfully at Nayansukh as he straightened his collars. Nayansukh stared back at him defiantly, twirling his moustache. ‘Son of a pig,’ the commanding officer spat as he walked back to the podium. ‘Parade, dismiss,’ he bellowed.
Ramu kaka was visibly shaking. Nayansukh took his hand and led him out of the parade ground.
Salim shook his head angrily as he and Ahmed started trotting down the road again. ‘These firangis need to be taught a lesson,’ he eventually said.
Later that afternoon, Salim sat at the edge of the water, a fishing rod in hand. This was not a good time for fish, the Gomti having shrunk to half its size, but an excellent time for fishing. You could almost catch them with your bare hands while wading through the shallow end.
He turned up his nose as he watched his servant attaching the smelly bait to the hook of his fishing rod. He looked at Ahmed. He was sitting patiently, waiting for a fish to bite, humming a tune. Salim smiled at him as he threw the line into the water. Ahmed had already forgotten how he had spoken to him yesterday. It was typical of him never to hold a grudge. He was now trying to balance his fishing rod between his knees, as he reached out for another paan.
‘Ahmed, stop chewing so much paan else all your teeth will fall out. No one will want to marry you then,’ said Salim.
‘Start lighting the fire, Salim mia. I think I’ve caught our dinner,’ said Ahmed as he started hauling in his line.
‘So we are having grilled sandals for dinner, are we?’ Salim hooted, when he saw Ahmed’s catch. A wooden sandal. It must belong to one of the priests who bathed in the river every morning.
‘These priests should be banned,’ Ahmed replied, as he disentangled the slimy sandal from his fishing rod and threw it back in the river, while Salim continued to laugh at him.
Suddenly he grew serious. ‘Ahmed, what do you make of the rumours? About the Company taking over Avadh?’
‘Don’t worry, Salim mia. They’re just that – rumours. Annexing Avadh? Not a chance. There’s no need for that.’ He clicked his betel box shut and placed it next to his cap, on the grass. ‘After all, it’s a golden goose which lays an egg for the Company whenever it needs funds. And right now it needs loads of money for all the wars it’s engaged in.’
‘But what if they decide they want all the golden eggs at once?’ Salim asked.
‘That’d be foolish. The people love the nawab. They would never accept the Company.’
‘I wonder … Ahmed, remember the royal banquet in honour of the governor general?’ he asked. ‘When we put a cockroach on one of the English mem’s hat?’
‘Of course I remember Salim mia. The cockroach kept marching up and down the hat while the mem was unaware of its existence. How all the begums seated behind the purdah hooted with laughter,’ Ahmed chuckled.
‘And do you recall how we tied fireworks to General Sahib’s horse’s tail? Ya Ali, how the poor horse baulked and pranced and neighed and tried to throw him off. That got us into real trouble.’
‘But nothing like the time we sprinkled coloured powder in the zenana bath on Holi.’
‘The way the begums shrieked when their bodies started turning blue,’ Salim guffawed.
‘And if you hadn’t started giggling, we would have never got caught,’ said Ahmed.
‘Ahmed,’ Salim paused and cleared his throat. ‘I’m sorry I spoke to you like that yesterday. It’s just that – there’s no way I’m getting involved with an English girl. No way.’
Ahmed merely nodded his head.
‘You saw how they treated Ramu kaka this morning. Besides, they can’t be trusted.’
‘What?’
‘Haven’t you seen the number of times the English have signed treaties with the nawabs of Avadh and then breached them?’ Salim stood up and leant against the shisham tree. Turning back to look at Ahmed, he added, ‘You know, the first treaty was signed in 1765 between the Company and the nawab. It gave the firangis permission to trade in Avadh without tax.’
He paused and nodded briefly at his servant to begin packing his fishing equipment. ‘Then in 1768 another treaty was drawn up which stated that the nawab could not maintain an army of more than thirty-five thousand men. In return, the Company would protect Avadh from outside attack.’ He looked across at Ahmed who was pulling in his line. ‘And Ahmed, this trend has been going on ever since. These firangis keep drawing treaties and breaking them. They never keep their word.’
‘Yes, tha—’ Ahmed started to speak.
‘Abba Huzoor is too soft,’ Salim interrupted. ‘If I were the ruler … Ah well, let it be. That can never happen.’ Salim threw a pebble with full force into the river. ‘But seriously, if I were the ruler, contract or no contract, I would send these bloody foreigners packing.’
Chapter Four
R
ACHAEL
There was a hesitant knock on the door.
‘Yes, who is it?’ Rachael asked as she lay on her stomach, propped on her elbows, reading her book.
‘Missy baba, sahib wanting to see you in study.’ It was Ram Singh. He coughed a little before continuing, ‘Memsahib there as well.’
Oh dear, what had she done now, she wondered, as she rolled off the bed. Papa summoned her to the study only when it was something crucial. And mother was there as well. It meant she was in deep trouble. What could it be? They must have come to know she’d eaten at Ram Singh’s house. When Papa had espied her outside the window yesterday she had told him she was trying to stop the window from rattling. He had seemed convinced. Then why did he want to see her now? Had someone tattled to him? Who could it be? She knew Ram Singh or Ayah would never do that. Then who?
There was another knock.
‘Do hurry, missy baba. Sahib getting angrier by the minute.’
Rachael opened the door and walked out, chin up in the air. The soft, wooden, musty smell of books greeted her as she entered the study. Mother sat by the window, arms crossed. Her hair tied back tightly as usual, her thin lips in a straight line. Rachael wondered – when was the last time she had smiled? Papa was pacing the room. How handsome he looked in his Italian suit, she thought with a sigh. If only he’d loosen up a bit.