Authors: Sangeeta Bhargava
Chapter Five
S
ALIM
Salim shifted his weight from one foot to the other and looked impatiently at the entrance. Now that the festivities of Eid were over, the court was in session again. He wondered why he had been summoned there.
He looked around at the darbar hall of the Safed Baradari. The heavily pillared hall was filled with courtiers smelling strongly of ittar. They all stood with folded arms and were softly murmuring to each other. He felt intimidated and began rubbing his forearm in agitation.
Just then he heard the sound of firing. It was a gun salute in honour of Abba Huzoor. The band began to play and a hush fell in the hall. Musa-ud-Daula stepped forward and announced in a loud sing-song voice, ‘His Imperial Majesty, Nawab Wajid Ali Shah, son of Nawab Amjad Ali Shah, has arrived in court.’ Everybody stood still with heads lowered and arms folded respectfully.
Entering the hall, Abba Huzoor took his seat on the throne. Two men followed him, each carrying a silver box, which they placed at the side of the throne.
Some individuals stepped forward with gifts they had brought for their king – baskets of mangoes, decanters of perfume, gold and silver cages with rare birds. Abba Huzoor nodded at them. A courtier stepped forward and accepted them on his behalf. Abba Huzoor instructed him to distribute some shawls in return.
Wazir Ali Naqi Khan then stepped forward with another man. Both men raised their right hands to their foreheads and bent down to their waist. ‘Your Majesty, please permit me to present before you the famous poet Amirudin,’ said the Wazir.
Abba Huzoor smoked his hookah and looked at Amirudin thoughtfully. ‘I thought you were the embellishment of the Mughal court? What brings you to our kingdom?’
The poet flushed slightly. Keeping his head lowered he replied, ‘Huzoor, as you know, the powers of the Mughal Emperor are now diminished. The Court of Delhi is languishing.’ He paused and lowered his head still further while his voice rose. ‘Avadh, on the other hand, is at the pinnacle of its glory. Everywhere I go I hear about its achievements … I will be grateful if you could permit me to be a part of your esteemed court.’
Looking at him, Abba Huzoor said, ‘We always have a special place for talent such as yourself. You’re most welcome to be a part of this court.’
‘Thank you, Your Majesty,’ the poet whispered. He again raised his right hand to his forehead, bent low and backed out of the hall.
A courtier then stepped forward and opened the silver box that had been placed next to the throne. It was one of the boxes that preceded Abba Huzoor’s processions. They enabled the common man to address his grievances to the ruler. The courtier began to read the petition aloud while Abba Huzoor listened to him carefully.
Salim’s mind began to wander. He again wondered why Abba Huzoor had summoned him. Was he in trouble? He recalled the events of the last few days. Had he done anything he shouldn’t have? He had been late for the morning prayers on Eid. That was all he could think of. Salim drew his breath sharply. Surely not. Why, he was twenty-two. Not a mere lad. He couldn’t possibly be reprimanded in front of the others for something as petty as that. Keeping his head lowered, Salim stole a look at the throne sideways. He looked at the sheets of gold covering the throne, the oblong pillow covered in red velvet, the royal insignia of the fish carved boldly on the headrest. Then he looked at Abba Huzoor with a combination of awe and affection.
Once the last petition had been read and instructions given by Abba Huzoor on how to deal with the matter, Ali Naqi Khan stepped forward again.
‘His Majesty would now like to present the sword of honour to Kishore for saving his brother from the clutches of the man-eating tigress.’
A scrawny village bumpkin with his left arm in a sling and a bruise on his left cheek stepped forward and grinned shyly. ‘Bow down, you fool,’ a courtier whispered as he nudged him with his elbow. The boy quickly performed the taslim.
‘His left hand has been mauled by that tigress,’ whispered the courtier standing next to Salim. ‘I don’t think he will ever be able to use that hand again.’ Salim looked at the boy’s arm and shuddered.
The boy grinned again as he was presented with a bejewelled sword. It was hard to decide whether his teeth or the jewels on the sword sparkled more.
‘Moolchand Chowdhary, the chief of the village Faizabagh, please step forward,’ Musa-ud-Daula announced. An elderly villager stepped forward and bowed low before the king.
‘Prince Salim, I would like you to step forward as well,’ said Abba Huzoor.
Salim was puzzled. He had never seen this old man before. Nevertheless, he stepped forward.
‘Tell the prince your problem,’ said Abba Huzoor.
‘My Lord,’ Moolchand began. Then he looked at Salim and joined his hands. ‘My son, we have been ruined. My village has been destroyed …’ he faltered and wiped his brow with his sleeve. ‘Save us, my son, save us.’
Perplexed, and with a slight irritation in his voice, Salim replied, ‘Yes, I’ll do my best to help you. But tell me clearly what your problem is.’
‘It’s that tigress. Earlier she used to steal our cattle, but now she has started attacking the villagers. She has killed a dozen men already. Kishore here barely managed to escape with his life.’
‘I see,’ Salim said quietly.
‘The villagers are panicking and fleeing the village. I don’t know how to protect them.’
‘Salim,’ called out Abba Huzoor.
Bowing slightly, Salim answered, ‘Yes, Huzoor.’
‘We want you to lead the hunt to catch this maneater. You must leave by tomorrow. We cannot waste anymore time.’
‘
Me
, Huzoor?’ Salim squeaked, brows raised. He cleared his throat. Why did his voice sound like a sheep that has been cornered by a wolf?
‘Yes, you, my son. I hope you will not let us down,’ said Abba Huzoor.
‘Have no doubts, Abbu, it will never come to that,’ Salim mumbled.
‘We’re glad to hear that.’ So saying, Abba Huzoor got up, signalled to Ali Naqi Khan to dismiss the court and left the hall.
Salim watched dully as Abba Huzoor walked up to Sambhu, his favourite elephant. The elephant was kneeling just outside the Safed Baradari. As soon as he saw Abba Huzoor, he raised his trunk to his forehead and saluted him. Abbu patted his forehead and settled down on the golden howdah. The party began to move towards Kaiserbagh Palace.
Salim looked dubiously at his reflection in the mirror as Chilmann tied his cummerbund. Lines creased his brow. He was scared. True, he had gone hunting several times before, but it had been confined to Musa Bagh, the royal hunting grounds where the kill had been the spotted deer, sambar, porcupine, black buck, barking deer, hare, even the odd jackal, hyenas and fox. But a tiger? And that too a maneater? Salim swallowed. The words of the woodcutter came to haunt him again. ‘You’re a coward,’ he had said. Salim shivered involuntarily as he remembered the boy who had been honoured at court yesterday. How cruelly he had been assaulted by the tigress. No, he must go and tell Abba Huzoor he couldn’t do it. And then? He would never be able to show his face to Abba Huzoor again. More than anything, he had always wanted to prove to Abbu that he was a worthy son. Yes, this was his chance. He
must
kill that tigress no matter what. He had no choice.
‘Preparing for war, are we?’ Daima demanded as she entered his room.
‘Oh, Daima,’ Salim chortled, momentarily forgetting his fears. ‘I’m going after that maneater. She has already caused much havoc.’
‘Why do you have to go? Are all the brave men in Avadh dead? And isn’t your Abba Huzoor’s hunting party soon to go into the jungles?’ Daima asked as she straightened the sheets on the takhat.
‘No, I very much doubt it,’ said Salim as Chilmann put on his boots. ‘Even if he decides to go hunting, it won’t be before December. And you know that Abbu can’t go off just like that. It will take at least two weeks to get his hunting party together. By then the tigress will destroy I don’t know how many more villages.’
Daima said nothing but proceeded to tidy the clutter on his desk.
Salim rose and adjusted his jodhpurs. He picked up his gun, polished the cool metal with his fingers, then brought its tip to his nose. He liked the smell of sulphur. He swirled it proudly before tucking it into his cummerbund. ‘And what’s more – not only Abba Huzoor, but Hazrat Ammi has also asked me to go. She feels I’m ready to prove my valour.’
‘That upstart!’ Daima exclaimed. ‘That low birth! Had the nawab wrapped around her little finger for years and now she talks about valour and manhood … Indeed!’
‘That’s not true, Daima. She’s an amazing woman. She’s so intelligent, and her guts – sometimes I wonder whether she’s a man. She knows no fear.’
Daima pursed her lips. ‘You’re getting late … Go now.’
Salim chuckled softly.
The heels of his boots clicked loudly as he walked down the stone floor of the corridor. He could not comprehend why Daima didn’t like Hazrat Ammi. Maybe it was because she belonged to a poor family. Or perhaps it was because she was one of the few begums who were not scared of her. But if there was one person who could prevent Avadh from falling into the hands of the British, it was Hazrat Ammi.
It was early evening when the hunting party passed the fields of sugar cane on the outskirts of Faizabagh. Salim brought Afreen to a halt. The twenty-odd horsemen accompanying him halted as well. He looked impatiently at the bullock and baggage carts that formed the tail of the hunting party. He had insisted on not bringing any elephants along as they would have slowed them down. But he could not say no to the carts. They were needed to carry all the tents and utensils as well as the servants. And those slowcoaches were even more sluggish than the elephants would have been. Just then, the sound of a bullock cart coming from the direction of the village drew his attention. ‘HALT! Who goes there?’ he called out.
The driver, clad in a dhoti and vest, approached Salim with joined hands. ‘Salaam, Chote Nawab. I’ve been destroyed, My Lord,’ he wailed. ‘My wife, my beautiful wife …’ He stopped speaking to wipe his tears with the edge of the cloth draped across his shoulders.
‘Ya Ali, why? What happened to her?’ asked Salim.
‘She gone to draw water from the well this morning. The tigress appeared out of nowhere. She struck a fatal blow to her face. Her beautiful face …’
Salim put a consoling arm on his shoulder. ‘I’m sorry, kaka. Don’t worry, we’ll avenge her death.’
‘Good luck to you, Chote Nawab,’ the villager replied. ‘I take no chances. I take my children far away to safety.’
Looking thoughtfully towards the village, Salim asked, ‘Tell me, kaka, do you think the tigress is still in the village?’
‘I don’t think so, My Lord. She was last seen ambling towards the forest.’
Salim nodded. The villager raised his hand to his forehead, bowed and backed away to his cart.
The baggage carts had caught up with the rest of the hunting party by now. Salim looked at Khurram baba, who had accompanied his father as well as his grandfather on several hunting expeditions. All Salim knew about hunting and the birds and the bees, he had learnt from him. Khurram baba signalled to him and they started moving again.
Soon they were in Faizabagh. The entire village was deserted. Salim stopped under a mango tree. A parrot took flight as he approached, letting a half-eaten mango splat on the ground. He looked around. He could see a diseased stray dog sniffing a rubbish heap intently. A crow cawed atop the roof of a hut. Other than that, there was not a soul to be seen. The silence was eerie.
‘Looks like the tigress has scared the hell out of them,’ Ahmed said. ‘I cannot conceive what might have turned her into a maneater.’
‘Some of the villagers who saw her say she was limping,’ said Salim. As he and Ahmed trotted up to a nearby well, they noticed some pug marks. Salim drew in a sharp breath. Ahmed dropped his betel box, his mouth falling open as he saw the torn pieces of bloodstained clothes scattered near the well.
Salim turned to his men. The servants were busy feeding the horses. ‘Let’s not dally,’ he ordered brusquely. ‘The tigress might still be on the prowl. Start moving.’
There was a sudden drop in light and temperature as they reached the greenish-black woods – the colour of henna that has just been made into a paste. Salim’s hunting party trotted around looking for a good spot. Soon they came to a small clearing surrounded by a canopy of dense trees.
‘This is perfect. We’ll camp here,’ said Salim, as he got off his horse.
As the servants got busy setting up the tents as well as the machan for the hunt, Salim and Ahmed ambled through the forest. They came upon a cave partially hidden from view by the branch of a neem tree.
Ahmed peered into the cave. It was dark. He could see nothing. He looked at Salim. ‘Shall we?’
Salim nodded.
The two of them pushed the branch aside and walked into the cave. They could still see nothing. Ahmed stepped onto a dry twig. It snapped into two, making him jump. There was a strong, all-pervasive smell in the cave. Wet grass and something else.
‘It’s the m-m-maneater,’ Ahmed stammered.
‘Shh.’ Salim put a finger to his lips. He could sense some movement. Then a sound. A rumble, that soon grew into a growl. Salim and Ahmed stared straight into the eyes of the tigress. She was gigantic. They stood rooted to the spot. Salim broke out in a cold sweat.
The tigress was not happy to see intruders in her home and let out a terrifying roar. Salim shuddered. The sound must have reverberated for miles around. Her green eyes flashed angrily in the darkness.
Ahmed gulped. ‘Salim mia, run!’
The two men ran faster than they had ever run in their entire life. They bolted blindly, slipping, sliding and scrambling through brambles and bushes and thorns. They did not stop until they reached the camp.
There they sat, under a mulberry tree, catching their breath. Salim looked over his shoulder to see if the tigress was following them. Thank goodness, she wasn’t. He looked at his torn breeches, at his bleeding knees, at Ahmed’s torn and stained angarkha, at the bruise on the side of his neck.