Authors: Sangeeta Bhargava
‘Where did you learn to ride so well?’ he asked.
‘I spent many a summer with my grandparents. They live in a little village on the foothills of the Himalayas. I would spend all day just riding.’ She stopped speaking, as she remembered the hills, the undulating terrain, the evergreen foliage.
‘Why did you kill that tiger?’ she suddenly asked.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘You killed a beautiful majestic beast like that for mere sport? Or was it to prove your manliness?’
‘I—’
‘I can understand if one kills to fill one’s belly. But you can’t possibly eat a tiger, so pray what was the need to kill him?’
‘Well, if I didn’t,
we
might have been
its
dinner,’ he replied and rode off in a huff.
Five minutes later he was back. He came dangerously close to her. She wondered at the thrust of his chin. Did his chin naturally jut out like that or was it plain arrogance?
‘Her,’ he said.
‘What?’
‘It was a tigress.’
With that he galloped away to join Ahmed in front of the hunting party.
Chapter Seven
S
ALIM
Salim entered the main hall of Parikhana, the Academy of Music and Fine Arts, quietly. He always felt a little unnerved when visiting Parikhana. This was where you could find the best talents of Avadh, honing their dancing and singing abilities. It was no wonder Abba Huzoor was so fond of the place.
Abba Huzoor looked at Salim and nodded. Salim bowed and raised his right hand to his forehead in reply and sat down. He looked around. Chand Pari, dressed in a white kurta with delicate silver embroidery, was enacting Krishna Leela through dance form. She was accompanied on the sitar by two musicians while Ustad Burhan Mian played the tabla and Ustad Ali Khan provided the vocals.
Why had Abba Huzoor summoned him, Salim wondered. Of course, he was ecstatic. He hardly ever got to see him, much less spend time with him. He looked at him now as he took a puff from his hookah. He was engrossed in watching Chand Pari. His expressions and hand movements echoed those of the dancer. It seemed even his heart beat in time to music.
Chand Pari was performing one of the stories from the childhood of Lord Krishna. Salim watched with interest as the movements of Chand Pari’s hands indicated she was churning butter. Once the butter was made, she hung it from the ceiling in an earthenware pot. Her expressions changed. She was now enacting Little Krishna who loved butter and came toddling along. He could not reach the butter however hard he tried. It was much too high. Suddenly an idea struck him. He picked up a stone and threw it at the pitcher holding the butter. The pitcher broke and Krishna happily scooped all the butter …
Salim’s thoughts flew to Hazrat Ammi. He had heard she had come to the Parikhana when she was just sixteen. Her father had died when she was little and she used to live with her phuphi and phupha. Her phupha was a renowned designer and embroider of caps. Once, when commissioned to do some work for the regal household, he incurred the wrath of Abba Huzoor and his men were sent to imprison him and bring him to court.
The men could not find him but instead chanced upon his niece Hazrat Ammi. So entranced were they by her charm and wit that they went back to the palace singing her praises, her uncle forgotten. She was soon made a part of the Parikhana. Abba Huzoor, too, fell under her sway. So charmed was he by her beauty, grace and intelligence that he bestowed upon her the title of Mahak Pari, a fairy that spreads fragrance wherever she goes. That was before he married her and she became a mother to Birjis Qadir. Thereafter she came to be known as Begum Hazrat Mahal. But for Salim she’d always be Hazrat Ammi.
The music picked up crescendo, as did Chand Pari’s fall of the feet and movement of the hands. She swirled around faster and faster in time with the beat and finished with a flourish.
‘That was beautiful, you have made us happy today,’ Abba Huzoor remarked, before dismissing all those present in the room with a wave of his hand and turning to Salim.
Salim performed the taslim. Straightening up, he said, ‘I believe you sent for me, Abba Huzoor?’
‘We heard you killed that tigress.’
‘Yes, Huzoor.’ Salim inclined his head respectfully.
Abba Huzoor came close to him and patted his head lovingly. ‘We are pleased, my son. Inshah Allah may you always make us proud.’
‘I’ll try my best,’ Salim replied, his Adam’s apple moving.
‘We shall have a celebration in your honour tomorrow.’
Salim’s eyes shone as he exclaimed, ‘Ya Ali! Thank you so much Abba Huzoor.’
Sitting in the shade of the long veranda of the palace, Salim looked across the Gomti at the park. A circular portion of the park had been enclosed with bamboo fences and iron railings. That was where the elephant fight was soon to commence. A crowd had begun to gather along the fence and on the verandas, balconies and rooftops of houses that overlooked the park. There were even some enthusiasts who were perched on trees.
Salim thought of how he had shot the tigress. He felt a cold tingle of fear as he recalled how close he’d been to getting killed. Then he remembered Miss Bristow. What an affront – a woman in breeches! She ought to have been a man. She was far too haughty and emancipated for a woman!
And yet he could not deny he found her attractive, even in a man’s clothes. The way her hips filled the lean trousers and the way the taut shirt moved whenever she breathed. And her blue eyes, her honest, laughing eyes – neither too big nor too small, just perfect.
What was wrong with him? Why the hell was he thinking about that English woman? And what was he thinking – offering to teach her music? What if she took his offer seriously?
The bugle sounded, announcing the arrival of Abba Huzoor. He entered the veranda with fanfare, accompanied by the peacock fan-bearers. Everyone stood still with folded arms and bowed heads.
Abba Huzoor sat down and signalled for the fight to commence, with a wave of his hand. Salim watched him as he sat there, his hands moving as though he were composing a piece of music in his head. It was true – Abba Huzoor’s entire being was submerged in music. He had heard that even when he slept, his hands and feet moved about as though dancing.
He turned his attention to the two elephants, tied with a rope, at opposite ends of the arena. Both of them were in rut, which was done on purpose. Elephants were peace-loving creatures and would not be inclined to fight unless they were ruttish. A foul-smelling, greasy liquid was oozing out of their temples.
As soon as the bugle sounded again, the ropes were cut loose. The two elephants raised their trunks and tails and, trumpeting loudly, charged towards each other. As their heads collided with an enormous impact, a loud roar went up from the crowd. The mahouts kept goading the two animals on with their spiked red-hot iron spears.
Salim watched the elephants jostling each other with disinterest. ‘You killed that majestic beast for mere sport? Or was it to prove your manliness?’ Miss Bristow had taunted. Someone else had said something similar when he was sixteen. ‘Only cowards kill dumb animals that cannot retaliate. If you want to prove your royal blood, go and fight against injustice instead of killing innocent beasts.’ Even today, after all these years, he had not forgotten the look of contempt on that woodcutter’s face – it was almost as if he had spat on him.
Grimacing, Salim looked in Abba Huzoor’s direction. He had left. One of the elephants had fallen to the ground. The other elephant was about to rip open its belly with its tusks, when Salim raised his hand and shouted, ‘Stop it!’
All eyes in the arena turned on him.
‘Are you all right, Salim mia? You look as though you’ve just seen a maneater,’ Ahmed tried to joke. He began to wipe the beads of perspiration that had broken out on Salim’s face.
Salim looked at the elephants. Blood ran from their foreheads, down their trunks and mingled with the mud. He pushed Ahmed’s hand away from his forehead impatiently and turned to the mahouts. ‘Take your elephants to the vet and treat their injuries.’
Then turning to the audience he announced, ‘Let this be known throughout Avadh – no more fights are ever to be held in my honour again.’ With that he strode off.
It was exactly seven days since the elephant fight. Salim stared moodily at the painting that hung on the wall of his parlour. He did not know what had made him halt the fight. All he knew was, as long as that Englishwoman’s words kept haunting him, he would never be able to kill another animal again.
He turned slightly when Chilmann walked up to him, bowed, raised his hand to his forehead and whispered, ‘Chote Nawab.’
‘Yes?’
Chilmann handed him a piece of paper. ‘A servant gave this to the gatekeeper and asked him to give it to you.’
Salim looked at the paper quizzically before reading it. It was a short missive. His brows creased as he read it:
It is my pleasure to accept you as my teacher. My parents attend afternoon mass on Sundays at two o’clock. Pray tell me if I should come then. My companion Sudha shall do the needful.
Miss R. Bristow.
That was all it said. Salim began pacing the room, hands behind his back. He spoke after a long time, ordering Chilmann to call Daima. Then he walked over to the window. Lifting the khus mat, he looked out. The late afternoon sun came streaming into the room, burning everything it touched.
‘You called me, Chote Nawab?’
Salim turned around to face Daima. ‘Yes, Daima. I need your help.’
‘Anything for you, Chote Nawab,’ Daima answered.
‘That’s why I sent for you, Daima. I need you to arrange for an English girl to be brought to my apartments without being seen.’
Daima’s jaw fell open as she exclaimed, ‘Hai Ram, what are you saying, Chote Nawab?’
Touching Daima’s arms lightly, Salim said, ‘It’s not what you think, Daima. She’s a respectable woman. I will teach her music, that’s all.’
‘But an
angrez
?’ Daima asked incredulously.
Salim did not say anything. Merely walked over to his desk and read Miss Bristow’s note again.
‘I’m sorry, Chote Nawab … I cannot do it,’ said Daima.
Letting out a heavy sigh, Salim looked at her unrelenting form. Her mind seemed to have been made up. Kicking off his uncomfortable khurd nau, he padded barefoot towards her. Ah! The marble floor felt cool. He held her arms and pleaded once again. ‘Please, Daima.’
‘There’s no way I’m going to let a cow-eating white-skin to enter this palace as long as I live.’
Salim raised his voice, ‘Don’t cross your limits, Daima. I won’t tolerate anyone speaking about my acquaintance in that manner.’
Daima glared at Salim. Neither of them spoke. Picking up the silver spittoon, she spat out some betel juice. Then, pursing her chapped orange lips, she said quietly, ‘Thank you for showing me my place, Prince Salim … I had forgotten that I’m a mere servant.’
‘Ya Ali!’ Salim closed his eyes for a split second in sheer exasperation. ‘I didn’t mean that, Daima. Go away, I don’t need you,’ he shouted irritably at the fan-bearers who were following him as he paced the room. He walked over to the surahi which stood in a corner of the room and gulped down some water noisily. Turning back to Daima, he made her sit down on the takhat. He knelt before her and looked her in the eye. ‘Look, Daima, you know very well that you’re all I have. Amma left me soon after birth. Abba Huzoor never has time for me.’
He got up and walked over to his desk. He twirled the quill pen that lay on it, before returning to Daima. ‘I would never go against your wishes, Daima. If you don’t want her to come here, so be it. But just consider this – I gave my word to that woman and I’m honour-bound to keep it. You know as well as anyone that in all these years I’ve never broken a promise.’
Daima’s face softened. ‘What do I have to do?’ she asked quietly.
Salim gave her a tight hug. ‘Thank you, Daima.’
Shrugging out of his embrace, Daima replied, ‘Now tell me what you want me to do.’
‘Miss Bristow’s parents will leave for church on Sunday at two o’clock. You must reach her house at ten past two. Just go up to the gatekeeper and tell him you need to speak to Sudha. She will take care of the rest.’
‘I hope Ramji will forgive me for committing this crime,’ Daima said, shaking her head.
Salim smiled at her remark but chose not to say anything lest she change her mind. As the call for the evening prayers wafted in through the window, he knelt down facing Mecca. He raised his arms, muttering the holy verses under his breath. Then he lowered his forehead to the ground as he finished his prayers.
Chapter Eight
R
ACHAEL
As the carriage trundled down the street, Rachael looked at the older woman seated across from her. ‘Pray tell me, what I should call you?’ she asked.
‘Everyone in the palace calls me Daima,’ Daima replied curtly, revealing crooked yellowing teeth. Her breath smelt of betel nuts and betel leaves.
An awkward silence ensued as Daima turned her back towards Rachael and looked out of the window. She must have been beautiful when young, Rachael thought, what with her oval face, broad forehead and sharp nose. She wondered what Papa would say if he discovered she had again gone out without permission. Her thoughts flew back to the afternoon when she had just got back from the forest.
‘Tea laid out in garden, missy baba. Sahib waiting,’ Ram Singh had announced.
Swallowing, Rachael made her way slowly towards the garden. She stopped by the eucalyptus tree. She rested her palm against its smooth straight trunk as she watched her father. He sat alone, stirring his coffee. As he stirred, his anger brewed, or so she imagined. She took a deep breath in, then breathed out.
‘Good afternoon, Papa,’ she said, as Ram Singh held out a chair for her.