The World Beyond

by Sangeeta Bhargava

  ‘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 shar
p 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.

  It was getting dark. The forest was now full of mysterious shadows and whisperings. He felt sorry for the goat, tethered as it was, at the edge of the clearing. The servants were still setting up the machan. Some crickets started clapping their wings just as a firefly flashed its light in the darkness.

  There was a sudden movement in the grass. Salim became alert. ‘Looks like she’s found us,’ he whispered. It was just a rabbit. It darted off as soon as it saw him. ‘Ahmed, the tigress will be upon us any minute now. Let’s not tarry.’

  He hobbled towards the machan. How long were those incompetent nincompoops going to take to set it up? He had walked a mere ten paces when he felt something behind him. He turned around sharply.

  Sure enough, the rusty-brown tigress was stealthily padding towards the goat, its tail shot up in the air. The goat began to bleat hysterically.

  Salim jumped onto Afreen’s back post-haste while Ahmed ran to fetch his rifle. Snatching his gun, Salim took aim just as the tigress sprang on the goat. The bullet hit her on the thigh. She let out a pained menacing roar.

  The servants rushed to the spot upon hearing the roar. One look at the tigress and they froze on the spot, stupefied.

  In spite of her limp, the tigress turned towards Salim. Her tail twitched from side to side, accelerating to a furious lashing as she charged towards him. His hands shook violently as he pointed his gun at her and fired. It missed. Beads of perspiration gathered on his brow. ‘Ya Ali,’ he muttered as he took aim again. But before he could fire, she had sprung on him with one fluid movement and knocked him off the horse.

  Ahmed fired. Although it missed the tigress, the sound distracted her. Her whiskers shot upwards, bristling with fury as she turned to Ahmed and roared again.

  Scrambling to his feet, Salim put some distance between himself and his tormentor. ‘Khurram baba, my rifle!’ he shouted as he threw his empty gun away. He was breathing hard through his open mouth.

  Just then Ahmed tripped over a stump and fell. His rifle flew out of his hands. He turned white as he stared at the tigress. She was just a yard away from him. He sat there, petrified, unable to move.

  ‘Quick,’ Salim yelled as the tigress inched closer to Ahmed. Two servants rushed to Ahmed and dragged him back into the bushes. Khurram baba came running, a double-barrelled pistol in his hands. Salim snatched the loaded pistol and fired one shot after another till no more bullets were left.

  The tigress roared one last time, then lay still. Thick, sticky blood oozed out of her.

  Salim sank to the ground and wiped away the perspiration. He looked at the tigress. The black stripes on her coat shimmered. She was almost ten feet long and was at the prime of her life. It was a pity he had to kill something so majestic. He got up and patted Afreen. She was shaken, but otherwise unhurt. The servants gathered around him, praising him for his bravery.

  He looked at Ahmed. Ahmed raised his right hand to his forehead and saluted him. ‘I owe you this one, Salim mia,’ he said, his voice still quivering. Salim gave him a small smile. Then he lifted the flap of his tent and went in.

  No sooner had Salim stepped out of his tent the next morning, than he was greeted by the cook.

  ‘Good morning, Chote Nawab.’ The cook raised his right hand to his forehead and bowed. ‘When should I serve food?’ he asked.

  Salim took a deep breath of the crisp morning air before replying. ‘I’ll be back in an hour. We’ll have breakfast and leave shortly after that.’

  ‘Whatever you wish, Chote Nawab.’ The cook bowed and left.

  As Salim and Ahmed cantered through the woods, Salim looked around. The forest looked different as the morning light filtered feebly through the dense foliage. There was a fresh nip in the light breeze that blew in from the north. It made the leaves on the trees rustle like the ghungroos on a tawaif’s feet. The dewdrops on a giant spider’s web swayed and sparkled like jewels as they caught the faint sunlight.

  ‘You go ahead, Salim mia,’ said Ahmed. ‘I’ll join you in a few minutes. And take Toofan with you.’

  Salim hadn’t realised that, while his eyes had been feasting on the grandeurs of Mother Nature, Ahmed’s eyes had caught something else. He followed Ahmed’s gaze and noticed some village girls in the distance. They were giggling and squealing with laughter as they collected wood and twigs to light the fires at home. He gave a lopsided smile and shook his head as he patted Afreen and took the reins of Toofan in his hands. Ahmed would be back soon. For all his interest in girls, he was as scared of them as a rabbit is of a fox.

  As Salim trotted along under the low-lying branch of a peepal tree, someone jumped down from the branch onto Toofan’s back and made off with the horse. For a moment Salim stood dumbfounded. Was it the ghost that lived on the peepal tree? The one that the villagers had been talking about? Of course not. It was a thief. Salim kicked Afreen furiously and galloped after the thief. Soon Afreen was abreast of Toofan and Salim managed to get hold of his reins. He tugged hard at them and brought Toofan to a halt. The thief jumped off the horse and was about to make his escape when Salim grabbed hold of him.

  ‘You impertinent thief!’ he cried. ‘You think you can escape after trying to steal the nawab’s horse?’

  ‘I’m not a thief,’ the thief mumbled indignantly through clenched teeth. ‘I was just borrowing the horse as mine has run away.’

  Before Salim had time to reply, he had been punched hard in the stomach with an elbow. He groaned but did not loosen his grip on the thief. In the scuffle that followed, the thief’s hat came loose and a waterfall of golden hair came cascading down. Salim stared at the hair and then at the thief in disbelief. His lips parted slightly as he narrowed his eyes to gaze into a pair of deep-b
lue ones.

  Chapter Six

  RACHAEL

  Rachael couldn’t help giggling at the look of shock on her captor’s face. He looked so familiar – those eyes, that long black hair, that firm chin. Where had she seen him before? Who was he? He was the only native she had come across who was taller than her. He must be a prince, she decided.

  He abruptly let go of her.

  ‘I’d stopped for just two minutes to pick up some wild flowers – you know, those yellow flowers? And the moment I got off the horse, he just galloped away …’ Rachael trailed off as she found him staring at her hands.

  She looked at him perplexed, and nervously played with the ring on her finger. He stared at them even harder, before clutching them.

  ‘Ya Ali, were you playing the piano a few days back at Colonel Bristow’s house?’ he asked urgently, as he turned her hands over and over, as though looking for a clue to some hidden treasure.

  ‘Yes, I’m his daughter.’

  ‘And were you in Chowk a few days back in a burqa?’ he asked as he gently rubbed the diamond on her ring.

  Rachael shifted uncomfortably and took her time before answering. She remembered now why he seemed familiar. She had seen him at Bade Miyan’s shop.

  ‘Maybe,’ she answered softly.

  ‘I knew I’d recognise these hands anywhere.’

  ‘My hands,’ said Rachael.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You’re still holding them.’

  ‘Oh, I’m s-sorry …’ the prince stuttered as he let go of them.

  ‘Sir, I had no intention of stealing your horse.’

  The prince raised a brow.

  Fiddling with her ring, Rachael answered, ‘I was simply borrowing it as my own horse has run away. So if you would be so kind, lend me a horse and I’ll quietly take my leave.’