‘I’m afraid not, ma’am,’ the prince answered in clipped tones. ‘You’re my responsibility now. As long as you’re with me, you’re not going anywhere alone. You shall join us for breakfast and then we shall safely escort you home.’ His voice was deep, confident, authoritative.
Rachael groaned inwardly. Now she was in even more trouble. Not only had she left home when she shouldn’t have and been stranded in the forest by her runaway horse, but now she was going to be escorted home by the nabob’s entourage. She could just imagine the look on Papa’s face when he saw her regal homecoming. Not to mention how horrified he was going to be when he saw what she was wearing. It felt so liberating, though, wearing breeches, not having to sit side-saddle in an irritating long skirt over which she often tripped. How she wished she was a man.
She had not intended to stray so far. Since she was taking her meals in her room, she would not be missed as long as she managed to sneak back before late afternoon. After all, everything had worked out smoothly on the last two occasions she had sneaked out of the house. But now she was in big trouble, and all because of that prince! Rachael’s forehead creased slightly. What was his name? Not that she cared. If he had not caught her and insisted there was no way she was going out of the jungle alone, she would be home by now. That arrogant man! He had annihilated all chances of getting back home unnoticed.
Walking about restlessly, she hit the trees with the long twig that she had found. She swung it in the air, brandishing it like a sword, then poked the stones lying buried in the earth with it. Then with a sigh she sat down on the stump of a tree and watched the servants bustling about preparing breakfast and laying out the food. There were others who were busy dismantling the machan and folding the tents where the party had slept last night.
The diamond on her ring sparkled as it caught a beam of sunlight filtering in through the leaves of the tree under which she sat. Just then she noticed something glittering at her feet as well. She picked it up and dusted it. It was a black, velvet, bejewelled cap. It must belong to the prince. She put it on and walked over to the watering hole.
Peering down at her reflection, she said in a gruff voice, ‘As long as you’re with me—’
‘Interesting, very interesting,’ a voice chuckled behind her.
Rachael hastily turned around. It was the prince. With him was a rotund young man in an angarkha and wide-bottomed pyjamas. He wore a pearl necklace, earrings and a huge stone on his forefinger.
‘I’ve never met anyone like you before. An English girl in men’s trousers, wearing a nawab’s cap,’ said the prince.
Rachael gave an embarrassed grin and took off the cap.
‘May I be so bold to ask whether you work for the theatre, ma’am?’ the prince’s companion asked, looking down.
‘For heaven’s sake, no. Pray, whatever gave you the idea?’ replied Rachael.
The young man looked at the prince then cleared his throat. ‘Well, the first time we saw you, you were in a burqa, the second time you were in a dress and now … or perhaps you work for a costume company?’
Laughing, Rachael picked up her stick and began making patterns on the ground with it.
‘Myself called Ahmed,’ the rotund young man continued. He touched his cap lightly as Rachael nodded her head. ‘I hope everything’s all right?’ he asked.
‘How could any—’ Rachael was about to hurl a tirade of abuse at the prince, but stopped short. She gathered her hair and twisted it into a knot at the top of her head. Turning to the prince she asked, ‘Are the nabob’s hunting parties similar to this?’
‘Not at all,’ the prince replied. ‘This was an emergency hunt. No frills. You ought to have seen Nawab Asaf-ud-Daula’s hunting parties. He was the ….’ The prince paused and rubbed his chin. ‘Yes, he was the fourth nawab of Avadh. His hunting parties had no fewer than eight hundred elephants. One elephant was used simply for carrying all his rifles. There’d be dancing girls, singers, musicians and hawkers selling all kinds of wares. It looked more like a caravan than a hunting party.’
‘And Nabob Wajid Ali Shah’s?’ asked Rachael.
‘He’s not keen on hunting … It’s no longer what it used to be. Anyway, breakfast will be served soon. Do let me know if you need anything,’ said the prince.
Then the two men touched their caps slightly, bowed and left.
Rachael thanked the servant and sat down on the rug spread out for her. She swallowed as she looked at the breakfast spread before her. She had never imagined breakfast to be so lavish, and that, too, in the forest. There were cakes, biscuits, fried fish, boiled fish, different types of curry, parathas, rogni rotis, pickled salmon, sausages, tea, coffee, wine. This was a feast! She felt full just looking at it.
The servants were fussing over the prince. They called him Chote Nawab. She wondered what it meant. He smiled at her as he took a bite of the rogni roti.
‘What took you to Chowk the other day?’ he asked.
‘How can you be so sure it was me?’
The prince looked her straight in the eye, then glanced at her hands and replied quietly, ‘I’m sure!’
Rachael pecked at her paratha, wiped her lips with the serviette then answered, ‘I’d gone to ask Bade Miyan whether he knows someone who can teach me Hindustani music.’
‘You want to learn Hindustani music? Why?’
‘Because … I don’t know. I suppose because I love it.’
She shifted uncomfortably and wished he would not stare at her like that.
He collected himself and, looking at his food, said, ‘I could teach you.’
‘You could? But where?’
‘At my palace, of course.’
‘Father would never give me his permission.’
‘I will teach you on one condition.’
‘What?’ Rachael asked suspiciously.
‘That you teach me how to play the piano.’ His face was serious as he spoke. But his smouldering eyes – they were teasing her, baiting her, goading her to accept the challenge.
A couple of hours had elapsed since Rachael had finished her breakfast. Although it was mid morning, it felt like dawn, as the trees shut out most of the sunlight. Rachael watched with interest as the men tied the tigress to either ends of the pole. It was such a beautiful creature. Even in death it looked regal and awe-inspiring. Once the tiger had been secured and lifted onto the shoulders of six sturdy men, the party was ready to move back to Lucknow.
She smiled as a servant trotted up to her with a horse. So Chestnut had been found. She patted her horse lovingly and thanked the servant. As she mounted Chestnut, she glanced at the prince. He was explaining something to the man who rode right in front. Perhaps explaining a shorter way to reach Lucknow, she hoped. Even though it was still morning, it was already warm. Mother must have made sure all the windows had been shut and the khus mats sprinkled with water. Rachael watched the prince as he took one last look at the victorious hunting party, then trotted back to ride beside her.
‘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
SALIM
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’cl
ock. 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.’
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