‘Of course not! I’m not a missionary. And anyway, what, pray, is wrong with being a missionary? They are simply spreading the word of Christ.’
‘Who the hell are they to decide that their religion is right and ours is blasphemous?’
Rachael was taken aback by the vehemence with which he spoke. ‘Look, I teach simply because I enjoy the company of children.’ She picked at her pagoda sleeve. ‘Perhaps because I never had a sibling to play with. I lost my three-year-old brother when I was born.’
‘I’m sorry.’
She looked at him. He did look repentant. Her face softened. ‘Do not vex yourself. I was too little to be affected.’
‘You can borrow some of mine. I have over forty brothers and sisters.’
Touching her right cheek theatrically, Rachael exclaimed, ‘Ya Ali,’ with mock horror.
Salim threw back his head and laughed. Still shaking with laughter, he looked at her. He stopped laughing abruptly. He was gazing at her lips, now her eyes. Rachael lowered her gaze and wished he would not stare at her like that. She felt he could look right into the core of her heart, into her very soul, and she found it disconcerting.
Rachael wondered gloomily where Salim was. The last six days had flown so fast. Papa would be back home tomorrow. Then she would not be able to see Salim again – for how long, she could not tell. She looked out of the window of the music hall at the high wall that surrounded the zenana. How time had flown. Why, it was just yesterday that Salim had led her into this room for the first time. She thought of all the unique structures he had shown her since then. The darbar hall, the vaulted ceilings, the portraits, the little balconies from where the begums could sit behind a purdah and watch the court proceedings. But there was a section of the palace that was still a mystery for her. The zenana.
Daima entered the room. ‘Chote Nawab will be here soon … can I get you anything?’
‘Daima, pray can you take me to the zenana?’ She clutched her hands urgently. ‘Please, Daima?’
‘I’m not sure Chote Nawab would approve.’
‘I’m sure he won’t mind.’
‘Ah well, follow me.’
‘Oh thank you, thank you, Daima.’ Rachael hugged the old woman and was about to kiss her cheek, but then, seeing the sombre look on her face, she kissed her hand instead. Daima tilted her head slightly like she often did when admonishing someone, but her face had the slightest flicker of a smile.
Rachael adjusted the hijaab that Daima had tied over her head, before entering an inner courtyard. It was deserted, perhaps because of the heat of the sun. Even though it was still winter, the afternoon sun was scorching hot.
The courtyard was flanked on all sides by long corridors. The corridors on the left and right led to several doors which in turn led to the rooms of the begums. The doors right in front opened on to a splendid hall which was packed at the moment.
A strong smell of ittar greeted Rachael as she entered this hall. Mother always wore a perfume from back home. It had a light, flowery fragrance, as light as a butterfly alighting on a petal. So unlike the perfume these natives wore. It clung to you and filled your nostrils with a smell so strong it ceased to be fragrant at all.
Rachael looked about her with undisguised interest. Some of the begums sat gossiping; some were playing chaupad, some chess. There was a small stage at one end of the hall. A small group had gathered there and were listening to the domnis narrating tales of yore. Loud voices made her turn. The two begums playing chaupad were squabbling.
‘I refuse to put up with your cheating anymore,’ shouted the fair begum with long hooped earrings, as she angrily took a puff on the hookah.
‘Oh yes? Don’t try to play the innocent with me,’ spat out the other begum. She paused, chewed her paan furiously before continuing. ‘Shakina found some chillies and lemon under my mattress this morning. Don’t I know who’s trying to do voodoo on me! And then she pretends to be an angel!’
Rachael looked at her with interest. Her paan-stained lips were the same colour as her dress.
‘I should have married a grass-cutter,’ said the begum with the hooped earrings. ‘I would have been the only wife and I wouldn’t have had to put up with you!’ She then yanked the chaupad sheet and threw it on the floor.
The other begum grabbed some of the counters and threw them at her.
Daima rushed to the scene. ‘You two should be ashamed of yourselves, quarrelling like a bunch of unruly children … Is this behaviour worthy of a begum?’
She pulled Rachael away and took her to a begum who sat on a rug, doing calligraphy.
‘See how well she writes? It’s her ambition to write the entire Koran single-handedly,’ Daima explained.
Rachael watched in fascination as she weaved out Urdu letters one after the other. ‘Daima, can I try?’ She tried to lean closer to the begum, when her left hand knocked over the silver inkstand. ‘Oh dear me,’ she muttered, her hand covering her mouth as rivers of black ink began to run over the begum’s handiwork.
Daima smacked Rachael lightly on her head. ‘Hai Ram … This girl is useless.’
Sticking out her tongue, Rachael looked across the hall. She saw Salim standing in the doorway. He did not look pleased. She swallowed and plucked at her sleeves. Why, oh why, was she always in trouble?
Chapter Eleven
SALIM
It was a cold morning on 1st February 1856. Salim stood on the balcony of his palace watching Daima feeding the pigeons. They were busy pecking at the seeds, making a low guttural sound as they did so. He snuggled his chin into his qaba as he read the lines again:
Restless and troubled
Passed the sleepless night,
My love has departed
To what land I know not.
Abba Huzoor was a fine poet, no doubt. Salim wished he could write like him. But whenever he sat down to write, he ended up staring at the paper. Words failed him. Ah well, he may never get into his good books because of his writing, but at least Abba Huzoor was pleased with his hunting abilities. He had called him one of his able sons.
But what would he think of his able son if he came to know he had been teaching an English girl Hindustani music in his own palace? Abba Huzoor hated the English. Unlike his predecessor Nawab Nasir-ud-Din Haider, who admired English dress, mores and mannerisms, he shunned everything English. And that girl – RayChal – why did she have to go to the zenana yesterday? What if one of the begums had mentioned it to Abba Huzoor? He would have been dead by now.
He had stormed into the zenana when Chilmann had informed him of her whereabouts. But when he had seen her squatting in the centre of the room with the other begums, he felt as though she had always been a part of his family. And then when he saw Daima chiding her for something, just as she always scolded him, he watched her stick out her tongue and grin shamefacedly at Daima. After that he could not bring himself to scold her.
He had been brought up in a zenana full of women. Yet in his entire life of twenty-two years, he had never come across a woman like her before. Ya Ali, he was again thinking about her. What was wrong with him? What was it about her that held him thus captive? Was he in love with her? No. This was not love. He simply enjoyed her company and loved flirting with her. It was all in good fun, that’s all.
Then why was he always thinking about her? The way she talked, the way she laughed, the way she played the piano, the harmonium, her fingers light and feathery, the way she walked, the way she said his name. The way her eyes shone when she smiled, the way she crinkled her little nose. Why, he could even recall what she smelt of – lavender and roses. And why, oh why, did he feel depressed simply because he could not give her music lessons anymore?
And what was that about the war? True, Dalhousie’s army had reached Cawnpore but that didn’t mean the forces would be turned on Avadh. Why, just last night he had attended one of Abba Huzoor’s kavi samelan. Abbu looked unperturbed.
Salim smiled a small wry smile and looked
down at the garden below. The blades of grass were bent double by the strong northerly wind and were whispering to each other the rumours that were rife throughout the city.
‘Salim mia.’ It was Ahmed. He came rushing to the balcony. ‘Salim mia, have you heard?’
‘Heard what, Ahmed?’
‘The Resident has presented a treaty to His Majesty from the Governor General of India, Lord Dalhousie, asking him to abdicate the throne.’
Turning his back to Ahmed, Salim looked again at the blades of grass. His heart sank. So the rumours were true.
Salim strode into the Zard Kothi Palace. Abba Huzoor was pacing the black and white tiled floor and muttering, ‘What have we done to deserve this?’
His brother Sikandar Hasmat, his minister, the Residency lawyer Muhsee-ud-Daula, the deputy Sahebud-Daula, the finance minister – all of them stood still with lowered heads.
Abba Huzoor ordered Saheb-ud-Daula to read the treaty aloud – the treaty that had been sent by Lord Dalhousie. That firangi had managed to gobble up the states of Punjab, Burma, Nagpur, Satara and Jhansi in the last ten years. Now he wanted to swallow Avadh, the bloody glutton.
Saheb-ud-Daula touched his cap lightly and started reading. Abba Huzoor stood with his back to the rest, leaning against a pillar. Saheb-ud-Daula read two lines, broke out in a cold sweat, got a lump in his throat and could not continue. Abba Huzoor snatched the papers from him and commenced reading it himself.
Salim’s hands curled into fists. Why didn’t Saheb-ud-Daula throw those papers in the Resident’s face when he gave them to him? Putting Abba Huzoor through this humiliation!
Abba turned to Saheb-ud-Daula and angrily waved the treaty papers at him. ‘Why this new treaty? What happened to the old one?’
‘Your Majesty, the Resident feels the administration of Avadh has grown slack.’
‘What utter nonsense,’ Salim muttered under his breath. Of all the allegations levied against Abba Huzoor, this was the most outrageous. Avadh was at the height of its glory, there was no doubt about it. The land was fertile, trade was booming and taxes were low. Why, with all the poets, musicians and artists flocking daily to its courts, it had even become the centre of cultural integration and etiquette.
Abba Huzoor’s nostrils flared. He was trying to get a hold on his temper. Salim had never seen Abba fly into a rage.
‘How dare he say that? Are the people in our land not happy and flourishing?’ Abba finally spoke through gritted teeth.
‘Yes, Your Majesty,’ answered Saheb-ud-Daula.
‘The Company has no right to dispense of the old treaty which clearly states that it can govern Avadh but cannot dethrone us.’
‘I agree, Your Majesty.’
Abba stopped pacing and stroked the lion carved on either side of his throne. ‘Our ancestors have already given half of Avadh to the British. Now they want to swallow the rest.’ He looked at the mermaids carved on the wall, the royal insignia of the Naishapur dynasty. A dynasty that had ruled over Avadh since 1722. He absent-mindedly felt the velvet softness of the oblong pillow, before sitting down on the throne. Nobody spoke. Everyone stood silently with heads hung low. The only sound that could be heard was the sound of breathing. A stale, sweetish smell pervaded the hall. It came from the vase that stood in a corner. The tuberoses it held were half-dead.
Abba Huzoor finally spoke. ‘Go and tell the Resident that we will not renounce the throne without a fight.’
Salim sat alone in the music hall trying to play the sitar. But he could not concentrate. He kept thinking of all that had transpired in the Zard Kothi that morning. He tried again. The strings of the sitar were tight and sounded harsh. It was no use trying to hide behind his music. Abba Huzoor needed him. He should go to him.
He put on his cap and made his way towards Abba’s parlour. As he passed the kitchen, he could smell biryani being cooked. Bland white rice with rich juicy chunks of meat. Like the friendship between the English and the nawabs that had lasted eighty years. But the biryani had begun to boil over now. He doubted anyone would be eating in the palace that night.
This corridor was much too dark. Once all this was behind them, he would ask Daima to get the servants to place a couple of candles at the two ends.
Just then, the Queen Mother, Janab-e-Alia, rushed past him. Salim’s mouth fell open. It seemed she had come running from her palace barefoot, without her veil and without waiting for her attendants, as soon as she had heard the news of the new treaty.
Salim followed her quietly to the parlour and stood trembling at the door.
‘Ammi,’ Abba Huzoor exclaimed as Janab-e-Alia entered his parlour, shocked at her appearance.
‘We’re lost, you have destroyed us,’ she shouted without preamble.
‘Ammi, please sit down.’
Abba led her to the takhat and gestured to the servants to leave them alone.
‘How many times did we tell you to forget your begums and Parikhana and pay attention to the administration of the country?’ she accused.
Abba averted his gaze and pulled at his hookah instead. ‘Ammi, no matter what we did, they would have still annexed Avadh under some or the other pretext. Look at how they swallowed the other kingdoms. Ours was the only one left.’
‘We should never have stopped you from conducting those parades,’ the Queen Mother replied with deep regret.
‘Do you remember, Ammi, how we used to watch our army parade for hours on end? What eloquent names we had given the regiments – Banka, Tircha, Ghanghor. We even had a regiment of women soldiers. Why, oh why, Ammi, did you make us stop?’
‘Your hakim told us your health was deteriorating from standing too long in the sun.’
‘And you believed him? If only you knew he was a spy planted in our court by the English. They said to me, “Why do you want to waste money maintaining an army when our army is there to fight for you?” … You see, Ammi, we played right into their hands.’
Salim stood rooted in the doorway. He felt guilty eavesdropping like this, but found himself unable to move. He wanted to go and embrace Abba, console him, but knew he mustn’t.
‘And the irony is, the bravest and the strongest soldiers in the Company’s army are from Avadh,’ said Abba Huzoor.
Begum Janab-e-Alia walked over to the window, lifted the curtain and looked out. ‘That’s another reason we can’t fight,’ she said.
‘Meaning?’
Begum Janab-e-Alia dropped the curtain and looked at her son. ‘Nothing would be gained by asking our sepoys to fire on their own brothers.’
‘But we can’t just give up.’
‘We won’t. We’ll fight for justice in Queen Victoria’s court.’
Salim’s jaw dropped and his forehead creased. He stared at Janab-e-Alia. What the hell did she mean? Then he looked at Abba Huzoor. Abbu, don’t pay any heed to her. Queen Victoria’s court, indeed. Abba Huzoor would have to go to England for that. It would take him months. What would become of Avadh meanwhile? Of Lucknow? Of the people? What kind of advice was that?
Salim could not believe what was happening. This whole day had been one long nightmare. He dragged his feet to his room. Yes, it was a nightmare. He would wake up any minute now. Any minute.
Chapter Twelve
SALIM
It was not a nightmare. Two days later Salim found himself smiling contemptuously as Major General Outram, the English Resident, marched into the hall of Zard Kothi Palace, his heels clicking on the tiled floor. He walked briskly up to Abba Huzoor and embraced him. He clearly meant business.
Frowning, Salim tried to remember the name of the first resident to be appointed to the Court of Avadh. It was something Middleton. He was supposed to strengthen the friendship between the Company and the nawab. Friendship indeed! Salim smirked. What Middleton and his successors actually did was extort huge sums of money from the nawab and stealthily dig away his power.
Unfolding his arms, Salim put them behind his back and stared grimly at the Resi
dent. Why in Allah’s name had Abba Huzoor met the Resident’s expenses all these years? For this? In the beginning the Residents merely had a secretary. Now they employed an entire retinue running into thousands, and the poor nawabs not only paid their salaries, but provided and maintained their accommodation as well. And the temerity of that firangi! Did he have no shame? After feeding on Abba’s mercy all his life, he was now talking about deposing him? How could he? How dare he?
The two men could not have looked more different. Abba in his silk brocaded angarkha, his neck covered in pearls, wide-bottomed silk pyjamas and pointy velvet shoes. The Resident dressed smartly in his uniform – red jacket displaying all his medals, and black trousers which tapered down to the ankles.
He bowed slightly before Abba Huzoor and said, ‘May I remind His Majesty the terms of the new treaty are generous and it would be in his best interest to sign it.’
The nerve of the firangi! Asking Abba to give up his throne, his entire kingdom, for a meagre twelve lakhs an annum and calling it generous! He must be jesting! Salim continued to watch, fuming.
‘We don’t want your money, we want justice,’ Abba Huzoor replied quietly.
Major General Outram ran his fingers over his head and again began to extol the generosity of the British Government. Salim unfolded and folded his arms again as he stared at him. The bloody viper. Ya Ali, he could cut off his tongue right there and then.
‘Treaties are signed between equals. Who are we to sign a treaty with the mighty British Government?’ Abba Huzoor said evenly.
Salim noticed a vein twitch near Abba’s left eye and his jaw tighten as he spoke. He was finding it difficult to keep a rein on his temper. There was no need for that Abbu, Salim thought. Just pick up your rifle and shoot the bloody angrez.
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