Salim lifted the mat again. He could see no movement in the courtyard below. Then he saw Nayansukh and Daima, creeping towards his room. He did not wait but bounded down the stairs to meet them.
‘Daima?’ he said as he took her hands in his.
Daima’s lips quivered. ‘Gangaram is no more … Chutki’s fiancé’s dead.’
‘What happened?’ Salim’s voice was barely audible.
Daima did not answer but simply clung to him.
‘They shot him,’ said Nayansukh. ‘After torturing him.’
Closing his eyes, Salim leant against a pillar as Daima’s tears ran down his angarkha.
‘His whole body was charred,’ Daima whispered between sobs. ‘We couldn’t recognise him at all.’
‘Bits of skin hanging … skin peeling off … blood oozing from everywhere … he had been tied to the floor with ropes … then pelted with heated brass rods, Salim bh—’ said Nayansukh, his voice breaking.
Salim took a few steps away from Daima. He stood still with his back towards her, his feet apart, arms folded behind his back, chin jutting out. His Adam’s apple moved as he tried to get a grip on his emotions. He turned back after a few minutes and looked at Daima’s anguished face. He thought of Chutki, of Gangaram, of the frenzied crowd at Newazganj. Yes, the time had come.
Chapter Sixteen
RACHAEL
Rachael sat quietly, sipping her sherbet. She looked around. The hall was full of people talking, laughing, eating, dancing. She knew most of them. Or maybe not. What were they like at home? Did they still wear their charming smiles or did they scream at their servants like Papa did?
She took another sip and thought of Salim. She wondered how he was. What must he be doing right now? It was becoming more and more difficult for her to see him these days. Alas, when would she be able to sneak out and meet him again? She had read somewhere – if you crave for something from the core of your heart, you often get it. And there was nothing she wanted more right now than to waltz with Salim. But first she would have to teach him. She giggled inwardly as she imagined herself teaching him how to dance. She could visualise him stepping on her toes and exclaiming ‘Ya Ali’ every time he did so.
‘May I have this dance?’ Salim? Rachael’s heart skipped a beat as she turned around. Her face fell. It was Christopher. She had been hallucinating. She rose petulantly and gave him her hand as he led her to the dance floor.
His face was sunburnt. If Ahmed saw him like this, he would say he looked like tandoori chicken. The thought made her snicker.
‘What’s so funny?’ Christopher asked.
‘Nothing, nothing at all,’ Rachael answered as she laughed even louder.
‘Where’s the bracelet I gave you?’
‘Oh, it’s in my jewellery box,’ Rachael lied. She had no clue where it was.
‘But you promised never to take it off.’
‘Umm … I broke my promise, I fear.’
‘But my future wife ought to learn to keep her word.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ Rachael looked at him incredulously. ‘Christopher, whatever Papa might’ve said to you, I’ve never thought of you that way. You’re a childhood friend and that’s how I intend to keep it.’ She looked at Christopher’s crestfallen face. ‘Look—’
‘Then why did you lead me on?’ he asked, tightening his grip on her hand. Rachael sighed. Perhaps she had led him on. She may even have married him eventually. But that was before she had met Salim.
‘Will you or won’t you marry me?’ Christopher demanded.
‘No,’ she shouted, just as the band stopped playing. Her word echoed through the room and everyone stared at her and Christopher. She lowered her gaze and murmured, ‘No, Christopher, I cannot.’
Christopher spun on his heels and left the room.
Summer had its own charm. It was a time of abundance, when the branches of trees sagged under the weight of ripe fruit – mangoes, lychee, jackfruit, jamun … Rachael found herself in a mango orchard that morning, the trees laden with oval orangish-yellow mangoes. She sat down gingerly on a swing. Well, it wasn’t exactly a swing. Just a rope with a cushion on it, hanging from the branch of a mango tree. Soon she was enjoying herself as she swung higher and higher. She sniffed inquisitively as the smell of mangoes in the orchard, mingled with the strong smell of sugar cane growing in the nearby fields, reached her.
Raising her right hand over her eyes, she looked at the tree in front. All she could see of Salim was a flash of white and his pointed velvet shoes. He did not seem like himself today. Something was eating him. She couldn’t blame him. After all, he had seen much, lost much and suffered much in the last few months. But what she saw in his eyes today was something different. It was as though he had made up his mind about something and was determined to carry it out. What exactly that was, she could not tell.
She watched him jump down from the tree with a thud and squish a mango gently on all sides with his hands. Then he bit a little hole on the top and gave it to her. She looked at him, then at the mango and again at him.
‘Go on, sip through the hole.’
Rachael took a small sip, then she sucked really hard. Thick yellowish-orange juice oozed out and ran down her hand. She licked it with a sheepish grin.
‘Mmmm, it’s delicious. I’ve never eaten a mango like this before, and that, too, while swinging from a mango tree. Mother would be horrified. She firmly believes ladies ought to eat mangoes and oranges in the privacy of their rooms.’
‘And I’ve never climbed a tree in an angarkha before,’ Salim replied, dusting the mud from his clothes. ‘Ya Ali, it has been years since I last climbed a tree.’ He picked up a raw mango from the ground, swung it in the air and caught it. ‘When Ahmed and I were little, we were sitting on one of these trees devouring mangoes one day, when the caretaker arrived out of nowhere and chased us out of the orchard with a cane.’
‘Oh dear!’
‘You should have seen his face when he came to know that I was Abba Huzoor’s son. He sent me a basketful of mangoes as an apology.’
‘You must miss him a lot.’
‘Not really. I don’t remember bumping into him again.’
‘I was talking about your father.’
Salim was silent for a moment. ‘I don’t miss him as much as his presence. The knowledge that he’s there, that I’ve nothing to worry about,’ he replied quietly.
Rachael got off the swing and touched his arm lightly. He smiled at her.
‘You look like a baby with mango pulp smeared on the tip of your nose. Wait, don’t move.’ He took out his handkerchief and gently wiped her nose before tweaking it.
‘Ouch.’
‘Where were you yesterday? I missed you,’ he said.
Rachael looked at the monkeys chattering and swinging by their tails and legs on the trees before answering. A baby monkey lost his balance while jumping from one branch to another and was caught just in time by its mother. ‘There was a party at home and I simply couldn’t get away. There’s this friend of mine called Christopher …’
‘Christopher? Who’s he?’
Rachael noticed his voice had suddenly gone sharp. She snapped a dry twig she had been playing with. KHATACK! ‘He’s a good-for-nothing. But a brilliant dancer. It was good fun dancing with him last night.’
‘Was it, now?’
‘Yes, he’s a soldier – same regiment as Papa. Papa’s fond of him, you know. In fact, if he had his way, he would love to see me betrothed to him.’
Salim’s face turned white. He held her elbows in a tight grip. ‘And you? Do you also want to marry him?’ His tone was clipped, his breathing uneven.
Rachael laughed inwardly. Contrary to the picture Salim was conjuring, she had spent the most unpleasant evening with Christopher. But at least now he knew she had no intention of marrying him.
She looked at Salim, her eyes narrowing into a smile. ‘Are you jealous, Salim? Christopher’s just a friend. Like you and me?’
She raised an eyebrow and looked at him.
‘So we’re just friends?’
‘Aren’t we?’ Rachael asked, suppressing a grin. She was enjoying this. So Prince Salim was jealous. Ah ha! Surely he must love her then …
‘I thought it was more …’
‘More what, Salim?’
‘Nothing.’ He picked up her shoe that had come off while she was swinging, and slipped it under her foot. ‘Come to Lal Barahdari tomorrow after dusk. You’ll get your answer.’
Rachael smiled and a myriad little mango blossoms showered down on her.
The next evening Rachael followed Salim into what looked like a huge hall. He pointed to the throne and said, ‘This is the coronation hall.’
The hall led into a spacious palace garden. In the centre of the garden was a magnificent pond, surrounded by colourful little fountains and adorned with statues. The statues were lit by colourful lamps. The entire garden looked like a fairy land.
That wasn’t all. In the centre of the pond was a pavilion. Rachael followed Salim demurely, as he led her to a boat. She loved the way the water parted as the oars hit it with a chopping sound.
He held out his hand and helped her get off the boat on to the pavilion. They entered the first of the two rooms. It was covered with Persian rugs and smelt of roses. Not the soft demure smell of the shy pink rose but the strong smell of the passionate red rose. Salim led her to a diwan and she sat down in silence. She did not know what to say. She felt like a princess in a magical palace. It was too beautiful to be true.
Salim coughed slightly. ‘You know why I’ve brought you here, don’t you?’
‘Maybe, but I want to hear it from you.’
‘I want to make you a part of my harem.’
Rachael raised a brow. Now that kind of proposal she had not heard before.
‘I don’t mind, as long as I’m the only woman in it.’ She whipped her gaze to his, expecting to see his eyes mocking her. But they were serious today, dead earnest.
He noisily poured two glasses of sherbet and handed her a glass. ‘It’s not true that all nawabs have millions of wives. Nawab Safdar Jang had only one wife and he was besotted by her. He did not have a single mistress or concubine or—’
‘That’s all very well – but you’ll have to go down on your knees and propose,’ Rachael playfully suggested. She sensed he was tense. For some reason he was not his normal self today. It was as though he were a mine, waiting to explode.
‘Ya Ali, I can’t do that. In all my life I’ve bowed before just two people – Allah and Abba Huzoor,’ he replied haughtily.
‘Then I’m afraid you can’t have me,’ Rachael said, shaking her head and clicking her tongue mischievously.
But he was still tense and his chin jutted out even more than it normally did. She noticed the vein in his forehead tauten. It always did whenever he was stressed.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘You forget I’m not English. I do not know the Englishman’s ways. I’ll do it my way.’ So saying, he pulled her to her feet. ‘Let’s not tarry, it’s getting late.’
Rachael looked at him, bewildered.
Neither of them spoke on the way back. Rachael could not understand what had gone wrong.
Rachael sat in the front garden of her bungalow. She took a sip of tea and looked around. This was the only time of the day when the garden could be enjoyed. It was not too warm, the sun having just set. At the same time there was enough light to prevent mosquitoes and other creepy-crawlies from venturing out yet.
It was 17th May 1857, the middle of a scorching summer. The blades of grass had turned yellow. Even the bees seemed weary of the heat and buzzed slowly as they collected honey. Brutus sat by her chair, lazily watching a yellow butterfly, too hot to give it chase. The bluebells were dead, the geraniums had all but vanished and the hibiscus flowers drooped as they panted for respite from the heat. The leaves of her favourite guava tree were caked with dust.
She wondered what was eating Salim. He was not his usual self of late. The other day, when he had taken her to Lal Barahdari, it seemed he wanted to propose to her and yet … She had wanted him to propose. She wanted him to make her his. It did not matter anymore that he was a native. In fact, it never had.
She looked across at Papa. He was smoking his pipe and looking at some papers. She nibbled at her sandwich then pushed the plate aside. Everybody was homeward bound. The clippity-clop of carriages and the bells around the cows returning from the meadows could be heard in the distance. The sky was covered with birds flying in all directions. They seemed extra noisy today.
‘Hello, Christopher,’ said Papa.
Rachael looked in the direction of his gaze. Christopher was sauntering towards them, still in his uniform. His cheeks were still sunburnt and looked a shade deeper than his red jacket. It was a pity, for they detracted from his boyish charm. She gave him a small smile as her father patted the chair next to him. He was the last person she wanted to speak to right now. Christopher nodded at her slightly before taking a seat. They had not spoken much since their row. A wall of cold politeness had replaced their old camaraderie.
Christopher helped himself to a sandwich before turning to Papa. ‘I’m afraid I’ve some disturbing news, sir.’
‘Yes?’ said Papa.
‘The sepoys in Meerut have mutinied.’
‘Is this related to the hanging of that Pandey fellow?’
‘It’s not just that sir. Eighty-five soldiers of the 3rd Light Cavalry refused to fire the cartridges of the Enfield rifles on religious grounds.’
‘What a load of superstitious nonsense.’
‘Well sir, there were rumours the cartridges the soldiers were required to bite off were greased with cow and pig fat. And religion forbids Hindus and Muslims from touching it.’
‘Oh yes, you can’t mess with their religion,’ said Rachael. ‘They take it seriously.’ She remembered how furious Salim had been when he had thought she was a Christian missionary.
‘Were they greased with animal fat?’ Papa asked.
‘I think there was some truth in the rumours, sir. The eighty-five sepoys who refused to even touch the cartridges have now been sentenced to imprisonment with hard labour for ten years. This sentence was read out before all the troops of Meerut, on the infantry parade ground. The sepoys were then stripped of their uniforms and were made to remove their boots. They were then shackled in chains.’
Rachael shook her head slowly. ‘They shouldn’t have been publicly humiliated like this. After all, they’re soldiers, not common criminals.’
‘I agree,’ replied Christopher. ‘Some of those soldiers were old, having served in the army for twenty to thirty years. They were heartbroken and were sobbing like little children.’
‘Dear me,’ Rachael said. ‘Either way they stood to lose. Even if they had obeyed and used those cartridges, they would have been shunned by their own family and village and pronounced outcasts.’
‘Now all the native soldiers of Meerut are in full revolt,’ Christopher said. ‘They’ve massacred the English and rode through the night towards Delhi. Sir Henry is expecting some trouble in Lucknow as well and feels it would be a good idea to move all the women and children to the Resi—’
‘Oh, Lawrence is being overcautious,’ interjected Papa. ‘There’s no need for that. If the people of Oudh didn’t raise their arms when their nabob was deposed, they’re not going to do so now.’
Rachael looked at Papa. Somehow she did not feel as complacent as he did. Christopher’s tidings made her apprehensive.
The skies suddenly darkened and within minutes there was dust flying everywhere.
Rachael sprang to her feet. ‘Goodness, it’s a dust storm,’ she exclaimed.
The three of them ran indoors, coughing and spluttering. Ram Singh and Ayah hurried outdoors to take the tea inside. The sandwiches and the tea were already covered with dust. They then hurried from one room to another closing all the windows, but the beds and fu
rniture were already covered with a layer of grime.
Rachael stood by her window and watched the raging wind as it bent the trees double, the air swirling with dust. It was followed by thunder and lightning and a heavy downpour. A branch of her guava tree broke with a loud crash. She shuddered. Somehow she got the feeling that this was just the beginning. That a bigger storm was yet to come.
Rachael smiled to herself as she looked at the little necklace. She had been going to the orphanage every morning to read to the sick children. Today, just as she was leaving, Kalan had shoved something into her hands. ‘For you, madam,’ he said. It was a little necklace made of a handful of marigold flowers, stitched clumsily together. She was surprised, as he was the shyest of the lot. She had never heard him utter a single word before.
The carriage entered the gates of the Bristow residence and halted before the main entrance. As Rachael stepped out, she noticed a woman in a white sari. Daima? What was she doing here? And what was she carrying? It was a silver tray covered with a velvet cloth. There were other women as well, each one wearing a colourful dress and carrying an equally colourful tray.
‘Daima? What a surprise!’
Daima looked at her, her face grim, her lips a thin straight line. Without saying a word she brushed past her. All the other women followed her in silence.
‘What was that?’ Rachael asked Papa as she stepped into the house and closed her parasol.
‘That was what comes of getting too cosy with the natives.’
‘Pray tell me what you mean?’
‘The nabob’s son …’
‘Yes?’
‘The audacity of that—’
‘Why, what’d he do?’
‘Apparently he has taken a fancy to you and wants to make you his concubine!’
‘What?’
‘You heard me.’
Rachael fumed inwardly. So this is what Salim meant when he said he would do it his way. She should have known better. A mistress indeed! And to think she had thought he loved her and was going to propose to her!
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