* * *
It was 30th May 1857. Rachael looked at the rows of small beds that lined the biggest room of the orphanage. The windows had been closed to avoid invasion by the little black army of flies and mosquitoes. How could the children sleep in this sweltering heat without a fan she wondered.
She removed the strip of cloth from Kalan’s forehead. His temperature was coming down. It was a good sign. Mrs Rodriques entered the room.
‘I think you better stay the night,’ she whispered.
Rachael looked at the sleeping child, then turned her attention to the caretaker of the orphanage. ‘Pray tell me why?’
‘It’s not safe. They’re expecting trouble. There are rumours. The firing of the gun at nine o’clock tonight will be a signal for the sepoys to revolt.’
‘But I must leave. Papa will be worried sick if I don’t get back home.’
Kalan stirred. Rachael patted his head gently. Dilawar, a fair boy with soft golden curls, muttered in his sleep.
‘How will you go?’ Mrs Rodriques whispered.
‘My carriage is waiting outside.’
‘Not anymore. I think the driver has deserted.’
‘Oh dear, but I must go home.’
‘Let me see if Mr Rodriques is able to arrange something.’
Rachael wrung her hands as she paced the room. So now they were expecting a mutiny in Lucknow as well. She felt apprehensive. She wondered how Salim was. Stop, she told herself. It was over. She was never to think about him again. Whatever it was they had between them was over. She would have nothing to do with him ever again.
Wrapping the shawl around her head and shoulders, Rachael stepped into the palanquin. Mrs Rodriques turned to the palanquin-bearers.
‘If anyone asks, you are to tell them it is Nawab Wajid Ali Shah’s begum.’
The palanquin-bearers nodded and were soon huffing down the street.
Rachael peered through the curtain. The streets were deserted. What if the rumours were true? But then it was late. The streets would be deserted at this time of the night anyway.
A loud yelp made her start. One of the two sepoys walking down the street had kicked a stray dog who limped away yowling in pain. They were now coming towards the palanquin.
‘HALT !’
The palanquin stopped moving. Rachael held her breath. She covered her nose with her hand. A foul smell was emanating from a nearby drain.
The tall and stout sepoy tapped on the palanquin and asked, ‘Who’s in there?’
One of the palanquin-bearers stuttered, ‘H-His Majesty’s begum, Begum …’ then turned to his companion for help.
‘Begum Mahal,’ his companion supplied.
‘Yesss. Begum Mahal.’
Rachael sat still, her back straight as she pushed a truant lock of hair back under the shawl.
‘How do we know? What if you’re hiding an angrez?’ He again tapped the palanquin. ‘Begum sahiba, show us your hand.’
Rachael swallowed.
The other sepoy now spoke. ‘Leave the poor woman alone, Shekhar. Bloody firangis didn’t even let His Majesty take all his wives with him.’ He patted one of the bearers on the shoulder. ‘Go, take her home quickly. This is no time for a lady to be out on the streets.’
Rachael slowly let out her breath. She wiped her moist hands and then her face.
A few moments later, she heard a gunshot. Loud and clear. It must be nine o’clock. She was still a few minutes away from home.
There was a prolonged silence after that gunshot. All she could hear was the laboured breathing of the palanquin-bearers. She looked out of the curtain again. Now there was just one more street to cross. It was then that she heard it. The sound of muskets amidst shouting and drumming. It came from the native cantonments.
The palanquin turned the corner. She could now see her bungalow at the end of the road. It looked exactly as it did every night. A rectangular white house, shrouded in darkness, except for the faint light that could be seen at some of the windows. She almost collapsed with relief.
She sprang out of the palanquin as it stopped near the gate. She opened the gate, a little puzzled. Where was the guard on duty? Why had he not stepped forward to open it for her? She knocked on the door. There was no response. ‘Ram Singh,’ she called out and knocked again. Where was Brutus? She walked around to the back of the house. Yes, her window was open. She pulled herself through the window.
She ran from room to room shouting, ‘Papa, Brutus, Mother, Ram Singh …’ but they were nowhere to be seen. ‘Papa,’ she shouted one last time on a frustrated sob. She then collected herself and went into Papa’s study. No, he wasn’t there. She opened his drawer and took out his gun. If she was going to be alone at a time like this, she had better equip herself.
Then she went towards the servants’ quarters. Ayah’s house was empty as well. Hearing some voices, she rushed into Sudha’s quarters. She was horrified to see her surrounded by three to four natives. ‘Please forgive me. Let me go,’ Sudha was pleading, her hands joined.
‘Forgive you?’ the man bellowed. He slapped her hard across the face and sent her spiralling to the floor. Then he pulled her to her feet by yanking her hair. ‘Do you know the entire village is laughing at us since you ran away from your husband’s funeral pyre?’ He raised his hand to slap her again.
Rachael caught hold of his hand. ‘Leave her alone,’ she commanded.
The men turned to look at her now. One of them eventually spoke. ‘You keep out of this, memsahib. This is family matter. You not interfere.’
‘Yes, memsahib, you leave,’ Sudha uttered. ‘You see, these be my uncles and brothers.’
‘I’m not leaving you alone with these brutes, Sudha. Don’t any of you dare touch her,’ she challenged, as she pulled out Papa’s gun.
Sudha’s brother instantly caught hold of her hand and twisted it hard. Rachael screamed in pain. Her grip on the gun loosened and it fell to the floor. He pushed her hard. Her head banged against the wall and soon she was plunged in darkness.
Chapter Seventeen
SALIM
Salim stood in the pavilion on the terrace, from where he could see the intricately carved gateways of Kaiserbagh. He was incensed. How dare a firangi insult him like that in his own country! ‘He’s a native’, Colonel Bristow had said. Just a native.
Daima had been agog when Salim had told her he wanted to marry Rachael. She had decorated all the trays herself. One silver tray contained sweets ranging from the juicy syrupy balls of gulab jamun to the dry diamond-shaped barfi made from cashew nuts. A silver platter had a set of ornaments made from fresh flowers. Another had gold jewellery with a gold engagement ring in the centre. All the trays were covered with a red velvet cloth with tassels of gold.
Salim pursed his lips as he recalled what Daima had recounted last night. She had marched proudly to RayChal’s house, followed by a colourful train of maids, carrying silver platters and trays, only to be greeted by Colonel Bristow’s ‘What the hell!’ He took his pipe out of his mouth, and pointing it to the silver trays, said, ‘If you have come here to sell something, I’m afraid we’re not interested.’
Daima grinned. ‘No, no, sahib, you’re mistaken … we come from Nawab Wajid Ali Shah.’
Colonel Bristow raised his brow.
‘His son, our Chote Nawab, Salim, is in love with your daughter and wishes to marry her,’ Daima continued.
‘What? The gall of that fellow!’
‘I beg your pardon, sahib?’
‘Tell me something … You are …?’
‘I’m his daima … I nursed him as a baby.’
‘Tell me, Daima, is there any guarantee that prince of yours will not marry again? After all, his father is said to have over a hundred wives.’
‘That’s not true, sahib.’
‘And where will he keep his wife? Just a few months back the Company threw out all his relatives from Khushnuma Palace. What guarantee is there that he will not be thrown out of his
palace tomorrow?’
‘Saheb, he’s the king’s son.’
‘He was. Not anymore. The king has been deposed.’ He paced up and down before facing Daima again. ‘You seriously expect me to give my daughter’s hand to the son of a spineless man who could not even protect his own throne?’
He took out a watch from his pocket, looked at the time, then put it back. Looking at Daima irritably, he lowered his voice and said, ‘And Daima, even if his father was still the ruler of Oudh, I would never let my daughter marry a mere native. Never.’
Salim’s muscles tensed as he flung the engagement ring into the pond with full force. It startled the sleeping goldfish. The waters rippled as they darted to and fro in panic. So he was just a native. So what if he could read and write English and quote Byron and Keats as well as any Englishman? Or compose? Or play Mozart, for that matter? For RayChal’s father, as long as the colour of his skin was brown, he was the same as the dhobi or the sweeper.
He folded his arms across his chest and decided to stay outside a little longer. It was too hot to go inside, while here on the terrace, a light summer breeze was blowing, heavily laden with the sweet smell of tuberoses.
Ahmed appeared just then.
‘I’ve been looking everywhere for you. And you’re relaxing here! Do you even know what is happening in the city?’
‘What?’
‘The sepoys have mutinied.’
‘It was about time they did,’ Salim replied as he took aim with his pistol and fired. The guava fell off the tree with a thud.
‘People are afraid, Salim mia, and many of them are leaving the city. I think you should leave as well. Go to Calcutta, to Abba Huzoor. You’ll be safe there.’
‘You’re joking. Ya Ali, please tell me you’re joking.’
‘No, Salim mia, for once I’m serious. Nothing’s going to come out of this revolt. The English are going to crush this uprising.’
‘And what about Lucknow? Leave it for the firangis to molest? I was born here, Ahmed. It was here that I took my first steps. And you want me to leave it when it is vulnerable and needs me?’
He fell silent for a moment as he heard the firing of shots from the cantonment. ‘No, Ahmed. I’m not going anywhere. I’m going to stay right here and fight the English – every one of them. This is the moment I’ve been waiting for.’
‘I fear for your safety.’
‘Look at these gateways, Ahmed, at the mermaids. Aren’t they beautiful? Aren’t they?’
‘Yes, but—’ Ahmed slapped his neck sharply and flicked away a little black smudge. ‘Bloody mosquito,’ he muttered.
‘See that spiral staircase?’ Salim asked. ‘Do you remember how much fun we used to have running up and down those stairs?’
‘And we used to spend hours watching the builders build these gateways and palaces. Remember the time I ran across wet concrete and Chote mia wanted to skin me alive?’ Ahmed chuckled.
‘And you want me to leave all this for the firangis to destroy? Like they tore down the gateways in Hazratganj? Or demolished Begum Khas Mahal’s kothis? Haven’t they plundered our city enough?’
Ahmed was watching the nightwatchman who was making his rounds. He blew his shrill whistle, followed by the words, ‘Jaagte raho’.
‘And just think, Ahmed. What if, what if we’re able to defeat them after all? Ya Ali, just think. We’ll no longer be slaves to the whims of the Englishman. The talukdars will get back their lands, the farmers will have to pay less tax. We’ll win back our palaces, our properties.’ Salim’s Adam’s apple moved as he continued, ‘And above all our status and dignity. Just think.’
‘Hmm. But I’m not sure whether looting and setting fire to the houses in the cantonment is the right way to go about it.’
‘What? They’ve set fire? To the cantonment? Ya Ali!’ Salim leapt to his feet and ran towards the stables.
Salim’s heart began to sink as he neared the cantonment. He could see some of the houses on fire and hear the crackling of flames. The air was heavy with the smell of sulphur and of wood burning. It was suffocating and way too hot for this time of the night.
The road was deserted. Just then the quiet was broken by an uproar. A throng of sepoys with raised swords and chanting slogans came rushing round the corner and charged into the brigadier’s bungalow. A little ahead, Salim witnessed some other Indians come out of another house carrying furniture, draperies, utensils and paintings. One of them threw a lit torch on the roof of the house before leaving it. Salim shook his head in disapproval. They could not be sepoys. They were behaving like thugs.
Allah, please don’t let RayChal come to any harm, he silently prayed. He hesitated as he neared her house. What if he walked into her house and found they were fine? What if the colonel threw him out like he had Daima? But this was no time to think. Besides, what more harm could that man possibly do?
The gate of the colonel’s house was open and unguarded. Salim tied Afreen to the post and walked into the garden. The house was on fire. He rushed in through the open front door. It looked deserted. It was full of smoke. His eyes began to smart. Coughing and spluttering he called out ‘RayChal’ as he went from room to room, looking for the one face that was dearer to him than his own life.
She wasn’t there. Nor were her family and servants. Perhaps they had escaped to somewhere safe. He walked past the servants’ quarters and was about to unfetter Afreen when he decided to check out the servants’ lodgings as well. Nothing. Ram Singh’s house was empty. As he passed Sudha’s window, he thought he saw a human shape silhouetted against the wall. He ran in. ‘RayChal,’ he cried as he cradled her head in his arms. As he got used to the dark, he noticed a blood clot at the side of her head. She was unconscious. ‘Oh, RayChal,’ he groaned, as he held her close to his heart.
He must hurry. The fire would soon block the doorway. He picked her up in his arms, staggered and fell down. ‘Ya Ali, you are heavier than you look,’ he muttered, then lifted her up again.
As he carried her out, something fell from the ceiling. He lifted an arm to shield her. The burning wood fell on his arm, scorching it. He winced in pain but did not stop. He placed her gently on Afreen’s back, then pulled himself up behind her. Then he galloped towards his palace at breakneck speed.
He passed a long noisy procession. Some of the men were carrying large effigies of firangis. Every few minutes the procession would pause and the head of one of the effigies would be struck off with a sword.
Further ahead, Salim noticed the head of a buffalo calf placed upside down near one of the gateways of Kaiserbagh, with a garland of white flowers around its horns. An ominous warning to the firangis that their end was near. But he did not stop until he was inside the palace gates.
Next morning, Daima entered Salim’s parlour just as he had finished his breakfast and was washing his hands.
‘How is she, Daima?’ he asked. ‘Has she regained consciousness?’
‘She has,’ Daima replied curtly. ‘And madam is throwing a fit … As if being insulted by her father wasn’t enough, now I have to put up with her tantrums as well … Hai Ram, what is the world coming to!’
‘She must be worried about her parents. I’ll go and see her right away.’
Daima gestured to the servant to clear the breakfast dishes away, before speaking. ‘You did not do right, Chote Nawab … bringing the enemy home, that too a woman … what war strategy is that?’
Salim ran his right hand up and down his left arm as he paced the room. ‘Daima, she’s not our enemy. She doesn’t even know. All she knows I guess is that some Indian sepoys have revolted against the Company.’ He stopped pacing and stood before Daima. ‘Ya Ali, she doesn’t even know that I’m also involved.’ He paused, lifted his chin before looking down at Daima. ‘And it is my wish that it stays that way.’
Daima picked up Salim’s hookah and placed it before the takhat.
‘How long can you hide something like that from her?’ she asked as she strai
ghtened up.
‘Eventually she will come to know. But I want to be the first to tell her.’
‘As you wish, Chote Nawab … Our lips are sealed.’ She bowed slightly and left the room.
Salim sat down on the takhat and took a long puff on the hookah, a frown forming double lines between his brows. He got up slowly, put on his shoes and cap, then walked down the corridors to the zenana and knocked on Rachael’s door.
She pounced on him as soon as he entered. ‘How dare you bring me here without my consent?’
‘You were not conscious.’ He noticed her wound had been cleaned and dressing applied to it.
‘And you saw that as an excellent opportunity to kidnap me,’ Rachael replied as she dabbed at the beads of perspiration on her forehead.
Salim’s eyebrows knitted together. What was wrong with her? He put his life at risk to rescue her and here she was accusing him of kidnapping her? It was preposterous. ‘What? What did you just say?’ he asked, bewildered.
‘You heard me. Since you couldn’t get your way with Papa, you brought me here by force.’
Salim walked slowly towards her until he was just a breath away. He had a strong inclination to grab her arms and shake her hard. ‘Look, I brought you here for your own safety. And I promise you, the moment things settle down and it’s safe for you to venture out, I’ll take you to your parents, even if I have to risk my own life. But until then you’ll stay here, whether you like it or not.’
Rachael waved her hand to shoo a fly away.
‘Saira,’ Salim called out to the female guard stationed at the doorway.
‘Yes, Chote Nawab?’
‘Where are the maids with the fans?’
‘Chote Nawab, most of them have been sent away by the Company.’
‘Send for the eunuchs from my chamber, then. And remember, RayChal is my guest. Make sure she never has to suffer the slightest discomfiture.’
The World Beyond Page 14