He straightened his back, drew his sword and with a cry of ‘Ya Ali’ charged at the enemy. As he plunged his sword in a soldier’s stomach, blood began to ooze out and a few drops splattered on Salim’s clothes. As the sight and smell of warm blood filled his nostrils, he began feeling faint and nauseous. Afreen tottered as he dropped his sword and clutched his head between his hands. ‘Ya Ali,’ he mumbled as the ground spun before him.
‘You alright, Salim mia?’ It was Ahmed, who had rushed to his side.
‘Yes, I’m fine,’ Salim replied, getting a hold on himself.
Ahmed bent down and handed him his sword.
A couple of hours later, in the thick of battle, he heard Ahmed yell, ‘Salim mia, watch out!’ He turned hastily as a red-hot cannonball came hurtling towards him. He ducked just in time. The cannonball whizzed past him and exploded a couple of paces behind him. The impact knocked Afreen over. Salim sat dazed, blackened from head to toe, Afreen’s reins still in his hands, the taste of gunpowder on his palate. His heart was beating rapidly, but he was unhurt. He looked around. A bloodied black body lay where the cannon had exploded. The sepoy’s left arm had been torn away. His skull had split open and part of his brain lay on the ground. It could easily have been him, Salim thought, as bile rose in his throat.
The firangis were now retreating. Salim stared at the battlefield for a few moments as they fled. Gun carriages, cannons and dolis stood abandoned. And then he touched his ears with horror. He could see the horses without their riders galloping helter-skelter, but he could not hear their neighing. He could see soldiers mortally wounded, writhing in pain, but he could not hear their groans. The explosion had rendered him deaf. He turned frantically to Ahmed. ‘Ahmed, I can’t hear,’ he shouted. Ahmed jumped off his horse and rushed to his side. ‘Can you hear me?’ Salim shouted even louder. Ahmed nodded as he clutched Salim’s hands, tears streaming down his cheeks.
It was later that night, as Salim accompanied his men to the palace, that he got his hearing back. His men were in high spirits and shouts of ‘Allah-o-Akbar’ and ‘Har Har Mahadev’ suddenly burst on him. He looked heavenward and thanked Allah for restoring his hearing. He should have felt relieved, ecstatic even. On the contrary, he felt an unaccountable sadness. As though he was bereft of something. After what he had seen on the battlefield that day, he would never be the same again. The sound of firing, the sight of the wounded soldiers and horses, the gore – they would haunt him for the rest of his life.
Salim clambered into bed and was about to blow out the candles that stood near his bed when he heard a noise like thunder and the chandeliers began to sway violently. He rushed to the window and looked out. Nothing but darkness. He then ran out on to the terrace. He could see a yellowish-orange glow in the direction of Macchi Bhawan.
He scurried back to his room, threw on an angarkha, and slipping his feet into a pair of khurd nau, rushed towards the stable.
Riding through the darkness, he thought about the noise he had heard a few minutes back. It reminded him of the thunderstorm when he was three. The wind had blown so hard, it had brought the jamun tree crashing to the ground. The sound of the tree as it crashed to the ground was earth-shattering and terrified him even today.
As Afreen neared Macchi Bhawan, he was enveloped in a thick black dust. He coughed and spluttered. Afreen sneezed. He slowly slid off Afreen and gaped in horror at the dust and the smell of gunpowder that hung in the air. The fort that had been built in the style of a chateau was no longer there. Nothing of the brick buttresses, the tall towers or the high wall remained. In its stead stood a pile of bricks and mortar. That’s all. The place looked as though it had been uninhabited for years. Not bustling with soldiers and creaking with the weight of guns and ammunition as it had been just a few hours ago.
He leant against a broken pillar as it gradually sunk in. The firangis had evacuated the fort and then blown it up. That was the reason there was no sign of life or dead bodies. They had abandoned the fort and made their escape.
Hearing a low rumble, Salim turned sharply. There, just a few inches away from him, lay a firangi soldier. Salim edged closer. He was alive and snoring and reeked of liquor. Salim shook his head and gave a small smile. He ran his hand over his face. It was covered with dust. He dragged his feet to a well, drew some water and splashed his face.
He looked around at the myriad little fires that were now slowly dying out and shuffled towards the Rumi Darwaza, which still stood erect. It looked like a huge hedgehog with its curved back covered with spikes, a silent witness to the destruction that had just occurred.
Salim looked down as he stumbled upon a slab of stone. It had two fishes engraved on it. The insignia of the Naishapur dynasty. His dynasty. He had often heard Abba Huzoor narrate the incident – when Nawab Saadat Khan Bahadur, the first nawab of Avadh, was coming to Lucknow from Faizabad by boat, a fish had jumped out of the waters onto his lap. As fishes were a sign of aristocracy as well as a good omen, the nawab decided to adopt it as the royal insignia.
Now both the insignia and Macchi Bhawan, the fish house, lay in the dust. Salim shuddered. Was this the end? Or just the beginning?
It was six o’clock in the evening on 5th July 1857. Salim stood uncomfortably in the splendid hall of Chandiwali Barahdari. It had rained all day, making it one of the most humid days of the year.
All Salim wished to do right now was to tear off his nukkedar cap and the emerald angarkha, both of which were heavily embroidered in gold, and dive into the cool waters of the Gomti. He played impatiently with the long string of pearls that hung from his neck. Why did Daima have to insist that he wear some jewellery today?
He looked around the hall. Raja Jia Lal Singh had just arrived with the military officers. Over three thousand sepoys had gathered to witness the coronation of Mirza Birjis Qadir Bahadur, ruler of Avadh. After the defeat of the English forces, the Indians realised they were in need of a single leader at the helm to guide them. After much debate, it was decided the leader would be the son of the last king of Avadh. As he was a minor, his mother Begum Hazrat Mahal would be the acting regent.
The young prince was ushered into the hall with much fanfare. He looked regal in a purple angarkha with golden buttons. Salim smiled sardonically at his brother as he solemnly took his seat. He was thirteen or fourteen years of age, he couldn’t remember exactly.
Salim recalled the coronation of Abba Huzoor in the Lal Barahdari. He must have been the same age as Birjis then, or perhaps a year or two younger. He had watched in awe as Abbu had sat down on the throne, in his peacock-blue velvet robe and a crown studded with rubies and diamonds. How his heart had swelled with pride.
He wondered what Birjis must make of all this. What would a boy of thirteen know about a king’s responsibilities? Perhaps it was all a game for him. Like Salim used to play when he was little. He would sit on a mound of mud on the banks of the Gomti and proclaim himself king. He would then order Ahmed and his other friends about. Is that how Birjis felt right now?
Salim shot a look at Begum Hazrat Mahal. He had not expected this from Ammi. How could she not have put his name forward for the coronation? Wasn’t he older than Birjis Qadir? Or did she not think him capable? No, that was not it. It was his blood. He did not have blue blood flowing through his veins as Birjis did. Just then Ammi looked at him and smiled. Salim hastily looked away.
Raja Jia Lal Singh was reading out the army’s document of support for Birjis Qadir. When he finished reading, the document was stamped with the official seal. And just as the sun was about to slip quietly behind the domes and the cupolas, Birjis was led to the throne.
Abba Huzoor’s bejewelled crown flashed before Salim’s eyes. A few months back it had been stolen by the firangis. Therefore the risaldar had to place an ordinary crown on Birjis’s head. Salim stood still as a twenty-one gun salute was given by the Faizabad artillery to the little sovereign. Everyone cheered. ‘You are our Kanhaiya,’ the sepoys chanted.
Salim smiled sardonically as some of the sepoys waiting outside the palace gates began firing their guns in their excitement. Ammi was now declared the Queen Mother amidst some more cheering. Gold mohurs were offered to her as well as to Birjis. Robes of honour were also distributed. Ammi briefly addressed the crowd. She asked them to make a pledge to drive the firangis out of the country.
Amidst all this celebration and cheering, a mendicant stepped forward. Salim hoped he was not going to cause any trouble. A hush fell in the hall as the holy man clicked his tongue and shook his head. The crowd parted to let him pass. ‘The hour of crowning was not auspicious,’ he bellowed as he stood before the throne with his feet apart. ‘It should have taken place on a premeditated auspicious hour, some other day.’ He looked around the room at the stunned audience, his eyes red, his long matted hair flowing. ‘This does not bode well for the king or for Avadh,’ he prophesied, looking straight at Birjis Qadir and at Ammi’s hand which lay protectively on her son’s shoulder.
‘Such humbug,’ Salim muttered under his breath. All these mendicants were a bunch of poseurs, out to wheedle money from whomsoever they could. Yet a shiver ran down his spine at the sinister prophecy.
Chapter Twenty
RACHAEL
Rachael sat on the takhat in the room in her palace, stitching her dress. It had torn in several places during the scuffle with Sudha’s relatives. She wondered where she was now and what had become of her. What about Mother and Papa? She hoped they were safe. And Brutus? Was he with her parents? What if they hadn’t managed to take him with them? Rachael shook her head. No, she mustn’t think like that.
She heard some murmurings and listened, as the smell of incense and sandalwood floated into her room. It was the women in the zenana saying the namaz. They said it five times a day, she had been told. How could these simple, God-fearing people loot and kill the English? They must hate them.
What about Ayah and Ram Singh? And their home? It must have been reduced to ashes, along with her piano. She swallowed the lump in her throat. She remembered how alone and frightened she had felt that day. And the irony of it all was that she was living here, in the home of a native prince.
At least Salim was with her. She wondered where he was right now. She had been foolish to think he would have sent Daima to her parents with anything other than a marriage proposal. Had she lost her mind? He was such a gentleman, her Salim, and he was hers, only hers. She smiled, her face aglow with a soft gentleness, as she thought of him. Such thick long eyelashes he had. Did his upper and lower eyelashes not get entangled when he closed his eyes, she mused.
She wondered how long she would have to stay here. It was already a month and a half. Not that she was complaining. They were all polite to her. Too polite perhaps. All except Daima, who tried her best to avoid her. And when she did have to speak to her, she did so in monosyllables.
Rachael stopped stitching and frowned, her nose crinkling up as she did so. Now, how could she win her over?
Rachael tiptoed into Daima’s room and whispered, ‘Hello, Daima.’
Daima, who was bent over her work, jumped up with a start. ‘You gave me a fright, girl … What is it? What do you need?’
‘Nothing. I just want to … help you.’
Frowning at her, Daima narrowed her eyes in full concentration as she tried to thread the needle. Her mouth fell open as Rachael took the needle and thread from her hand, threaded the needle and handed it back to her without saying a word. ‘Thank you,’ she said gruffly and started stitching. Rachael sat down on the takhat beside her. Daima did not look up. Her fingers continued to zip up and down over the cloth.
‘Pray tell me, Daima, what are you making?’
‘Chikan.’
‘Chicken?’
‘Chikan is embroidery. Very fine and delicate it is.’
‘Will you teach me, Daima?’
‘You need a lot of patience.’
‘I have patience.’
Just then the laundry woman came in with a bundle of clothes. ‘Chote Nawab’s clothes,’ she said.
Daima turned to Rachael. ‘Excuse me; I have to put these away … Now that most of the servants have been sent packing, I have to do all these jobs myself.’
Rachael got up. ‘Let me help you, Daima.’
‘Look, girl, if you’re still harbouring hopes of marrying our Chote Nawab, you can forget about it … There’s no way I’m letting him marry you, not after the way your father treated me.’
Rachael looked down, fidgeting with her ring as she asked quietly, ‘Must children always have to pay for their parents’ sins?’
Daima was silent.
Rachael continued. ‘I know not what Papa did or said that day. But if I’d been there, I’m sure it wouldn’t have happened.’
Daima kept her silence.
‘I’m sorry, for whatever he said,’ she whispered. She took out a silver chain that she always wore around her neck. ‘My mother gave this to me when I was a few months old. I want you to have it.’
Daima stared at her for a few moments, then closed Rachael’s fingers over the chain. ‘No, my child, your mother gave it … It must mean a lot to you.’
‘You are Salim’s mother. That makes you my mother as well.’
‘That you should think of parting with something so precious for you, is gift enough for me,’ said Daima, her eyes becoming moist. ‘Now put it back around your neck before you lose it,’ she gently chided and left the room with a bundle of clothes.
Rachael watched the rains from the balcony of the palace. It was astounding how the monsoons transformed the entire country. The grass that had wilted and turned yellow just a couple of days back was now parrot green. The flowers that had drooped under the glare of the sun now smiled gaily like little girls in colourful frocks. As she watched, the rain slid down the domes and minarets of the palace and ricocheted off the waters in the pond below.
She wondered how Mother was coping. Mother could never decide whether she hated the Indian summers more or the monsoons. For the rains had a life of their own. They brought in their wake a swarm of fireflies, cockroaches, bats, lizards, red ants, frogs, white ants, moths, beetles and crickets, none of which Mother was fond of.
But the rains had a magical effect on Rachael. They lifted her heart and made her forget all her worries. As she continued to look out of the window, she noticed some children playing in the garden and ran down the steps to join them. The first few drops hit her hard, but once she got used to it, it felt wonderful. The children were surprised to see her. They went all shy and quiet at first, but seeing her exuberance, recommenced their games. They held hands and danced and skipped while the thunderous rain and her silver anklets sang in unison.
She was soon soaked to the skin and her clothes clung to her. But she didn’t care. She was having far too much fun to stop now. She saw some movement in the grass near the pond, and turning to her little friends, put a finger to her lips. Quietly she crept up to whatever it was that was hopping about, and picked it up. It was a frog.
She showed her catch to her new friends who had crowded around her. The frog stared at them with petrified beady eyes. Rachael stroked its slippery back. It was shivering. ‘I think he’s scared. Let’s put him back.’ She left it gently where she had found it and watched it hop into the pond croaking. Ribbit ribbit. The smell of rain, the smell of moist earth filled her senses. She sat down on the swing while her little friends pushed the swing higher and higher. She laughed and shook the droplets from her hair. She saw a peacock showing off its exquisite fan of feathers. Spreading her dupatta over her arms, she chased the peacock round and round the garden, much to the amusement of the children. Then a loud clap of thunder followed by a sliver of silver thread sent her and her little friends scurrying indoors. She splish-sploshed into her room, still laughing when she heard ‘RayChal’.
She swung around, her long hair flying, to find Salim standing at the door.
Chapter Twenty-One
/> SALIM
Salim stared at Rachael as she swung around to face him, her golden wet hair flying as she did so. As the maid began to light the candles in the chandelier, a thousand Rachaels stared back at him, wet hair caught in midflight.
He gazed at her, then at her reflections in the chandelier, then at her again. ‘Subhaan Allah!’ he whispered huskily. He waved his hand dismissively at the maid. She bowed and backed out of the room quietly. He walked slowly towards Rachael. She shivered slightly as his breath caressed her. Whether it was his nearness or the cold that made her shiver, he could not tell. A wisp of wet hair clung to her cheek. A drop of water slid from it and stood trembling on her lip. He picked the drop carefully with his finger and kissed it. A soft red glow began to creep up her face.
Smiling, Salim put his finger on his lips, then pointing to her lips, raised his brow, his eyes seeking permission.
Rachael smiled, her eyes twinkling, her nose crinkling as she whispered, ‘No.’
‘Just one small kiss?’
She shook her head slowly from side to side. ‘No.’
He put his right hand over his heart theatrically, sighed loudly, ‘Ya Ali,’ and left the room. Reluctantly he crawled towards his room. Was it his imagination or did he feel a dull ache where his heart was? The way RayChal had looked at him, dripping as she was from head to toe, he had wanted to hold her really tight; he loved her with such intensity that it hurt. Ya Ali!
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