Salim entered the house behind Kaiserbagh Palace, at the northern end of Nagina-wali Baradari. Begum Hazrat Mahal sat on a takhat drawing on her hookah. She was talking to some shadows on the other side of the khus mats. As a hot blast of wind shook the mat on the doorway, the smell of khus wafted into the room.
Raising his right hand to his forehead, he said, ‘Aadaab, Ammi.’ She raised her right hand in reply, her gold bracelets clinking, and indicated that he be seated. A eunuch, looking ridiculous in a parrot-green kurta, entered the room with an abkhora of water and offered it to Salim.
Salim looked at Ammi as she sat there, leaning back slightly on the oblong pillow, her brows furrowed in concentration. She could not have been more than twenty-six years old. He could see why Abbu had fallen for her and why all the other begums were jealous of her. It wasn’t just the beauty and charm she exuded. It was also her intelligence and the courage and conviction with which she spoke. He loved Daima, it was true, but this was the woman he idolised. But apparently she did not think the same of him. Otherwise, would she not have put forward his name for the coronation?
Ammi raised her right hand and the maid requested the men on the other side of the room to stop speaking. ‘Begum Sahiba would like to say something,’ the maid announced.
‘We have listened to your grievances,’ said Ammi, her huge gold nose ring swaying as she spoke. ‘Now we want to ask you – what should we reward you sepoys for? For plundering our people and destroying their shops and business? Or for murdering innocent babies and women? Or for sleeping at your posts instead of fighting?’
She pulled her soft transparent dupatta, that had slipped slightly, back over her head. ‘You should be ashamed of yourselves. It has been days since we surrounded the Residency and you have not yet succeeded in capturing it. The British flag still flies high over the Baillie Guard.’ She paused briefly to wipe the perspiration from her forehead and to draw on her hookah. ‘Now go away, all of you, and don’t come back unless you have proved yourselves to be men.’
Ammi whispered something to the maid.
‘Begum Sahiba would like to speak to Raja Jia Lal Singh in private,’ the maid announced.
There was much shuffling, whispering and coughing as the men left the room.
‘Raja Jia Lal,’ said Ammi, after the rest had left.
‘Yes, Begum Sahiba, I’m here.’
‘Raja Jia Lal Singhji, you will have to speak to these sepoys and tell them to stop bickering about petty matters. If we want to throw the firangis out of our country, we’ve got to stand united. Otherwise prepare to be their slaves for another two hundred years.’
‘Yes, Begum Sahiba, I’ll try my best to drill some sense into their heads,’ answered Raja Jia Lal, from the other side of the mat.
‘Now if you’ll excuse me, my son is here and I wish to speak to him,’ said Ammi.
‘Aadaab, Begum Sahiba,’ Raja Jia Lal said as he prepared to leave.
‘Aadaab,’ Ammi replied.
Salim looked at her. She was tugging at the pearls and rubies that had been embroidered on the pillowcase with gold and silver threads.
‘Any problem, Ammi?’
‘No. These sepoys should be concentrating their efforts in ousting the Company … instead of plundering and looting and creating anarchy in the kingdom.’
‘You’re right,’ Salim replied. He paused, then added, ‘You sent for me, Ammi?’
Ammi took a long draw at her hookah. It made a gurgling sound. ‘You’re upset with us?’ she asked eventually.
‘Ya Ali, why would I be?’ Salim replied, averting his gaze.
‘Because Birjis has been crowned and not you.’
Salim fidgeted with the sword tied to his cummerbund. ‘I’m sure you had good reason.’
‘You know what happened to Nana Saheb, as well as in Jhansi. The Company refused to acknowledge the adopted son of Laxmibai as the heir apparent. We did not want to take any risks.’
Ah yes, Dalhousie’s famous Doctrine of Lapse. Denying Indian rulers the right to adopt an heir. The company had used the doctrine to gobble up Nagpur and Jhansi. No wonder Ammi did not wish to take any chances. Salim felt a little ashamed for doubting her intentions.
‘Besides, Birjis’s coronation was just a ceremony to establish leadership. The real king is still your Abba Huzoor. Once we have defeated the firangis, we will hand over the kingdom to him,’ Ammi continued.
‘Of course.’
Ammi got up and walked over to him. She took his right hand in hers and patted it. ‘We have a difficult job on our hands. Do we have your support?’
‘Ammi, it is there even without the asking.’
She turned away and sighed. ‘These men were here today asking to be paid. Now where do I get the money? I had a mere twenty-four thousand rupees. It’s all gone.’
‘What about the treasury?’
‘We cannot touch the king’s treasury. It won’t be right.’
‘We can melt the silver and gold from the thrones and other furnishings and ornaments.’
‘That’s an excellent idea, Salim. Why didn’t we think of it before? That should take care of our problems for a while. We have already set up a foundry to produce arms and ammunition. So that has also been looked into.’
‘We can also repair all the guns that were disabled by the Company during annexation.’
‘That’s right,’ said Ammi with a smile.
Salim coughed. ‘Ammi, I’ve heard that some of the begums have been writing to Abba Huzoor against you.’
‘Let them. They show their love for him by writing long woeful letters and sending him a lock of their hair. We’ll prove our love for him by restoring his kingdom.’ She looked at Salim arrogantly, challenging him to oppose what she had said. Salim merely nodded.
She continued speaking, her eyes flashing angrily as she spoke. ‘These are the begums who refused to let their sons be crowned for fear of the firangis. We were the only one who had the courage to put our son on the throne.’ She sat down on the takhat and pulled at her hookah. ‘You know, Salim, we don’t care what they say. They are like hyenas who will willingly partake of a lion’s kill, but will shy away from the kill itself.’
Salim sat in silence for a while as she angrily smoked the hookah. When she did speak, she was solemn.
‘The time has come for us to avenge what the firangis have done to us. The way they deposed your father.’ Her voice had risen sharply. ‘The way they threw out our family from Farhat Baksh, the way they hung our sepoys for refusing to forsake their religion, the way they’ve destroyed our places of worship like Qadam Rasul …’
Salim looked at her. Her jaw was set and there was a fire smouldering in her eyes. He remembered the destruction of his music hall, the auction of the animals, the bombardment of Macchi Bhawan.
‘Yes, Ammi,’ he said quietly. ‘It’s time to avenge their wrongdoings.’
It was evening. A momentary hush had fallen over Lucknow. Salim recalled what Ammi had said to him. ‘We’ll prove our love for him by restoring his kingdom,’ she had said. He walked wistfully to the large mulberry tree and sat down heavily on the circular marble parapet around the tree. He looked at the garden. It was empty except for a handful of men busy at work. The gardener was collecting all the twigs and leaves that had been broken by the downpour that morning. The sweeper was sweeping the water that had collected in puddles into the gutters. A maidservant was picking some marigolds for the evening prayers. It was such a contrast to the hustle-bustle and noise that filled these gardens every year on this day. The day Abba Huzoor celebrated his birthday.
Daima had narrated to Salim how the most learned astrologers in the land had been summoned to the court by Salim’s grandfather when Abba Huzoor was born. Their task was to prepare his horoscope. They made exalted predictions for the little prince. However, there was one small hitch. There was a likelihood the prince might renounce the world and become a priest. To prevent that from happening, the astrolo
gers suggested the prince be made to wear the saffron robe of a holy man on his birthday.
And so it came to pass that on every birthday, Abba Huzoor would smear his body with the ash of pearls and don saffron robes. He would sit on this parapet under this very mulberry tree while beautiful damsels danced and musicians played on their shehnais. All his begums would be dressed in saffron as well. The gates of the Kaiserbagh Palace would be thrown open for the public and any and everyone could come and join in the festivities as long as they wore saffron clothes.
Salim rose slowly. He squared his chin as he watched a parrot peck at the mulberries. They had to defeat the firangis. Chase them out of this land and bring Abba Huzoor and those happy days back to Lucknow. Yes, he would do all he could to support Ammi in her endeavours.
Chapter Twenty-Two
SALIM
Salim put down his gun and pulled himself out of the trench. There was a lull in the firing. He was bored. How many more days would he have to spend outside the Residency before it finally fell? He looked at the main building, which was an enormous three-storeyed structure. Built with bricks on a raised piece of land, to the east of Macchi Bhawan, it had spacious rooms, verandas, porticos and countless windows. Salim knew his great-grandfather had built it for the English Resident. But what year was it? He thought hard. Must have been somewhere around 1800, he concluded.
He looked askance as Nayansukh exclaimed, ‘Oh no, I think I’ve fired my last bullet.’
Ahmed looked into his bag. ‘I’m also running out of cartridges.’
‘Salim bhai, there’re a lot of unused cartridges and bullets on the other side of the wall—’ said Nayansukh.
‘Don’t even think about it,’ interjected Salim. ‘You will be shot even before you pull yourself over the wall.’
Nayansukh said nothing but kept looking around. Salim watched him suspiciously as he walked over to some street children playing in a gutter nearby. There were about seven or eight of them. They were trying to catch some tadpoles. ‘Madan, hurry, hurry, catch it,’ yelled the smallest boy in the group. Madan swung around and did a little jig as he held a tadpole aloft by its tail. He wore a vest, which was torn at several places, over an oversized pair of shorts. His bare feet were caked in mud. But his grin – Salim had never seen anyone so happy in a long time. ‘Oye, Billu,’ Madan called out to the little boy. Billu shrieked then burst out laughing as Madan swung the tadpole in front of his face.
Salim raised a brow questioningly as Nayansukh crawled back stealthily into the trench a few minutes later with Madan, Billu and another boy. Nayansukh ignored him and turning to the children asked: ‘So did you understand? We will keep the firangis busy this side with our firing. And while we do that, you sneak in …’ He pointed with his right hand. ‘You must go over that low wall, all right? Quietly collect as many unused bullets and cartridge—’
‘What is cart—?’ Billu asked.
‘This,’ said Ahmed as he held up one for all to see.
‘What’s all this, Nayansukh?’ Salim asked. ‘Putting the lives of these children at risk?’
‘Exactly, Salim bhai. Children. They’re our safest bet. The firangis are not going to fire at children.’
Nayansukh gave Madan a shove. ‘Go now and wait for my signal. Remember, when you get back, I’ll give all of you a free meal.’
‘Yay,’ the boys shouted in unison and ran off to do his bidding.
Salim stared after them, still unsure. Then he bellowed ‘Fire!’ His men started pelting bullets at the firangis. Through the corner of his eye he saw Nayansukh raise his hand to signal to the kids and watched them scramble over the wall.
A few minutes later some shots were heard at the far end. Salim raised his hand to signal to his men to stop firing. He listened. Silence. A solitary eagle circled the Residency, then flew away screeching. Salim, Nayansukh and Ahmed looked at each other.
Then there was a thud as three bodies were flung over the wall. Salim ran towards the sound, followed by Nayansukh and Ahmed. The three of them stared in stunned silence at the bodies lying in a heap, covered in blood. They were not laughing anymore, their mouths still. Billu’s body lay right on top. A wisp of hair had fallen over his forehead, his lips soft and red. He looked even more innocent in death. But his eyes were wide open. They were cold and stony and stared at Salim accusingly.
Salim did not know how long he stood there, gazing at the three crumpled-up bodies. Finally, he looked at Nayansukh, his jaw taut, eyes smouldering. ‘They are Hindus,’ he said curtly. ‘Make sure they get a proper cremation.’ Nayansukh slowly nodded. Salim walked back stiffly to where the rest of his troops stood.
* * *
Later that night, Salim entered the room he was sharing with Ahmed. It was in one of the looped houses surrounding the Residency. He ran his fingers through his hair and wondered how many more nights he would have to spend here. As he discarded his wet clothes he remembered the look on the children’s faces at the mention of a free meal. And then their dead bodies, heaped on top of each other like rag dolls. He lay down on his makeshift bed, his hands folded behind his head, and stared absently at the ceiling. He thought of all the comforts of the palace, of Daima, Chilmann, all the servants who attended to his every need. He wondered how Abba Huzoor was coping in Calcutta.
‘Salim mia?’ It was Ahmed.
Salim rolled on his side and looked at Ahmed as he settled down on the adjoining bed.
‘Did you tell Rachael?’ Ahmed asked.
Salim did not reply immediately. He walked over to the window, then answered softly, ‘No. I want to, but I just can’t.’
‘But this is not right, Salim mia. You’re hiding something so huge from her? What if something happens tomorrow? What if her parents get killed? Then will you tell her? What’ll you say? “I fired the shot that killed them”?’
‘What do I do? Should I drop everything? Stop all this fighting and go back to Kaiserbagh?’
He turned his back to Ahmed and looked out of the window. The troops were singing and dancing on the street. Turning back to Ahmed he said, ‘Ahmed, I haven’t a clue what I should do. On the one hand there’s Abba Huzoor, the promise I made to Hazrat Ammi, and on the other …’ He picked up a surahi and finding it empty smashed it to the ground.
‘Why get cross, Salim mia? I was merely giving you advice as a friend. The rest is up to you and up to your … your … whatever she is of yours,’ said Ahmed, pulling a sheet over himself and closing his eyes.
‘I don’t want to lose her, Ahmed, I don’t want to lose her,’ Salim whispered hoarsely. He looked at Ahmed when he did not reply and heard him snoring. Salim gave a small smile. So like Ahmed to say something that would keep him awake all night and promptly fall asleep himself.
But Ahmed was right. What was he to do? On the one hand was his father, his men. He could not be unfaithful to them. On the other hand was his love. He felt torn. He could not betray his father, but neither could he his love. She trusted him. Believed everything he told her. Ya Ali. What was he to do?
Salim stood in an eight-foot narrow trench a few yards away from the firangis defending the Residency, with Ahmed and some sepoys. They watched as the last of the twenty-five guns was pushed into position. They had also succeeded in erecting barricades in front of and all around the guns. Now they were waiting patiently for his signal to fire.
Salim waved his hand irritably as a mosquito whirred in his ear. He narrowed his gaze as he spotted an old woman in the garb of a beggar carefully laying mines, just two hundred yards from the firangi defences.
‘Is that woman mad? What’s she doing here?’ Ahmed said.
‘Shhh! Just watch,’ Salim hissed. He held his breath as a firangi soldier spotted her. She hastily sat down.
‘Hey, who are you, what’re you doing here?’ the firangi asked gruffly.
‘I poor beggar,’ the woman coughed. ‘Just resting me old bones. I go as soon as I get life into them.’ She wiped her face with the edge
of her tattered sari.
The soldier looked her over and dismissed her. Salim silently rejoiced. But a few minutes later he was holding his head in his hands dejectedly as a drop of rain fell on his forehead. The drizzle turned to thick rain and the sepoys watched in dismay as it washed away the old woman’s efforts.
Salim watched with disgust as some sepoys dawdled to their posts just then, after spending a night consuming bhang. That, too, just after Ammi had reprimanded them. With a laid-back attitude like that, how were they ever going to budge the garrison at the Residency? Ya Ali, didn’t they realise time was running out? Soon relief would be reaching the English troops from Kanpur. After the victory at Chinhat, Salim had expected Sir Henry and his men at the Residency to surrender within days. Alas! They were more resilient than he had thought.
Life in the Residency could not have been easy, he mused. For one, it was housing way too many more people than it was built to hold. All the women and children who had been evacuated successfully from the Marion cantonment. Not to mention those who had made their escape from neighbouring towns. And what about the injured and the sick? How were they coping?
Pursing his lips, Salim shook his head disapprovingly at the sepoys who were waving their bayonets in the air. They had placed chicken or kebabs at the ends of their bayonets and were waving them at the firangis posted at the Baillie Guard. Yes, food must surely be scarce in the Residency. Most of the traders had stopped selling them food, even at abominable prices.
‘I’m already starving,’ Ahmed grumbled. He fumbled in his pocket. ‘And just two paan left. Those, too, dried up in the heat,’ he said as he put a paan in his mouth. ‘Salim mia, you know what happened two days back …’
The World Beyond Page 17