‘What?’
‘The children, Salim mia.’ Ahmed stopped speaking to spit out some betel juice. ‘What happened shouldn’t have happened.’
Closing his eyes, Salim shook his head from side to side. What atrocities man commits in the name of war. Those innocent children. Did they deserve to die in that manner?
The rains finally abated. Salim looked around at his troops and gave the signal. Instantaneously the sound of muskets firing filled the air. Muttering ‘Ya Ali’, he loaded his gun, only his hand being visible over the trench. He fired. As the cloud of dust settled, he saw the sprawled bodies of the two firangis he had just killed.
A bullet grazed a couple of inches over his shoulder. If he was not in the trench, he would have been shot, he realised, his heart pounding.
A sepoy fired a block of wood at the firangis. Salim shook his head. Chucking wood, copper coins, stink-pots or even stray bullets was not going to make a dent in Sir Henry’s defences. What they needed was to blow up the place. Just like the firangis had blown up Macchi Bhawan. But he would never order his men to do that as long as there were women and children in the Residency.
Salim cursed loudly as it started to rain again. He was tired of this rain, tired of standing in the trenches in damp clothes day in and day out. Ya Ali, when was it ever going to stop? The smell of the rain mingled with the smell of gunpowder, and with that fizzled all hopes he had harboured of capturing the Residency that day. The damn bloody rain. It had foiled their plans yet again. And those firangis – they surely did have nerves of iron; he had to give them that.
A sense of panic had gripped the city since the news reached them that firangi troops under General Havelock and Sir James Outram were marching towards Lucknow. Sepoys, as well as civilians, poured into Alambagh to defend their city.
Salim narrowed his eyes. It was raining hard and difficult to discern what was happening ahead. He steadied Afreen and peered through his binoculars. He could now perceive Hazrat Ammi in the thick of battle. She rode the tallest elephant and was charging ahead, her sword raised. On either side of her rode Raja Jia Lal Singh and General Syed Barkat Ahmad. Two French soldiers rode beside them. What a woman, Salim mused, as he watched her slash a firangi’s head off with her sword.
But the firangis were ripping them apart. They had captured five guns so far. Salim looked on in dismay as some of his men began to retreat. He put down the binoculars and kicked Afreen hard. Just then something caught his eye.
Bringing Afreen to an abrupt halt, he looked through the binoculars again. Was it Ahmed? He was slumped over the back of his horse. He looked again and blinked. ‘Ahmed,’ he shouted. But the rain, the clanking of the swords, the groans of the men hurt, the neighing, the trumpeting, the firing of shells and muskets, drowned his cries.
Choking back a lump in his throat, he looked heavenward. Ya Allah, please don’t let anything happen to my Ahmed, he silently prayed. Slowly, he inched his way through the fighting men, towards his friend. Jumping off Afreen when he was a couple of yards away from him, he sloshed through the mud to reach his side. ‘Ahmed,’ he cried again as he dragged him off his horse and onto Afreen’s back, then galloped towards the outer walls of Lucknow.
‘Salim mia,’ Ahmed whispered in a weak voice. Salim gripped the reins tightly and continued to gallop at breakneck speed until he was sure they had left the firangis far behind. Then he patted Afreen’s mane and made her slow down. He looked around in desperation through the blinding rain until he spotted a mud house. It looked deserted. Bringing Afreen to a halt, he tied her to a nearby tree. Next he heaved Ahmed over his shoulder and carried him inside the house.
Panting heavily, he looked at Ahmed. Blood was oozing out of his left arm. There was blood everywhere – on the floor, his clothes, even his boots were caked with blood. But he was lucky. Damn lucky. The bullet had just missed his heart. Salim tore his waistband and tied it tightly around his arm. With the remnant of the waistband, he wiped the mud and perspiration from Ahmed’s face.
‘Are you all right?’
‘Still alive, Salim mia.’
‘Isn’t this the same arm you broke when we fell off that guava tree? When you were ten?’
‘Same one, Salim mia.’
‘Can I get you anything?’
‘Nihari-kulcha and perhaps some kebabs.’
Salim glared at him. ‘Ya Ali! Kulcha and kebabs. And I almost got a fit thinking you were dead.’
Ahmed smiled tiredly. ‘Water will do for now.’
Salim smiled at him and shook his head. He must get him to the palace soon and checked by the palace doctor. He was losing too much blood.
‘How did we fare in the battle?’ Ahmed asked.
‘The relieving English forces are moving steadily towards the Residency,’ said Salim as he slowly fed Ahmed some water from his cupped hands. ‘This is the first time in three months, since the uprising started, that we’ve been defeated.’
‘Don’t worry, Salim mia, we’ll bounce back.’
‘I hope so,’ Salim replied gloomily. He spoke slowly. ‘Otherwise we’re doomed. If the firangis lose, they will simply go back to their motherland. But if we lose, we will be hanged, each one of us.’
Salim walked up the steps of the palace. He was relieved Ahmed was out of danger and in safe hands. But alas. They had lost the battle in Alambagh. The firangi army under Havelock and Outram had succeeded in entering the Residency. But … there was still hope. How were the firangis going to leave the Residency? After all, it was still surrounded by thousands of his men. And how was the already heaving Residency going to cope with the additional men?
As he walked down the corridor, deep in thought, he saw Pyaari begum and Dulari begum approaching him. Oh no, not them. If only he could ignore them. He couldn’t wait to get out of his muddy wet clothes and go to the hammam.
‘Greetings,’ Salim said, raising his right hand to his forehead.
‘Greetings, Chote Nawab. So what news do you bring from the field of battle?’ asked Pyaari begum.
‘Not good, I’m afraid. We just suffered our first defeat. But Ammi says we mustn’t lose heart.’
‘What else can she say?’ said Pyaari begum.
‘Yes, she doesn’t want this struggle to end so she can carry on with her paramour Mammu Jaan,’ said Dulari begum.
‘Huzoor, what’re you saying?’ asked Salim, bewildered.
Pyaari begum put a paan in her mouth and said, ‘It’s not just us. All of Lucknow is talking about her lover.’
‘We’ve even heard Birjis Qadir is his son,’ said Dulari begum, as she played with the ends of her dupatta.
‘What utter nonsense,’ said Salim. ‘Stop spreading these rumours, for Allah’s sake. She’s doing a commendable job of an acting regent. You should be giving her your support instead of slinging mud at her.’ He took off his turban and was about to stomp off when he saw Rachael feeding pigeons in the inner courtyard of the zenana. He smiled, the begums’ gossip and the defeat in Alambagh momentarily forgotten.
The begums followed the direction of his gaze. ‘Go, Chote Nawab, we won’t keep you. Go to your guest.’
‘Guest or something else?’ quipped Dulari begum. The two women giggled.
‘Chote Nawab, I know you wouldn’t like to hear this. But it’s a fact – as long as we’ve traitors like Begum Hazrat Mahal and spies like your English friend in our midst, we’ll never be able to defeat the firangis.’
‘That’s enough. If we lose, it’ll be because of people like you.’ Salim plucked at his sleeve to get a grip on his temper. ‘Now listen carefully, you two. I don’t mean to be rude, but RayChal is my guest and I will not have anyone speak about her in that manner. If I ever catch you indulging in harmful gossip like this, I will have you thrown out of this palace.’
‘How many mouths are you going to shut, Chote Nawab?’ Pyaari begum asked with a contemptuous smile, then turned on her heel and left.
Chapter Twenty-Three
&
nbsp; RACHAEL
Rachael let go of the pigeon she was playing with as soon as she espied Salim. He sounded angry. His voice rose sharply and she heard him say, ‘RayChal is my guest and I will not have anyone speak about her in that manner …’ What had they said about her that made him so angry? But she was pleased he had stuck out his head for her.
She approached him quietly after the two begums left. His clothes were muddy, stained, wet and untidy. He hadn’t shaved. But stubble suited him, she decided. He looked ruggedly handsome. ‘Salim?’
‘What?’ he asked sharply. ‘I mean, yes RayChal?’
She lowered her gaze and looked at his clothes. She realised with a start that they were not just covered in mud. There was blood on them.
She pointed to a bloodstain and exclaimed, ‘That’s … that’s blood.’
‘Yes.’ Salim hesitated, then conceded, ‘It’s Ahmed’s.’
‘What? But how?’ Rachael looked him straight in the eye. She could perceive her question had rattled him.
‘We were in … we were trying to control an angry mob.’
‘Pray tell me, is he all right?’
‘Yes, he’s fine now. His mother and the palace doctor are taking care of him.’
‘I’d like to go to my mother.’
Rachael watched as Salim quietly sauntered towards the far end of the courtyard, picked up one of the pigeons and stroked its head. Then he turned to her. ‘You want to be cut into bits? Do you know the moment you step out of this palace you’ll be killed?’
‘I’m sure I could disguise myself. You know, don a burqa or something?’
‘I suppose we might be able to smuggle you out of the palace safely. But how in Allah’s name do you think I’m going to sneak you into the Residency? Do you know there are as many as forty thousand sepoys surrounding it right now, thirsting for English blood?’
‘Forty thousand?’
‘Maybe even more. Look, I’ve promised you I will take you to your parents as soon as it’s safe. Trust me, will you?’
‘How much longer? I’ve been here for ages. I miss my parents.’ Rachael sulked.
Salim let go of the pigeon. For a long moment only the flapping of wings and the soft cooing of the pigeons could be heard. He rubbed the back of his neck and sighed tiredly. ‘RayChal, please, not now. I’m wet, I’m tired, I’m hungry. We’ll talk about it some other time.’
Rachael screwed up her nose at the smell of pigeon droppings and watched Salim walk away. Something was not right. The way he hung his head, the way he walked, the way his shoulders drooped. He didn’t just look tired and hungry. He looked defeated.
Later that evening, Rachael sat hunched before a low mahogany table, her brows furrowed with concentration. She dipped her quill pen into the ornate silver inkpot that stood at the edge of the table. ‘Alif,’ she said aloud, as she wrote an alphabet on the paper before her. ‘Be … pe … te …’ She looked at her handiwork dubiously, not pleased with what she had written. Urdu was much more difficult than she had anticipated.
Daima entered the room with a tray of food. She removed the cover. There were some rotis and lentils. ‘Hai Ram, I brought the wrong tray,’ she exclaimed and hurried back to the kitchen.
Rachael waited for her impatiently. The smell of hot freshly prepared chapattis and yellow lentils cooked in butter ghee and cumin seeds had whetted her appetite.
Daima soon re-emerged and placed the plate on the round, grey, marble-topped table.
‘Pray tell me whose plate that was, Daima?’
‘What plate?’
‘The one you took back?’
‘Umm … Salim’s.’
Rachael’s spoon cluttered to the floor. She looked at her food. ‘Rice, chapattis, vegetables and chicken curry for me and just chapattis and lentils for Salim?’
Looking down, Daima replied, ‘Food and money are both becoming scarce, child … we are having to ration.’
‘But then why all these extra dishes for me?’
‘You are guest … we can go to bed on hungry stomach but have to make sure our guest has been fed well.’
Rachael did not know what to say. She had lost her appetite. She ate slowly and quietly. Daima placed a glass of water next to her plate.
‘You know, when His Majesty was king, over a hundred dishes used to be cooked every Eid … this year we could manage just five.’
‘Daima, where does Salim disappear for days?’
‘God alone knows what these boys are up to … Mind you, Salim is good boy … it is that boy Ahmed who leads him astray.’ She started fanning herself and Rachael.
Rachael wanted to say it was the contrary but refrained from doing so.
Daima continued speaking. ‘Now that most of the servants are gone, I have to attend to everything … since morning to night I’m working … I’m not complaining but at this age it becomes difficult sometimes.’ She put another chapatti on Rachael’s plate. ‘I feel bad serving daal roti to Chote Nawab … when His Majesty was still king, every day was a feast … but not once has my boy complained … when I gave this plain food to him the first time, he said, “Daima, we need food to appease our hunger … And this food’s doing just that … But make sure our guest has enough to eat.”’
Rachael found it impossible to eat now. ‘Daima, from tomorrow, pray serve me the same food as Salim.’
‘I cannot—’
‘Please Daima, I’m not a guest anymore.’
‘But—’
‘For Salim’s sake?’
Daima patted her head lovingly. ‘You good girl … you’ll keep him happy.’
The next morning, Rachael was seated on the carpet of her front room, a chessboard before her. A female attendant stood behind her, head lowered, waving a fan slowly to and fro. Across the board sat Saira, consternation written on her face. She kept nodding her head vigorously as Rachael picked up each piece and explained its move. Rachael stopped speaking and looked at her impatiently, wondering if she had comprehended even a word of what she had said. She sighed with relief as Salim entered the room.
‘A game of chess?’ he said. ‘I didn’t know you could play.’
‘Well, you’ll be surprised to know I’m a champion player,’ Rachael answered.
‘Oh really?’ Salim dismissed Saira with a wave of his hand.
Saira raised her right hand to her forehead, bowed and backed out of the room.
Rachael swallowed as he folded his arms across his chest and walked purposefully towards her. His eyes twinkled as he said, ‘In that case I challenge you to a game. If you win, you can ask anything of me. But if I win …’ He looked at her lips for a long moment before continuing. ‘If I win, you will let me give you a kiss.’ He looked at her then, his eyes smiling, baiting, challenging.
‘Just one?’
‘Just one.’
Raising her chin in the air, Rachael looked at him, her eyes unflinching. ‘I accept your challenge, Chute Nabob.’
Salim sat down on the carpet. ‘You go first,’ he offered graciously.
‘All right, here comes my soldier.’
‘And here’s my horse.’
Rachael crinkled up her nose as Salim contemplated his next move.
‘Why do you always scrunch up your nose? As it is, your nose is so small …’
She leant over and pulled his nose. ‘At least when you’ve got a small nose, nobody can pull it.’
‘Ya Ali, that hurt.’
‘I know. Your turn.’
Saira entered just then and placed a bowl of fruits on the table. ‘Chote Nawab, is there anything else you need?’ she asked.
‘No, that’ll be all. Now leave us in peace.’
‘Very well, Chote Nawab.’ She bowed respectfully and tiptoed out of the room.
‘Pray hurry up and make your move,’ Rachael said impatiently, as she played with her silver earring. Not that she was winning. Salim had made some intelligent moves, especially the last one, and now her side of the board was
facing the inevitable.
‘Check,’ he drawled. ‘Try and save your wazir, I mean queen, Miss Champion.’ He drew on his hookah and leant back against the oblong pillow. His hand stroked the velvet pillow cover absent-mindedly as he watched Rachael.
Rachael frowned. ‘Ah well, I suppose I’ve lost,’ she finally conceded.
Salim’s eyes smouldered as he slowly reduced the distance between them. He gradually raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. He was about to lower his lips to hers when she covered his mouth with her hand.
‘Wait,’ she said. ‘The deal was – one kiss.’ She caressed the spot on her right hand that he had just kissed. ‘And you already have.’
She crinkled up her nose and, laughing, ran into her bedroom.
October was the month of festivals, so Rachael had been told by Daima. She sat on her haunches on the rug in a little room in the zenana, surrounded by marigolds. They were making little garlands for the numerous Hindu gods Daima worshipped. Daima put a needle through one of them. ‘See, you put the needle through the flower like this, then you pull the thread and—’
‘Ma,’ Chutki burst into the room. She stopped speaking as soon as she saw Rachael.
Rachael was surprised at her appearance. She wore a white kurti with no jewellery. She had not tied her hair and it looked unkempt. Nor had she put any kohl in her eyes.
‘Ma, what is this angrez doing here?’ she asked, hands on her hip.
Daima raised a finger to her lip. ‘Shhh … She’s our guest.’
Chutki wrung her hands. ‘How can an enemy be a guest? What’s she doing in Salim bhai’s palace?’
‘Her house was burnt down … She’s just staying here with us till we hear about her folks’ whereabouts,’ Daima answered quietly.
‘If she doesn’t have anywhere to stay, why doesn’t she go back to England where she belongs?’ said Chutki. ‘And take the rest of the firangis with her.’
Rachael shifted uncomfortably. She picked up a marigold and tried to push the needle through it.
The World Beyond Page 18