Death at the Durbar

by Arjun Gaind

  This was the wealthiest man in the world! Sikander thought, trying not to scoff. Why, judging by the way he was dressed, he looked more like a teacher of Naskh calligraphy than a king. The previous Nizam, Mahbub Ali Khan had been famous for being a dandy and a sybarite. It was said that he had devoted a whole wing of his palace to his wardrobe, and refused to ever wear the same outfit twice. Sikander had seen him once from a distance while attending a state dinner, a handsome greyhound of a man with old-fashioned whiskers in the style made famous by Albert Victor, clad impeccably in a sherwani embossed with filigree of gold. To Sikander’s boyish eyes, Mahbub Ali Khan had epitomized the very quintessence of an Indian monarch, as magnificent as something out of the pages of a history book.

  The gentleman who confronted him now could not have been more different. Unlike his father, Osman Ali Khan was a pale whisper of a man, short, with a cadaverous face and bulbous eyes and a bristling moustache worn en brosse. He was clad in a tattered, somewhat slovenly, damask dressing-gown and a pair of comfortable slippers, with a woolen scarf wrapped around his neck and a Rumi topi perched on his narrow skull.

  The only thing betraying the vastness of his power and wealth was the cold reptilian eyes which watched Sikander disdainfully, waiting, almost inviting him to lose his cool. Sikander’s own eyes narrowed to mere slivers. From the mocking expression decorating Osman Jah’s face, it was obvious the Nizam had been seated there for some time, which could only mean that he was playing some sort of game with Sikander. But what was he trying to achieve? Was this personal, intended only for his benefit? Had he offended the man in some way, even though they had never met before? No, he concluded after a moment’s consideration, this was obviously a rather adolescent way to remind Sikander of his place, just another way for him to show off his power, like the supercilious servant, a means for the Nizam to amuse himself at someone else’s expense.

  Sikander found himself recalling a story he had once heard about the previous Nizam. He had chosen to keep the Resident of Hyderabad, the senior-most Englishman in the south, waiting for four hours after making an appointment to see him. When he had finally deigned to grace the man with his presence, the exasperated Resident had asked why he had been kept him waiting for so long.

  “Because I felt like it,” the Nizam had replied, “and there is nothing you can do about it.”

  The son, it seemed, Sikander thought, his cheeks reddening, had inherited his father’s bad habits, if not his sense of style. It took much of his self-control to contain his exasperation, to force himself to still his naturally waspish tongue. He knew only too well that he could not afford to alienate the Nizam. Not only could the man buy and sell Rajpore a hundred times over, but Sikander needed to stay on his good side, if for no other reason than to question him. That was why, instead of giving the man the full broadside he so righteously deserved, Sikander made a great effort to maintain his sangfroid.

  “Your Eminence!” Very deliberately, he offered the Nizam the mildest of nods, a tremor of his neck so infinitesimal it was as good as an insult. “It is an honor to meet you, at long last.”

  Osman Ali Khan’s gaunt features split into a smile, obviously delighted by Sikander’s effrontery, muted as it was.

  “Which one are you? Kapurthala, is it, or Nabha?”

  “Neither, actually. I am Sikander Singh of Rajpore.”

  “Is that so?” The Nizam shrugged, a dismissive gesture. “Forgive me! You know how it is. You minor kings from Punjab, you all look much the same.”

  It was a calculated insult, obviously another test designed to get a reaction from him, which was exactly why Sikander strained to maintain his equanimity. He had no intention of letting the Nizam have the satisfaction of getting the upper hand quite so easily.

  “This is for you,” Sikander said. “A small token of my admiration. Thank you for finding the time to see me.”

  Solemnly, he held out a small gift-wrapped parcel. Take him a present, Malik Umar had suggested, that should loosen his tongue. Osman Ali Khan is a magpie. He loves things, especially shiny ones, much more than he cares for human beings.

  He had been right on the money, because the Nizam snatched the proffered gift as greedily as a child at Christmas. Impatiently, he tore away the gift-wrapping to reveal an ivory snuff box inlaid with mother of pearl and tortoise-shell.

  “It is from Ottoman Turkey,” Sikander explained, “the Süleymaniye era, to be exact. The dealer I purchased it from assured me that it belonged to Roxelana herself, the Hurrem Sultan.”

  Unfortunately, if he had expected the Nizam to be dazzled, his hopes were dashed. Rather than being beguiled, Osman Ali Khan gave the snuff box little more than a cursory glance, before shoving it roughly into one of his pockets.

  “Oh, do sit down,” he carped, “my neck hurts from looking up at you.”

  Trying to hide his dismay, Sikander obeyed. Returning to his chair, he settled into it and crossed his legs before extracting a sterling silver cigarette case from the inner pocket of his tunic. “Would you care for a cigarette?” he asked, offering the Nizam the case. Leaning forward, Osman Ali helped himself to not just one, but a handful of Sikander's hand-rolled Fribourg & Treyer Sobranies. They disappeared into another of the pockets of his dressing gown, except for the one which he broke carefully in two, placing one half between his lips and tucking the other away behind his ear.

  Stifling a smirk, Sikander leaned forward and lit it for him, before proceeding to ignite his own.

  “Very nice.” The Nizam took two satisfied puffs, and held out his hand. “Might I see the case?”

  When Sikander handed it to him, he examined it carefully, his eyes lighting up with barely concealed greed. “Can I keep this?”

  Sikander hesitated. The cigarette case had been a birthday gift from his long-suffering mistress, Helene, a handsome solid silver Imperator made by Cartier, embossed with the Rajpore crest. While he was loath to part with it, quite naturally, how could he refuse the Nizam without seeming churlish?

  “By all means,” he said, realizing he had no choice.

  “And the lighter, if you please?”

  Osman Ali held out one gaunt hand, and as soon Sikander handed over the matching lighter, a fine Flaminaire engraved with his initials, both items disappeared into the Nizam’s pockets as quick as a prestidigitation.

  “Excellent!” Osman Ali Khan smiled, baring yellow, tobacco-stained teeth. “Would you care for a drink, Sikander Singh of Rajpore, was it?”

  “Actually, Your Eminence, I was hoping to have a chat—” but before he could conclude the sentence, the Nizam let out a shrill whistle.

  In reply, the insolent servant returned once more, bearing a golden salver upon which two plump goblets of wine waited. With a wink, he offered one to Sikander, who had sat down, and then the other to his master, before retreating.

  Sikander studied the decanter for a moment, his eyes widening with disbelief. It was made of pure gold, beaten by hand into the shape of a lotus blossom. No wonder the Nizam had remained unmoved by his gift. Compared to this cup, the snuff box was a mere bauble. The elaborate Kutchi filigree that inlaid its surface, a scrolling pattern of foliage and flowers, told him it was very old, from the early Mughal era, he guessed, which meant it was worth a fortune, and here the Nizam was using it like it was just another china cup. Was this an affectation, yet another display intended to humble and impress him, or did the man really have so much money to spare that he could not care a jot for appearances?

  Bringing the cup to his lips, Sikander took a tentative sip. It took all his resolve not to wrinkle his eyes and gasp. No wonder Osman Ali Khan was quickly earning a reputation for being a miser—while the cup was a veritable treasure, the wine within was quite as sour as vinegar.

  Stifling his disgust, he put the cup down on a nearby table, and turned back to the Nizam, only to realize he was being watched very c
arefully.

  “You look like your mother.”

  “I was not aware you knew her.”

  “Oh, yes, I met her once, a long time ago. A wonderful, beautiful woman! She gave me a handful of boiled sweets. Did you know my father once made an offer to take her as his fourth wife and she refused?” Those reptilian eyes bored into Sikander’s own, one eyebrow curving archly, as if to challenge him. “She chose your father instead. It was a mistake, of course. He was not good enough for her, not by a distance.”

  The Nizam’s smile grew wider, as if to taunt him. “Your father was a fool, as spineless as a worm. In fact, that is the problem with you Punjabi princes. You are all vulgar, just a bunch of upstarts, little more than glorified landlords.”

  Sikander did not need to be a detective to deduce that Osman Ali Khan was baiting him yet again. Nevertheless, in spite of his resolution to remain calm, his pulse quickened, his hot Sikh blood rising in response to the Nizam’s jibes about his family.

  “I am not at all like my father, Your Eminence,” He whispered through gritted teeth. “For one, I am not so easily intimidated.”

  The Nizam gave a derisive snort. “Is that why you are here, to talk about what you are and are not? If that is the case, then you should turn right around, and leave the way you came.”

  “Actually, I am here, Your Eminence, at the express command of the Viceroy himself, and it would be in your best interest if you heard me out.”

  If Sikander had thought that such blatant name-dropping would impress the man, he was sorely mistaken. The Nizam’s reaction was quite the antithesis of what he had expected. Instead of being cowed, he let out a shrill laugh.

  “Is that so?” He raised one eyebrow, “And why would I want to waste my time with the likes of you? You are nothing, nobody, as insignificant as a gnat!”

  Biting his lip, Sikander contemplated this declaration. The Nizam was quite right, of course. Ordinarily, he was accustomed to being the ascendant, to dominating his suspects, but here, now, it was only too apparent that gambit would not work on Osman Ali Khan at all. It was rather a reversal of roles. What incentive could he offer the Nizam to cooperate? Money wouldn’t do the trick, nor aggression. What option did that leave him then? It had to be something he wanted, he needed. The answer came to him in a flash. It was obvious Osman Ali Khan liked to play games. So, what better to inveigle him than by turning his interrogation into a game?

  “I can assure you, sir,” Sikander said, “you will find what I have to say quite amusing.”

  That remark, albeit innocuous, seemed to do the trick. Osman Ali Khan’s lips twitched imperceptibly.

  “Very well, boy!” He said after a long pause, “You have managed to persuade me. I will humor you, at least until I am bored. Go on, ask your questions.”

  Sikander resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the condescension of the Nizam’s tone. Boy, indeed! The sheer gall of the man was astounding! He was nearing forty, and the Nizam was at least ten years his junior, if not more. Still, money, as the old saying went, bought privilege, and Sikander had no intention of picking a fight he could simply not afford to win, at least not just yet.

  “You paid an unscheduled visit to the King Emperor’s camp yesterday. Don’t bother to deny it, Your Highness. I have several witnesses who can corroborate that fact, including the officer of the day.”

  “I wasn’t planning to deny it.”

  “Very well, in that case, tell me why you happened to drop by.”

  “Do you really believe I have to explain myself to you?” Osman Ali Khan straightened up, his smile replaced by an expression of domineering disdain. “You dare to question me, as though I were a mere criminal?”

  For a moment, Sikander was caught entirely on the wrong foot. He shivered, distressed that he had made a fatal misstep and bungled the interview even before it had begun in earnest, but then, thankfully, after the passage of three heartbeats, the Nizam let out an immense guffaw.

  “I am only joking. Oh, you should see your face!” He clapped his hands together delightedly. “As it happens, I am on the Durbar committee, and I decided to stop by to view the parure necklace the Maharani of Patiala intends to gift the Queen…to make sure it was suitable. You see, I have two great passions in life, Sikander Singh. Jewels and beautiful women.”

  “Is that why you met with the girl?” Sikander’s lips curved into a wicked smile, pleased that the Nizam had blundered so easily into his trap. “Let me refresh your memory, sir. I am speaking of a nautch girl named Zahra, seventeen years old, a delicate little thing. Do you recall her?”

  Sikander had expected a denial, a protest, another feint, but to his surprise, the Nizam merely nodded.

  “Indeed, I did meet with her! As a matter of fact, I made her a proposition.”

  Such a blasé admission managed to throw Sikander off balance for a moment, but he recovered admirably, barely revealing a hint of discomfiture.

  “What manner of proposition?”

  The Nizam pursed his lips, as if debating the good sense of speaking any more candidly than he already had.

  “I have rather curious and unique tastes,” he said at last. Pausing, he pulled the second half of the cigarette from behind his ear, lighting it with Sikander’s lighter, which he turned over in his hands appreciatively before placing it on the table next to the discarded glass of wine.

  Sikander struggled mightily not to fidget, straining to keep his impatience in check as the Nizam made a great show of puffing away, once, twice, thrice, before coughing phlegmatically and letting out a slow sigh.

  “When you are as wealthy as I am, you can afford to indulge your whims, to explore the darker aspects of human nature. You see, in my youth, I enjoyed amorous pursuits as much as the next man. I have had hundreds of beautiful women, thousands,” he boasted unabashedly, “but now, as I approach my middle age, I find my interest in physical sensuality fading. I find myself coming to dislike intimacy, to find it tiresome. No, what has come to excite me now is the sense of the voyeuristic. To watch is infinitely more tantalizing to me than to indulge myself.” He quivered noticeably. “The screams and moans of a woman being pleasured, the groans of a man in the throes of carnal ecstasy, the sweat and the scent of musk, that is what arouses me, far more than sex itself.”

  In spite of the fact that he considered himself a man of the world, this confession left Sikander red-faced. What a dreadfully lecherous creature! he thought, Why, the Nizam was even more depraved than Bhupinder, who was said to make love to his concubines at least a dozen times each day!

  “Is it not true that you have a very comely French mistress?” The Nizam continued shamelessly, entirely unaware how deeply he had managed to perturb Sikander. “Yes,” he leered, “perhaps the two of you can be my guests one of these evenings.”

  “That’s a very kind invitation, Your Eminence,” Sikander said, inwardly cringing at the thought of introducing Helene to Osman Ali Khan, “but she has chosen to return to Paris for a few months, ever since the Viceroy decided to prohibit unofficial consorts from attending the Durbar.”

  “Another time, then, after the Durbar is over and done. You can come and visit me at the at the Faluknama Palace, perhaps even make a holiday of it.”

  It took all of Sikander’s wherewithal not to wince. “If I may return to what we were discussing, you admit you approached the young nautch girl concerning these, ahem, diversions you enjoy.”

  Osman Ali Khan nodded. “As I was leaving the Viceregal tent after viewing the Patiala parure, she caught my eye, so to speak. I convinced the gentleman escorting me to make an introduction, and when she was brought to my presence, I made her a gift of a necklace of pearls and asked if she would care to visit me in Hyderabad once the Durbar had concluded.”

  “And how did she respond to your overture?”

  “She refused.” His face darkened, with barely
repressed exasperation. “She returned my gift and told me that she could not indulge me.”

  “Was this before or after you told her of your special…” Sikander struggled to find the right word, “…propensities?”

  “Actually, I did not say a word about my preferences. She made it very clear that she had no interest in obliging me, not for any price, even if it was only to perform for me. That is why I bid her good afternoon, and departed.”

  “Really? You let her insult you so openly, and then you just left?”

  The Nizam nodded. Sikander resisted the urge to break into a triumphant smile. For all his game-playing prowess, Osman Ali Khan did not even realise that he had painted himself into a corner. Unbeknownst to him, he had just given Sikander a very palpable motive. It was obvious the Nizam was as proud as he was wealthy, accustomed to always having his own way, and for such a man to be rebuffed by a mere nautch girl, rejected like a callow teenager, he would certainly not have just walked away, not quite so easily. But was he really that reckless, that unabashedly arrogant, that he would murder someone merely out of pique?

  As he considered how to broach that question, the Nizam began to chuckle, a squall that quickly swelled into a storm.

  “You are said to have quite a reputation for being an intelligent man, Sikander Singh of Rajpore, but I see now that this notoriety is entirely misplaced. I thought you had inherited your mother’s wit, but you are as much of a dunce as your father ever was.”

  Osman Ali Khan leaned forward, so close that Sikander could smell his stale breath. “I am the Nizam of Hyderabad. I have eyes and ears everywhere. Did you really think I would not know that the girl is dead?”

  “Did you kill her?” Sikander asked, dropping all pretense at subtlety.