by Arjun Gaind
Along with this talent for political adaptability, the Holkars had inherited a reputation for never quite having lost their wild roots. The previous Maharaja, Shivaji Rao Holkar, had been famous for his cruel temper. It was well known he had been somewhat unhinged, given to beating his servants and often riding them like horses, and it was said he had once emptied a basket of night-soil on a Brahman’s head before whipping him half to death. This propensity for violence had grown more and more overt until at last, the British had become convinced he was insane and had been ready to depose him and annex Indore. Luckily, he had chosen to abdicate in favor of his son, and thus preserve the dynasty’s rule.
Not that the current Holkar was much of an improvement on his mad father, Sikander thought with a grimace. He knew Tukoji Rao the Third only too well. They had undertaken a sea journey together some years previously, sailing back to India from the continent on the same vessel. The irony was that Sikander had come to quite like Holkar. He was a clever, interesting fellow, and Sikander was only too happy to call him a friend. However, there was something about him that Sikander had always found unnerving, even unsettling. The reason was difficult to explain. Though he was as handsome and urbane as Lancelot, Sikander could sense that beneath this charming mask, a more sinister creature hid, the sort of amoral man who would smile in your face even as he stuck a dagger in your back.
With one last swelling surge, the music tapered to a close and Sikander took a step back, relinquishing his hold on Miss Cavendish’s arm. “If you will excuse me, Madam, I shall go and pay my respects to our host.”
“Of course! I am rather parched. I think I shall fetch myself a drink.” Her eyes twinkled. “Some champagne, I think. I have developed quite a taste for it.” Her mouth curved into a seductive smile. “Try not to forget me, will you?”
“Never!” Sikander gave her a gallant bow. “You are unforgettable, Miss Cavendish.”
“Ha! You are a terrible liar, Mr. Singh. Thank heavens you are an excellent dancer, or I might be offended.”
With that comment, she glided away. Sikander took a moment to flatten his lapels and check that his turban was in order before he crossed the floor to approach Holkar.
Tukoji Rao was very tall, very dark, and very slender, cutting a dashing figure in pale blue brocade and golden trousers. He hadn’t an ounce of fat on him, and wore his hair slicked back, fixed in a wave with a generous smear of pomade. His ears were comically large, like an Etruscan jug, and he favored a slim moustache which would have looked ratlike on most men, but on his face, was rather dashing. His eyes were deep-set, and he possessed an uncanny habit of staring into the middle distance while conversing, which made him particularly difficult to read.
“I believe congratulations are in order, Holkar,” Sikander exclaimed, coming up behind him. “I heard the burra sahibs have confirmed a twenty-one-gun salute for you. Scindia must be absolutely livid.”
Holkar turned, his mouth twisting into a sarcastic smile. “Why, as I live and breathe, Sikander Singh, you always manage to say the rudest things.” He gesticulated, as if to encompass the room. “So, tell me, how do you like my little soirée?”
“It’s very…” Sikander’s brow wrinkled as he struggled to choose his words politically, “fashionable.”
“What it really is is a damned waste of time and money, but a man must keep up appearances.” Holkar let out a sardonic laugh. “Come along, let’s have a drink. I have a bottle only you can appreciate.”
Sikander followed him to the wet bar that dominated the far corner of the tent, where Holkar summoned the bartender, a thin Bengali in a white jacket, and whispered a muted command in his ear.
“Here we are,” he said when the man reached under the counter and extracted a very dusty bottle, which he then offered to Sikander.
“This is a Saulnier Frères Grand Champagne Cognac 1789. This particular bottle has a double significance, because not only is it from the very year of the French Revolution, it is also the sole remainder of a cask which was served at George Washington’s inauguration ball.”
Sikander prided himself as a difficult man to astonish, but on this occasion, he gaped with awe, finding himself at an absolute loss for words. This was one of the rarest bottles of brandy in the world, and his mouth began to water, just at the thought of being in such close proximity.
“Shall we try it?”
Sikander could barely believe his ears. Surely Holkar was joking with him, some sort of elaborate prank, he thought. He would not waste such a magnificent bottle, not on someone as junior in rank as him. Unless, of course, there was an ulterior motive. Sikander’s penchant for exotic vintages was well known. Was this meant to be a bribe? If so, then why? What was Holkar trying to hide?
As Sikander struggled to come up with an answer to this question, Holkar gave the bartender a nod, and the man opened the bottle, slowly easing out the cork with a reverent wince. His hand shook as he laid out two snifters and poured out a pair of generous measures.
Holkar offered the first to Sikander, who took it nervously. The brandy was the deepest amber, so dark it was almost bronze. He brought it to his nose, letting out a gasp as he inhaled its deep bouquet. It was very rich, almost as ripe as honey, so potent it made Sikander shudder involuntarily.
It took all his willpower to resist. Closing his eyes, he put the glass down, before fixing Holkar with a piercing frown.
“I think I saw you the day before yesterday, at the King’s Camp.”
“Did you?”
“Yes. I waved, but, sadly, you didn’t notice. You looked dreadfully busy. Were you there on official business?”
“Oh, do stop trying to be clever, old boy. You really are a terrible actor.” Holkar’s voice remained cold, almost emotionless. “As it happens, I know all about the nautch girl and how the Viceroy has asked you to look into her death. You don’t have to play coy with me. Just ask your questions. I will answer them truthfully.”
Sikander paused, thrown off balance. First the Nizam, and now Holkar—did everyone know about Zahra? And why was Holkar being so cooperative? Obviously, he was intelligent enough to discern that he was a suspect, but most people would have responded to such a realization with antagonism, not equanimity. Besides, from what Sikander knew of Holkar, he was about as reasonable as a bull in heat, which could only mean two possible things. One, he was confident he had nothing to lose. Or, two, he just did not care.
“So you admit you went to see her?” he asked. “Might I know why?”
“Isn’t it obvious? I simply had to see what had Scindia all up in knots, of course. You know he tried his best to acquire her contract, but was beaten to it by Kapurthala. I wanted to get a good look at what all the fuss was about.” He laughed, a noise as raucous as a neighing horse. “She was all right. A pretty enough filly, which is why I decided I would trump Scindia at his own game. That is why I went to see her, to make her a generous offer.”
“You tried to buy her?”
“Yes, I did. I collect nautch girls, my dear fellow, the way some men collect stamps or coins. As it happens, I don’t have a Kashmiri girl in my stable at present. The last one decided to go and have a child, and it left her stomach dreadfully stretched out of shape, so I had to get rid of her.” He shook his head, as if he were talking about a prize steer, not a person. “Anyway, this Zahra, she fit the bill just right. She was the right age, for one. I like my women young and petite, just old enough to feel like you are bedding a virgin. And then, of course, there was the added bonus of sticking it to Scindia.” He grinned, a vicious twist of his lips. “Can you imagine the look on his pompous face when he found out I’d stolen his prize?”
Sikander mulled over this confession, trying to judge its veracity. “But she refused?”
“She tried to, the nerve! To think she could rebuff the Holkar of Indore. But you know how it is with these whores. It’s a ga
me. You have to show them you mean business.”
“You forced yourself upon her?”
“Oh, don’t be such a prude! I may have made an aggressive overture or two, but then she started to cry, the silly child. That put an end to my ardor very quickly, let me tell you.”
“So you just left?”
“Yes! Is that so hard to believe? Why don’t you go speak to Scindia? I believe he paid the girl a visit, too, a few hours after I left.”
Sikander frowned. Obviously, Holkar would point a finger at Scindia. Their rivalry went back years. Both Daulat Rao Shinde and Yeshwant Rao Holkar had been generals in the service of the Peshwa, and both men had believed themselves to be the right candidate to become the next Emperor of India after the Maratha Empire had collapsed into factions following its defeat at the third battle of Panipat. This had resulted first in the sacking of Ujjain by Holkar, which had led to the seizure of Indore soon after by Scindia, thus resulting in a long-simmering blood feud that had endured for four generations.
It had taken the British decades to curtail this strife, and they had absolutely forbidden any further skirmishes between the two clans. And though it had been years since Holkar and Scindia had faced off in public, Sikander knew very well that to even speak the name of Scindia in Indore, was as good as committing blasphemy.
As a result, quite naturally, when Holkar chose to point the finger at his greatest enemy, Sikander could not help but take it with a pinch of salt.
“Why? Why are you telling me this?” he asked, not bothering to hide his doubt. “What do you have to gain here?”
Before Holkar could reply, they were interrupted by Miss Cavendish.
“Mr. Singh, you have been neglecting me terribly.”
Sikander’s brow darkened, and he very nearly snapped at the memsahib, annoyed by this untimely intrusion.
“Aren’t you going to introduce me to your lovely friend?” Holkar said, stepping forward. As smoothly as a shapeshifter, a change seemed to come over him. Abruptly, the saturnine twist to his countenance was gone, replaced by a very personable half-smile, as though he had switched his identity in a heartbeat.
“Miss Cavendish, this is Tukoji Rao of Indore. Watch out for him, he is a rogue and a scoundrel.”
“And you, Madam,” Holkar said, “are too lovely to waste time with someone like Sikander Singh. He only has time for books and dead people, the poor boy.” Leaning forward, he pressed his lips to the girl’s hand, before waving languidly toward the dance floor. “Shall we take a turn?”
Holkar at full blast was intoxicating, as potent as a drug. Naturally, Miss Cavendish was only too susceptible, as any woman would have been, easily overpowered by his charm. Blushing shyly, she looked to Sikander, to seek his permission.He replied with a shrug, urging her to go right ahead.
“It would be my pleasure.” She placed her hand shyly in Holkar’s, who paused only long enough to give Sikander a long, lingering frown.
“You really do have a problem, Sikander. You are much too suspicious to realise when someone is trying to help you out. Go speak to Scindia. He is your man. I am willing to stake my fortune upon it.”
Chapter Twenty-three
As the band swung into a stirring rendition of “Blue Danube,” Sikander pursed his lips, considering what he knew of the Scindia.
Like Holkar, his ancestor, Ranoji, had begun as one of Baji Rao’s mercenary generals before seizing a vast tract of land for himself and established the Kingdom of Gwalior, which was roughly the size of Ireland. His descendant, Madhoji, whose name the current Scindia shared, had been one of the first Indian princes to sign a treaty with the English, the Agreement of Salbhai, which had guaranteed the East India Company authority over all territory north of the river Yamuna. As a result, Gwalior had been free to annex everything south of this boundary, and after a series of quick and brutal invasions, had emerged as the preeminent state in Central India, rivaled only by Indore.
The current Scindia, Madho Rao, was one of Sikander’s least favorite people. In many ways, he represented everything Sikander despised about the princes of India. Not only did he possess a sense of entitlement that made him almost intolerable, he was cursed with what the Greeks had described as hubris, that impermeable belief that he was exceptional in every way, if for no other reason than his exalted birth. With most Maharajas, this was merely a form of egotism, but with Scindia, his pompousness had been refined to the point of megalomania. Why, the man was so vainglorious he had built temples to himself, within which were placed marble statues of his visage, that his subjects were expected to worship, to venerate as a god come to life.
It was precisely this quality which was bound to make him such a difficult man to question. That was the dilemma that haunted Sikander—how was he to approach Scindia? Guile was pointless, as was any attempt at cleverness, given that the man was quite as dense as cement. That left Sikander only two choices, either to confront him head on, or to play the fool and hope he would fall into a trap of his own making. Unfortunately, neither gambit seemed particularly likely to succeed, he thought, not unless he was rescued by a minor miracle.
Just then, Sikander noticed that the glass of brandy was waiting in front of him, still untouched. With a sigh, he picked it up, and quaffed its contents in one long swallow. A groan of absolute delight escaped his lips. It was even better than he had imagined, like fire in his veins, revitalizing him with fresh energy.
As he made a slow tour of the room, he noticed a very palpable divide between the Indian Kings and the English guests. As he had expected, none of the real luminaries had turned up, neither the Nizam nor Kashmir nor the Gaekwad. Instead, most of the Maharajas in attendance were the younger set, mainly of his age and rank.
There seemed to be several distinct groups. The first were congregated around his cousin Bhupinder, who was seated in a distant corner, holding court to a coterie of sycophants, mainly zamindars and merchants. A few metres away clustered the fast set, drinking and laughing and smoking cigars. At the center of it all, of course, was Jagatjit, who seemed to have recovered from his earlier disappointment well enough to try his luck with a well-proportioned young memsahib whose hair was cut boyishly short in the new fashion called the Marcel. When he saw Sikander, he gave him a pronounced wink.
Sikander rolled his eyes, and fixed his attention on the final group. These were the politically inclined, serious Maharajas. Sikander recognised one or two of them—the Maharaja of Sikkim, who was a good-natured, if somewhat meek, young fellow; and Bhagvat Singh of Gondal, who was a fully accredited Fellow of the Royal College of Surgeons; and next to him was poor, wilting Travancore, who always looked like he was half-asleep.
In their midst, he spied the very man he was seeking. Ordinarily, the sight of Scindia, who was about as pompous an ass Sikander had ever encountered, would have caused him to frown. This time around, though, he beamed when he saw the way he was dressed—done up in black chasseur trousers and a scarlet zouave jacket beribboned with an array of gilt braid so excessive it made Sikander’s eyes water. On a tall man, the effect may have been electrifying but Scindia was diminutive in stature, and rotund to the point of being dumpy. At best, it made him look a little like one of Tchaikovsky’s toy soldiers.
However, that was not what had managed to amuse Sikander. It was the fact that instead of the traditional turban, Scindia had chosen to pair this extravagant outfit with a very distinctive piece of headgear, a red tarboul fez, not unlike those worn in Morocco.
He was the one the Nationalist had been talking about, Sikander thought exultantly. Who else would be caught in public wearing a fez?
Even as his heart raced with excitement, he was disturbed by a discreet cough behind him. Turning, he was greeted by the Maharaja of Cooch Behar, Rajendra Narayan, who gave him an ironic smile and said, “What skullduggery are you up to now, Sikander Singh?”
The Kingdom of C
ooch Behar was about as insignificant a princely state as they came, a minuscule inkblot on the map barely the size of a thumbtack bordered on the north by Bhutan and to the south by British Bengal. The history of its ruling dynasty was equally undistinguished. An offshoot of the ancient kingdom of Kamata, the Narayan Dynasty had long guarded their thrones by rapidly surrendering to whoever invaded their borders. Surviving first as a vassal of the Mughals, they had been quick to run to the East India Company, begging Hastings for help when they had been deposed by the Bhutias. Hastings had despatched an army which had restored them to the throne for the princely sum of a tribute of five horses, and since then, Cooch Behar had been a British vassal. Although entitled to the same gun salute as Rajpore, the Narayans had only won the right to use the title Maharaja in 1884, which made them little more than parvenus when compared to the more ancient houses of North India.
However, despite their modest origins, one thing was certain: the Narayans had style. King Nripendra, who had died just a few months earlier in England, had been an extraordinary man, the true epitome of the educated, enlightened monarch. His wife, Sunity Devi, considered one of the great beauties of her age, had been a classmate of Sikander’s mother. He remembered her well from his childhood, an elegant, magnificently outspoken woman who had been an equal partner to her husband. Together, they had been a rarity, a truly modern couple he had respected immensely, with the sort of union he hoped to emulate himself someday—if he could ever find a woman foolish enough to tolerate his many and unrelenting eccentricities.