The World Beyond (26 page)

‘I’m afraid it is.’

‘I had no idea. So I have been living with the enemy.’

‘But Ray—’

‘All those rebels firing at the Residency. You were one of them?’

Salim nodded.

‘Even after you came to know my parents were there?’

‘Ya Ali, it had nothing to do with your parents, RayChal. We’re fighting for a cause, for justice, for what rightly belongs to us. Surely you can understand that.’

Rachael wrung her arms in despair. ‘They’re my people, Salim, my family. I cannot not support them!’

Salim did not say anything but stared straight ahead.

‘And now you’re telling me? After you’ve proposed to me? How could you, Salim, how could you?’

The carriage stopped. Rachael lifted the curtain and looked out of the window. They had reached Dilkusha – the summer palace of the nabob and the imperial hunting grounds. At the moment it looked more like an army camp. She could see the tent doors flapping in the breeze.

She alighted from the carriage and looked around. She saw Papa talking to one of the soldiers and sprinted towards him. ‘Papa,’ she cried as she embraced him. He looked haggard. He seemed to have aged suddenly.

‘Oh heavens, my princess,’ he said, as he looked at her for a long moment then hugged her again. ‘I can’t believe it’s you. We thought we’d lost you. How did you reach here? Where were you all these days?’

‘Oh Papa, it’s a long story. I’ll tell you later.’ She walked back to where Salim stood.

‘I hate you, Salim. I never want to see your face again. You’re deplorable.’

Salim gripped her arms urgently. ‘But RayChal, let me explain.’

Rachael looked at him and their eyes met. His eyes were beseeching, hurting, repentant. She hastily looked away. Then jerking his hands away from her arms, she turned on her heels and walked away.

She saw the look of concern on Papa’s face. He was just a few paces behind her and had witnessed the exchange between her and Salim.

‘Rachael, what happened, poppet?’ he asked.

‘Papa, I don’t want to talk about it.’

‘Did he harass you?’

‘Worse,’ she replied as she stomped off towards the group breakfasting under the mango tree.

Yes, what Salim had done was worse than harassment. He had stolen her heart, made love to her and even proposed to her, while knowing there was no way she could marry a rebel.

Chapter Twenty-Six

S
ALIM

Dilkusha, the royal hunting grounds, looked more like an army barracks that day. The rows of happily growing carrots had been trampled on. There was no sign of the barking deer, the black buck or the sambar. Most of them had been roasted and washed down with alcohol by the English soldiers the previous night. A strange smell of decay and fresh food pervaded the air.

‘RayChal, wait,’ Salim cried out desperately, raising his hand to stop her. He let it fall limply to his side as one of the soldiers called out to her.

‘Rachael.’

‘Christopher.’

Salim watched her animated face as she chatted to Christopher. He felt a stab of jealousy as Christopher held her elbow and led her away. He stood transfixed, watching his life walk away. It was as though he were watching his own janaza, his own funeral.

He watched her as she weaved in and out among her own kind. She threw her head back and laughed at something Christopher said. Now she was clasping an old woman’s hands and smiling at her gently. Her Indian outfit looked conspicuous amidst the hooped skirts and crinoline dresses. But she was back where she belonged – a world where there was no place for him. He lowered his gaze, then looked back at her again. She was again talking to that Christopher. He felt like an outsider. Yes, she fitted in perfectly with them, he thought with a pang. Not in his harem. But then, she had adjusted so well in the palace as well, as though she had always lived there.

He sighed and licked his parched lips. She was oblivious that he still stood there. In the last few months they had come close to each other and he felt he knew her well. At least that’s what he had thought. And now, suddenly, she felt like a stranger again – he knew her no more.

His shoulders slumped as he turned to leave. A hand appeared out of nowhere and caught hold of his collar. It was Colonel Bristow. ‘How dare you lay your dirty brown paws on my daughter!’ he hissed.

‘I only—’

‘You’re even worse than I thought.’

‘I just escorted her here—’

‘And that’s precisely why I’m sparing your life. Else you’d be dead by now. Now get lost, you miserable wretch.’ So saying, he shoved him out of the gate and walked off.

Salim looked at his receding back, astounded. These firangis had a strange way of saying thank you.

Slowly he made his way back to the carriage. He sat hunched, gripping the edge of the seat with both hands, as the lonely carriage trundled over cobblestones. So what if she’s gone, he mused. He had a good life before he met her. And it would carry on the same as before. He grimaced. Who was he trying to fool? Life would never be the same again. She had changed it for ever. He swore under his breath. Never again would he get involved with a woman. Especially if she was English. This pain, this loss, this grief, it was simply not worth it.

Salim lowered himself on the cold palace steps. He looked at Daima. She was speaking to the footman. Must be asking about RayChal. He wrapped his shawl tightly about his shoulders. It was a cold morning with a strong south-westerly breeze blowing, bringing with it the fragrance of tuberoses. And with their fragrance, the thought of RayChal. His lips puckered and shook slightly as he tried to shut her out of his mind. He looked at the garden. It was spangled with yellow roses. They were dancing in the breeze and seemed to laugh at him. ‘We told you so, we told you so,’ they jeered in unison. He covered his ears with the palms of his hands, closed his eyes and screamed, ‘I know, I know, I know; I was a fool!’

Daima rushed to his side. ‘Chote Nawab? You all right?’

Lowering his hands, Salim replied, ‘I’m fine, Daima.’ He paused, swallowed. ‘Left her with her people. Where she belongs.’

‘She must be happy?’

He did not reply but watched the horses as Sulaiman unfastened them from the carriage and led them away. Eventually he spoke. ‘Very. She didn’t even look back.’

‘What else can we expect from a cow eater …? May she get eaten by worms,’ said Daima bristling up. She picked up the shawl that had fallen to the ground and put it around Salim’s shoulders.

‘No, Daima. Don’t curse her. It was my fault. I should have told her earlier.’

‘Why not? How can she hurt my son like this?’

Looking down, Salim stared at his shoes for a moment before replying, his voice hardly audible. ‘Rather me than her, Daima.’

‘This is just great … my chivalrous son! But who told her?’

‘Ya Ali, who can dig their grave better than I do?’

Putting her hand under his chin, Daima turned his face towards her. ‘That was brave of you, Chote Nawab,’ she said. ‘You didn’t have to tell her you know … maybe she would have never found out.’

‘Maybe, and maybe she would have. I don’t know whether I did right or wrong. All I know is I’ve lost her for ever.’

‘No …’

Grimacing, Salim shut his eyes momentarily. ‘The hatred with which she looked at me before walking away …’ He paused, his Adam’s apple moving. ‘I’ll never be able to forgive myself.’

‘Chote Nawab, all I know is she loves you as well … she’ll come back.’

‘They are sending all the women and children to Cawnpore and finally back to England. Our paths will never cross again.’

‘Don’t worry … there’s no dearth of women for our Chote Nawab.’

Salim got up and walked towards the garden. He picked up a broken branch and snapped it into pieces, his jaw set in a grim line. Then he looked back at Daima.

‘No,’ he whispered, his voice choked with emotion. ‘She was the love of my life. No one can love me like she did. What we shared was beyond this world.’

Chapter Twenty-Seven

R
ACHAEL

Rachael looked around at what must have been a beautiful garden once. Piles of ash lay everywhere – from the fires the soldiers had lit the previous night to roast the deer the Dilkusha forest was so famous for.

Women and children were coming out of the tents and making their way towards a table laid out under the shade of a mango tree. There were whoops of delight at the sight of fresh bread and cold meat.

‘Goodness gracious, there are biscuits and jam and coffee with milk and sugar. I haven’t had a breakfast like this in months,’ Rachael heard Mrs Wilson exclaim as she piled her plate with food.

She watched the soldiers patiently serve the women and children as they devoured their breakfast. They looked famished. She felt guilty she had been well fed and looked after in the palace while her folk had had to endure so much hardship. Even their clothes were bedraggled. Why, she had never seen Papa so unkempt before. His shirt was torn in a couple of places and a patch had been clumsily sewn onto his trousers, just above the left knee. His hair was long and messy. She did not want to admit it, but he smelt as though he hadn’t bathed in months.

Her eyes roved once more over the crowd hovering around the breakfast table. Where was Mother?

‘Missy baba, Missy baba,’ exclaimed Ayah as she tore herself from the crowd and came running up to her. ‘I so happy to see you.’ Rachael grinned at her as she clutched her hands excitedly.

‘How have you been, Ayah? And pray tell me, where’s Mother?’

‘Memsahib not well, baba. She got the fever,’ she replied, as she led her down a long corridor in the palace. A stale smell of sickness and damp walls greeted her as she entered a dark windowless room. It must have belonged to one of the begums. Mother looked so frail and small in the four-poster bed on which she lay.

Rachael irritably pushed aside the muslin drapes that hung around the bed. ‘Mother,’ she said in a small choked voice as she reached out for her hand. Then, alarmed at how warm it was, hastily touched her forehead.

Mother smiled at her weakly. ‘You’re here, my child, you’re finally here.’ She paused as a spasm of coughing took hold of her.

Ayah rushed to her with a glass of water. After taking a small sip, Mother settled back into her pillow. She spoke slowly. ‘Now we can all leave for Cawnpore and then home. Finally home to England.’

‘But Mother, you’re burning. You can’t travel like this.’

‘She’s right,’ said Papa as he entered the room. ‘You three will have to come with me and the remaining soldiers to Alambagh.’ He looked around the room. ‘And for heaven’s sake, get rid of some of this luggage. We don’t have enough men to carry her
and
the baggage.’

‘Papa …!’ Rachael exclaimed, appalled at the manner in which he spoke, but he had already left the room.

‘I need my clothes,’ wailed Mother.

‘Do not vex yourself, Mother, I’ll see what I can do,’ said Rachael. She opened her mother’s pitaras and looked at the contents.

‘Kalyaan carry two pitara,’ said Ayah. ‘I carry two. Last one we leave?’

Rachael sifted through the contents of the tin box. Her face suddenly lit up as an idea struck her. She pulled out one of Mother’s skirts and put it on. Then another on top of the previous one. Then another. And another. Soon she was wearing six skirts. She did the same with the bodices. Grinning, she tried to walk and almost toppled over. Steadying herself, she looked triumphantly at Ayah. ‘Yes,’ she said, pointing to the box she had just emptied. ‘We can leave this pitara behind.’

Most of the Englishmen, women and children gathered in Dilkusha had left for Cawnpore. The remaining party waited for darkness to fall before they commenced their march to Alambagh. Rachael watched as the sick, the injured and the aged settled down in dolis and carriages. She looked at Mother’s doli and hoped she was comfortable. Nodding briefly at Ayah and Kalyaan, who were walking beside the doli carrying pitaras, she instructed them to keep checking on Mother. They were to inform her if they noticed anything amiss.

She smiled slightly as Christopher walked up to her.

‘I’m afraid you’ll have to march with the soldiers,’ he said. ‘There aren’t any palanquins or carriages left. Most of them have left with the party for Cawnpore.’

‘That’s not a problem,’ Rachael replied, tottering under the weight of the half a dozen skirts and bodices she had donned.

Soon they were marching towards Alambagh. Rachael waved to Christopher. ‘Come and walk beside me,’ she said.

‘No,’ he answered. ‘Only the natives walk on the outside.’

Puzzled, Rachael looked around. She realised she was flanked on either side by Indian soldiers. And it wasn’t just her. All the English soldiers marching ahead of her were walking between two neat columns of Indian soldiers. And then the horror of it all struck her. The Indian soldiers were being used as human shields. She was aghast but could do nothing about it.

She sighed as it started to rain. A cold, miserable November rain. She waded gloomily through the sodden earth, her skirts covered with mud up to her knees. They became heavier with each step. If only she had known how difficult it would be to walk in them, she would never have worn them. As though that wasn’t enough, even her throat and head had begun to hurt.

Nonetheless, she trudged along. They had reached the far bank of the Gomti and could hear the sound of guns in the distance. As they made their way through a narrow lane between two rows of mud houses, they were suddenly exposed to enemy fire. The natives, hiding behind the mud walls, rained a volley of bullets on them. It sounded like several fireworks going off at once. Terrified, Rachael hastened her pace. However, she slipped, not for the first time that night. She pursed her lips and steadied herself. She had never felt more unladylike before. Just then the Indian soldier marching beside her groaned and fell to the ground. He had been hit. Rachael watched his bloodied body writhing in pain. She covered her mouth as a sob escaped her lips. She frantically pushed past the marching soldiers, walked up to a parapet by the side of the road and retched violently. Nothing came up. Only tears streaking down her cheeks.