The World Beyond (29 page)

‘You know I fell ill. We couldn’t even go to Cawnpore with the rest. They must be well on their way to England while I’m still languishing here.’

‘No, Mother,’ Rachael said contemptuously, as she watched her tie the ribbons of her bonnet. ‘You had plenty of time after you recovered. But you weren’t interested.’ Her voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. ‘You never did care for me, Mother, did you?’

She swallowed her tears as she punched her mother’s flannel waistcoats into a bag. Her voice was barely audible now. ‘Why have you never told me Ayah lost a son?’

Rachael noticed the look of alarm on Ayah’s face as she looked at her, then at Mother, mumbled an excuse and hastily left the room. There was a long silence as Rachael struggled to get a hold on her emotions.

‘I lost one too,’ Mother replied quietly in a teary voice.

‘How did Richard die, Mother?’ Rachael asked as she blew her nose.

Mother sat down on the bed. ‘Richard was three years old then. He was such a beautiful baby. Red lips, and a head covered with golden locks. His cheeks looked like ripe peaches.’

Rachael looked at Mother. Her face had never looked so warm and soft before.

Mother continued speaking. Her voice was trembling. ‘You were in my tummy then. I went into labour one month early. And we got stuck in a mosquito-infested village. Never before had I been in so much pain. It was a prolonged labour. Eighteen hours. Perhaps twenty. Who knows? It felt like forever. The waves of pain kept coming. Faster, stronger, never ceasing.’ She paused and took a deep breath.

‘Then Richard got the malaria. The native doctor gave him some medicine but his condition worsened. The way his body burnt before it went cold. My son was dying, Rachael – oh, how my baby suffered! He burnt in a high fever for three whole days. His temperature would suddenly plunge, then after a few hours shoot up again. It was horrendous. To watch your own flesh and blood suffer thus. I kept telling myself he would get better, that he’d pull through. But he kept slipping, and by the morning of the third day I knew he would not survive … He had a lovely smile. The last time I saw him – despite the fever, despite the pain – the moment he saw me, he flashed me an angelic smile.

Mother broke down in tears. ‘If you had waited and come on time, we would have been in Lucknow before you came.’

Rachael looked at Mother with a new enlightenment. She spoke slowly. ‘So all these years you’ve held
me
responsible for Richard’s death? All these years?’

‘No, I didn’t.’

‘You’ve never loved me.’

‘That’s not true,’ said Mother, as she looked at Rachael with tear-filled eyes. ‘… I didn’t even get the chance to say goodbye. I was too weak to leave the bed. And it was the height of summer – hottest day of the year. They could not keep his body for too long in that heat. There was no ice available in that village. So they buried him. Buried him quietly when I was sleeping. I was anguished when I was told. I pounced on your Papa. I almost slapped him. I was hysterical.

‘In my sorrow I forgot I had given birth to a new baby. I did not see you for two weeks. Whenever Mrs Wilson asked me ever so gently, “Don’t you want to see your little angel?” I’d push her away. “No!” I’d scream. “I’m not ready.” It wasn’t that I wasn’t ready. I was afraid to look at you. I was afraid I’d fall in love again. My heart had been ripped apart by Richard’s death. I didn’t want it to happen ever again.’ Mother covered her face with her hands and started sobbing.

‘Oh Mother.’ Rachael’s voice dropped to a whisper. ‘You did not lose one child that day. You lost two.’

‘I’m sorry, my child,’ Mother sobbed.

Rachael looked at Mother. She knew she should hate her for not loving her, for holding her responsible for the death of her brother, but watching her now, bent double with grief, she could not help but feel sorry for her. After all, she was her mother. She sat down on the bed beside her. She took her hand in hers and caressed it as she sniffed back her tears.

‘Oh Rachael, I’m sorry,’ Mother sobbed and put her head on her shoulder. ‘You know, even as a baby, you were independent. You never did need me. The first time I held you in my arms, you kicked and screamed and turned red, until Ayah took you in her arms.’

‘I have always needed you; I will always need you. You’re my mother,’ Rachael whispered slowly as she caressed Mother’s hair, tears spilling over her cheeks.

They sat there, holding each other’s hands for a long time. Rachael finally spoke. ‘I think we ought to get moving if we wish to reach the cantonment before dark. I’ll go and inform Papa.’

Rachael remembered the look on Salim’s face after his musical instruments had been auctioned. It was the look of a person who had lost the love of his life. She thought of his father – Nabob Wajid Ali Shah. He had abdicated the throne like a gentleman. He had full faith in the English sense of justice. But what had come of that? His mother lay dead, after spending a fortune and some agonising months in England in a vain attempt to seek justice from Queen Victoria. And he lay in a prison in Calcutta. Perhaps the people of Oudh had been right in rising against the Company?

She entered Papa’s makeshift office. She ducked as a boot came flying through the air and hit the servant who stood trembling near the door. It was followed by a loud curse. ‘Son of a pig.’

Helping the servant to his feet, Rachael nodded at him to leave the room. ‘Papa, at least now stop mistreating the natives.’

‘You can’t trust these vipers, Rachael. Even after we’ve been their masters for all these years, they dared revolt against us!’

‘And still we haven’t learnt our lesson. Even after all these years of serving us night and day, they’re still struggling to survive. Look at Ram Singh, Papa. He risked his life to take care of our home and belongings, yet he’s still as poor as the day he first came to us. All he ever got in return for his hard work and loyalty is abuse! I don’t blame the natives for revolting against us.’

Papa stared at her in disbelief. ‘Has that son of the singing, dancing nabob been poisoning your mind against us?’

‘Of course not,’ Rachael snapped. ‘And his name is Salim.’

Papa sifted through the papers on his desk as though he hadn’t heard her. ‘Oh, they’ll pay for the mutiny all right. Every one of them. We will torture them to their deaths. Raze all their buildings, mosques and temples to the ground. We’ll bring them down on their knees, the bastards. We shall have our revenge.’

‘Revenge?’ Rachael knew she was shouting but she didn’t care if the whole of Alambagh could hear her. ‘Aren’t we Christians, Papa? Aren’t we the worshippers of Christ? The Christ who said if someone slaps you, offer him your other cheek?’

‘It’s not just revenge. It’s atoning for their sins. Retribution.’ Papa banged his fist on the table as he said each word.

Rachael could feel her face flame with anger. She was appalled by Papa’s strident views. ‘I thought the English were known for their justice and fair play,’ she ground out through clenched teeth. ‘First you snatch away what rightfully belongs to them. And then when they protest you trample them? That’s justice? Retribution?’ Her arms tautened as she folded them and stared at her father.

‘Young lady, are you trying to tell me you support the mutiny?’

Rachael paced to the window and looked out. She walked back to Papa’s desk. Gripping the edge of his desk, she stared him straight in the eye and spat out, ‘Perhaps I do.’

Papa stared at her as though he could not believe what he had just heard.

‘In that case, I have nothing say,’ he said quietly, as he sat down on his chair and picked up some papers.

Rachael tried to get a grip on her anger. She took a deep breath and tried to distract herself. She looked around the room. It looked more like a storeroom than an office. There was a huge pile of ammunition and gunpowder against the wall in one corner of the room. Some files and papers were scattered on a low table. A rickety chair and papa’s desk were the only furniture in the room that gave it the semblance of an office. A qatat still hung on the wall. Two fans made of peacock feathers stood in a corner. A chandelier made of red glass hung from the ceiling. It looked as strange as an elephant would look in Sherwood Forest.

She wondered what the room had been used for before it had been taken over by the English. Perhaps it was a begum’s room. Or one of the princes’. It might even have been Nabob Wajid Ali Shah’s room. What would he say if he saw the state of the room right now?

She turned back to Papa as he lit his cigar and screwed up her nose. She hated the smell and wished he would stop smoking. ‘I came to tell you that Mother and I are leaving for the cantonment. Ram Singh has repaired the outhouse.’

‘Oh, that’s good. I’ll be there before it gets dark. I think it’s time for the English to celebrate. The mutiny has been more or less crushed.’

‘Not mutiny, Papa. The natives call it “the war of independence”.’

Chapter Thirty

S
ALIM

Salim looked at Daima. The only other time he had seen her so distraught was when Chutki had died. He pulled her slowly to her feet. ‘What happened, Daima?’

‘We were just about to escape from the West Gate of Kaiserbagh when some firangis saw us … they caught hold of Nayansukh … dragged him to the palace.’ Daima joined her hands. ‘I beg of you, Chote Nawab, please save my son … they’ll kill him.’

Salim covered Daima’s hands with his. ‘Daima, don’t embarrass me like this. Isn’t Nayansukh my brother as well? Don’t worry; I won’t come back empty-handed.’

‘I’ll come as well, Salim mia,’ Ahmed said.

‘No, Ahmed, we can’t leave Daima alone. You take care of her,’ Salim said as he jumped onto Afreen’s back. He was off before Ahmed could even begin to protest.

As Salim rode back towards Kaiserbagh, he realised there was a stillness in the city that had not been there for a long time. The stillness that is found just before dawn is about to break. For the last few months, every single hour, even at night, had been interspersed with intermittent firing. The firing had now stopped. All that could be heard were the groans of the tortured and the wounded and the shouts of glee of the looters.

A huge fire burnt in the garden, consuming broken furniture, shreds of shawls from which the gold and silver threads had been mercilessly plucked, ripped portraits of his ancestors.

That was not all that was offered to the flames. A sepoy had been tied to a pole and was slowly roasting over the fire. A couple of sepoys had been stripped of their clothes and were being branded with hot iron rods. The smell of skin burning, mingled with the coppery smell of blood, was ghastly, the shrieks of the sepoys unbearable.

Salim jumped off his horse, his teeth clenched, his hands curled into fists as he entered the palace. It looked as though a jinni had picked up the palace, given it a good shake, turned it upside down, then put it down again. The marble floors were covered with fragments of broken china, glass, mirrors and crystals. Marble statues had been smashed, as had the lamps and chandeliers. Piles of silk, shawls, dresses, carpets, muslin, garments of gold, embroidered velvet saddles, swords with hilts and scabbards studded with jewels lay everywhere. The ill-fated palace, having been stripped of its curtains and draperies, now stood naked to the glare of foreign eyes.

Salim picked up a piece of a broken statue; the statue of a woman in a pleated dress, her hair tied in a bun, holding a hoop. It used to be Abba Huzoor’s favourite. He had been so pleased with the sculptor when he presented the statue to him, he had given him the pearl necklace he was wearing. Salim closed his eyes. The anguish he felt was akin to the pain he felt when walking over red-hot coals on Muharram.

The firangis were everywhere, filling their pockets with gold and jewels and gems. But Nayansukh was nowhere to be seen. Salim rushed from room to room looking for him. Then he saw him, in the courtyard, just as a firangi hit him hard in his stomach with the back of his rifle.

Nayansukh groaned.

‘Where are your queen and the prince?’ The firangi asked as he raised the rifle again.

‘I don’t know,’ Nayansukh moaned. This time the rifle hit the side of his mouth and sent him spiralling to the floor. Blood oozed out of his mouth.

‘Stop it,’ Salim shouted as he charged towards Nayansukh’s tormentors, his sword in hand. The firangis were surprised by this intrusion and Salim managed to kill one, then another. But they were too many.

Heels clicked on the tiled floor. Salim turned to look at who it was. It was Colonel Bristow.

‘Now, now, what do we have here?’ he asked, pointing his cigar at Nayansukh and Salim.

‘Sir, this fellow here, we caught him escaping from the palace. I’m sure he knows the whereabouts of the queen but refuses to tell us.’

The firangi soldier then pointed to Salim. ‘Sir, I think he’s one of the nawab’s sons.’

‘Is he now?’ asked the colonel as he lit his cigar. ‘Did you just kill two of my men?’

Salim said nothing, his chin jutting out haughtily.

‘Down on your hands and feet, you two. I want you to lick every drop of blood that you just spilt on the floor. That’ll teach you to value English blood.’

Salim stood with his feet apart, hands behind his back. He looked at Nayansukh. His presence had revived Nayansukh’s courage. The two exchanged a brief look but did not budge. The firangis hit the back of their legs with their rifles, bringing them down on their knees. They still refused to obey.

Colonel Bristow took a long puff at his cigar and watched the rings of smoke as they slowly disappeared. ‘Bring them outside,’ he commanded.

The soldiers dragged Salim and Nayansukh to the garden.

Colonel Bristow turned to Nayansukh. ‘Since you will not tell us where the queen is, we have no use of you.’

Salim watched helplessly as they tied Nayansukh to the mouth of a cannon. He shook his head – just like the goats do, shaking and bleating, fear clearly visible in their eyes, before being slaughtered on Eid.

Tears of rage sprang to Salim’s eyes as Colonel Bristow ordered, ‘Fire!’ The cannon boomed. Salim spluttered as black smoke filled the air before him. He writhed and struggled against his captors as the air cleared.