The World Beyond (32 page)

Rachael laughed and turned away from the window. ‘So I’m a star?’

‘Yes,’ Salim whispered. ‘My guiding star.’

‘Oh Salim, I love you,’ she said as she slipped her arms around him.

He cupped her face in his hands. ‘I can’t live without you, RayChal. I don’t think I would have survived without you.’

Rachael stepped out of the country house, a bag in hand. Salim, Ahmed and Mother were already there. Ayah was helping Daima put the pitaras and bags in the carriage. Rachael glanced at Mother – how frail and white she looked in the moonlight. Dropping her bag, she went and hugged her.

‘It’s a pity you’ve got to leave like this. Without saying goodbye to your father. He loves you, you know,’ said Mother.

‘I know. But I also love Salim,’ Rachael replied.

Mother fidgeted with the lace on her collars, then licked her lips. ‘I, too, love you. Always have … Just wasn’t good at expressing it.’

Rachael took her hands in hers. She pursed her lips and held back her tears. It was a pity – just when she was beginning to know her mother’s love, they had to part. ‘I know, Mother,’ she said, pressing her hands. ‘I can feel it. Pray do not worry about me. I shall write to you once we settle down.’

She hugged her hard. Mother held her for a long moment, sobbing softly. Finally she kissed her forehead and let her go.

Rachael swallowed the lump that had risen in her throat and turned towards Ayah who had stepped forward to touch her feet. She pulled her up and embraced her. Mother coughed uncomfortably and walked away a few paces.

‘I’ll miss you, Ayah, I’ll miss you so,’ she sobbed.

‘Hush, baba,’ Ayah whispered in a hoarse voice. ‘You mustn’t cry. You starting new life. You start it with happy thoughts. No tears.’

Rachael nodded. ‘Give my love to Ram Singh and Brutus. I wish I could see them before going.’

‘You no worry, baba. I tell them. We be fine.’ She touched Rachael’s belly gently. ‘You write letter when baby coming. I come to help.’

Rachael smiled and nodded as she walked over to the carriage. She climbed into it, followed by Daima. She watched Salim hug Ahmed and thump his back.

‘Take care, Salim mia. Inshah Allah we shall meet again,’ said Ahmed, as he helped him onto the carriage.

‘Of course we will, Ahmed.’

The carriage trundled down the grieving streets. They were now in Lucknow, passing through Chowk. Rachael remembered how she had been jostled by the crowd three years back as she made her way to Bade Miyan’s shop. The street was bare now, the silence unnatural. The shops were either shuttered or broken and bare. A pariah dog, the sole inhabitant of the bazaar, looked up at the sound of the carriage, then went back to drinking the muddy water in the drain.

Rachael touched Salim’s hand as she remembered the first time his had touched hers, in this same bazaar. Salim pressed her hand reassuringly. She wondered what was going through his head.

He started singing softly:

‘Babul mora naihar chuto hi jaye,

Chaar kahar mil mori doliya sajave,

Mora apna begana chuto jaye.’

‘It sounds beautiful. Pray tell me what it means.’

Salim’s lips moved as he began to recite: ‘“O father, I’m leaving my home behind, four men have gathered to lift my palanquin. My near and dear ones will soon become strangers, my home unreachable …” Abba Huzoor wrote these lines when he was leaving Lucknow.’

Rachael looked at him. His face was blank as he stared straight ahead. She brushed aside her tears with the back of her hand. She looked around at the city she was leaving behind. A city that had resounded with the sound of dance and music, poetry and revelry, a city she had grown to love with its numerous palaces and gardens. In their stead stood ruins and innumerable slums and a silence so loud as to tear one’s heart apart.

And for once she was glad Salim could not see.

Chapter Thirty-Four

S
ALIM

Salim plucked the strings of the sitar one by one. No, the last one didn’t sound right. He tightened it and listened to it again. Yes, brilliant. He played the tune he had composed the night before. Then put down the sitar with a satisfied smile. Yes, it would be the perfect piece to play at the finale of the concert. He leant back against the window sill and listened. He loved this time of the day, when his little cottage slowly woke up and started getting ready, while he sat in front of the huge window, practising his music.

He could hear little Haydn. He was banging the door. ‘Melody, hurry up, I need to go badly.’

‘Come along all of you, breakfast is getting cold,’ Rachael called.

‘Stand still, Sargam,’ Daima grumbled. ‘How many times have I told you to stand still when I plait your hair?’

Yes, he had settled down in his new life in Nainital. Sooner than Rachael had expected. Perhaps it was his stoicism that had helped. Or perhaps it was the strength he drew from Rachael’s presence …

He was content, surrounded by RayChal and his four children. Even the children in the neighbourhood loved him. They called him ‘pirate uncle’ because of the black patches he wore over his eyes. But once in a while, when it rained heavily and memories invaded his brain like the children invaded the kitchen cupboards as soon as they got back home from school, he thought of his life in Lucknow, of Abba Huzoor, Ahmed …

He had gone to Lucknow a year back with the children and had enquired about Ahmed. No one had seen him for a week. Together with some of the neighbours, Salim had broken into his house. He had found Ahmed’s dead body on the floor. Apart from the velvet curtain that hung over the doorway, the house had been bare. Everything had been sold. Ahmed had been too proud to admit that he did not have enough money to buy food and had died of starvation.

Salim swallowed. He heard a patter of feet and the scraping of chairs as his family gathered around the dining table for breakfast. Soon all of them would be off to school, giving him a couple of hours to practise for the concert before his students arrived.

Sometimes he wished he could see again – watch Rahim play cricket, watch Melody’s golden pigtails bob up and down whenever she ran, or see how little Haydn’s face reddened whenever he spoke.

He wondered what RayChal looked like. Had her hair begun to turn grey? Did she have lines around her mouth and eyes? She would look beautiful even when she was ninety, he was sure of that. She still smelt of lavender and fresh starch. And kept her hair long. Did she still fiddle with her ring?

Salim sighed, covered his eyes with his palms and groaned loudly, ‘Ya Ali.’ Rachael was at his side within seconds. ‘Salim, what happened?’ She tugged at his hands. ‘Oh pray tell me you’re all right.’

Salim gave a sudden roguish grin and pulled her onto his lap. ‘You haven’t given me a kiss all morning!’

‘Oh, you wicked …’ She boxed his chest playfully as she scrambled to free herself from his grip. ‘Pray let me go. I haven’t finished preparing for my lecture today.’

‘What are you teaching?’

‘We are doing Shakespeare’s
Romeo and Juliet.
’

‘Ah, I could help you with that. I could even act it out for you.’

Rachael pulled his nose. ‘That’s kind of you, Mr Romeo, but no thanks.’

He smiled. He knew she was smiling and crinkling up her nose as she ran to collect her notes.

‘Rahim, Haydn, hurry up and get your bags, otherwise we’ll be late today,’ she called over her shoulder. Soon the sound of feet running down the steps died down and Salim went back to his music. His forehead creased in concentration as the strains of
Raaga Bhairavi
wafted across the room.

Author’s Note

All the main characters in
The World Beyond
are fictitious, other than Nawab Wajid Ali Shah, the last ruler of Avadh, and his wife Begum Hazrat Mahal, who played a prominent role during the uprising of 1857.

Nawab Wajid Ali Shah did not come back to Lucknow after he left the city in March 1856. He built a mini-city called Metia Burj on the outskirts of Calcutta, where he lived until his death in 1887.

Begum Hazrat Mahal carried on her struggle against the British from various parts of the country for almost a year, even after the uprising had been crushed. Finally she took refuge in Nepal with her son, Birjis Qadir. There she lies in an unknown grave, quite forgotten. She was the only Indian leader who did not surrender and lived in exile for the rest of her life.

Most of the palaces and gardens in the book are real, as also are most of the historical events that take place. I have fiddled with the geography of Lucknow a bit, in that I have shown Marion Cantonment and Kaiserbagh to be much closer to each other than they actually are, for the sake of the story.

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LOSSARY