The World Beyond Read online

  The World Beyond

  SANGEETA BHARGAVA

  For my father

  without whom this book

  would not have been possible

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  CHARACTER LIST

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Author’s Note

  GLOSSARY

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Copyright

  CHARACTER LIST

  NAWAB WAJID ALI SHAH/ABBA HUZOOR/ABBU –

  the last king of Avadh

  BEGUM HAZRAT MAHAL/AMMI –

  one of Nawab Wajid Ali Shah’s wives

  SALIM/CHOTE NAWAB –

  Nawab Wajid Ali Shah’s adopted son

  AHMED – Salim’s cousin

  DAIMA – Salim’s wet nurse

  NAYANSUKH – Daima’s son

  CHUTKI – Daima’s daughter

  RACHAEL BRISTOW – an English girl

  COLONEL FELIX BRISTOW – Rachael’s father

  MRS MARGARET BRISTOW – Rachael’s mother

  PARVATI/AYAH – maidservant

  RAM SINGH – Parvati’s husband

  SUDHA – Rachael’s companion and maid

  CHRISTOPHER WILSON – Rachael’s childhood friend

  Chapter One

  SALIM

  It was 1855. The month of Ramzan, the holy month. Prince Salim and Ahmed pushed their way through the bustling narrow by-lanes of Chowk. Chowk – the grand old bazaar of Lucknow, the haunt of the famous courtesans, the hub of the city. There was not a single article in all of Hindustan that could not be found in Chowk. You needed the keen eye of a huntsman, that’s all.

  A light breeze brought with it the aroma of khus – the cool refreshing smell of summer. Salim paused to look at the rows of decanters in the perfume shop. Ruh gulab ittar – made by distilling the heart of rose petals; musk ittar – procured from the scent that is found in the gland of the male musk deer; jasmine, tuberose, sandalwood …

  ‘Which ittar is an aphrodisiac, Salim mia? Musk or rose?’ Ahmed asked.

  Shrugging his shoulders, Salim moved on. He didn’t know, neither did he care to know. If love meant having a dozen wives in your harem like Abba Huzoor, he didn’t care. He would sooner man an army than settle squabbles between numerous wives. Just then his ears pricked up, like a deer’s at the sound of a tiger’s footfall. He could hear the sound of ghungroos and the fall of feet in time with the tabla. A husky voice was reciting the dadra – ‘dhaa dhin naa dhaa tin naa’. Looking up at the apartment above the shop, Salim found a eunuch standing in the doorway dressed in a woman’s attire.

  She winked at him. ‘Come upstairs, sweetheart. I’ll get you whatever your heart desires.’ She bit her lower lip coquettishly and played with her long plait, as she measured him from the top of his nukkedar cap to his short-toed velvet shoes.

  Averting his gaze, Salim looked at Ahmed. He was grinning at the eunuch and trying to look past her into the house, hoping to catch a glimpse of the prostitutes who resided there. Shaking his head at his cousin, Salim pulled him roughly as he hurried along. Nay, Ahmed was not just his cousin. He was more than that. He was his brother, his best friend, the keeper of all his secrets.

  ‘Why did you choose today of all days to come here, Salim mia?’ Ahmed shouted above the din.

  ‘No, thank you, I don’t want any,’ Salim said brusquely as he pushed aside the garlands of jasmine a vendor had shoved right in front of his face.

  ‘D’you know what Ahmed-flavoured keema tastes like?’ Ahmed asked as he wiped the beads of perspiration from his forehead.

  Salim’s brows knitted together. ‘What?’

  ‘Well, you’ll come to know today. Because if this crowd doesn’t make mincemeat of me, Daima surely will.’

  Without bothering to answer, Salim hastened his pace. Daima mustn’t come to know he’d been to Chowk. As they passed Talib’s Kebabs, Ahmed dawdled and sniffed appreciatively. Salim had to admit – he sure did make the best kebabs in town, the type that melt in your mouth. The pungent smell of fried onions, garlic and grilled meat tickled his taste buds.

  ‘Thank goodness it’s the last day of Ramzan,’ Ahmed muttered, as he eyed the kebabs one last time.

  Salim walked purposefully towards a little shop at the end of the road. It was almost hidden from view by the bangle man’s stall.

  ‘Show me those green bangles, bhai jaan,’ said one of the women gathered around the stall.

  ‘Bhai jaan, do you have those red ones one size smaller?’ said another.

  ‘Bangle man, can you give me two of each colour?’ clamoured a third.

  Throwing a cursory glance at the women, Salim strode into the music shop. There before him was the choicest collection of musical instruments that had ever been seen in Hindustan. Bade Miyan smiled at him, bowed slightly and pointed to a sarod. Salim’s eyes lit up as they rested on the instrument.

  As he bent down to pick it up, a slender white hand reached out for it as well. Their hands touched. Salim looked up and found himself gazing into a pair of eyes as blue as the Gomti at the deep end. He could see no more. The woman was clad in a burqa. He looked at her hands again. They were as soft and white as a rabbit. On her little finger she wore a delicate gold ring with a single diamond.

  Salim hastily withdrew his hand and with a slight bow said, ‘It’s all yours, ma’am.’

  The woman nodded slightly and their eyes met again. Just then he felt a sharp kick and almost yowled in pain as Ahmed’s foot hit the corn on his big toe. But the lady in the burqa was still looking at him, so he suppressed his scream and the urge to slam his fist into Ahmed’s face and grinned instead – a broader grin than he had intended. Then, lowering his gaze, he left the shop.

  ‘What if her father was just behind us, Salim mia?’ asked Ahmed. ‘He’d have surely beaten us up if he had seen you gaping at his daughter like that.’

  ‘Whether her father would’ve beaten us up or not, you’re getting bashed for sure,’ Salim said, waving his fist at him. Ahmed ran off laughing with Salim hobbling after him.

  Sitting down on the takhat, Salim took off his khurd nau with a curse. He gingerly rubbed the corn on his big toe and cursed Ahmed yet again.

  ‘So finally you’re here, Chote Nawab?’

  It was Daima. Salim smiled affectionately at her as she gestured to the eunuch Chilmann to bring in the basin. Chilmann, who wore the clothes of a man but swayed like a girl. The butt of all the jokes in the palace.

  Salim washed his hands and face.

  ‘Where did you rush off to this morning?’ Daima asked, as she stopped pouring water and handed him a towel.<
br />
  ‘Bade Miyan wanted me to see the new sarod that was delivered yesterday,’ he replied carefully as he wiped his hands. He had never been able to lie to Daima. He looked at her now, noticing for the first time that her hair had begun to match the white of her sari. He waited for the lecture to come – a prince has no business nosing through dilapidated bazaars like a common man.

  ‘Where is it?’ she asked.

  ‘Where’s what?’

  ‘The sarod …’

  ‘Oh. Actually there was a young maiden in the shop …’

  ‘So of course, our Chote Nawab let her have it …’ Daima clicked her tongue. ‘This chivalry of yours is going to destroy us one day.’

  Salim hugged her from behind. ‘There’s no need to be so dramatic, Daima. It was just a sarod after all.’ Then turning to Chilmann he said, ‘Tell Rehman to have Afreen and Toofan saddled by four.’

  ‘You’re going out again?’ asked Daima.

  ‘I won’t be late. And no, I haven’t forgotten that it’s Chand Raat.’

  ‘Yes, finally, the last day of Ramzan … just look at the way all this fasting has made your bones stick out.’

  Laughing, Salim took off his cap absent-mindedly and placed it on the stool. Yes, thank goodness the fasting period was almost over. He was missing his hookah.

  ‘And mind you, don’t be late for namaz tomorrow … you know how it upsets your father.’

  ‘Ya Ali, dare I displease Abba Huzoor on Eid? How is it, Daima? He never misses a namaz, not a single one!’

  ‘Chote Nawab, the day you remember to say all the five namaz, Allah mia will be so pleased, he will personally come down from Heaven to bless you.’

  Salim grinned. He ran his fingers through his hair as he watched Daima’s receding form. She had nursed him as a baby and was the closest he had known of a mother’s love, his own mother having died during childbirth. She fawned on him and made sure everyone called him Chote Nawab and paid him the utmost respect, even though he was not the heir apparent. Just an adopted son of the ruler, Nawab Wajid Ali Shah.

  He chuckled as he heard Daima chiding someone in the adjoining room. ‘Hey you, move those limbs a bit faster … otherwise we’ll have to serve the feast next Eid.’

  Even though she was a devout Hindu, she had comfortably fitted into his Muslim family and commanded as much respect in the palace as any of the begums.

  Taking off his angarkha and silk pyjamas, he threw them on the takhat. Chilmann picked them up, folded them carefully and put them away. Salim slipped on a loose cotton kurta and pyjamas. Walking over to his bed, he propped himself on the oblong pillow as two attendants hastened to fan him. He spread his hands over the crisp white sheets. They felt cool and refreshing under his warm moist palms. It was the middle of June and the heat showed no signs of relenting for at least another month. He lay back on the pillow and thought about the girl in the burqa. Her hands were so dainty – just like paneer – soft white cottage cheese. Ya Ali, was he hungry!

  It was that time of the year when even the evenings were warm, but twilight sometimes ushered in a cool breeze from the River Gomti. The city of Lucknow yawned and stretched after its afternoon nap and slowly began to deck itself for a night of festivities, on this night of the moon or Chand Raat.

  There would be considerable excitement that night, especially among the children, as they competed with one another to be the first to spot the moon. Shops would be open all night to enable people to get on with their last-minute shopping. The women would get busy applying henna to their hands.

  As Salim and Ahmed neared the Gomti, they saw some mahouts lead their elephants to bathe in the river. Salim patted Afreen and she trotted to a halt. He watched as the mahouts gave the elephants a thorough wash. They were being primped for the procession to the Jama Masjid tomorrow. Soon oil would be rubbed into their skins. Once that was done, their foreheads, tusks, ears, trunks and feet would be painted with a rainbow of lines and colours and adorned with ornaments. A couple of brass rings would be slipped onto the tusks. Finally their backs would be covered with brightly coloured, embroidered, velvet cloths. On top of that would be placed the gold or silver howdahs.

  ‘Ahmed, isn’t that Nayansukh?’ Salim asked, distracted by a figure in red approaching them.

  ‘Nayan who?’ said Ahmed.

  ‘Daima’s son.’

  ‘Ah, so it is!’ replied Ahmed as he trotted up to him. ‘Why in Allah’s name are you undressing in the middle of the road?’ he asked with amusement as he watched Nayansukh tug impatiently at the gold buttons on his coat.

  ‘These angrez are crazy! Make us parade in the heat in bloody coats! I can’t even breathe. It’s so bloody tight under my arms,’ Nayansukh replied, as he finally managed to wriggle out of the coat. He walked over to Salim. ‘Salaam, Salim bhai. We ought to wear just vests and lungi in this bloody heat, you know.’

  Laughing aloud Salim replied, ‘Soldiers marching in just a loincloth! Ya Ali, there’s an image!’

  Nayansukh slapped Afreen’s back and said wistfully, ‘Seriously, bhai, I wish I hadn’t enlisted in the Company’s army.’

  ‘But it was Daima’s dream,’ Salim said. ‘She always wanted to see you as a soldier …’

  ‘Aren’t you happy?’ Ahmed asked.

  Nayansukh stroked Afreen’s mane and, looking down, replied, ‘The salary’s fine, but they’ve taken away our land.’

  ‘No,’ Salim said in a lowered voice.

  ‘Yes. Can you imagine Salim bhai? Those bloody firangis took away my ancestral land and I could only stare after them. They took my property from under my nose and all I could do was twiddle my thumb.’ He angrily smacked Afreen’s rump. Afreen snorted in protest. ‘And all thanks to that firangi – what’s his name? Dalhousie.’ Nayansukh turned his face away and spat on the side of the road. His voice was choked when he spoke again. ‘Now where will I find the money for Chutki’s marriage?’

  Chutki. Daima’s little girl, with her small glistening eyes and sharp nose. Who never forgot to tie a rakhi on his arm or put tika on his forehead on bhai dooj. Sometimes Salim felt she was fonder of him than her own brother, Nayansukh.

  Touching Nayansukh’s shoulder lightly, he said in a quiet voice, ‘Don’t worry about Chutki. She’s my sister too. I’ll make sure she has one of the grandest weddings in Lucknow.’

  ‘It’s not just me, Salim bhai,’ Nayansukh continued. ‘Most of the Indian soldiers are unhappy.’

  Afreen snorted and swished her tail to drive away the flies that were trying to settle down on her back.

  ‘And know what? Senior Indian sepoys are the most frustrated. They’ve been in the army for as long as I remember. But they can’t get promoted over the most junior English sepoy.’ Nayansukh paused and twirled his moustache angrily. ‘I swear on Lord Ram, the young dandies are so rude. Makes my blood boil. And if we protest, we are given our marching orders.’

  Salim looked at Nayansukh as he continued to twirl his moustache. He knew promotion wasn’t the only reason why the Indian soldiers were dissatisfied. There were other issues. Several of them.

  Nayansukh broke into his thoughts. ‘Where are you two off to?’ he asked.

  ‘Going back to the palace to break our fast,’ Ahmed replied. His stomach growled as though on cue.

  Chuckling, Salim said, ‘Ahmed, you’d better not overeat tomorrow. You don’t want to spend the next ten days dashing to the hakim like last year.’

  ‘The last day of the fasting period is the most difficult, Salim mia. Ammi has already started cooking for the feast and all those smells coming from the kitchen …’

  Salim shook his head. Poor Ahmed. He fell silent as they rode towards Kaiserbagh. He thought about Nayansukh and what he had said about Dalhousie’s reforms. He smiled scornfully. East India Company. A mere bunch of traders from England. And now, the lord and master of practically all of Hindustan.

  He wiped the perspiration from his forehead. How he hated that Dalhousie. It wasn’t jus
t because he was a firangi. It was his attitude towards the Indians, his arrogance, his high-handedness that got to him. If only he would leave Hindustan and go back to where he belonged. And take all his whimsical policies with him. He looked at Ahmed. He had grown quiet as well, but his silence had more to do with an empty stomach, Salim suspected. They rode in silence for another five minutes, then Salim abruptly brought Afreen to a halt. He patted her apologetically. She was foaming at the mouth.

  ‘Now what?’ Ahmed asked.

  Salim didn’t answer. His eyes and ears were transfixed to the open window of the bungalow in front of them. An English girl sat at the piano. Salim stood still. He had never heard such feisty music before. He could not see the face of the pianist clearly. But her hands – they were the same slender white hands he had seen that morning – the same ring, the same diamond, glinting in the setting sun. Her fingers were running confidently from one end of the keyboard to the other, dancing merrily as to a lively jig.

  ‘Ya Ali,’ he exclaimed incredulously, ‘it’s the same girl we saw in Chowk this morning!’

  Chapter Two

  RACHAEL

  Everybody clapped as Rachael finished the piece with a flourish. She curtsied slightly and thanked them. Anna took her place on the stool and started playing a ballad.

  ‘That was beautiful, Rachael. Was that Mozart?’ asked Mrs Wilson.

  ‘No, Haydn,’ Rachael replied as she carelessly flicked a golden lock of hair away from her forehead

  ‘I wish I could practise like you, my love. But I can never find the time. What with the washerwoman always misplacing Christopher’s shirts and Kallu forgetting to put up the mosquito nets …’ Mrs Wilson stopped mid sentence to accept a glass of wine from the waiter. As she thanked him, Rachael excused herself and went outside.