Chapter Nine

SALIM

Salim followed Ram Singh as he led him to Colonel Felix Bristow’s study. The door was open. He entered the room apprehensively as Ram Singh stepped aside to let him pass. He wondered why the colonel wanted to see him. Did it have something to do with RayChal coming to his palace yesterday without permission?

He squared his shoulders as he looked at the colonel. He was seated behind a huge oak desk immersed in some papers. Not a single hair on the top of his head was out of place. Each hair stood exactly as the other – like a row of soldiers standing at attention. Salim swallowed. There was something about that man that made his nerves rattle. He coughed slightly. Colonel Bristow looked up. ‘Good morning, sir,’ Salim said, extending his hand to the colonel.

The colonel ignored his hand and brusquely replied, ‘Morning. Do be seated.’

The chair made a scraping sound as Salim pulled it back and sat down gingerly.

‘So you want to teach my daughter music?’ the colonel asked as he lit his pipe.

Oh, so that’s why he wanted to see him, Salim thought with a sigh of relief. ‘Sir, with your kind permission,’ he replied.

He shifted uncomfortably as the colonel looked him over. The smell of tobacco made him yearn for his hookah. He turned his gaze to the bookcases that lined three walls of the room. They were made of dark wood and lent a sombre atmosphere to the room.

The colonel finally spoke. ‘I was expecting someone older. What instruments can you play?’

‘Sir, I can play most Hindustani instruments – tabla, dhol, sarod, sitar, harmoni—’

‘That’ll do. You speak good English for a native.’

‘I was sent to Calcutta when I was little, for my education.’

‘Who’s your father?’

Just then the swishing of skirts distracted Salim and he looked towards the door. It was Rachael. She was frantically waving her finger and mouthing the word ‘no’.

Puzzled, Salim turned back to the colonel and said, ‘Umm … my father …’ He again looked at Rachael. She shook her head from side to side and mouthed ‘no’.

The colonel raised his brow. ‘It takes you that long to remember your father’s name?’

‘H-he’s,’ Salim stammered as perspiration ran down his face. ‘Ustad Junaid Ali Khan,’ he concluded as relief spread over his face. ‘He taught me all I know about music.’

‘That settles it, then,’ said the colonel, putting his pipe in his mouth. ‘You can start after two months, when we get back from Mussorie. I shall buy whatever instruments you need.’

‘How you spoil her, Mr Bristow,’ said a thin sharp voice. Salim almost jumped. He had not noticed the frail woman sitting upright behind him, near the window. It was Mrs Bristow.

‘She’s all I have,’ the colonel said dryly. ‘If I had sons …’ He looked at Mrs Bristow with a cynical smile.

Mrs Bristow pushed back her chair, her lips a straight thin line, and left the room.

A little perplexed by this strange exchange of conversation, Salim stared at her receding back, then at the colonel. The colonel had gone back to his papers. ‘I shall take your leave now,’ Salim said hastily as he sprang to his feet. Bowing slightly, he left the room.

Outside the study, he leant back against the rough wall and let out a loud sigh. He looked up at the sound of giggling. It was Rachael. ‘Ya Ali, why did you stop me from mentioning my father?’ he asked in a low voice, glancing anxiously towards the study as he spoke.

Rachael put her chin in the air. ‘Papa doesn’t like him. He might have withheld his permission. Come now, let me show you the way out.’

‘What d’you mean?’ he asked, following her. ‘And what if your father comes to know?’

‘We’ll deal with it when we have to,’ she replied, as they reached the front garden, almost tripping over Brutus who was running between her heels, one ear standing upright and the other drooping woefully.

Salim didn’t say anything but looked over the fence at the nearby field. He could discern some English boys playing cricket. An occasional shout of ‘catch it’, or ‘six’, could be heard, followed by grumbling or cheers.

‘Your father tells me you’re leaving for the hills for two months?’ he asked as he unfettered Afreen from the eucalyptus tree.

‘Yes. Mother’s feeling miserable in this heat,’ Rachael replied as she stroked Afreen’s hairy muzzle.

‘I shall wait for your return,’ Salim said as he swung his legs over the horse. He touched his cap lightly and bowed slightly.

Rachael put up a hand to shade her eyes, smiled up at him, her nose crinkling up as she did so.

He smiled back at her and was soon flying towards Kaiserbagh.

It was late afternoon in September. Salim sat down at the piano. He could scarcely believe he was seated at the same piano he had seen RayChal play for the first time about three months ago. Yes, it was just three months since he first set his eyes on her and only his second visit to her home in the cantonment. Yet he felt as though he had known her all his life.

‘Chute Nabob?’ said Rachael.

Salim suppressed his laugh and said, ‘You can call me Salim.’

‘Salim, that’s a nice name. Pray tell me, does it mean anything?’

‘Salim was the son of the Mughal Emperor Akbar.’

‘Akbar – I know him,’ Rachael announced proudly, ‘but I never heard of Salim, I fear. Was he as famous as his father?’

‘He was more famous for his love affairs than affairs of the state,’ Salim chuckled. He ran his fingers over the keyboard, before turning to Rachael. ‘He fell in love with a tawaif called Anarkali. Almost threw away his empire because of her. He even went to war against his own father, the mighty Akbar, all for the sake of his love.’

‘How romantic. What happened then? Were they finally betrothed?’

‘No, they drugged Salim, and while he lay asleep, Emperor Akbar ordered his men to bury Anarkali alive.’

‘What? What d’you mean?’

‘A wall was built around her, brick by brick.’

‘No!’ Rachael covered her mouth in horror.

‘That’s what they say, anyway. No one knows for sure what exactly happened. But they say Anarkali was never seen again.’

‘I would willingly die a thousand deaths if someone loved me like that,’ Rachael said softly.

Salim closed the distance between them and put his forefinger over her lips. ‘Shh, you mustn’t speak of dying.’ Then with mock urgency, he cupped her yielding face in his hands and drawled, ‘Have you ever thought what would become of me if you were no more, my Anarkali?’

Covering her head with a scarf, Rachael got into the act. ‘Oh, Salim!’

Salim pressed a key forcefully on the piano, then looking Rachael straight in the eye, whispered hoarsely, ‘Oh Anarkali! I pray to Allah that all the years left of my life may get added to yours.’

Rachael quickly slid the scarf off, exclaiming, ‘Oh no, God forbid, I don’t want to spend the rest of my life in a widow’s garb. I love colours.’ As she spoke, she held the edges of her dress and twirled around. Just then Brutus came yapping into the room, getting caught up in the excitement. Rachael picked him up and gave him a twirl as well.

‘Masha Allah!’ Salim whispered under his breath, as he watched her, mesmerised. Her long magenta skirt swirled and billowed. Her hair swayed. A shaft of the setting sun came in through the window, caught her golden hair and set it ablaze. Anarkali could not have been more beautiful. He was sure of that.

‘Phew, sir, you smell!’ Rachael said as she put Brutus down. ‘I think it’s time for your bath.’

‘Have you had him long?’ Salim asked as he attempted to straighten the dog’s tail. Brutus was not amused and tried to bite his hand.

‘No. I was out riding, about four months previously, when I came across a puppy. He was crying most pathetically. I tried to find his mother, but alas, she was nowhere to be seen.’

‘And so, of course, you brought him home?’

‘I hid him in my room. The next thing I knew mother was holding Brutus by the scruff of his neck. Dangling him before me, she screamed, “Now Rachael, was it you who brought this brat into the house? He has chewed my new shoes, the ones Amy sent last week from Paris.”’

‘Just then Papa came into the room. “I don’t remember giving anyone permission to bring a dog into this house,” he said, looking at me sternly. Mother glared at me, hands on her hips. I opened my dry mouth and was about to speak when Brutus started barking at me accusingly. I looked at him in disbelief and exclaimed, “You too, Brutus?” Everyone started laughing then and Papa gave me permission to keep him.’ Rachael fondled Brutus’s furry ears as she concluded her story. ‘And so it came to pass that he was named Brutus.’

Salim smiled and tried to pat him. ‘He doesn’t like me much, does he?’ he said as Brutus barked at him yet again.

‘I think he’s a little jealous,’ Rachael replied.

‘Ya Ali, it’s getting late. I’d better leave,’ said Salim.

But Rachael was too busy tickling Brutus’s stomach to hear him. He smiled indulgently as he looked at her, shook his head and left the room.

‘Salaam, sahib,’ the gatekeeper saluted Salim as he opened the gate for him. He knew him well by now and did not quiz him anymore. He had been coming to Rachael’s house for over a fortnight. Even Brutus did not bother with him anymore. He gave him a cursory glance, rolled over and went back to sleep.

Salim sat down on the stool, his back straight. He positioned his hands over the keyboard and looked at Rachael. She nodded her approval. He looked at the black notes before him with full concentration, then ran his fingers over the keys.

‘Ouch, that hurt!’ he yelped as Rachael picked up the metal rod that stood near the fireplace and rapped it sharply across his knuckles.

‘It was supposed to hurt,’ she said. ‘How many times have I said that you must keep your hands raised while playing?’

Salim pulled a face. ‘You’re a hard taskmaster,’ he said.

‘Back to your lessons, sir. Let’s not dally. Play that piece for me again.’

From the corner of his eye Salim looked at Rachael as he played the little jig by Haydn again. She was pushing back a lock of hair that had fallen over her forehead as she listened to him play.

‘Gently, gently,’ she said. ‘Don’t bang and don’t stop at the end of each bar. One note should flow into the next like this … …’ Rachael’s fingers waltzed across the keyboard faster than a magician shuffling a deck of cards. Then she turned the page of her music book. ‘Now, this next tune is an exquisite piece. It is a sad song; the lover is yearning for his lost love. So play it softly – gently – pianissimo.’

Salim watched in fascination as her deft fingers danced over the keys. He had never seen anyone immerse themselves in music like this, other than Abba Huzoor. And for the first time in his life he found himself wishing time would stand still. Somehow he knew this moment of magic and serenity would always stay with him, and give him succour and redress in the turbulent times to come.

Rachael stopped playing the piano abruptly and looked towards the door. Salim followed her gaze as the sound of footsteps echoed through the hallway. He stared at her, then leapt to his feet and sat down in front of the tabla and began beating the two drums. Rachael, too, hastened to the harmonium.

Salim continued to play the tabla, his head shaking and eyes half-closed as Colonel Bristow peered into the room. The colonel looked at Rachael, who was seated primly before the harmonium pumping its bellows. He caught her eye, nodded slightly and quietly left the room.

It was Jamghat, the traditional kite-flying festival, one of the few times in the year when Salim was up early. The sky was chequered with colours that morning. As though Allah Mia, getting bored with the pale blue when looking out of His window, decided to do some spray painting.

Salim stood on the terraced roof of his palace. He concentrated hard as the thread of his kite got enmeshed with that of his opponent’s.

‘I wonder what they’re cooking for lunch,’ said Ahmed as he sniffed the air appreciatively and looked down from the palace rooftop towards the kitchen.

Salim shot him an angry glare, then turned his attention back to the kite. ‘Ahmed, stop thinking about food for once and give me some more thread … fast …’

Ahmed spun the spool hastily, but it was too late.

‘Ya Ali, it’s been cut!’ Salim exclaimed as he watched the kite spiralling towards the ground. He grimaced as a handful of street urchins swooped down on it. They gave a whoop and a jiggle of delight as they grabbed the little silver purse attached to it.

‘I wonder what would happen if you sent a message to your English mem through your kite,’ said Ahmed, as he narrowed his eyes to study Salim’s face.

Chuckling, Salim tied another kite to the spool. ‘And what if the letter got intercepted by her mother and she thought it was from Abba Huzoor? Then I’ll be sitting and twiddling my thumbs while she and Abbu have an affair.’

Ahmed threw back his head and laughed. ‘So you’re having an affair with her.’

‘No, we’re simply teaching each other music, that’s all.’

‘Enjoy, Salim mia, enjoy. But don’t make the mistake of falling in love; otherwise remember what happened to your namesake’s Anarkali.’

‘RayChal’s not a tawaif.’

‘No, she’s worse. She’s English, a firangi!’

Squaring his jaw, Salim rubbed his fingers where the fine glass pieces on the thread had cut them. He did not like what Ahmed had said, and certainly not what he had implied. Humbug. RayChal and he shared a special kinship owing to their mutual love for music. That’s all. What did Ahmed know about women and relationships? For that matter, how much did he know about women?

He walked to the edge of the terrace and looked down. All he could see were some maids replacing the long khus mats that hung over the archways with thick padded curtains, a sign that winter was approaching. Salim bent down and picked up another kite. Bah! He’d best forget women and concentrate on his kite. He was supposed to be one of the best kite-flyers in the land. Wouldn’t do his reputation any good if he lost this one as well.