Chapter Eleven

SALIM

It was a cold morning on 1^st February 1856. Salim stood on the balcony of his palace watching Daima feeding the pigeons. They were busy pecking at the seeds, making a low guttural sound as they did so. He snuggled his chin into his qaba as he read the lines again: 

Abba Huzoor was a fine poet, no doubt. Salim wished he could write like him. But whenever he sat down to write, he ended up staring at the paper. Words failed him. Ah well, he may never get into his good books because of his writing, but at least Abba Huzoor was pleased with his hunting abilities. He had called him one of his able sons.

But what would he think of his able son if he came to know he had been teaching an English girl Hindustani music in his own palace? Abba Huzoor hated the English. Unlike his predecessor Nawab Nasir-ud-Din Haider, who admired English dress, mores and mannerisms, he shunned everything English. And that girl – RayChal – why did she have to go to the zenana yesterday? What if one of the begums had mentioned it to Abba Huzoor? He would have been dead by now.

He had stormed into the zenana when Chilmann had informed him of her whereabouts. But when he had seen her squatting in the centre of the room with the other begums, he felt as though she had always been a part of his family. And then when he saw Daima chiding her for something, just as she always scolded him, he watched her stick out her tongue and grin shamefacedly at Daima. After that he could not bring himself to scold her.

He had been brought up in a zenana full of women. Yet in his entire life of twenty-two years, he had never come across a woman like her before. Ya Ali, he was again thinking about her. What was wrong with him? What was it about her that held him thus captive? Was he in love with her? No. This was not love. He simply enjoyed her company and loved flirting with her. It was all in good fun, that’s all.

Then why was he always thinking about her? The way she talked, the way she laughed, the way she played the piano, the harmonium, her fingers light and feathery, the way she walked, the way she said his name. The way her eyes shone when she smiled, the way she crinkled her little nose. Why, he could even recall what she smelt of – lavender and roses. And why, oh why, did he feel depressed simply because he could not give her music lessons anymore?

And what was that about the war? True, Dalhousie’s army had reached Cawnpore but that didn’t mean the forces would be turned on Avadh. Why, just last night he had attended one of Abba Huzoor’s kavi samelan. Abbu looked unperturbed.

Salim smiled a small wry smile and looked down at the garden below. The blades of grass were bent double by the strong northerly wind and were whispering to each other the rumours that were rife throughout the city.

‘Salim mia.’ It was Ahmed. He came rushing to the balcony. ‘Salim mia, have you heard?’

‘Heard what, Ahmed?’

‘The Resident has presented a treaty to His Majesty from the Governor General of India, Lord Dalhousie, asking him to abdicate the throne.’

Turning his back to Ahmed, Salim looked again at the blades of grass. His heart sank. So the rumours were true.

Salim strode into the Zard Kothi Palace. Abba Huzoor was pacing the black and white tiled floor and muttering, ‘What have we done to deserve this?’

His brother Sikandar Hasmat, his minister, the Residency lawyer Muhsee-ud-Daula, the deputy Sahebud-Daula, the finance minister – all of them stood still with lowered heads.

Abba Huzoor ordered Saheb-ud-Daula to read the treaty aloud – the treaty that had been sent by Lord Dalhousie. That firangi had managed to gobble up the states of Punjab, Burma, Nagpur, Satara and Jhansi in the last ten years. Now he wanted to swallow Avadh, the bloody glutton.

Saheb-ud-Daula touched his cap lightly and started reading. Abba Huzoor stood with his back to the rest, leaning against a pillar. Saheb-ud-Daula read two lines, broke out in a cold sweat, got a lump in his throat and could not continue. Abba Huzoor snatched the papers from him and commenced reading it himself.

Salim’s hands curled into fists. Why didn’t Saheb-ud-Daula throw those papers in the Resident’s face when he gave them to him? Putting Abba Huzoor through this humiliation!

Abba turned to Saheb-ud-Daula and angrily waved the treaty papers at him. ‘Why this new treaty? What happened to the old one?’

‘Your Majesty, the Resident feels the administration of Avadh has grown slack.’

‘What utter nonsense,’ Salim muttered under his breath. Of all the allegations levied against Abba Huzoor, this was the most outrageous. Avadh was at the height of its glory, there was no doubt about it. The land was fertile, trade was booming and taxes were low. Why, with all the poets, musicians and artists flocking daily to its courts, it had even become the centre of cultural integration and etiquette.

Abba Huzoor’s nostrils flared. He was trying to get a hold on his temper. Salim had never seen Abba fly into a rage.

‘How dare he say that? Are the people in our land not happy and flourishing?’ Abba finally spoke through gritted teeth.

‘Yes, Your Majesty,’ answered Saheb-ud-Daula.

‘The Company has no right to dispense of the old treaty which clearly states that it can govern Avadh but cannot dethrone us.’

‘I agree, Your Majesty.’

Abba stopped pacing and stroked the lion carved on either side of his throne. ‘Our ancestors have already given half of Avadh to the British. Now they want to swallow the rest.’ He looked at the mermaids carved on the wall, the royal insignia of the Naishapur dynasty. A dynasty that had ruled over Avadh since 1722. He absent-mindedly felt the velvet softness of the oblong pillow, before sitting down on the throne. Nobody spoke. Everyone stood silently with heads hung low. The only sound that could be heard was the sound of breathing. A stale, sweetish smell pervaded the hall. It came from the vase that stood in a corner. The tuberoses it held were half-dead.

Abba Huzoor finally spoke. ‘Go and tell the Resident that we will not renounce the throne without a fight.’

Salim sat alone in the music hall trying to play the sitar. But he could not concentrate. He kept thinking of all that had transpired in the Zard Kothi that morning. He tried again. The strings of the sitar were tight and sounded harsh. It was no use trying to hide behind his music. Abba Huzoor needed him. He should go to him.

He put on his cap and made his way towards Abba’s parlour. As he passed the kitchen, he could smell biryani being cooked. Bland white rice with rich juicy chunks of meat. Like the friendship between the English and the nawabs that had lasted eighty years. But the biryani had begun to boil over now. He doubted anyone would be eating in the palace that night.

This corridor was much too dark. Once all this was behind them, he would ask Daima to get the servants to place a couple of candles at the two ends.

Just then, the Queen Mother, Janab-e-Alia, rushed past him. Salim’s mouth fell open. It seemed she had come running from her palace barefoot, without her veil and without waiting for her attendants, as soon as she had heard the news of the new treaty.

Salim followed her quietly to the parlour and stood trembling at the door.

‘Ammi,’ Abba Huzoor exclaimed as Janab-e-Alia entered his parlour, shocked at her appearance.

‘We’re lost, you have destroyed us,’ she shouted without preamble.

‘Ammi, please sit down.’

Abba led her to the takhat and gestured to the servants to leave them alone.

‘How many times did we tell you to forget your begums and Parikhana and pay attention to the administration of the country?’ she accused.

Abba averted his gaze and pulled at his hookah instead. ‘Ammi, no matter what we did, they would have still annexed Avadh under some or the other pretext. Look at how they swallowed the other kingdoms. Ours was the only one left.’

‘We should never have stopped you from conducting those parades,’ the Queen Mother replied with deep regret.

‘Do you remember, Ammi, how we used to watch our army parade for hours on end? What eloquent names we had given the regiments – Banka, Tircha, Ghanghor. We even had a regiment of women soldiers. Why, oh why, Ammi, did you make us stop?’

‘Your hakim told us your health was deteriorating from standing too long in the sun.’

‘And you believed him? If only you knew he was a spy planted in our court by the English. They said to me, “Why do you want to waste money maintaining an army when our army is there to fight for you?” … You see, Ammi, we played right into their hands.’

Salim stood rooted in the doorway. He felt guilty eavesdropping like this, but found himself unable to move. He wanted to go and embrace Abba, console him, but knew he mustn’t.

‘And the irony is, the bravest and the strongest soldiers in the Company’s army are from Avadh,’ said Abba Huzoor.

Begum Janab-e-Alia walked over to the window, lifted the curtain and looked out. ‘That’s another reason we can’t fight,’ she said.

‘Meaning?’

Begum Janab-e-Alia dropped the curtain and looked at her son. ‘Nothing would be gained by asking our sepoys to fire on their own brothers.’

‘But we can’t just give up.’

‘We won’t. We’ll fight for justice in Queen Victoria’s court.’

Salim’s jaw dropped and his forehead creased. He stared at Janab-e-Alia. What the hell did she mean? Then he looked at Abba Huzoor. Abbu, don’t pay any heed to her. Queen Victoria’s court, indeed. Abba Huzoor would have to go to England for that. It would take him months. What would become of Avadh meanwhile? Of Lucknow? Of the people? What kind of advice was that?

Salim could not believe what was happening. This whole day had been one long nightmare. He dragged his feet to his room. Yes, it was a nightmare. He would wake up any minute now. Any minute.