The Nizam's Daughters

by Mallinson, Allan

  ‘He takes the entrails from only the youngest of lambs and then fills them with marrow and a mixture of spices known only to him, and then he roasts them over charcoal. They are the very apotheosis of taste, are they not?’

  Hervey agreed readily, and he would have indulged himself liberally had he not a concern for how many such dishes he would have to savour before the feast was ended. He glanced across at Selden and saw him eating modestly, and then at Locke, who was attending to each dish as if it were his last.

  ‘Why are you come to India, Captain Hervey?’ asked the rajah suddenly, though without trace of anything but approval.

  He sighed inwardly. He had no wish to deceive this generous and civilized man. ‘I believe you will have heard of Sir Arthur Wellesley?’ he began.

  ‘The Duke of Wellington?’ replied the rajah.

  He was much embarrassed by his presuming the rajah’s ignorance. ‘I am very sorry, sir; I had no reason to suppose that the duke’s elevation to the peerage would have been of interest in Chintal.’

  ‘But indeed it is,’ replied the rajah. ‘The duke rid India of the Maratha plague – Sindhia and Barjee Rao, and the other devils. I met him once, in the company of his then more illustrious brother. I was gratified to see him made a marquess, and then duke. Are you acquainted with him?’

  ‘Not intimately, sir. I am recently appointed aide-decamp, a very junior capacity, and am sent here to learn the employment of the lance. We suffered from it at the hands of the French, and the duke intends forming lancer regiments forthwith.’

  ‘Indeed,’ was all that the rajah would say by reply, although after a while he appeared to remember his own lancers. ‘My sowars would be able to instruct you most ably,’ he said, nodding.

  ‘I am grateful, sir. I believe I have also heard that the nizam’s cavalry have lances.’ Hervey wished at once he had not said it – a clumsy stratagem.

  The rajah, after the briefest flicker of consternation, recovered his composure. ‘You may know that we are to receive the nizam in Chintalpore in a month’s time,’ he said, dipping his fingers in a bowl of scented water.

  ‘Mr Selden so informed me, sir.’

  ‘We hope to show him some sport.’ And he embarked on a lengthy praise of Chintal’s hunting promise.

  The musicians were by now less animated in their playing. A leisurely tala weaved its way in and out of the conversations around the rajah’s table, a perfect accompaniment to the sweet confections now brought by the khitmagars – sweeter even than the madhuparka in the Venetian glasses.

  ‘But on the matter of the Duke of Wellington’s bidding,’ said the rajah at length, and seemingly absently, ‘there may be some quality that the duke seeks in numbers: the nizam’s cavalry has the most lancers in all India.’

  ‘So I am informed, sir. But in terms of how well the weapon itself is handled, and how handily are the rissalahs trained, I understand the Company’s irregulars too have much to teach.’

  The rajah nodded. ‘And in our own modest way, Chintal may boast of a handy rissalah. Indeed, you saw some upon your arrival today, did you not? Though they stood at the gates of the palace for ceremony.’

  ‘And, may I say, sir, their bearing does them great credit. I should much like to see them at exercise.’

  ‘Then you shall, Captain Hervey,’ replied the rajah. ‘You are our guest: I would not suspend any pleasure of yours that it is in my power to prolong.’

  One of those pleasures was the fine claret which the rajah kept. But Hervey was abstemious, for not only was its taste ill-matched to the harlequin dishes paraded before them, he was uncertain of the potency of the madhuparka. He could afford no indiscretion which might suggest his mission were any more than he had declared, especially having once aroused, if not the rajah’s suspicion, then certainly his curiosity. The same was not the case with Locke, however, whose robust spirits seemed wholly pleasing nevertheless to the raj kumari.

  The rajah spoke of hunting again: Hervey would not leave Chintal without a tigerskin, he promised, as bowls filled with boiled rice, dyed with saffron and much spiced, were placed before them. They talked of tiger and leopard and the wild boar, and the differing dangers and pleasures in the pursuit of each. And much satisfaction the rajah seemed to gain from Hervey’s keen anticipation.

  A light soup followed, and then all was cleared, bowls of hot water scented with lotus flowers were brought, and the rajah began speaking of his stables, of the merits and otherwise of the Arab and the Turkoman when compared with the native breeds – the Kathiawar, Marwari and Waziri. And the air was then filled with yet more, and different, scents as perfumed dishes of curds were laid before them, and the musicians once again became lively, an insistent tabla presaging a turn in the course of the evening. The rajah’s guests ate greedily, even after so much, and when the curds were gone a whole army of khitmagars crowded in to sweep away the residue of the feast so that the entertainment might begin.

  The raj kumari herself had arranged their evening’s diversions, explained the rajah. First came an elaborate nautch in which twelve tall, extravagantly dressed girls moved about the wide floor of the banquet chamber with a grace the like of which Hervey had never seen, as if floating – bending this way and that like tall grass in a breeze. From neck to ankle, they were aflash with mirrors, bracelets and rings, and in each bare navel shone an emerald.

  ‘They are come from Maharashtra for the delectation of the nizam when he visits,’ explained the rajah. ‘I am pleased to see you approve, Captain Hervey.’

  How could he not approve? ‘I do not think I ever beheld a more beautiful sight, Your Highness!’

  Henry Locke was altogether transported, and even Selden seemed rapt. The nautch girls danced for a quarter of an hour without respite, leisurely in all their movements, mistresses of time as well as of their sinewy muscles; until, though it was grown very warm, their spirited climax of much shaking and turning brought to a sudden end the now frantic raga – and with it the prostration of the dancers. There was great applause and calls of approval, and the dancers stood as one and bowed low to their audience. That they did not smile only added to their allure. Truly, he confided again, he had never seen anything so exquisite!

  The entertainment next took a less elevated form. A half-naked, wiry little man entered carrying a basket and a caged mongoose. ‘A vulgar thing of the bazaar, Captain Hervey,’ smiled the rajah indulgently, ‘to fascinate the indigent of the country and visitor alike. You may now write home to tell of your seeing a snake-charmer.’

  He was puzzled by the rajah’s need to explain, but thought it kindly meant. The wiry little man placed the basket not a dozen paces before them, and the cage to one side, then sat on the floor, crossing his legs. He took a pipe from the waist of his dhoti, removed the lid of the basket and began to play. The mongoose at once began jumping up and down excitedly, urinating as it did so – to the amusement of the guests – and soon from the basket came the head of a snake, drawn, it seemed, by the pipe’s lugubrious melody. It was not, to Hervey’s mind, of any great size, but it was no rat snake, for its spreading hood was unmistakable.

  ‘The cobra di capello, Captain Hervey,’ said the rajah; ‘prettily named is it not? – by the Portuguese when they built their missions on the Malabar coast.’

  Hervey recalled it well enough from his schoolroom lessons in natural history.

  The rajah sensed that he had expected to see a more impressive reptile, and sounded a note of warning. ‘Be assured, Captain Hervey, that the cobra, if its fangs could pierce the skin, has enough venom to kill an elephant.’

  Hervey looked suitably warned. Indeed, he looked mildly alarmed.

  ‘Do not concern yourself though,’ smiled the rajah. ‘The cobra’s mouth is sewn together.’

  The raj kumari leaned Hervey’s way a little. ‘To see the largest – the king of cobras – Captain Hervey,’ she began conspiratorially, ‘you must go into the forest. There it is called the hamadryad. You m
ust understand why?’

  He did. But Locke looked puzzled, leaving Hervey to whisper as best he could, ‘Wood nymph – Greeks – dies with the tree? Remember?’

  Locke nodded in faint but indifferent recollection of his Shrewsbury classicals.

  Once the rajah was satisfied that Hervey understood the principles of the art before him, he waved for the little man to cease his playing. The cobra descended at once into the basket, and the mongoose, which had not let up its jumping and turning throughout the performance, settled quietly on the floor of its cage.

  ‘My groom would be delighted by the mongoose, Your Highness,’ said Hervey, smiling. ‘He is inordinately fond of ferrets, an animal very akin to this.’

  ‘Is he here in Chintalpore with you?’ asked the rajah.

  ‘No, sir: he remained in Guntoor with my charger. But I am assured he will soon arrive.’

  ‘I am very glad of it, for I hope that you will avail yourself of our hospitality for some time yet,’ for, declared the rajah, he was in constant want of conversation since the demise of his tutor some years past.

  And then curiously, as if to be done with every vestige of the grace and dignity that the Maharashtri nautch had given the evening, there came a raucous chorus of voices the like of which Hervey had never heard, accompanied by cymbals and tambours in a fearful cacophony. The voices wore sarees of the gaudiest colours imaginable, festooned with bangles, necklaces and ankle bells. They were taller even than the nautch girls, and older. Some, indeed, were counted in riper years. They were as thin as laths, without any of the voluptuousness of the nautch. And their singing – if such it could rightly be called – was incomprehensible, their husky voices rhythmically repeating words that Hervey sensed had little meaning. They were to the nautch, indeed, as sackcloth was to silk.

  They did not dance, they cavorted. Cavorted for a full five minutes. And their gestures became increasingly lewd until the rajah, smiling indulgently, clapped his hands and shooed them away, at which they besieged the seated audience with little begging bowls – and made hissing noises if they considered the contributions mean. As they recessed to the outer chamber, keeping up the cacophony still, Hervey, astonished by so tawdry (but undeniably amusing) an intrusion, asked the raj kumari who they were. She, like her father before, smiled indulgently. ‘They are known variously, but we call them hijdas.’

  Hervey was unenlightened. ‘Meaning?’

  ‘It is an Urdu word – “neither one thing nor the other”.’

  Still Hervey had not understood.

  ‘Neither male nor female,’ she explained with a sigh.

  His embarrassment made her smile.

  ‘They appear from nowhere at gatherings such as this – weddings, tamashas. They make a great deal of noise and accept money to go away. They always seem to know when there is such an assembly, but I suspect that your Mr Selden told them of this evening. He enjoys their confidence.’

  Hervey looked across at Selden, who seemed content.

  ‘There is a small company of hijdas in Chintalpore, though their greatest number is in Haidarabad, for they are in truth more relics of the Mughal court.’

  ‘Will they come when the nizam visits?’ asked Hervey.

  ‘You may be assured of it,’ replied the raj kumari with a smile; ‘whether invited or not. And they will expect generous alms from so rich a ruler and his following.’

  When the last strains of the hijdas’ chorus were gone, the rajah and the raj kumari took their leave, satisfied that the banquet had been a worthy gratuity for the service which Hervey had rendered the favoured elephant. The rajah looked forward, he insisted once again, to being able to continue that hospitality in a manner especially appropriate for one of Hervey’s calling, ‘for I believe you will hold with me that hunting is the most noble of our pleasures.’

  Hervey thanked him fulsomely.

  The raj kumari bowed, smiling also, and thanked him once more for his present of the tushes. ‘They are a handsome trophy, Captain Hervey. And you won them without permitting my Gita to suffer a single mark. Truly, the English are not to be trifled with!’

  ‘Take a turn with me about the gardens,’ said Selden as the khansamah’s men began the lengthy business of extinguishing the candles and oil lamps.

  Hervey was glad of both the air and the chance of broaching at last the subject of his being there. When they were outside, and some distance from the ears of the palace itself, Selden gave his opinion of the evening. ‘The rajah has, quite evidently, taken to you. But I observed him closely as he questioned you on your purpose in coming to India, and I don’t think he was disposed to believing that your mission is concerned solely with the lance. As, indeed, do I not. The rajah is perforce both hospitable to and suspicious of strangers. He knows – without doubt – of the Wellesleys’ late affinity with the nizam, and it will not be beyond possibility that he is thinking of your being an agent of Haidarabad.’

  This he had not imagined. He felt at once anxious as he realized that had he first made contact with Bazzard in Calcutta he would have been forewarned of this diplomatic complication.

  ‘The Pindarees are again making depredations on Chintal’s borders,’ continued Selden. ‘The rajah bought them off last year but they’ve paid his gold little heed. It can’t be long before they come within, for his forces would be hard-pressed to deal with them without leaving Chintalpore open to attack from the west, from Haidarabad.’

  Hervey looked about him, anxious there might be ears closer than the palace. His mind was beginning to race and he tried hard to check it as it dawned on him how awkward was his predicament – and of his own making. ‘Selden, may we speak in absolute confidence?’

  ‘Here is as good as anywhere,’ shrugged the salutri.

  ‘I mean, may I divulge things to you confident they will go no further?’

  Selden paused only for an instant. ‘I would never betray anything that might harm my country – on no account. But if it is something that might harm the rajah then I beg you would not try my loyalty.’

  Hervey took the plunge he knew must come. ‘The duke has title to several jagirs in Chintal. They’re governed on his behalf by an official of the Company’s in Calcutta.’

  ‘Is this of great moment?’ asked Selden, the tone a shade bemused.

  ‘I don’t know. All I have need to know is that the duke wishes to dispose of them in as discreet a manner as possible.’ Never did Hervey imagine he would dislike a business so.

  ‘If he has an agent in Calcutta, why should you be concerned in this?’

  ‘Again, I don’t know why. I understand that not even the jagirs’ steward here in Chintal knows their true ownership. It’s the duke’s wish that they are disposed of as advantageously as possible, within Chintal, and that their former title remain privy.’

  Selden inclined his head in a manner that suggested he was now well apprised of Hervey’s purpose. ‘And you wish me to assist in this disposal?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Hervey quietly, but emphatically.

  Selden sucked his cheeks. ‘So your meeting with me was not coincident: you sought me out?’

  ‘The meeting on the Sukri was entirely coincident, but my orders were that I should go to Calcutta and meet an agent of the duke’s. He was to see to my entry here. I told you about our diversion to Madras; it seemed opportune when I did meet you, and little point then in my going to Calcutta. It was a misjudgement, I see now.’

  ‘Indeed,’ nodded Selden, ‘quite a misjudgement! There might no longer be the glittering path ahead, then?’ The tone was of sympathy, even if a little brutal.

  Hervey hardly needed reminding of the personal consequences.

  ‘And so, who now has the title deeds?’ he asked, wanting to pick something from the ashes.

  ‘I do,’ replied Hervey, quick to respond to the suggestion of help. ‘But since they bear the duke’s name they will need to be transferred through a third party. My instructions were to request that you yourse
lf fulfil that role. And, further, that you ensure any reference to the duke in the land registry is expunged.’

  Selden smiled. ‘Hervey, you – or, I suppose, the duke’s agents – astonish me. Assuming that I would have access to the registry, you would wish me, say, to spill a bottle of ink on the offending page – or to set the entire ledger alight?’

  ‘Whatever is necessary,’ he replied bluntly; ‘but my principal had hoped that the original document might be delivered up to him. He is quite willing to meet all expenses.’ This last troubled him. He had rehearsed it many times so that it might be rendered lightly, but it smacked none the less of a crude bribe.

  Selden saved him further discomfort by ignoring it – at least, on the surface. ‘My dear Hervey, I think it time I made a clean breast of one or two things too.’ They sat on a low wall by one of the fountains, its fall of water a further aid to their seclusion. ‘Now,’ he began, dabbing at the edge of his mouth with a silk square, ‘you must not suppose me to occupy any great office of state here – or even position of influence.’

  Hervey looked worried. ‘But—’

  ‘Let me finish. I am the rajah’s salutri. There are few of us in India, and most of them are quacks, men who would scarce make a good farrier’s assistant. I know my worth in this respect, and so, I flatter myself, does the rajah. I am the only Englishman at his court, and since he places his trust in my facility with his horses he is inclined to seek my opinion on other matters. He’s not obliged to take it, of course.’

  Hervey was not now so discouraged, but it was far from what he might have wished. ‘And do you have dealings with the Company?’

  ‘I am not a spy, if that’s what you mean. Periodically I have given my opinion on this matter or that when in Calcutta – as any loyal subject of the King would.’

  Hervey thought for a moment, for Selden evidently had more to give. ‘Are you therefore able to help me dispose of the jagirs?’ he asked plainly.

  Selden smiled again. ‘One of the many things I have learned in India is that what one supposes to be a secret is known as often in the bazaars.’