by Arjun Gaind
The Nizam sneered. “That is entirely the wrong question. What you should be asking is, would the Nizam of Hyderabad do his dirty work himself?” He shook his head. “I think not. All I have to do is snap my fingers and half a hundred men would jump to do my killing for me, if I so desired it.” Osman Ali Khan rolled his eyes. “Not to belabor the fact that I am not a madman, Sikander Singh. Really, if I intended to revenge myself for such minor slights, why, then half the people in India would be dead and buried.”
Sikander had to admit that this explanation made a great deal of sense. True, the Nizam had a motive, but at best, it was a flimsy one. And he certainly could not accuse the man of any impropriety publicly, not without an excess of proof, and even then, he ran the risk of inspiring an even bigger scandal than the Viceroy had expressly prohibited him from causing.
“I suggest, boy, that you find a way to speak with the Maharaja of Kashmir.”
This suggestion took Sikander by surprise. It was well known that Hyderabad and Kashmir were the bitterest of rivals, constantly jockeying for prestige. Could Osman Ali Khan be trying to take advantage of the situation to try and embarrass his bête noire, or was he aware of some secret Sikander did not know? Was there any truth behind this suggestion, or was it just a case of blatant misdirection?
“Why should I believe you? I mean, it is well known that you abhor Partap Singh, that you believe that it is you who should be ruling over Kashmir since it has a vast population of Mussulmans and you perceive yourself as their spiritual leader.”
“An interesting conjecture! Nonetheless, regardless of my personal disregard for the Dogra Raja, I assure you, he is a more than worthy suspect for you to investigate.”
“What makes you so certain of that?”
“As it happens, when I arrived at the camp, who should I see but Kashmir’s munshi leaving in a buggy. When I made a discreet inquiry to ascertain what he was doing there, I was informed that he had come to deliver a private letter. The officer of the day, a rather taciturn sergeant, was most reluctant to divulge who it was intended for at first, but after a small gratuity—” he loosened his tongue soon enough. Can you guess who was the recipient of the letter?”
The answer was obvious enough. “The girl,” Sikander said hoarsely. “It was addressed to Zahra.”
“Well done!” The Nizam made a great show of feigning mock approbation. “Perhaps you Sikhs have half a brain after all.”
“But why?” Sikander murmured. “Why would Partap Singh of Kashmir send a private letter to a nautch girl?”
“A fine question,” the Nizam echoed. “Now why don’t you go off and ask him that, eh, and stop wasting my time?”
Clapping his hands together, he summoned his rude khidmutgar yet again.
“You may show Mr. Singh out,” he commanded. “He has begun to bore me.”
Chapter Fourteen
As Sikander made his exit from the Hyderabad camp, Captain Campbell came rushing up to accost him.
“Well, what did Old High and Mighty have to say for himself?” Campbell hopped restlessly from foot to foot, as nervous with excitement as a schoolboy.
“He is not involved,” Sikander retorted, refusing to elaborate any further.
“Are you certain of that, sir? The Nizam is well known for being rather a clever sort.”
Sikander gave him a derisive glare. “Just because I said a few kind words to you last night, Captain, does not give you permission to question my judgment.”
“I meant no insult, of course,” Campbell hastily apologized. “It’s just that this has been an utter waste of time, hasn’t it?”
Inwardly, Sikander had to agree. The Nizam’s interview had left him with considerably more questions than answers. For one, it was dismaying to think that news of the girl’s demise had already begun to spread through the native encampments. That only made his position more precarious. One whisper in the wrong ear, a single misstep, and a scandal of epic proportions would erupt. And who would be blamed? Him, of course. At best, he concluded, he had a little less than a day left, to find Zahra’s killer before the King made his grand entry. And while it was true that he had acquired ample fodder for gossip, some rather startling and embarrassing secrets about the new Nizam’s boudoir habits, he had no intention of sharing what he had learned with the Captain, who was, by all apparent signs, blessed with lips as loose as a platypus’.
“So, whatever shall we do now? Back to the Majestic with our tails between our legs?”
Sikander scowled, his hackles rising. It was bad enough he had been forced to drag Campbell along everywhere, but to have to put up with his incessant questions and his decided over-familiarity, it was quite enough to make him want to scream.
“I think, Captain, it is time we paid a visit to the Maharaja of Kashmir, and offered our respects.”
Conveniently enough, the Kashmir camp was located very near the Hyderabad enclosure, about halfway up the Coronation Road. For a change, Sikander decided to leave the car behind, and make the walk across instead. As he strode along, rather than engaging in conversation with the Captain, who insisted on sticking doggedly to him, he considered what he knew of the Maharaja of Kashmir and his antecedents.
As far as the hierarchy of India’s princes went, Kashmir was right at the very top, second only to the Nizam of Hyderabad. Along with Mysore, Baroda, and Gwalior, these were the five most powerful states, each entitled to a salute of twenty-one guns. Territorially, the kingdom of Kashmir encompassed a vast tract of land, stretching from the alluvial plains of the Jhelum and the Pir Panjal in the south, to distant Gilgit and the vast wall of the Pamir Mountains in the north. Its history was as ancient as India itself. This was where the fabled Silk Road concluded, where every invader who had ever marched into the subcontinent had left behind bloody footprints, from Alexander the Great and Kanishka, to Taimur the Lame and Mahmud of Ghazni, until at last it had been annexed by the Mughal Empire. That had come to an end in 1540, when Nadir Shah had sacked Delhi, and Kashmir had briefly come under Afghan dominion, ruled over by the Durranis until it was conquered by Maharaja Ranjit Singh and the Fauj-i-Khas, and assimilated into the kingdom of the Sikhs.
Still, in spite of the immense size and ancient history of the kingdom, Sikander felt little but disdain for the current rulers of Kashmir. Why? Quite simply because they were in the truest sense of the word, arrivistes. Unlike his own family, which traced its origins back to the ancient Aryan tribes that had settled the plains of the Indus, the Dogras were second-rate Rajput adventurers. Although they were always quick to assert that they were descendants of Surya, the god of the Sun, the founder of the dynasty, Gulab Singh, had begun his career a mercenary in the service of Maharaja Ranjit Singh. He had been sent to subjugate the original rulers of Jammu, but then, when the English had arrived, had betrayed his master and sat back and twiddled his thumbs while the Anglo-Sikh wars took place. And then, when Ranjit Singh had died and the English had annexed Punjab, he had quite literally purchased his throne from them, for the sum of seventy-five lakh nanakshahi rupees.
The very thought of buying a title was enough to make Sikander sneer. It was about as nouveau riche as one could get, but then what could you expect from a bunch of jumped up horse-herders? As if that wasn’t bad enough, he had heard the stories of how Gulab Singh had managed to amass such a dazzling sum. Though his family liked to say that they had won their wealth as spoils of war, the truth was that he had been a slaver, plain and simple, who had made his fortune selling Yousufzai women and children to the brothels of Lahore and Multan, as had his son, Ranbir Singh, who had been famous for commanding his men to spare the lives of Yasin women during his campaigns against the Afghans so that they could later be put on the block to be auctioned as concubines.
Why, he thought, as their destination hove into view, one had to look no further than the entrance to the Kashmir camp to discern that Partap Singh,
the current Maharaja, was at heart a parvenu. Naturally, being a senior Maharaja, just like the Nizam, he had been allocated an enviable location for his camp. However, unlike Osman Khan, Partap Singh had to decided to broadcast his importance by making a spectacle of his camp. The entire frontage of the Kashmir encampment had been enclosed by a wall wrought from fretted walnut panes, each seven feet high and three feet wide, carved with floral designs in the traditional Gatha style. At the very center of this elaborate palisade, in imitation of the Pandrethan Temple, a massive triumphal gateway had been erected, manufactured from slabs of gleaming sheesham, with each gatepost standing some thirty-five feet tall, intended to be visible from a great distance to anyone who traveled down the Princes Road.
Partap Singh had been very quick to declare he was trying to bring attention to the skill of traditional Kashmiri artisans, but to Sikander, who was well versed with princely egos, it was only too obvious that he was trying his best to show off. In fact, far too many of the Maharajas had come to think of the Durbar as a way to show off. Bahwalpur had thrown up an arch to rival Titus’ Gate, and Jind had a sandstone gateway fit to put the Bulund Darwaza to shame. That was another of the reasons Sikander had chosen to take up residence at the Majestic. He had neither the patience nor the stomach for such petty pursuits, and while his peers sweated it out here under the winter sun, scheming and plotting to outdo one another, he was perfectly content to sleep swaddled in silk sheets beneath a proper roof, rather than buckram or canvas.
His musings were interrupted by a hoarse cough behind his shoulder.
“Yes?” he said, turning to the Captain, who was eyeing him with an expression of intense trepidation.
“How well do you know Partap Singh of Kashmir, Your Majesty?”
Sikander furrowed his brow. Not well at all, he thought. He had met the man only once, years ago, when his mother had hosted a gala for the Punjab princes to celebrate his coming of age. What he recalled from that occasion was a dull, rather stodgy man, old beyond his years, with all the personality of one of the Hangul for which his state was so renowned.
“Only very vaguely. Why do you ask?”
Campbell hesitated, choosing his next words very carefully. “There are rumors, sir, that he is not quite loyal to King and Country.”
Sikander had heard several such unsavory stories himself, perhaps the most persistent of which was the rumor that Partap Singh had been flirting with the Czar. In fact, in 1889, long before he had assumed the throne of Rajpore, Kashmir had become embroiled in scandal when the then-Resident Colonel Nisbet had accused Partap Singh of treason and corresponding with enemies of the British Empire, after which he was stripped of most of his powers and reduced effectively to a mere figurehead, a puppet in the truest sense of the word.
Even though almost two decades had passed since that deplorable incident, Sikander was not surprised to find that the rumors of Partap Singh’s disloyalty remained as pervasive as ever. Of course, he knew from personal experience not to pay too much attention to such hearsay. Why, at any given moment, there were a dozen stories about himself doing the rounds: that he was illegitimate, that he was a spy for the Germans, that he had murdered his mother and father and usurped the throne of Rajpore from the rightful heir, Lal Singh, and strangest of all, that he was a dabbler in dark arts and black magic.
“I am quite aware of Partap Singh’s picturesque reputation. I am also aware that a great many of the stories about him are entirely unsubstantiated.”
“Indeed, but as the old adage goes, where there is smoke…and so on.” Campbell frowned. “That is exactly why we shall have to proceed very carefully. We cannot afford to offend him.”
“We? There is no we, Captain.” He gave Campbell a scornful look. “As far as I am concerned, you are excess baggage, and I would suggest you imitate a trunk and keep your lid shut. No matter how ripe the urge to act smart, you will hold your tongue. Is that clear?”
The briefest flicker of fury flashed across Campbell’s face, no doubt for being given a talking-to like a recalcitrant schoolboy, but he recovered quickly, his anger replaced by his familiar grin. “Your wish, my command,” he said with a nod, stepping aside so Sikander could enter the Kashmir enclosure.
Thankfully Partap Singh’s staff were far better trained than the Nizam’s uncouth servant. The Durban recognized them, and immediately led them to the reception pavilion, which was handsomely decorated with a distinctly Kashmiri theme, more fretted wooden jallis, hand-knotted woolen carpets, a pair of carved chinar sofas, and a silver chandelier polished to a sheen.
They were not kept waiting long. In a matter of minutes one of Partap Singh’s myriad vakeels came trotting out, a handsome Sikh in a sky-blue sherwani who wore his beard parted down the middle, in the Mewari style.
Sikander smiled as he performed the ritual namaskar, joining his palms and bowing low at the hips respectfully. He recognised the man. His name was Sant Singh and he was one of his manservant’s many relatives, a second cousin or some such, although it was difficult to be sure since Charan Singh’s relatives were as numerable as mice in a paddy field. Still, to encounter one here simplified his task immensely.
“I would like to speak with Partap Singh, if he could spare a moment.”
“Of course,” the man replied smoothly, without a blink. “I shall inquire if His Highness is available, if you would be so kind as to wait.”
“Thank you. I am in your debt,” Sikander reached into his pocket to extract a small silk purse filled with coins which he offered to Sant Singh, but the man refused this gratuity with a dignified nod.
“There is no need, huzoor. It is my honor.” He offered Sikander a cheeky grin. “I have heard much about you from my cousin, almost all of it complimentary.”
He retreated, leaving Sikander and Captain Campbell to settle into a pair of matching rococo-style chairs. Barely had he exited when the curtain obscuring the entrance-way to the pavilion parted, and a pair of lissome handmaidens entered. They were twins, perfectly identical in every way, clad in matching silk phirans that came to their knees. Below the knees, their legs were bare, revealing shapely ankles weighed down by strings of silver anklets which made the most delightful sound as they swayed into the room, a clink-chinking that made Sikander smile appreciatively.
The first girl bowed low and offered Sikander a tray bearing a pair of warm towels perfumed with amber and musk. Meanwhile, the other girl crossed to a table at the distant corner of the pavilion, where a copper samovar waited. Uncovering it, she poured out two thimbles of kahva, which she served to Sikander and Campbell with a shy smile.
“Well, this is certainly civilized,” Campbell said, giving the girls an appreciative glance as they exited as silently as they had arrived.
Sikander had to agree. After Hyderabad’s rudeness, he thought, enjoying the taste of the saffron and cinnamon with which the tea had been flavored, it was nice to be treated with princely courtesy.
As he put down his cup, the curtain parted once more, but it was not Partap Singh who entered to greet them.
Instead, to his dismay, it was the Maharaja of Kashmir’s elder brother, Amar Singh. While Sikander did not know the younger, he was only too familiar with the elder. Amar Singh had been one his father’s oldest friends, a frequent visitor to Rajpore during his childhood. The years, it seemed, had not changed him much. Other than a swath of gray in his hair, he still looked much the same as he had the last time Sikander had seen him very slim with a pronounced hunch that quite ruined the cut of the silver sherwani he was wearing, and a face surmounted by the hook nose of the Dogras, which gave him a hawkish countenance.
Sikander could not help but shiver. His task, which was difficult enough to begin with, had now been complicated immeasurably. While he had been quite confident that he could outmaneuver Partap Singh, Amar Singh was a far more astute opponent. If Partap was the puppet, then here was the puppet-m
aster. This was the real power in Kashmir, the Richelieu to his brother’s Louis. This was the man who ran the Regent’s Council, and if rumor was to be believed, the very person who had betrayed Partap Singh to the English, turning witness against his own blood so as to consolidate his hold on the throne.
“Well, if it isn’t young Sikander Singh,” Amar Singh exclaimed expansively. “How lucky we are that you have chosen to call upon us this morning!”
Sikander tried not to frown. He could not tell if Amar Singh was being genuine, or if he was playing with him. The man was a cipher. His mouth was smiling, but his eyes remained absolutely emotionless, as dark and still as a moonless night.
“Amar Singhji,” he responded, hiding his turmoil of emotions and offering the man a wary bow.
“Oh, stop being so formal!” Amar Singh surged forward, taking Sikander by surprise as he enveloped him a tight hug. Sikander struggled not to squirm, thinking it rather too intimate. He was not at all fooled by the man’s avuncular act. Amar Singh was a consummate Machiavellian, so clever he could have outwitted Mephistopheles himself. Nothing he said, nothing he did, could be taken at face value. Every word, every gesture was intentional, as carefully plotted out as a master fencer seeking out his opponent’s weakness with a series of feints.
“How you have grown since the last time I saw you! What was it, ten, twelve years ago?” He gave Captain Campbell a genial smile, indicating at the chairs they had so recently vacated. “Please, do sit down.” He waited until Sikander and the Captain had taken their seats, before pulling up another armchair and sinking down opposite them. “Tell me, how may I be of help to you?”
Before Sikander could respond, Amar Singh clapped his hands, and the comely twins returned to offer him a cup of kahva, before refilling Sikander and Campbell’s glasses as well, with a pair of identically coy smiles.
“My nieces,” Amar Singh explained. “Beautiful creatures, are they not?” He smiled. “Tell me, Sikander, are you married yet?”
