by Arjun Gaind
Sikander had expected the Captain to dispute him, to question his veracity, but to his surprise, Campbell accepted his statement without a word of dissent.
“That’s too bad,” he said with a shrug. “I thought we had a proper lead here. So, who is next on your list, sir?”
“Bharatpur first, I think, and then Patiala. Let us go and see why exactly they each paid Zahra a visit, shall we?”
Bharatpur was firmly a middle-tier kingdom, a seventeen-gun state located some fifty kilometers west of Agra, encompassing a quadrilateral roughly the size of Luxemborg. It was rather a desolate, wild place, bordered in the west by the Banganga, and in the East by the foothills of the Vindhyas, best known for tigers and sugar cane of the highest quality. Although technically a part of Rajputana, it was ruled over by a family of Jats, the Sinsinwars. At the end of the seventeenth century, as the Mughal hold on power had weakened, Badan Singh, the descendant of a minor zamindar, had been quick to expand his territory. It was he who had seized much of ancient Karauli and built the stronghold after which the dynasty was named—the fort of Bharatpur, whose towering walls had earned a reputation for being very nearly as impregnable as Golconda. His nephew, Suraj Mal, had expanded the kingdom even further, briefly conquering Agra, and even subduing Delhi itself. After that zenith, however, the Sinsinwars had fallen into decline, earning a reputation for being quick to change allegiances, playing the Mewaris against the Marathas and the English until finally Lord Combermere had invested the fortress and forced them into submission in 1826.
There was an old saying in Punjab: “A Jat is your friend as long as there is a stick in your hand.” There were few finer illustrations of this adage than the Sinsinwars, who had become renowned for displaying a fickleness of character and political adaptability that would have put the most brazen of Borgias to shame. True, while in previous generations this had been a benign, self-serving trait, with the previous Maharaja, Ram Singh, it had chosen to manifest as an utter disregard for normal behaviour, a disinhibition that came close to what Esquirol had described as monomania. He had been very nearly a lunatic, given to the consumption of vast amounts of liquor, and public displays of intemperate rage that had almost bordered on madness.
Sikander had only met the man once, when Ram Singh had traveled to Rajpore to attend his Coronation dinner. During the mutton course, had flown into a rage when a waiter had mistakenly dribbled a few drops of champagne onto his hand while trying to top up his glass, and in a fit of rage had very nearly beaten the man half to death with a soup spoon.
This penchant for quick violence and utter lack of self control had increased as he had aged, until one day Ram Singh had decided to shoot his barber to death, apparently because he had been displeased by the man’s efforts to trim his beard. The ensuing scandal had forced the British to depose him and force him into exile, instead placing his infant son on the throne. As a result, the real power in Bharatpur had fallen into the hands of his wife, Maharani Girraj Kaur, who ruled in all but name as the Regent.
Sikander wracked his brain, trying to recall what he knew of her, which was lamentably little. She was the Maharaja’s second wife, a relatively young woman who was said to be ruthlessly single-minded, concerned only with preserving her son’s legacy, and trying to restore her husband’s good name. She also shunned the public eye, refusing to attend any of the social functions affiliated with the Durbar and rarely left the confines of the Bharatpur enclave—all of which led Sikander to ruminate on a germane question: What had the Maharani then been doing meeting with a nautch girl, and deep in the heart of the British quarter? Whatever the reason, it was enough to set his every instinct on edge.
The Bharatpur Camp was located near at the far end of the Rajputana enclosure, abutting the Dahirpur Road. It was nondescript, in keeping with the Maharani’s reputation for maintaining a low profile, its sole exception to ornament a rather demure badshahi gate made entirely of polished teak.
Upon entering the reception pavilion, a handsome space decorated with woven tapestries that chronicled the history of the Sinsinwar Jats, they were greeted not by a manservant, but by a woman butler, a middle-aged Anglo-Indian matron dressed not in the traditional Rajput lehenga, but rather a proper evening suit, complete with a bow tie.
It made for quite a striking change, and the Captain goggled at her, surprised no doubt, by the sight of an Indian woman in long trousers.
“If you would be so kind as to wait just a moment,” she said as Sikander introduced himself. “Ma Devi is bathing. She will be with you shortly.”
She clapped her hands, and a trio of comely servers came striding in. Once again they were all female, dressed identically in tie and tails, bearing a panoply of trays. The first offered steaming thimbles of what appeared to be mint tea; the second, tall decanters of what smelled to be pear cordial; and the third, a varied selection of local sweetmeats made from jaggery and ghee.
Sikander refused all three, and Campbell followed suit.
“What do we know about the Maharani?” he inquired, waiting until the seneschal and her minions had left them.
“She is a bit of a nonentity.” Sikander replied, settling into a nearby chair and picking up the latest edition of the Lahore Daily News. “She keeps to herself. After her husband’s shenanigans, I don’t really blame her. She is said to be a good Regent, though. The English support her rule, which is surprising, because normally, they prefer to supplant female heirs with Resident Officers.”
“Do you think she had anything to do with the girl’s unfortunate fate?”
Before Sikander could reply, a child came traipsing into the room, skipping merrily through the entrance. The Maharaja studied him, unsure whether to smile or shudder. He was about ten or eleven years old, and perhaps the least lovable creature he had ever set eyes upon. Rather than being chubby, he was thin to the point of being almost skeletal. His face was gaunt, his hair oiled and combed back to expose a wide brow, beneath which a pair of deep-set eyes gave him the look of a rodent. This incongruous aspect was only complicated by the fact that he was dressed, inexplicably, in a sailor suit, complete with a beribboned hat, in a pale blue shade that seemed odd contrasted against his skin, which was very dark.
The boy paused first in front of Campbell, looking him up and down with a pronounced sneer.
“Your face is very red,” he exclaimed in a singsong voice.
“It’s the sun,” Campbell replied. “It is very unkind to English complexions…” but the boy had already lost interest in him. He turned to Sikander, squinting his eyes and examining him very carefully.
“And who are you supposed to be?”
“I am the Maharaja of Rajpore,” Sikander replied, offering the child a cool smile.
The boy responded with a florid snort. “Well, I am the Maharaja of Bharatpur, and I have seventeen guns. Rajpore only has thirteen, which means that I am much more important than you.”
With that declaration, he stuck his tongue out at Sikander, before holding up one grubby hand.
“Give me your ring! I want it.”
“I think not,” Sikander said. It took all his wherewithal not to put the boy over one knee and give him a spanking. That was what he needed, a little discipline. It would do his character wonders in the long run, he thought, imagining the sort of base tyrant he would turn into without proper guidance.
The boy’s face turned crimson. “You dare to refuse me,” he screeched. “I shall have you killed, you cur.”
“Guards! Guards!” He screamed, stamping his foot. In response, three soldiers came rushing in, two pehradars led by an aging Colonel, a well-built Rajput with carefully coiffed moustache that curled halfway up his cheeks like a pair of angry caterpillars.
“Rathore,” the boy commanded the Colonel, “I want you to kill him now.” He pointed at Sikander. “Shoot him and get me his ring.”
The Colonel loo
ked from his master to Sikander, his expression apologetic. Obviously, he was accustomed to such tantrums, because rather than obeying the boy’s orders, he offered Sikander a conciliatory nod.
“Forgive us, sahib. He is just a boy.”
“I am not a boy,” the little Maharaja shouted. “I am your King. I am your god.” Dashing forward, he directed a well-placed kick at the Colonel’s posterior. The man flinched, but rather than objecting, he fell to his knees, prostrating himself even as the boy gave him another kick—to the head this time, unsettling his pugree. From the practiced look of suffering on his face, it was obvious to Sikander this was not the first time he had been subjected to such a histrionic assault.
“I am putting you all on my list. Just you wait! When I am King, I will have you all killed.”
He turned on Sikander, crouching in preparation for trying to kick him, but before he could follow through, a cold voice spoke up behind him.
“Behave yourself, Kishan Singh. Do not forget who you are, not for a moment!”
It was the Maharani. She stood framed in the doorway, a small woman, not more than five feet tall, but with a presence that made her seem larger than life. She was clad simply, wearing a purple sari in the Rajput style, the pallu pulled up to cover her head. Unlike most Maharanis, who favored an excess of jewelry, she wore a single demi-parure, a pair of diamond earrings and a matching necklace. Other than that, her only concession to ornament was a pearl the size of a quail’s egg, decorating her parting, beneath which a crimson tikka was emblazoned, as striking as an exclamation mark. It was a very masculine touch, which on most women would have seemed ostentatious, but with her, it only added to her already regal bearing, an observation that Campbell agreed with wholeheartedly, it seemed, for he let out an appreciative exhalation of breath.
“He started it,” Kishan Singh squealed, pointing one petulant finger at Sikander. “All I wanted was his ring. He wouldn’t give it to me, the bugger.”
“Go and play with your toys,” the Maharani exclaimed. “Colonel Rathore will accompany you.”
“But I don’t want to play.” The boy wrinkled his eyes and clenched his fists, in what were the early stages of an undoubtedly monumental tantrum.
“You will do as you’re told. Is that clear?” the Maharani hissed. It was like a slap to the child’s face. Immediately, he quieted down, and allowed the Colonel to lead him away, but not before stopping to give Sikander one last murderous scowl.
“I will remember you.” He stuck his tongue out at Sikander once more. “Bugger! Bugger! Bugger!”
Sikander watched the boy scamper off, unsure whether to be appalled or astonished. He cast a dismayed glance toward his mother, who reciprocated with an indulgent smirk, apparently unconcerned by her child’s lack of decorum.
“He is the son of a great man, and one day, he will grow into one,” she offered by way of apology.
“Maharani-ji, This is Captain Campbell of the Coldstream Guards, and I am—”
“I know exactly who you are, Sikander Singh,” she said, cutting him off. Clapping her hands, she called for her major-domo, who hurried to offer her a cup of pear cordial. The Maharani took a perfunctory sip before crossing to the center of the room to seat herself on a throne-like chair.
“I knew your mother,” she said to Sikander.
“Really? I was not aware of that.”
“Oh, yes! We met once, on the eve of my betrothal. Your mother was a guest at the nuptial ceremonies. I was very nervous, and she reassured me.” The Maharani fixed Sikander with a steely gaze. “That is the only reason I have taken this interview. Because you are said to be your mother’s son, I will grant you ten minutes. What do you want?”
“I thought I would come and pay my respects,” Sikander started to say, but for the second time, she held up one hand, forestalling him.
“Do not waste my time, Sikander Singh! Your charms will not work on me. Come right out and tell me what you want, or consider this interview at an end!”
Sikander sat back, unexpectedly stymied. Next to him, he could see that Campbell was equally nonplussed. Beneath her comely exterior, this woman, it was apparent, was as hard as stone. It would be pointless to try and be clever with her. She was too direct, and besides, from what he had seen and heard, she had no interest in making small talk, which really left him only one approach to take.
“I believe you made a visit to the King’s camp yesterday.”
“I did,” the Maharani replied with a nod.
“And while you were there, you decided to see a nautch girl, didn’t you, named Zahra?”
The Maharani’s mouth stiffened. “Who sent you here? Are you working for the English?” Her gaze shifted toward Campbell, blazing with distrust.
“We are here, Madam, at the express orders of the Viceroy—”
This time, it was Sikander who interjected, interrupting the Captain before he bungled everything up.
“I am the Maharaja of Rajpore, Madam. I answer to no man but myself.”
She narrowed her eyes, evaluating him for a moment. “Yes, I have heard that about you. Sikander Singh, the last of the gallants, Sir Lancelot without a lance.” Smiling suddenly, she swayed to her feet. “Come, will you tour the camp with me?”
“If you wish,” Sikander said, standing. Campbell made to follow, but the Maharani stopped him with one twist of a slim wrist.
“If you would be so kind, Captain, I wish a private conversation with the Maharaja.”
Campbell’s brow knotted as he realized he had been backed into a corner. Much as he wished to decline, to contradict her, evident from his obstinate expression, there was no way he could do so without seeming a boor.
“Of course, Your Highness!” he said, feigning graciousness with some difficulty. “Please take as long as you need. I shall wait right here.”
“Wonderful! I shall have my bearers bring you some melons. They are freshly picked, by my own hands.”
“That’s very thoughtful of you,” he said through gritted teeth.
Leaving him chafing at the bit, the Maharani led Sikander out of the tent. “You may take my arm,” she said imperiously, holding out one slender limb. It was more a demand than a request. Sikander complied. She steered him toward a nearby paddock, where, under the watchful eye of Colonel Rathore, the young Maharaja was apparently putting a piebald mare through her paces, whooping and screaming each time the horse took a step.
The Maharani paused to watch her son, her face suffused with obvious pride. As for Sikander, he watched the Maharani. There was something about her that reminded him so much of Helene. The two women could not have been more different, not just in appearance, but also in their origins. Helene had been born in the roughest quarter of Paris, and grown up amidst terrible poverty, struggling every single day. The Maharani had been born to wealth, and had probably never had to struggle a day in her life, not until her husband’s fall, but still, both women shared the same diffidence, a calm strength, a resolute sense of equanimity, that Sikander had always found very intoxicating.
“When the English deposed my husband,” the Maharani said, “they did not wish me to become the Regent. Simla,” she spat out the word, her voice stiff with disdain, “intended to appoint a Political Officer to take over. However, I would never, could never, allow it. The English are like termites. If you ignore one and let it take nest, five more arrive, then five hundred, all ravenous, eating up everything in sight.”
“How did you ever manage to dissuade them?” Sikander asked, genuinely interested.
“They sent out an officer to evaluate the situation, a fat Colonel, I cannot recall his name. It was easy enough to change his mind, to beguile him into doing exactly as I desired and appointing me the Regent.” She looked at Sikander, her expression wavering between diffidence and triumph. “That is what your mother taught me all those years ago. I di
d not wish to be married, but when the offer came from the Maharaja sahib, my father left me no choice. For him, it was a matter of honor, but for me…I contemplated running away, even taking my own life. I think your mother sensed my unrest because she took me aside and tried to console me. I complained that it was unfair that we women were denied the right to choose our own destiny, and that made us powerless. She laughed and explained to me that I was being naïve. While it may be our fate from birth to become wives and mothers, that does not make us weak. On the contrary, that is where a woman’s real strength lies. A strong woman does not view her sex as a curse. She uses it as a weapon, to bend men to her will. That is the truest form of power there is.”
“Are you so very hungry for power, Madam?”
Those smoky eyes turned to him. Even though Sikander considered himself a man of the world, he could not help but feel a sense of vertigo.
“You misunderstand me, Sikander. I care not for power, not one bit.” Her gaze returned to her son, who was now pretending to be a cowboy, mock-shooting at the Colonel with his thumb and forefinger and roaring uproariously each time the man pretended to twitch and dance. “Everything I do is for Kishan. The British may have stolen the throne from my husband, but I will not let them do the same to him. I will die first.”
“Is that why you went to see the girl?” He leaned forward, looming over her. “I think I have been able to put together most of the story. Tell me if I am correct. You deeply resented it when the English supplanted your husband. Not only was it a blow to your prestige, you feared the same fate awaited your son someday. As you mentioned, that is your paramount concern, to protect the gaddi for him, to keep his throne safe.
“As a result, when you heard of the nautch girl contracted to perform for the King, you saw a chance to get even. You visited her, and offered her money, I am guessing, to cajole her into some sort of scheme. What was it exactly? To go to the press, perhaps. Or was it to sign an affidavit of some sort? One that said the King forced himself on her or some such thing. Regardless, the end result you desired was the same. You wanted to foment a scandal, one that would blacken the face of the British Establishment publicly. It was only fitting, wasn’t it? Through scandal, your husband was damned, and so through scandal, you would have your revenge.”
