by Arjun Gaind
Sikander had expected her to react with surprise at such a forthright accusation, dismay, even outrage, but to his awe, the Maharani responded with considerable composure.
“Well done! I can see your reputation for intelligence is well earned. Sadly, you are only half-correct. My husband is a boor, a brute. I owe him nothing. I have only one allegiance, to my son.” She gave him a defiant scowl. “Yes, I admit it, I did offer the girl money. Yes, I did have a scheme, but not why you think. It was not vengeance I wanted, but rather leverage to ensure that my son’s throne was kept safe.” A tremulous sigh escaped her lips. “It was all for naught, though. The girl refused to assist me. There, the truth, you have it. I have made myself vulnerable to you,” she shuddered, as if the mere thought of being in a man’s power was an entirely unfamiliar, altogether unbearable feeling. “What do you intend to do, Sikander? Are you going to betray me to the English?”
Sikander contemplated her testimony. Could she be lying? It was certainly possible, even though his every instinct told him she was telling the truth. Yet there was one fact he simply could not ignore. She needed the nautch girl alive, not dead. Alive, Zahra was a pawn she could manipulate. But dead, she served no purpose to the Maharani at all, which was the very thing which absolved her of suspicion.
“You are walking a dangerous path, Madam,” he replied. “Much as it would profit me to expose you, I cannot bring myself to do it. I fear my mother would not approve.”
His reward was a delicate smile. “You intrigue me, Sikander Singh.” The Maharani’s voice was throaty. She was close enough that he could smell her, a physical sensation, the tendrils of her musky perfume fanning against his nostrils, as sensuous as a caress. “It has been a long time since I have thought of anything other than my duty to my son. But now, after meeting you…perhaps you can come visit me in Bharatpur someday?”
Sikander was almost tempted. For a moment, he wanted to kiss her, take her up in his arms, even though they were standing in plain sight of everyone. She was formidable, as beautiful and deadly as a Borgia, and though he knew it could only end badly, some part of him, the reckless half that was always hungry for adventure, wanted to take her up on her overture. But then, unbidden, Helene’s visage sprang to mind, her faithful eyes, her knowing, indulgent smile, and Sikander knew he could never betray her, not even for this oddly enticing creature.
“You are magnificent, Madam, but sadly, you terrify me.”
Her brow furrowed and for a heartbeat, he thought he might have offended her, but then the Maharani laughed, a graceful flash of white teeth against dusky skin.
“Another time then,” she said, releasing his arm. “In another life, perhaps.”
“You can count on it, Madam.”
Chapter Seventeen
The origins of the kingdom of Patiala could be traced back to the seventeenth century, when the Sikh guru, Hargobind, had blessed a poor Jat boy named Phul Singh, prophesying that he would grow to be a man of great distinction. It was from this very child that the kings of Patiala, Nabha, and Jind were descended, the clan known as the Phulkian, who had risen to become preeminent amongst Punjab’s princes.
Phul Singh’s son, Ram Singh, had been baptised as one of the Khalsa by Guru Gobind Singh, and his son, Ala Singh, had distinguished himself as a fine soldier and fought alongside Banda Bahadur, before striking out on his own to capture much of the territory belonging to the Bhatti Rajputs. It was he who had built the Qila Mubarak, the ten-gated fort, and founded the city of Patiala, named quite literally for his pillow, for in Punjabi, that is what pati meant, the pillow whereupon Ala had rested his weary head.
Even as Ranjit Singh had consolidated power and the great Sikh Empire had spread from the banks of the Sutlej to the mountain wildernesses of Afghanistan, Patiala had remained an insignificant backwater until 1808, when Sahib Singh, Ala Singh’s great grandson, had turned his coat and entered into an alliance with the British. It was this very decision that had cemented Patiala’s fortunes, and they had stayed loyal to the sahibs in Calcutta through the Rohilla wars and the Great Mutiny, their star rising as the Raj had flourished, promoted from minor vassal to most favored British ally, and endowed with a personal salute of seventeen guns.
Sikander’s own family was closely connected to Patiala. His mother, Amrita Devi, was the previous Maharaja Rajendra Singh’s youngest sister, which made Bhupinder, the current occupant of the gaddi, his first cousin. However, despite this bond of shared blood, Sikander had never quite managed to get along with his cousin. Part of the reason was that Sikander was cerebral, preferring a good book or his piano to perspiration any day. Bhupinder, on the other hand, was ribald, one of those overly virile types who was forever bludgeoning something or the other with a bat or a stick. Sikander was spartan in his habits, Bhupinder so indulgent he could have made Epicurus blush. Even physically, they were opposites. While he had inherited his mother’s slightness of frame, Bhupinder was gargantuan, standing six and a half feet tall in his socks, and weighing over a hundred kilos.
As if these differences were not enough to set them at odds, it did not help that Sikander was very possibly the only living person in the world who could lay claim to the dubious distinction of having made Bhupinder Singh of Patiala cry. It had been a long time ago, of course, when they had been mere children, and Bhupinder had tried to bully him, only to have Sikander trounce him squarely and leave him with a bloody nose. And while it was said that time healed all wounds, he doubted that his cousin, who had an ego the size of Kanchenjunga, would either have forgotten the incident or forgiven Sikander for such a debacle.
Other than the pending showdown with Alwar, this was the interview he had been dreading the most. There was no earthly reason that Bhupinder would cooperate with him. Not only was he far senior to Sikander in rank, but he was exactly the sort of petulant man-child who would refuse to help merely out of spite. Sikander was tempted to avoid the interview altogether. Despite of Bhupinder’s many infirmities of character, he found it very difficult to believe that he could be involved in cold-blooded murder. True, he did have a marked weakness for beautiful women, as was amply testified to by the fact that he possessed more than three hundred concubines, but was he capable of homicide? For that matter, why? No murderer acted without a motive. What could be the motive here? Not profit, surely, nor revenge. That left only two other plausibilities: Rage, à la crime passionel, or what Philippe Pinel called mania—madness without delirium. Sikander shivered. Yes, Bhupinder was capable of great rage and, given the right circumstances, perhaps even madness, which was why he could not be sure of his innocence, not until he looked his cousin straight in the eye.
Patiala’s camp also had a prime location. The plot immediately adjoined the Nizam’s enclosure, bordered on one side by the Coronation Road and the other by the Najafgarh Canal. However, unlike his more discreet neighbor, Bhupinder had gone the whole nine yards. No expense had been spared, an army of architects and craftsmen hired to make sure that Patiala’s encampment, however temporary, was as lavish as any palace.
An ornately carved wall enfiladed the entire camp, the frontage distinguished by a panoply of arches decorated with white and gold lions, flanked by gilded cannons that were lit up at night, like lanterns. The entrance to the camp was an enormous ceremonial gate, beyond which lay an elaborate garden and a massive reception shamiana wrought from gold silk and silver satin. To the left of the marquee stood a smaller pavilion where the Granth Sahib lay ensconced, and past it, four lesser archways, each embossed with the Patiala coat of arms, led to the interior of the camp, where an array of tents had been arranged in a neat square around a miniature wood and marble palace, where Bhupinder had taken up temporary residence.
Upon entering, Sikander was greeted by a middle-aged Sikh gentleman with a scarred face and one blind eye. This was Major Ram Singh, the Maharaja’s long-suffering personal secretary. In many ways, he was Bhupinder’s equ
ivalent of Ismail Bhakht. A veteran of two wars, he had been reduced to keeping his master out of trouble, a job he did with great equanimity and skill. And, conveniently enough, he happened to be Charan Singh’s eldest brother, which made Sikander only too familiar with him.
“Your Majesty, salutations! May the gods bless your every breath.” Giving Sikander a vast smile, Ram Singh performed an elaborate kornish, sweeping one hand from his brow to his lips and heart.
“And may the fates never disappoint you, my dear fellow!” Sikander reciprocated, offering him an uncharacteristically respectful bow. He had nothing but the utmost regard for Ram Singh. He had been of great help to Rajpore on more than one occasion, and while, of course, he would always put Patiala first, as far as he was concerned, the Phulkian blood in Sikander’s veins, diluted though it may be, was deserving of more than a modicum of loyalty.
“What brings you to us this afternoon?” Ram Singh said, giving his brother a brisk nod. “Is this not normally the time you are resting, sahib?”
Sikander sighed. Behind him, he heard Charan Singh and Captain Campbell both stifle chuckles. That was another thing Ram Singh had in common with his oversized brother; they both were far too cheeky for comfort.
“I want to see my cousin, if it is possible.”
Ram Singh’s smile faltered, his demeanor sobering at this request.
“I think today is not a good day. I regret to say, huzoor, that the Maharaja sahib is somewhat overstimulated at the moment.”
Sikander rolled his eyes. When was Bhupinder not overstimulated? Most likely he was drinking or cavorting with one of his innumerable concubines, or something equally salacious.
Before he could continue, unfortunately, Captain Campbell took it upon himself to chime in. “This is a matter of the utmost importance,” he declared, stepping forward. “We are here at the behest of the Viceroy himself.”
Ram Singh’s face hardened at the Captain’s cocksure manner, all vestiges of hospitality evaporating. Hurriedly, before Campbell managed to alienate the man completely, Sikander shot him a withering glance. Thankfully, Campbell was not quite so dense that he did not get the hint, and immediately, he held his tongue.
“It would be in Bhupinder’s best interest, Ram Singhji, and Patiala’s, if you could arrange for me to speak with him for just a few minutes.”
The scarred Sikh’s eyes widened. He knew Sikander well enough to grasp that he would never make such a statement unless circumstances were truly dire. Pursing his lips, he gave his brother a searching glance, to which Charan Singh responded with a slight nod of his own, as if to confirm that his master was deathly serious.
“Very well, follow me, sir. Right this way.”
Instead of leading Sikander toward Bhupinder’s palace, he steered him in the opposite direction, skirting the reception shamiana and heading to the rear of the camp, where the stables lay, adjoining a small, open maidan. Here, an ersatz wrestling ring had been marked out, roughly forty feet in diameter, its boundary bordered by slate stones arranged in a rough oval.
At the center of an open-faced pavilion abutting the ring, Sikander’s his cousin’s immense form perched atop an ivory chair so covered with gilt it could have been a throne. Even though he was seated, his turbaned head towered above the usual motley of hangers-on who surrounded him, hanging on his every word, like jackals nipping at a lion’s heels. They were all strangers to Sikander, with one exception, a familiar English face who turned to greet him with an expansive grin.
Brigadier-General Charles Granville-Bruce was a broad-shouldered, brushy-moustached bear of a Welshman, the Commandant of the legendary Gurkha rifles. In Sikander’s opinion, he was undoubtedly the best kind of European—a bluff, generous fellow with no capacity for subterfuge, who loved India and respected her people. He was the quintessential man’s man, forever engaged in some manner of physical pursuit, a great fan of the pugilistic arts and undoubtedly one of the best climbers Sikander had met. That was what had brought them together, a shared love of the high, lonely places of the world, particularly the far reaches of the Himalayas. Sikander had dabbled briefly with mountaineering in his youth, and had first met Granville-Bruce while making an ascent of Ben Nevis during his Cambridge days. And though he had let this passion lapse upon ascending the heights of his throne, Granville-Bruce’s passion for climbing had only grown with the passage of time. Already, in the company of his faithful Gurkhas, whom he loved like his own children, he had made attempts to peak Karakoram and Nanda Parbat, and rumor had it that he intended to be the first man to climb Everest, and was outfitting an expedition out of his personal income.
“Sikander, you snake, how have you been? You certainly look fit.” Coming forward, he gave both Charan Singh and his brother a pair of respectful nods, and spared one long minute to look Campbell up and down.
Sikander reciprocated the Brigadier’s earnest grin with one of his own, reaching out to lightly punch him in his belly.
“You’re getting fat, Charlie. Too much mutton, and not enough exercise.”
“Oh, do shut up!” Granville-Bruce scowled, sucking in his gut. “Are you here for the match?” He nodded toward the ring. “Bhupinder’s champion, Kikkar Singh, is scheduled to fight Kallu Pahelwan this afternoon in a challenge match at the Badshahi mela. He is the younger brother of the fabled Ghulam of Amritsar, who Kikkar Singh defeated some years ago for the Punjab championship.” He let out a throaty laugh. “It’s going to be bloody well spectacular, a good old-fashioned grudge match. You must come and watch as my guest.”
“I am afraid that I cannot, my friend. I am just here for a quick word with my cousin.”
“Good luck!” Granville-Bruce snorted. “He’s in a bit of a snit today.”
“So I was told, but I have to try.” Turning to Ram Singh, he nodded. “If you would be so kind, Ram Singhji? Quick as you please. Time is of the essence.”
“Of course, huzoor!” Indicating that Sikander should wait a moment, Ram Singh marched up to the pavilion, and leaned over to whisper in Bhupinder Singh’s ear. The Maharaja of Patiala paused briefly, turning from his entourage to eye Sikander coldly before shaking his head dismissively and waving Ram Singh away. However, rather than retreating, the scarred Sikh persisted, remonstrating with his master until finally, Bhupinder lumbered to his feet and advanced to confront Sikander.
He loomed over him, towering over even Charan Singh. Unlike the old Sikh, though, who was as slim as a rapier, Bhupinder was very nearly as fat as an elephant, with a large belly hidden behind a red cummerbund and the petulant face of a brat always accustomed to having his own way. Sikander ran an amused eye over his outfit. He was overdressed as always, in one of his customary white uniforms, a General of Cavalry on this particular day, festooned with enough gold braid to make Lord Wellington himself envious.
“Well well, if it isn’t my beloved cousin. What do you want, crow?” Bhupinder sneered, purposely using the childhood nickname Sikander had so loathed, a calculated insult. “Why have you come skulking around here, like a bird of ill omen?”
As if on cue, his sycophants burst into giggles. Sikander bridled, his face reddening with embarrassment. Typical Bhupinder! This was how he had always been, even as a boy, brash, so self-involved he believed he could treat everyone like they were his servants. Of course, deep down, it was not his fault. He had been bought up that way, his every whim indulged from childhood, brainwashed from the cradle into believing that he was better than everyone else. Still, that did not give him the right to be rude, especially since Sikander was his elder.
He gave his cousin a forced smile. “I need a minute. It is a matter of the utmost imperative.”
“Oh, go away! I haven’t the time for your nonsense, not today. You will bring me bad luck.”
Once again, Campbell forgot his manners and stepped forward, to Sikander’s chagrin.
“We are here, sir, on b
ehalf of the Viceroy,” he started to say, but Bhupinder cut this futile effort off in mid sentence.
“I do not speak to English with ranks less than that of Colonel.”
With that imprecation, he turned away to focus his attention back on the wrestling arena, clapping eagerly as his champion stalked into the ring. So this was the famous Kikkar Singh, Sikander thought. He was a veritable mammoth, with muscles bulging from every inch of his oiled body, like a titan of yore come to life. After bowing to Bhupinder, he proceeded to lift a tree trunk off the ground and press it above his head as effortlessly as if he were lifting a bale of dirty laundry to which the delighted crowd responded with a symphony of cheers.
“Kikkar Singh cannot be beaten,” Bhupinder boasted.
Sikander was tempted to disagree. In his youth, perhaps, he might have been a force to reckon with, but to his sharp eyes, it was obvious Kikkar Singh was well past his prime. He seemed strong enough, at first glance, but anyone with half a brain could see that his knees were unsteady, and judging by how he was already breathing heavily just from the effort of warming up, it was quite apparent that he had lost his wind.
That realization inspired an idea, the faintest notion of a scheme. “I take it you are supporting the champion.”
“Of course.” Bhupinder cheered, clapping enthusiastically. “He is going to kill the Lahori, just you see. I am sure of it.”
“What do you say to a wager then?”
Exactly as he had hoped, Bhupinder took the bait. The tactic had worked well enough with the Guppies, but with Patiala, it was even easier. Not only was Bhupinder an egotist and a snob, but his consummate faith in his own superiority made it impossible for him to resist the lure of a bet.
