by Arjun Gaind
“Thank you, Ram Singh. You have done very well. I am exceedingly grateful for your help.”
“It is my pleasure, sahib. Call on me if you need anything else. I am always glad to be of service.”
A moment later, the Rolls came trundling up. Sikander was about to climb aboard when the Brigadier emerged from the pavilion and waved at him urgently.
“Hold on a minute!” He hurried up to the car. “Can you give me a lift, old man?”
“Of course.” He held open the door, and the Brigadier hopped on board, as agile as a macaque. Sikander followed after, a lot less gracefully, settling into the passenger seat with a sigh. “Where can we drop you?”
“Maiden’s Hotel, if it is not too much of an inconvenience.”
“Not at all. I am at the Majestic myself, just a stone throw’s away. Drive on,” he said to Charan Singh, smiling as the Englishman pulled out a sterling silver hip flask and uncorked it.
“Here, try that,” the Brigadier said, offering him the flask.
“God in heaven!” Sikander took a small taste, only to choke and cough uncontrollably. It was raw liquor, as harsh as turpentine, so pungent it brought tears to his eyes. “What on earth is that?”
“The Nepalis call it raksi. They brew it from millet and rice. It is not unlike Japoni sake, only rather less fashionable.” He took a long pull, and smacked his lips. “I have acquired quite a taste for it.”
He held out the flask once more, but Sikander refused with a vehement shake of his head.
“Well, my friend, how long has it been since I saw you last—two, no, three years?”
“Can we skip the small talk, and speak honestly?” The Brigadier gave Sikander a scowl. “What is this really about? You are not the sort of man who has his head turned by a nautch girl, no matter what Bhupinder may choose to believe.”
Sikander squirmed. He should have guessed that Granville-Bruce would see through his ruse. Beneath the bluff exterior, he was a taciturn man, and it was only natural he had smelled a rat even if his cousin had failed to do so. Unfortunately, that managed to put Sikander in rather a bind. He considered his options. He could refuse to answer, but that would offend his old friend deeply. He could try to lie, but he doubted he would be able to put one over on the Brigadier quite so easily. That left him with only one choice.
“I cannot divulge any details,” he said after a long pause, “but suffice it to say, I am on Imperial business.”
“I thought as much.” The Brigadier sank back into the upholstery. “That is exactly why I am taking you to Maiden’s. We are going to see Palanpur.”
“Really?” Sikander’s eyes narrowed. “I happen to know the Nawab Sahib quite well. He is a fine, if somewhat old-fashioned, gentleman. Certainly not the sort of man to be involved in”—he checked his words before he said too much—“any sort of scandal.”
“Not the father,” the Brigadier explained, “the son. That is who you need to speak to.” He leaned forward. “Yesterday, while your cousin was fluffing about, I happened to bear witness to a most unexpected scene. The Sahibzada of Palanpur—Yaru Bhai, I believe he calls himself— turned up unannounced and created quite a bit of doolally.”
“Did he now?”
“Yes, he kept raving on and on.” The Brigadier rolled his eyes. “I think the boy was quite pickled, to be honest, ranting away like a bloody buffoon. Naturally, the lads on guard, four of my Gurkhas, mind you, sent him off with his tail between his legs. But not before he cried all sorts of bloody murder, let me tell you, harping on and on about how he would have what was his, no matter who dared to stand in his way, and such balderdash. What a goon!”
Sikander wrinkled his brow, contemplating this unforeseen lead. He had heard of this Yaru Bhai, if only by reputation. He was said to be the worst of the young princes, a brat who was also a bit of a boor to boot. Could he have been in a relationship of some kind with Zahra? Were they lovers, perhaps? Could she have jilted him, and broken his heart? That was a motive Sikander always liked to work with—What was that old line from Shakespeare? “Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds.”
Stop speculating, he told himself. Yaru Bhai’s reason to come calling had to be something palpable, given that he had made a scene in public. The only way Sikander would know exactly what had elapsed, what exactly had compelled the boy to embarrass himself, was by cornering him and getting the truth out in the open.
“Now that I have helped you out, old chap,” Granville-Bruce interjected, “perhaps you can do me a bit of favor?”
“Of course! Anything in my power!”
“I am in love,” the Brigadier sighed.
Involuntarily, Sikander let out a laugh. “Forgive me,” he said. “Aren’t you a little too, umm, seasoned to be lovelorn, my friend?”
“Don’t be cynical. A man is never too old to hope.” His eyes glazed over, mooning like a schoolboy. “I met her the day before yesterday at the Hussars’ Camp. What sensible shoes she was wearing! And such excellent posture! He gave Sikander a serious frown. You do know what they say about women with good posture, don’t you?”
“Do enlighten me,” Sikander said, hiding a smirk.
“They make fine climbers. You need a straight back if you want to be a good mountaineer.”
“Is that so?” He was just a little disappointed, briefly tempted to share the two dozen things he thought that women with good posture could do far better than climb mountains.
“You have to help me find her, Sikander.” The Brigadier’s voice was urgent, almost desperate.
“Of course,” Sikander replied. “It should not be too difficult. What can you tell me about her? Did you happen to ask her name?”
“No,” he looked sheepish, bashful, “I did not speak with her. I was too afraid.”
“You, afraid? Surely you can’t be serious, Brigadier?” Sikander rolled his eyes. “Well, worry not! All is not lost. Sikander Singh is on the case. I shall find your mystery woman, I promise you.”
“Thank you!” The Brigadier beamed, grasping his hand and pumping it so eagerly Sikander thought he might pull his arm from its socket. “I knew I could count on you.”
Maiden’s Metropolitan Hotel was much larger than the Majestic, a handsome establishment located directly opposite the Delhi Club, some seven miles north of the Old City. Compared to Sikander’s hotel, it was a far more creditable establishment, with marble flooring and hot and cold water in each room, and a fine restaurant—not quite the Savoy, but certainly the best accommodation to be had in Delhi. Actually, Sikander had tried to engage a floor for his own use, but unfortunately, for the occasion of the Durbar, the entire establishment had been rented out to the Maharaja of Mysore.
Sikander spared a moment to admire the neoclassical edifice and its whitewashed Palladian arches that reminded him vaguely of the terraces surrounding Regent’s Park. In London perhaps, it would have been rather ordinary, but here in India, it was triumphantly vulgar, incongruously elegant amidst the heat and dust.
Before they could enter the hotel, a rather officious-looking Lieutenant clad in the blue and red of the Mysore Infantry held up a manila folder to forestall their passage.
“Might I have your names, gentlemen?”
“This is the Maharaja of Rajpore, and I am Granville-Bruce of the Gurkhas.”
“Ah!” The man opened the folder, to reveal a typed list, which he scanned with one deliberate finger. “Here we are! You may enter,” he said to the Brigadier, but to Sikander, he gave a rather supercilious sneer. “You, however, are not on the list.”
Before Sikander could react to such a curt dismissal, Granville-Bruce let out a growl.
“Nonsense! Step aside! The Maharaja is my guest.”
The Lieutenant took one hesitant step backward. Who would not, confronted by a man of the Brigadier’s rank, not to mention his girth? “I am afra
id that the Maharaja of Mysore was quite specific, sir,” he said, his voice wavering. “He is hosting a formal banquet, and only the people on this list are to be permitted entry.”
“I am sure you can make an exception,” Sikander explained. “I am not here to spoil the Maharaja’s lunch. I am here on Viceregal business. It should only take a moment or two.”
Sadly, before the Lieutenant could be persuaded, they were interrupted by none other than the host himself, the Maharaja of Mysore, who came striding up, surrounded by his usual entourage of assistants.
Krishna Raja Wadiyar was an unassuming creature with the look of a clerk about him, a small, rather portly man with a drooping moustache and a back that had grown prematurely bowed, no doubt from having to bear the burden of such a magnificent title. Sikander knew him very well. They had undertaken a journey to Europe some years previously on the same vessel, and Sikander had found the man an utter bore, uninterested in either wine or conversation.
What was thought virtue by some was often considered sanctimony by others, and the truth of it was that the Wadiyar was rather too pompous by half for Sikander’s personal taste, not to mention far too quick to align with the English. But then what else could you expect from a man who was essentially a British puppet? The Maharajas of Mysore were quick to extol their history, claiming descent from the Yadavas of Dwarka and Krishna himself, but in reality, the current dynasty had far more modest antecedents.
True, the original Wadiyars had ruled the fiefdom of Mysore during the glory days of Vijayanagara, but their fortunes had waned as the star of Tipu Sultan had ascended. It was only with the fall of Serangipatam that the Wadiyar clan had regained the throne of Mysore, and then merely as figurehead monarchs, forced to pay a healthy annual tithe to the English. In fact, the current Maharaja’s grandfather had once been deposed for defaulting on these annual payments, his adopted son restored to power only when he agreed to hand over every facet of governance to a British Commissioner who handled all real administration in his name.
In spite of being pedantic to the point of blandness, the gentleman who faced Sikander now had managed to acquire an enviable reputation, considered by many to be the finest king in India, a veritable Rama reborn. The English adored him, calling him the epitome of the platonic ruler, but Sikander could not help but loathe him just a little. Unlike the Gaekwad, who was a pragmatist, Krishna Raja Wadiyar was an idealist of the worst kind—a man too rich to be contradicted, who genuinely believed wisdom came from the pages of a book, not from the crucible of reality. He dreamed of creating the perfect state, but what he failed to comprehend was that perfection was innately inhuman, achievable only if one ignored the basest instincts of human nature.
That was where Sikander differed from him so fundamentally. He was at best a Stoic, who understood that civilization was only a thin veneer, a veil behind which humanity’s true capacity for savagery hid. In fact, it was that very baseness that excited Sikander, that tantalized him, that drove him to seek out the most depraved of crimes and the darkest of criminals. But in Krishna Raja’s world view, there was no place for crime, for murder or lust, for jealousy or greed. In short, there was no place for men like Sikander, as was evident by the expression of absolute scorn that decorated Mysore’s fleshy countenance.
“Sikander Singh! I do not remember inviting you.”
“As a matter of fact, I am here as the Brigadier’s guest.”
Mysore let out an imperious snort that amply conveyed his disdain. “What a disappointing creature you are! Like a rodent, always sniffing around for gossip, trying to ferret your way into other people’s business.”
Sikander was not unduly ruffled by such obvious hostility. In fact, if anything, he was quite used to it.
“Speaking of gossip, Your Majesty, I heard rather a fine snippet just yesterday, from an acquaintance of yours, a Colonel Metcalfe. He had some very interesting things to reveal about you.”
Sikander raised an eyebrow. “I was feeling rather listless, I confess. My spirits have been flagging lately, but after chatting with Metcalfe, I must say, my interest was aroused, so to speak. It really was quite an uplifting conversation, if you know what I mean.”
He knew he was being rather cruel, not to mention somewhat excessive with the double entendres, but it was the Wadiyar who had started it by calling him a rodent, he reminded himself.
To his delight, his sally hit home hard, exactly as he had intended. The Wadiyar colored a deep carmine, and dissolved into a fit of coughing.
“Excuse me,” he said hurriedly, wiping at his mouth with a silk kerchief. “I must look to my guests.”
“But sir,” the obtrusive Lieutenant piped up, “what about this gentleman? What am I to do with him?”
“Let him in, of course. Please, enjoy yourself, Sikander Singh,” he said, with a poisonous glare, as if to promise him he would receive his comeuppance at a later date.
“What was that all about?” The Brigadier inquired as the Wadiyar beat a hasty retreat.
“Never underestimate the power of suggestion, my friend,” Sikander laughed. “Well, while I always enjoy getting under Mysore’s skin, let us go and find the man we came to locate, shall we?”
They made their way into the hotel, entering the main banquet room, where a long damask-covered table had been laid out, around which Mysore’s guests were seated, enjoying a round of cocktails. Sikander recognised a few of them. There was the Begum of Bhopal, veiled, as always, in a blue silk burkha, and next to her, the Khan of Kalat, who looked rather like a villain from Arabian Nights. Seated across from them was the somewhat startling figure of the Saopha of Yaunghwe, who seemed to be wearing a Burmese pagoda as a hat. At the other end was the Maharana of Dungarpur, a handsome fellow who was said to a fine spin-bowler, deep in conversation with the legendary Ranjitsinghji, the Jamsaheb of Nawanagar, who was arguably the finest batsman in the world.
“There he is,” the Brigadier exclaimed, pointing at a young man seated near the distant end of the table, a slender fellow with shaggy sideburns that merged into his moustache à la Souvarov, who looked to be in heated argument with one of the Dewas Rajas—Junior or Senior, Sikander was not sure.
The kingdom of Palanpur was not so distant from Sikander’s own capital. Like Rajpore, it was a thirteen-gun state, located at the cusp of Gujarat and Malwa. The ruling family were the descendants of Pathan adventurers who had migrated westwards in the twelfth century, and carved out a kingdom from one dun corner of the central Indian massif. The founder of the dynasty, Malik Khurram Khan, had been renowned for being extraordinarily comely, a trait he had passed on to his heirs. The current nawab, Sher Muhammed Khan, was an elegant hawk of a man, and his son, Taley, the heir apparent, was famous for being a heartbreaker and a skirt-chaser, whose innumerable conquests rivaled those of Jagatjit of Kapurthala. Why, it was said he had never met a white woman he had not tried his level best to seduce!
This fellow had inherited neither his father’s elegance nor his brother’s savoir faire. It was obvious that the flamboyant moustache was intended to disguise his weak jawline and make him seem more imposing. Sadly, all it managed to achieve was to make him look even more chinless, which when combined with his bulging eyes and hunched posture, gave him rather a turtle-like air.
“What do you know about him, Brigadier?”
“Oh, he’s a bit of a gay dog! A courser, so to speak. There isn’t a skirt in Simla he hasn’t tried to chase down, with little success, I might add. But you so have to give the boy credit for persistence. Also, he has quite a reputation for having a short fuse. He was educated privately because Mayo wouldn’t have him. I knew one of his old teachers, a fine fellow called Moorcroft. He used to describe him as an unmitigated terror.”
“Well, then, let’s go talk to him, and find out if there is any truth to the rumors, shall we?”
Sikander approached the young man; the Brigad
ier followed at a more sedate pace, pausing briefly to exchange pleasantries with one of the other guests.
“Are you Yawar Husain Khanji, the Nawabzada of Palanpur?” Sikander asked by way of introduction.
Dewas Junior gave him a grateful nod, as if to suggest he was glad for this opportune interruption. Hurriedly, he rose and sidled away, leaving the boy to swivel his neck to look Sikander up and down, an examination so sullen it was almost a challenge.
“And what if I am?” His face twisted into an insolent sneer. “What is it to you, eh?”
From the combative set of his stance, Sikander could see that Yaru Bhai was one of those men who firmly believed that belligerence and masculinity were directly proportional to one another. Typical, he thought, a boy play-acting at being a man, trying to make up for inexperience by pretending to be worldly. His plan had been to take his favorite tactic with him, but he could see now that intimidation would only make Yaru Bhai even more aggressive. How was he to break Yaru Bhai? How was he to question him without it devolving into an argument?
The answer came to him in a flash. All it would take was a little play-acting of his own, a touch of cleverness to outmaneuver the boy.
“Oh, thank the heavens!” Sikander allowed a carefully orchestrated expression of relief to sprawl across his face. “We have been looking for you all morning. I am here on behalf of the Viceroy himself. We have urgent need of your help.”
“My help?” The boy echoed, his aggression evaporating, replaced by bewilderment.
“Yes! The Empire needs you, Yaru Bhai. Unless you assist us, the Raj, the Durbar, the King himself, will be in dread jeopardy.”
It occurred to him that he was laying it on a bit thick, but to his relief, it looked like Yaru Bhai was hooked. A rapturously self-important look fluttered over his features. He seemed to puff up visibly, swelling, not unlike a toad.
“If the Empire needs me, very well! You can count on me. What is it that you need?”
“Excellent! I was told you would be cooperative.” Sikander pulled up a chair and sat down, leaning forward until he was very close to the boy. “Last night, a woman went missing from the King’s camp, a nautch girl named Zahra. I believe you were familiar with her.”
