Death at the Durbar

by Arjun Gaind

  “My sources inform me that there is a gathering this very afternoon to protest the Durbar. This Bahadur Rao will undoubtedly be there.”

  The Captain looked stunned. “Are you certain of this information? We haven’t heard of any such meeting.”

  “That is because it is a secret, sahib.” Charan Singh’s voice could not have been more patronizing. “Some Gujarati named Gandhi has called for a boycott in South Africa, and the Nationalists are gathering at one of the maidans near the Lahori Gate to show their support.”

  “And how did you come to know this?”

  Charan Singh’s only reply was a noncommittal shrug. Sikander resisted the urge to delve further. The old man’s private life was his own, and he had no intention of intruding.

  “I’ll inform the Commissioner and ask him to put a flying squad together,” Captain Campbell said.

  “Hold off on that. The last thing I want is to spook our quarry.” Sikander bared his teeth, delighted by the thought of a bit of action.

  “No, we’ll handle this ourselves. Let us go and net ourselves a fish.”

  Chapter Twenty

  From a very young age, Bahadur Rao had decided he wanted to be an important man, a somebody. His father had lived and died as a nobody, working his fingers to the bone in a mine in Raniganj, his eyes and tongue stained permanently black by coal dust. And it was deep in the bowels of the earth that he had died, just one man among four hundred-fifty others who had perished when the roof had caved in, remembered only by his son and none other.

  Bahadur Rao refused to live like that, struggling to eke out a meager, insignificant life. He wanted so much more—to travel, to drink and eat and suck the very marrow from life. But most of all, he craved to be someone, a man who counted, who was more than just a statistic.

  Luckily, he had realized early in life that he had that rarest of gifts, an innate charisma. People liked him at first sight. More than that, they trusted him. It helped that he had grown into a handsome man, tall, well-built if somewhat on the portly side, with a booming laugh and a face that strangers found easy to relate to. Added to that, he had been gifted with a silver tongue, the ability to beguile people with his words, like a snake-charmer entrancing a cobra.

  Coupling this with his natural cleverness, he had managed to win a scholarship to attend university in Lahore, where he had graduated with a degree in history. He had then taken the Civil Service Entrance examination and done well enough to travel to England for higher studies. There, unfortunately, the very outspokenness which had made him so remarkable in India had won him no friends, and he had endured exceedingly shabby treatment from the students and professors alike. And then, when he had dared to complain, he had been labeled a troublemaker and expelled, forced to return to India with nothing to show except a heart filled with resentment against the English, an emotion which had slowly hardened over time into a vehement hatred.

  Over the ensuing years, Bahadur Rao had tried his hands at many things. He had been a shill, a salesman, a speculator, a vakeel, an aumildar, a boxwallah, a dalal, a trader, a moneylender, a munshi, a confidence trickster, and a guru. But it was only in his fifties, when he became involved with the nascent Nationalist Movement, that he had truly found his calling.

  The Congress had welcomed him with open arms, for he was a born demagogue. When it came to rhetoric, he was a virtuoso, capable of manipulating his listeners with consummate skill, taking their emotions, their despair and hunger and resentment and stoking it to the very brink of madness. It was said Bahadur Rao could foment a revolt with a hundred words, such was his skill at whipping crowds into a frenzy.

  That was what had drawn him to Delhi, and to the English Durbar. It was here that he intended to make himself a household name. By the end of this day, he thought with a grin, the English would know who he was, as would their lackeys, those damnable Maharajas. By the time the sun set, he would be recognized as the foremost amongst the Nationalist leaders, greater even than Tilak, Gokhale, or the Lala.

  The venue chosen for his assembly was a small square at the distant end of the Sadar Bazaar, not far from the Lahori Gate. His followers had been circulating amidst the crowded by-lanes for weeks, assiduously spreading word of his arrival. As a result, quite a large crowd had gathered to hear him speak, more than enough people to fill the square almost to overflowing.

  Bahadur Rao was a large man, and it took two attendants to help him climb onto a temporary stage made from a cart. From atop this makeshift dais, he gazed down at the sea of brown faces surrounding him. Some were cynical, some eager, but all attention was fixed squarely upon him, a realization which made him tremble, not with nervousness, but with anticipation. Most of the people in the crowd were poor laborers, carters and herdsmen, farmers and serfs, unsophisticated villagers who had come to see the Durbar celebrations. But to a man like him, they represented the rawest of clay, putty in his hands, waiting to be manipulated. Like all rabble-rousers, this was what he lived for, to face a crowd and incite it to hysteria with nothing but his words. That was his greatest thrill. For him, there was no more potent ecstasy to be had, not money, nor love. Power. That was what Bahadur Rao was craved most of all.

  He took a deep breath and began to speak.

  “How long will we wait?

  “How long will we let the English mistreat us?

  “How long will we let the Maharajas grow fat while we starve?

  “How long will we be slaves?

  He paused after each declaration, giving the crowd time to react. As he had expected, they hung on every word, enraptured.

  “No more!” With practiced skill, Bahadur pitched his voice upwards several octaves, amplifying it into a thunderous monotone that boomed across the square like thunder. “We will take it NO MORE!”

  A palpable susurration swept through the crowd, a barely repressed rage accompanied by a hundred whispers of agreement. Bahadur Rao stifled the urge to smile, gloating inwardly, knowing then at that moment he held the crowd in the palm of his hands, that they were willing puppets to his voice, ready to dance to his whims as he tugged at their strings.

  “Rise up,” he declaimed, shaking his fist in the air. “Cast off your chains. Swaraj is not a dream! It is our birthright!”

  A loud clamor greeted this announcement, a roar followed by a scattering of applause.

  “Rise up,” he exclaimed, almost dizzy as a wave of adulation swept out of the crowd and washed over him, as intoxicating as a drug.

  Stifling a groan, he prepared to make one final declaration, but before he could continue, a cacophony of whistles echoed tinnily through the air, shattering the spell he had begun to cast.

  “It’s the police,” one of his attendants squealed. “Hurry, Bahadur sahib, you must get away!”

  If there was one talent he had other than oratory, it was the ability to know when the game was up. Turning, Bahadur Rao immediately vaulted off the cart in spite of his girth. Desperately, he tried to make a beeline in the opposite direction from the police whistles, trying to melt into the crowd, lose himself in its stampeding midst. But it was to no avail. The crush of bodies was too thick, and whichever way he turned, his passage was impeded by a frenzied throng.

  He quickly lost sight of his handlers, who were swept away by the rush of people. Behind him, the whistles grew shriller, drawing closer with each passing second. A shudder ran through Bahadur Rao’s portly frame. Had his luck run out at last? He knew he could not let the police to get their hands on him. After all that he had said and done to undermine and sabotage the English, he had a feeling that it would be less than healthy for him if he allowed himself to be apprehended.

  His salvation presented itself in a most unexpected fashion. As he struggled to push his way free of the crowd, a man materialized in his path—a giant Sikh dressed in a nondescript black achkan and a red pugree who towered over him by a head and a half.
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  “This way,” the man beckoned, without bothering to offer a word of introduction.

  Bahadur Rao paused, unsure of how to respond. On one hand, he was positive he did not know the man. If they had met before, he certainly would have remembered a specimen quite so massive. On the other, he knew it could only be a matter of minutes before the police cut off any hope of escape. Opposing instincts warred against each other in his mind, suspicion pitted against panic, as he struggled to make up his mind. In the end, self-preservation won out over caution, and Bahadur Rao gave the man a nod, to indicate he would follow him.

  Unlike his own feeble efforts, the big Sikh wrestled his way through the crowd effortlessly, slowly making his way toward a nearby alley. Bahadur Rao fell in behind him, trying to keep up as the man loped along, moving with admirable speed for someone so elderly.

  He breathed a voluble sigh of relief as they finally broke free of the mob.

  “Who are you?” he asked. “I cannot thank you enough for coming to my rescue.”

  The Sikh ignored him, and Bahadur felt the first faint flicker of worry. Nonetheless, he permitted the man to lead him into the gully, which seemed to be deserted. Now that they were free of the encumbrance of the crowd, the Sikh quickened his pace, settling into a brisk trot that soon had him huffing breathlessly.

  Just when he thought they had made a clean getaway, the giant Sikh came to an unexpected halt.

  “Here,” he said, turning to face him, holding up what seemed to be a cloth bag. “Put this on.”

  “What is the meaning of this?” Bahadur exclaimed. “I thought you were here to help me.”

  He tried to retreat, but before he could take more than two steps, the Sikh had clapped one hand on his shoulder, his grip as unyielding as iron. Bahadur Rao let out a squeal of outrage as he was manhandled to the ground, the sack draped across his face, obscuring his vision.

  “My master would like to have a word with you,” the Sikh explained, and then one immense fist lashed out and caught Bahadur Rao squarely on his chin, knocking him into a stupor.

  What followed was a blur, a disjointed collection of half-conscious impressions. The hood over his head made everything hazy, as immaterial as a dream. He had a sense of being lifted bodily and bundled into the back of some sort of automobile, followed by a bumping and shaking when it trundled into motion. It traveled for some time, and he was shaken and jostled until his teeth felt loose in his head before the vehicle came to an abrupt stop. Then, once again, he was roughly dragged out and then carried for some distance before being dumped into the back of another vehicle, pushed so hard that he let out a squawk of pain as his already bruised ribs were subjected to further mistreatment.

  Abruptly, the sackcloth hood was whipped away. Bahadur Rao squinted, trying to adjust to the sudden change in brightness. He found he was in a sumptuously decorated limousine, lying akimbo atop a very luxurious seat. Opposite him, a short, gaunt-faced Indian sat, watching him.

  “Mr. Rao,” he announced, “what a pleasure to meet the man behind the myth!”

  “Who are you?” Bahadur Rao croaked. “Where am I?”

  “Both, of course, are valid questions.” The man leaned forward. “I am Sikander Singh, the Maharaja of Rajpore. Perhaps you have heard of me?”

  Bahadur Rao’s eyes widened. He had, indeed. Some said he was a devil, and others, a genius. He was said to be one of the better Maharajas, a noble benefactor who genuinely cared for the welfare of his people, and was no supporter of the English, but then why had he disrupted the Nationalist demonstration? What was his agenda?

  “This is Captain Campbell.” He pointed to the Englishman seated next to him, who gave Bahadur Rao a wink. And I believe you already met my manservant, Charan Singh?” As if on cue, the door opened, and the enormous Sikh who had assaulted him so grievously lumbered into the vehicle and sat down next to Bahadur Rao, causing him to recoil.

  “Why have you brought me here?”

  “That’s simple enough. I am going to ask you several questions You will answer them as honestly as humanly possible.” The Maharaja smiled, which made his face even more ominous. “If you lie or refuse to cooperate, my man here will be forced to hurt you. Is that clear?”

  Bahadur Rao’s mouth lolled open. He looked from one man to the next, unable to believe what he was hearing.

  “I am an important man,” he shrilled. “I have followers. You cannot just kidnap and threaten me like this. There will be consequences.”

  Sikander’s face hardened into a scowl. “Very well, if that is how you wish to play it.” He turned to Charan Singh and gave him a nod. “See if you can persuade him. I give up!”

  The big Sikh’s hand shot out with blinding speed, slapping Bahadur Rao once, twice, thrice, a trio of crisp backhands across his plump face that left him gasping.

  “Are you ready to cooperate now?” Sikander inquired. He had expected that, like all talkers, the Nationalist would have no stomach for physical violence. But Bahadur Rao managed to surprise him.

  “Never!” The man exclaimed, showing that beneath his flabby exterior, there hid some genuine steel. “You can torture me, even kill me, but I will never betray the cause. I will gladly go to my grave a martyr.”

  Sikander rolled his eyes, unimpressed by such unnecessary dramatics. Still, one thing was obvious. The direct approach would not work with Bahadur Rao. Not only was he a fanatic, it was obvious he was much too thick-skinned to be intimidated, no pun intended. No, it was time to try a different tactic.

  “If you don’t talk to me, Bahadur Rao, you will have to speak to the English. They shall not be quite so civilized, I assure you. Do you really want me to hand you over to them?”

  He gave Campbell the briefest of nods, but it was quite enough for him to grasp the situation.

  “What would happen, Major, if I handed him into English custody?”

  Campbell shrugged, taking up the skein effortlessly.

  “I can’t be sure. Transportation, most certainly, to Port Blair, but after some of the rubbish he has been spouting, most probably I think they will just hang him and be done with it.”

  “You can’t do that.” For the first time, Bahadur Rao looked scared, his eyes widening with dismay.

  “Oh, the English can do whatever they want. Who’s going to stop them?”

  Sikander feigned a shudder. “Hanging, my goodness, that’s a dreadfully uncivilized way to die. Have you ever seen a man being hanged, Bahadur Rao? The bowels go first, and you shit yourself, like a baby. And more often than not, your neck doesn’t break. Instead, you just dance about until you slowly choke to death.”

  He could see his words were having the desired effect. Bahadur Rao looked positively green at the gills. “Is that what you want? To dance the dead man’s jig at the gallows?”

  Sikander offered the man a sympathetic smile. “I will make you an offer. Speak to me now, and you can go free. Refuse, and the English shall have you. It is your choice.”

  Bahadur Rao considered this dilemma. He was nothing if not a pragmatist, and it took him just a minute to weigh his options, and come to the conclusion that there really only was one thing he could do.

  “I will answer your questions.”

  Sikander’s smile widened, pleased to have coerced the man quite so easily. “A few days ago, you visited the Viceregal camp. You were in disguise, pretending to be one Bansi Lal, and you attempted to visit a nautch girl, a young woman named Zahra, claiming that you were her uncle? Am I correct so far?”

  “Yes,” Bahadur Rao gave one curt nod of assent.

  “I thought as much.” Sikander leaned forward. “The question that I need answered is why, Bahadur Rao? Why risk such a ruse, and chance arrest to sneak into the most heavily guarded camp here? Was it for some mischief connected to the Nationalists, something to disrupt the Durbar, perhaps? Was the girl working fo
r you? Or was there some other reason you were lurking about trying to gain access to her?”

  Bahadur Rao let out a long, slow breath. “I was there on a personal matter,” he said, looking Sikander straight in the eye. “I had met the girl some years ago, when I was in Baroda teaching at the orphans’ school there. She was one of my best students, a bright child blessed with a great deal of natural intelligence, not to mention almost unlimited promise. I took a liking to her, and decided I would help her make something of herself. I did not know of her past at first, how her mother had died, but then when she confessed everything to me, I knew I had to assist her however I could. To tell the truth, I admired seeing such strength of character in someone so young, to have come from such dismal origins and still have the bravery to try and leave it all behind and make something of herself, forge her own way in the world. As a result, I pulled every string I could to try and find her a job, and finally managed to secure a position for her as a seamstress in a factory in Lyallpur.”

  Bahadur Rao frowned. “That was the last time I saw her, until now. I thought of her often, I admit, wondering what had become of her. I hoped always that she had prospered. But then, when I heard she had lapsed and become a nautch-wali, I was very disappointed. That is why I decided to pay her a visit, to ask her why she had given up on her dreams and taken up the very profession that had robbed her of her mother. I wanted to plead with her, make her see reason. I wanted to help her. Is that so wrong?”

  It was a heartfelt story, and Bahadur Rao told it well, with just enough emotion to make his words believable. He almost managed to get away with it, too, but Sikander was not quite so easy to dupe. He was far too proficient at reading body language and, unbeknownst to Bahadur Rao, he was betrayed by what card-players called a tell. Each time he mentioned the girl, he blinked not once, but twice, very rapidly, an involuntary gesture that told Sikander he was nervous, which could only mean one thing.

  “You’re lying,” he said