by Arjun Gaind
King Nripendra had left behind two sons, both of whom were amongst Sikander’s closest friends. Rajendra Narayan, who had assumed the title, was the elder, a shy self-effacing fellow who Sikander had first met at Oxford. He was very clever, gifted with a quick, acerbic wit, and a melancholic temperament that caused him to drink excessively. Sikander liked him immensely, which was why he felt a twinge of dismay when he saw what poor health he seemed to be in now, as anemic as a wraith.
“You look terrible, my friend,” he observed.
“I am dying, Sikander,” Rajendra said with a cough.
“Oh, stop being so dramatic. It’s probably just a touch of the croup.”
“I wish it were that simple.” Once again, he was assailed by a paroxysm of hacking so vehement he looked like he was about to choke, and when he dabbed at his mouth with a handkerchief, Sikander noticed it came away speckled with blood. “I do not have much time, old boy, but I need you to make me a promise. Take care of my brother when I am gone.”
Sikander found himself gripped by a terrible sorrow, a sense of utter helplessness at the thought of losing his old friend. Why is it that the good always suffered, their sparks extinguished early, while villains like Alwar and Scindia would persevere to see a ripe old age? It just wasn’t fair. But then, what was fair in life? He had long since given up believing in naïve notions like fairness and right and good. Justice—that was the only currency he preferred to place stock in, his only absolute.
“You’ll be fine, Rajendra,” he insisted, even though he knew it was a lie. “We will find you a good English doctor, and he will fix whatever is wrong with you.”
“Listen to me,” Rajendra snarled, and for a heartbeat, Sikander could see the core of steel contained within that weak chest. “Jitendra is not like us. He is just a boy, and still believes that people are good and kind-hearted and trustworthy. He needs someone to watch over him, to protect him from the English, before they eat him alive.” His eyes were as hard as agates. “I need you to do this for me, my friend. He will never survive unless you watch out for him.”
“I will do my best,” Sikander replied solemnly.
“Good,” Rajendra gave him a grateful nod. “That is all I can hope for.” He raised one unsteady hand to point behind Sikander. “Go on, you had better go catch up with him. He has been waiting for hours for you to arrive.”
Sikander’s gaze shifted out to the dance floor, where the younger Narayan sibling was cavorting gaily with a pair of very comely English twins. Jitendra was quite the opposite of his brother. A scamp, a wag, and a cad, as recklessly full of life as Rajendra was composed, he managed to be so eminently likeable that it was difficult to resent him, even when he insisted on doing something stupid, which was more often than not.
The moment he set eyes on Sikander, his face flowered into a vast grin. He broke away from the twins, pushing past them as if they had ceased to exist, and made a beeline straight toward him.
“My dear fellow,” he exclaimed, “where on earth have you been hiding yourself? The party is almost over.”
Sikander could not help but reciprocate his smile. Though he was as fickle as a rainbow, Jitendra was as beautiful as one as well, so devastatingly handsome that few women could resist him—and most men, for that. What made him even more exceptional was that, unlike most handsome men who tended to be as conceited as Narcissus, Jitendra did not possess an ounce of vanity, as was obvious from his shambling manner.
“I have some marvelous gossip for you,” Sikander said, “which will make your ears burn.”
“Oh, there will be plenty of time for that later. First, tell me, who is that heavenly creature?”
“Do you mean Miss Cavendish? Come along, I will introduce you. I do suspect she is on the prowl for a husband, though, so you had better watch out.”
“No, not the redhead you were prancing about with. Who is that peach, right there, just behind Scindia?”
Sikander cast an eye in the direction Jitendra was pointing, toward a young woman standing in Scindia’s shadow with a bored look on her face. She was young, not more than eighteen, with a slim neck and a complexion as pale as virgin snow. Though she was clad in a demure chiffon sari, it did nothing to diminish her exquisite beauty. Sikander frowned. Did he know her? She certainly seemed very familiar, something about the set of her shoulders and her stance made him think they had met before.
Even as he struggled to place her, she must have realized she was being watched. Her gaze locked onto him, studying him for a moment before darting over toward Jitendra. Immediately, when their eyes met, she blushed, her pale skin blooming with an eloquent blaze of color.
It came to Sikander then, exactly who she was. The Gaekwad’s daughter. He had met her some years previously while visiting Baroda. She had been just a child then, in her early teens, which was why he had been unable to recognize her at first.
“You know her, don’t you?” Jitendra said.
“That is Indira Devi, the Princess of Baroda,” Sikander replied, “and please, will you stop making cow eyes at her? She is betrothed to Scindia, and if he catches you flirting with his fiancée, he will have you beaten to a pulp.”
“Introduce me! Please, Sikander,” Jitendra implored, ignoring this warning altogether.
“Absolutely not!”
“You must! I will die if I do not speak to her.”
“Oh, stop being such a child,” Sikander said, but as he made that rebuke, he realised here it was, the very opening that he had been searching for. This was the way to approach Scindia, under the guise of introducing Jitendra to Indira Devi. He would never even suspect he was being investigated. It was well nigh perfect.
As he contemplated this possibility, his conscience ached at him. He had just made a promise to Rajendra that he would protect his brother, but now he wanted to use him as a pawn just to further his inquiry.
“Very well,” he said, stifling this uncharacteristic pang of guilt. “Come on, let us go and speak to her.”
Jitendra very nearly sprinted across the room in his haste to meet Indira. Sikander preferred to follow at a more sedate pace. When they approached, Scindia was engaged in holding forth to the rest of his group, chattering away in a tiresomely nasal voice.
“Frankly, in my opinion, all this talk of nationalism is mere stupidity. There can be no India without the English. They gave us the rule of law, the civil service, the railways, our system of higher education, not to mention the fact that they have united us into one country. We would be nothing without them.”
“They also gave us the caste system,” Sikander interjected from behind him, “the Doctrine of Lapse, the principle of Divide and Rule, and that dreadful fellow Kipling. Let us not forget about that, shall we?”
Scindia turned to face Sikander, his features crinkling with antipathy when he realised who had interrupted him so egregiously.
“You?” He made no effort to hide his dislike. “What are you doing here, Sikander Singh? Shouldn’t you be off poking that beaky nose in someone’s private affairs?”
“As a matter of fact, I came over to say hello to your fiancée.” He gave Indira a small bow. “My dear, I am an old friend of your father’s. We met some years ago, but I wouldn’t expect you to remember.”
“Of course I know who you are,” Indira said, smiling widely. She stuck out her hand, a gesture which earned her a disapproving glare from her fiancé, but she ignored him. Sikander found himself liking her. She had spirit, and even though he normally avoided handshakes, he took her hand and kissed it briefly, if for no other reason than to spite Scindia.
Indira blushed. Her eyes flicked across to Jitendra who had remained poised behind Sikander, smiling rapturously like a fool.
“Who is your friend?” she asked shyly.
“This is Jitendra Narayan of Cooch Behar,” Sikander said. “He is a thoroughly disrepu
table sort, and if you know what is best for you, you will ignore him completely.”
This jest fell on deaf ears. Neither Indira nor Jitendra reacted at all. Instead, they watched each other silently, caught up in each other completely, as if everyone and everything else had ceased to exist.
When he saw the way they were looking at each other, Sikander was overcome by a premonition of doom, a feeling that only intensified when Jitendra held out one hand, inviting Indira to take it.
“Would you care to dance?”
“Oh, yes,” Indira replied much too quickly. “I would love to.”
Scindia was too dense to notice it, but Sikander had felt the frisson of electricity between the two of them. A tremor of worry ran down his spine as he watched his friend steer the young princess out onto the dance floor. Sikander had seen this before; he had experienced the same emotion himself once, many years ago, in the naïveté of his youth. A coup de foudre, the French called it. The thunderbolt. It had struck Indira and Jitendra as surely as the plague, even if they did not know it yet.
He could sense Scindia glowering behind him, and turned quickly, hoping to distract him before he managed to arrive at the same conclusion.
“Actually, Madho Rao, I am glad to have a moment with you. I was hoping to have a quick word.”
Scindia’s mouth twisted into a sneer. “I think not, Sikander Singh. I have no interest in speaking with someone as insignificant as you.”
“Are you sure? I heard that you have been consorting with dance girls lately. I just wanted to check if that was true.”
He had pitched his voice rather too loud, purposely to embarrass Scindia. It worked, judging how brightly his cheeks colored, turning the same scarlet as his tunic.
“Not here.” He grabbed Sikander by one arm and pulled him to a secluded corner. “Are you drunk?” he growled. “What is this nonsense?”
Sikander considered his next move. Kashmir knew about Zahra’s death, as did the Nizam and Indore. It was only a matter of time before Scindia found out as well, which was why he decided to throw discretion to the wolves, and go straight after the truth.
“Zahra, the nautch girl you were so eager to buy, she was found dead the day before yesterday. I have been asked to investigate by the Viceroy. That is why I wanted to speak to you.”
A panoply of emotions sprawled across Scindia’s face. Shock first, then wariness, and finally, a taut flicker of outrage.
“Do you think you can just question me like a common criminal? How dare you? I am Scindia, while you are nothing but a jumped-up goat herder.”
Sikander snorted, dazzled by the man’s arrogance. “You’re right, of course, but as fate would have it, I am a goat herder who owns a newspaper, my friend. I have it on good authority that you paid a private visit to the girl just a few hours before she was found dead, and that the two of you had rather a heated argument.” He clucked his tongue, like an old woman. “Can you imagine the scandal if the tabloids were to find out? Or young Indira, for that matter? Oh, the ignominy of it! What will the King say? Why, it might even ruin the Durbar. I can see the headline now: Famous Maharaja implicated in Courtesan killing. Wait, no! Slaying, I think, that has so much more impact, doesn’t it?”
“I was only trying to help her,” Scindia snapped, his moustache bristling. He paused, biting his lip. “Years ago, she was employed in one of my factories as a seamstress. There was an unforgivable incident. One of my cousins forced himself upon her, against her will. Unfortunately, I was complicit in this crime as well. When the matter was brought to my attention, rather that punishing my cousin, I paid the girl off to keep her mouth shut, and had her sent away.”
A shadow darkened his face, a flash of regret. “I had all but forgotten about her, until a few months ago, when I witnessed her perform for one of the lesser Lahori Nawabs. I could not help but think that it was my fault in some way that she ended up as a courtesan. Do not get me wrong. I did what was needed to protect my cousin and our family’s reputation, but still… I was a young man then, and did not think of the impact my decision would have on the poor child. As a result, I decided I would buy out her contract and set her free, as amends for my mistake.”
This was it, Sikander thought, the missing piece of her story, the reason why Zahra had embraced the livelihood that had robbed her of her mother.
“That is why you bid for her, to help her escape the life of a nautch-wali?”
He nodded. “I tried my very best but unfortunately, lost out to your friend, Kapurthala, who decided to give the girl to the King. Nevertheless, I decided I would make one last effort, and risked my good name to go see her, to offer to shelter her in Gwalior after her contract was concluded, or to provide her with enough funds to make a life for herself, wherever she chose to go. But she would not even speak to me. She refused to listen to a word I had to say, or to take a penny of my money.”
Sikander could see it; Zahra’s beautiful face set with determination, staring stonily at Scindia, refusing to forgive him for the grave injustice he had done her. Any other woman, or man for that matter, would have taken Scindia’s offer. But not Zahra. It was not in her nature to surrender, and she was too strong a woman to let any man decide her destiny, as she had proven time and again. Abruptly, a pang of regret ached at his chest, a sense of heartfelt loss. What other path could she ever have chosen? She had been driven to this, first by his failure to apprehend her mother’s murderer, then by Bikaner’s injustice, and then finally, by Scindia’s failure. We are all equally culpable for her demise, he thought sadly, for we created her. Without us, she would still be alive.
“It’s a good story, Scindia,” he said stiffly, “but why should I believe a word you are saying?”
It was entirely the wrong thing to say, he realised, when Scindia’s already ruddy face grew even more suffused. “You dare to question my word? Who do you think you are, you vermin, you excrement, you scion of poxed horse-buggerers?”
“Steady on, old boy. Calm down before you give yourself a heart attack.”
But Scindia was too far gone to turn back. His invective was in full flow, his jowls wobbling with disdain, his lips frothing as if he were a bulldog stricken with hydrophobia.
“Let me make one thing very clear, you jumped-up turd of a man. I do not like you. I think you are a vulture, a bottom-feeder, and I shall not stand here and take your insults lightly. I am Scindia, do you hear? Do not dare to trifle with me. I am the sun. My ancestors were gods, while yours were apes who were still learning to wipe their arses with leaves.”
“Look, it would be in your best interest to cooperate with me. I have carte blanche from the Viceroy’s office itself. I could make things very unpleasant for you.”
“A threat! You dare to threaten me?”
Scindia knuckled his fists, so furious that Sikander was convinced the man intended to strike him, but instead, he barged forward, shoving him aside with one shoulder.
“You stay out of my way, Sikander Singh. I am warning you. If you don’t, I am the one who will make things unpleasant for you.”
Chapter Twenty-four
Scindia stalked away, shaking his head from side to side, very like an enraged partridge. Sikander gazed after him, trying to decide whether or not to follow. What good would it do? He had many unanswered questions, yes, but without leverage, Scindia would never cooperate. He was too pompous, not to mention that he despised Sikander thoroughly.
Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that a more pressing crisis was developing, one that required his attention far more urgently. At the distant end of the room, Jitendra and Indira were getting much too close for comfort. They had retreated to the refuge offered by a very bushy potted fern, and his friend had one of her hands clasped in his own.
By the looks of it, he was about to try to kiss her. Sikander realized he had only moments to avert a scandal. With the greatest o
f alacrity, he crossed the room and swooped down just in the nick of time.
“Forgive me, but could I borrow Jit for a moment?” Placing one firm hand on his friend’s shoulder, he pulled him backward, eager to dampen his ardor before it could get the better of him. “Perhaps it would be best if you returned to your fiancé,” he said to Indira, “before he decides to come looking for you.”
“Of course,” the girl said, blushing deeply. “I had forgotten all about him.”
She gave Jitendra one last longing look before turning and hurrying away in the same direction the Scindia had vanished.
Jitendra watched her with shining eyes. “Gosh, she’s something, isn’t she?” His face hardened with entirely uncharacteristic resolve. “Mark my words, Sikander, I am going to marry that girl.”
“Oh, grow up, Jit,” Sikander scoffed. “She is betrothed to Scindia, and you know it.”
“A gem like that is wasted on an oaf like Scindia. He’s a boor, an ogre, a pig. She, she’s an angel.”
The dreamy expression on his face made Sikander’s heart sink. What madness had he managed to set into motion? Had he made a grave error by introducing the two of them? It was obvious that Indira had made quite an impact on Jitendra, but was this real, or was it just another one of Jit’s passing fancies? The latter, Sikander found himself hoping, let it be an infatuation and nothing else. The last thing he needed was for one of his closest friends to mire himself in the middle of some sort of Shakespearean love triangle, not while he had a case waiting to be solved.
“Snap out of it, Jit,” he said rather too harshly. “You cannot afford to make an enemy of Scindia.”
“She deserves better, don’t you think, Sikander? Indira deserves a man who will worship her, who will treat her like the goddess she is.”
“Perhaps, but do you really think she would jilt the fifth most powerful man in India for a callow boy who is second in line to the throne of a kingdom the size of a postage stamp?”
