4
Henna
The murder of Chet Singh had shocked
the court. It had weakened Kharak Singh. Shere Singh had begun to talk to him.
Mainly throwing insults at him and his wife, and accusing them of being
involved in the murder. “ It was in his chambers was it not?”
Others suspected Dhyan Singh, and
some thought Nau Nihal had a hand. But none could prove it. The fakirs were
neglecting Kharak Singh’s treatment, and he became weaker each day. No one
could prove anything, but Dhyan had gained control of the court again, and Nau
was taking over many of his father’s tasks.
Hari Singh was not happy either. He
was forced into an alliance with Shere Singh, as the latter pushed rumours
around the court. All this baffled Satwant, for whom Nau’s outburst in court
had been amazing. But he was learning how different Lahore was to Padori.
Violent, colourful and exciting. After a while the politics slowed down, as everyone’s
eyes turned to the King. Even the British had sent in a new embassy, including
a priest, Father Brookes, who tried to spread his Christian faith. Many of the
Khalsa would spit at the man, when Shere Singh was not protecting him.
Satwant had no time for any of this.
His training had improved him as a fighter. He also prayed daily. But none of
these things could take his mind off his personal matters. Himmet Ali had
relayed the village gossip. Many people were saying that Ranbir was bad. Others
that Satwant had been killed, or that she was tainted goods left to dry and rot
like bad fruit. He could not bear any of these comments about this innocent
girl. His father no longer spoke of him.
Satwant had then asked Himmet Ali to
stop bringing news, as the double edge of Wife and Father proved too hard for
him to bear. While others took their minds off their problems by gossiping
about the king, his attention went to Henna. He could not help it. She became
the opium that made him forget one set of problems, and numb him from
understanding the nature of others. For weeks he harassed Arjun to take him to
see her. Or tell him who the mystery woman was, above what he already knew. That
she was a kotteewali. A girl who entertained different men each night.
But Arjun had said that she was a courtesan. Satwant could not understand the
difference, and Arjun was coy about it.
“
When can I see her? Where can I see her?”
“
Sattee I thought you were the son of a holy man?” Arjun would reply. Or, “
Khalsa training involves prayer and pure thought. You are married, and
relationships outside marriage equal crime. I thought you wanted to be Khalsa?”
and “ What of your wife?” But Satwant could not help himself. Besides Arjun did
not strike Satwant as an angel.
As usual Satwant awoke one day at
five am and bathed. As he poured the water over his body, his long ebony mane
glued to his back like a dark smooth ski slope, he recited the Jap Ji. The
Morning Prayer. “ By no means can one be recognised by ritual purity, even when
ones cleansed oneself a hundred thousand times. Never can one reveal oneself
via silent reflection, even if one dwells immersed in deepest meditation.” But
the problem was that he was not. All he could think about was Henna, Ranbir and
his family. He pushed the guilt down deep. He never really loved Ranbir did he?
And how can she he? They did not even know each other? This too followed into
the mire. Then went his father, mother and little sister. There at the top of
his thoughts remained Henna. The Jap Ji, concentrate. Henna too was shed like
snakeskin. I must think only of the divine. I must be ready for my training
this morning. Satwant got out of the metal tub and dried himself. Today they
were going to be taught to defend against multiple attacks. Satwant quickly
dressed himself in his blue tunic and kachchera. He quickly spun his puggree around his head. As he grabbed his
weapons and began to leave, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror.
Satwant paused. Out from the mirror
the blue Akali he had seen slain years ago stood. Long dark silky beard, and a
fierce look about him. Only it was himself Satwant saw. The very man his father
labelled as fanatic. “ Not interested in Nanak’s true teachings. If they were,
they would see all men as brothers. They only care to stand out, and bully
those who do not conform. They are the Maharajah’s talwar. Fanatics!”
But Satwant did not feel like a
fanatic. He felt like Ashoka going to defend his kingdom. Like Banda Singh
Bahadar, leading the Sikhs against their Muslim oppressors. How could he go
back to Padori like this? He swiftly left the room.
* * * * *
Satwant stood at the centre of a
circle, just as he had seen Prince Khushveer do many months before. Opposite,
with their backs curved, swords drawn, stood four similarly attired men, a
crescent against his star. Satwant grasped his talwar hard with his right hand,
and kept his left floating, fingers pacing up and down like a piano player’s.
“
Your inner chakra, or centralisation if you will, and your outer extension, is
best tested with techniques of neutralisation applied to a multiple attack,”
Nalwa explained whilst walking around the sparring men, addressing the rest of
the blue clad crowd. “ You can perform these systems when your opponents
statically hold you, or come at you with you in their grasp. Or dynamically as
in real battle, when they are readying themselves to converge upon you.” Nalwa
stopped and pause. “Questions.”
Satwant looked in-between the men,
at eye level, aware that no one had asked any. This would be the moment that
Nalwa would signal his sparring partners to do their worst. His fingers stopped
dancing. A sweaty serpent yawed from his turban down his forehead and onto his
nose, turning into a heavy teardrop scratching against his nostril as it fell
to the ground. It had even landed, when the first man screamed “ Wahi Guru Ji
Ki Fateh! “ and charged at him.
Satwant treated like a round of kabaddi with swords. The man
at his furthest left had stepped forward with his left leg, and then swung his
right one out so he was facing Satwant at nine o’clock. Hi sword sliced down
towards Satwant’s neck. Simultaneously the man furthest out to the left ran
towards Satwant’s right jabbing forward with his hungry blade.
Satwant only had a millionth of a moment. His waist twisted
to his left, shoulders squaring towards the first attacker, his eyes aware of
the others, he lowered himself down and continuously swung his left leg in a
circle so his foot was where his right one had been. He had successfully spun like
a screw twisting into wood, his left knee on the ground, his right bent as if
waiting to be knighted by the ghost queen. Consequently he was facing the seven
o’clock mark, with his back to all the assailants but the first. However he was
able to raise his sword, and defect the first man’s attempt. In that short
breath both their wrists crossed. Tucking in his left leg further, he swung
down with his right hand, levering his wrist over his opponent’s, until he had
the former’s wrist caught beneath his sword handle. Allowing the man to follow
his momentum, he aided his downwards movement so he fell over Satwant and head
first into the second flanking attacker. Thus the second man’s sword was
neutralised, as the two fell over in a heap. This had happened in a bash of an
eyelid.
Satwant had less then a second to rise. His back was now
towards where the first attacker had been. The second man on the left was
behind him. He grabbed Satwant from behind, whilst one of the other two reached
out with his sword. Satwant had his left leg forward, knee bent, because of the
circumference he had made. He now swung this leg back, twisted his hip towards
the right, bent down and used the attacker’s fulcrum to throw him over in front
of the on coming attacker. The last man
jumped up into the air, above the fallen combatant and looped his sword down,
scratching down Satwant’s chest plate, but failing to do any effective damage.
By this time all the others has stood up and randomly charged towards the young
Sikh. The first man to reach him was the only one who had penetrated his
defences. However his lunging hand overstretched him, and Satwant simply
grabbed him above his wrist guards, and swung around the sword, so the man
passed him, still in his grasp. With his free hand he swung his sword first
diagonally left to right, then the opposite way, clanging against the second
attacker’s sharp tooth. Still holding onto his previous assailant he swung him
into the men, who backed off, for a second before surrounding him again. The
whole strike had taken less then five seconds. All the participants panted
heavily.
The opponents now all ran at him together. Satwant had never
had a chance to think up till now, and nor was he going to rely on it.
Repertious exercises had built in instincts that he trusted. As one man reached
from his left with a cut, Satwant ‘s blade shot out and deflected it. Another
reached from the right, as did one from the front. Each time Satwant’s speed
allowed him to defend and counter, in an exquisite dance, never straying from
his imaginary circle. Several seconds later a slash shot through, nipping him
on his left forearm.
“
Stop.” Nalwa ordered. “ That was clumsy. You have improved a great deal Sattee,
but you must do better than that if you are to face a Britisher on the
battlefield.”
Satwant and his associates relaxed their muscles. Their
clothes were drenched in perspiration, and their muscle heavy. Satwant slipped
his sword into his scabbard. Nalwa seemed so sure about the eminent British
threat. In spite of this Shere Singh had denied it as a possibility and had
been entertaining European guests. He really did not like the complications of
court life. He much preferred the thrill of raw battle. Arjun had said that the
way things were going; the Khalsa may implode and battle itself.
Hari Singh Nalwa was impressed with
Satwant. He could see from the perplexed look on the young man’s face that he
had not fully grasped the significant of Chet’s murder, or movements made by
the British on the border. They had lodged many complaints with Shere Singh.
The latter had been passing information around caught implicating that Nau had
been in his father’s chambers along with Dhyan. Both had empathically denied
this. The army had become uneasy and sought assurances from Shere Singh. He had
asked them to ready themselves. And so, Nalwa had increased their drills.
Ultimately he would have to decide which faction he would assist. In the good
all days, he thought, there weren’t even factions amongst Muslims and Sikhs.
Nalwa had pushed his men, constantly
reiterating Nau’s message, which had now been taken up by the Dogras. The
British will take Punjab. The British will take it. “ Sattee, drink some water.
You there, give him your vessel. You are not sure about this Ghost man attack
anymore?”
“
Hari Ji, I do not understand why Sikh is killing Sikh? Shere Singh has said
they are our friends. Nau Nihal has said they will destroy us. And what of the
rumours about Dhyan killing Chet Singh?” Sattee approached Nalwa, after swigging
on the bottle.
“ I
have always been sure that the puppeteer has British assistance. And still am.
I too am lost as to what is afoot. But it has not entirely surprised me. What
you heard Dhyan say that day is oversimplification. Us soldiers are not that stupid.”
Nalwa replied.
“
Why is the Khalsa dividing up in its loyalties, then?” Satwant enquired.
“
Kharak is an ill king. We can all see that. There are too many people with
their minds on his thrown. I swore I shall defend it, and I shall. And so shall
you all. Not all the generals think he is a good king, and thus are taking
sides with the vultures.” Nalwa addressed all around him.
“ As
our we. You believe the king is powerless don’t you?” Arjun asked.
“ I
believe he needs protecting. From outside and in.” Nalwa replied flatly.
“But
your instinct too has you take sides, my lord?” Arjun pressed.
“
Enough. Lahore is a political base. The Khalsa is not a governing body. We are
god’s saint soldiers, and must protect whichever ruler God places on the
throne. Now get on with your exercises.” Nalwa breathed in. In his heart he
believed that Dhyan was behind the killing. Even audacious enough to personally
carry out the assassination in the King’s quarters. What he was not sure of was
Nau's involvement. The Prince hated the Prime Minister. That indeed baffled
him. The only conclusion he could draw was that the enemies colluded for mutual
gain. Something he feared was happening between the English and someone at
court. Not necessarily Shere Singh, who openly flew the Union Jack, but
someone. The task was to convince Shere Singh himself. The way had been opened
to destabilise the government. And this troubled him the most.
Satwant was thoroughly exhausted.
His muscles ached and it did not help that Arjun kept on slapping him hard on
his back. After training and discussing the events at the court, Satwant had
spent time in the army Dharamsala praying, but only thought of her. He had come
a long way since he had first set eyes on her. He had grasped the basics of
court politics, although he was still unsure who was in the right and who was
in the wrong. He had decided just to follow whatever Nalwa said. What amazed
him still was that if everyone knew that the Prime Minster committed the
murder, no one took any action. If his father, Nand had been here, he would
never stop mentioning how he was right about the wicked people of Lahore.
Satwant had also progressed well in
the art of fighting. He had trained with Prince Khushveer in traditional Gatka
and the Spaniard, Ventura in the European art of war. The army was as zealous about praying and not breaking the rahits
as his father. But some often broke them. By simply thinking of Henna he was on
the cusp of breaking these rules. There were four main ones, including adultery
as a no no. Yet he had come out of prayer and spoken for so long about Henna
that finally, as darkness threw its hood over the city, Arjun decided to take
him to see her, if for no other reason then to shut him up. They both wore dark
black cloaks and had replaced their turbans with Afghani caps. Himmet Ali,
wearing of all things a burqa, accompanied them.
They walked passed the Badshahi mosque, leaving the main
citadel through the Alamgiri gateway, and across the Hazuri Bagh, a park built
during Ranjit Singh’s reign. They passed through the garden; adjacent to the
Diwan –I –Am. Satwant could feel the cold marble that virtually covered the
place. He had once seen the place during the day and noticed that the plants
were sparse, around the grey, black and yellow marble pavements. These bordered
a huge central low basin, which formed a circle within the square park. The
small water jets spat their liquid out from the edges of the basin, like an
elephant spraying itself with water. The sound of this could be heard even now
as they swayed along like wraiths through the park. A
causeway to the southern side of the pool connected the cube shaped platform
standing in its middle. They went over this, past other people, nodding
politely. Satwant felt the Pietra Dura rise into his nostrils with its scent.
He wondered about her perfume.
Twenty minutes later they came
to a house huddled between many other clay dwellings. The centre of the narrow
road had a large drain veining through the artery of the street, capillaries of
smaller open aqueducts leading up to the various houses. The whole city had
this intricate, but simple sewage system. Arjun knocked on the door three
times. A man opened a small visor on the door. Two dark eyes peered through.
Arjun beamed manically at him. The visor shut abruptly then they heard the
locks of the door open. They were all rushed in quickly. Once inside the dimly
lit room, Arjun asked the question. “ Where will Begum Henna be tonight
Khalid?”
“You will find her behind the
Shahi Mohalla” Khalid placed a palm forward.
Arjun placed some rupees in his hand, and then nodded to
Satwant and Himmet Ali to leave. Khalid had been starring at Himmet with
wonder. He obviously was not sure whether Himmet was a man or an actual woman.
Perhaps he thought, a dancer.
Arjun had spoken of an area behind the Shahi Mohalla before.
It was not the kind of place honest gentlemen and devout Sikhs and Muslims went
to. It was the kind of place all the rich did go. Often, gentlemen of high
castes threw their money their at the dancing girls. This was where the Kotteah
could be found. A place where the Kotteewalis would stand in windows of the
second floor of the houses up and down the narrow streets, some exposing their
breasts.
This tart’s quarter was also famous for its brilliant
embroiders and spices, vegetables and jewellery antiques and carpets. It was
the perfect place for a gentleman to buy things. Including a dance.
“
Arjun, you said she wasn’t a common kottewali? What is she doing here?”
Satwant asked as they walked into the bazaar.
“
You will not ordinarily find her here. Often she will be seen reading a poem or
playing the sitar for a gentleman in his haveli. Sometimes I have seen her in
the court or on the Ravi with a rich courtier. But even courtesans have a madam
who they answer to. Occasionally that madam may require them to dance for
someone. That is all she will do. Most of the men in this kottee are rich
gentlemen. With taste. She won’t be expecting rungars like us. It’s
going to cost us at least a month’s wage.” Arjun smiled. “ A bag per dance. And
not in private either. With others watching too.”
“ I
don’t want to go in.” Himmet said.
“
You don’t have to. More time for us. Give me your purse” Arjun demanded. Himmet
moved back, his hands beneath the burqa hovering above his money.
“
Leave him. Okay this is it isn’t it?” Satwant said.
“
Sure is, yar.” Arjun stopped outside a narrow lane. Satwant looked up to see
women wearing see through chunnees and duputtas, covering their semi-naked
bodies like burqas. Others wore silk Salwars, bejewelled with junk jewellery or
pearls. They all looked cheap. As they walked down the lanes, the women
profanely offered their services or ridiculed the men. Especially since, as
they found Himmet Ali amusing taking him for a woman in the wrong part of town.
At the end of the lane was a large mogul house, its second floor windows
intricately carved. A woman sat on a large damask pillow chewing paan. Above
her was a large pukkah, slapping the air hard to keep her cool. A man in another
room was pulling the rope.
“
Himmet, take your burqa off,” Satwant ordered.
“
What can we do for you, gentlemen?” She asked in a husky voice.
“ We
have come to see the dance tonight,” Arjun said.
“
Ha. You have got the wrong place, huzoor. There are plenty of dance down the
street” She laughed, and spat out the black stain from the betel leaf.
“ No
Begum. This is the place,” Arjun said coolly.
She
now looked at them more closely. Satwant felt nervous. Very embarrassed too.
“
You are not gentlemen. She roughians should find your self a cheap whore. Now
be off.” She waved at them.
“
Please do not insult our credentials, old woman. Khalid assured us this was the
place,” Arjun replied flatly. Now Satwant could see her get up and look down
with more interest.
“
You have the entry fee? Ten Mohurs each?” She quizzed, as Arjun nodded. She now
called down to someone and the front door slid open and sucked them in, closing
behind like a dark conspiracy.
Inside Satwant took off his cloak and passed it to a dwarf
and then adjusted his hat. But the way his hair was combed up tidily, gave away
that he was a Sikh. They could guess that under the hat was a topknot. Himmet
quietly gave his burqa the bemused dwarf. They then went further inside,
through two large doors.
Satwant looked around him at the rectangular room. There was
a large Persian rug laid down the centre. Around it were a score of cushions
with hookahs standing to attention next to them. At the far end of the court
was a raised dais. There sat four men in their skullcaps playing a harmonica,
sitar and dilroob and drums. Behind them was an arc weeping down with beads
dangling like sitar strings. Beyond that Satwant could see the vague outlines
of women. The sidewalls behind the cushions were covered in paintings of
lovers. In between these there were doors. Many doors. Satwant was no longer as
innocent and naïve as when he first came to Lahore. He knew what went on behind
them. Please, let her not participate in such activities, he thought.
The majority of the cushions were occupied. Well dressed
occupants sat there lecherously ogleling a woman in a tight salwar dancing in
the centre. Some of them were Sikhs openly sucking on the hookahs. After
adultery, smoking was banned by the rahits. That others were breaking their
vows, did not comfort Satwant.
Arjun pointed at three empty cushions, one on the right hand
side of the hall, the other two vertically opposite it. Arjun went and sat
there, leaving Satwant and Himmet to go to the other. Satwant felt like cow without
a plough. Completely naked. It did not help that Himmet looked at him
accusingly. Well, if he was such a good Muslim boy, he did not have to come.
Still, I wanted to come, and forced Arjun’s hand, Satwant thought. Perhaps he
should have come on a night when she was away from this neighbourhood. But when
she was the courtesan, she was a concubine to men who Satwant could not mix
with. He sat down nervously, hoping no one would recognise him and report him
to his mother.
Worse, report him to Nalwa.
The trio had to wait half an hour before the woman stopped
her dance and retreated. She sat next to the man who had thrown the greatest
quantity of gold. None of the trio threw any money, and she stayed away from
them during the dance.
Satwant heart quickened as a new erotic and powerful tune
began to breathe out of the musicians’ instruments. The beads parted to reveal
a slender woman in a white Salwar-Kameez. Her trousers were tight and her top
was designed so the lower end sloped out like an Elizabethan skirt, but with
the shortness of a tutu. A shapely wire hidden below the white silk, and
covered in intricate woven patterns of glass splints and gold enhanced her
breasts. On her head she wore a small cap with a peacock feather stapled to its
front. From beneath this a chiffon chunnee cascaded down onto her shoulders,
and then twisted up around her jaw line and behind her neck veiling all but
those large green eyes. Satwant could imagine the slim equine nose, high
cheekbones, and caramel milk skin below all that. It was Henna.
Bewitched, Satwant watched as she sprung across the dance
floor, performing delicate and intricate moves, which told a story, as
skilfully as a karateka performing a complex kata. She also sang like an angel.
Satwant hung on each syllable. Each word. Her voice was soft and silky. As he
had imagined it would be. As if to wake him up, Arjun had thrown some money at
her feet, and she had moved across to him where she danced only for him, for a
while.
Satwant wanted to get a closer look, so he to threw his
funds. But many of the other men had also done so by now, and she paused for
each of them. Then the music died before the belle had reached his cushion. She
stopped still in the middle of the dance floor. Her head was bowed, and her
eyes were closed. Before Satwant could retrieve his Mohurs, the dwarf had
collected al the cash and taken it to the same women he had seen upstairs from
outside. She must be the madam.
Satwant did not have to wait too long though. The silence was
broken by a more furious tempo from the musicians’. Henna spun around so fast
she was almost airborne for a second. Satwant could imagine from the top she
looked like a white spinning top with a dash of green in its centre. Just as
the girls had seemed at his wedding. God, he was married! But why the guilt?
How many of these men had wives at home?
Henna sang a new song. A song about jilted love, sacrifice
and revenge. She sang about the men she danced for, and the women who they
mistreated. But she sang it like a koel in the night, so sweet, that no one in
the audience allowed themselves to be offended. Only to be mesmerised by her.
Satwant caught her eyes, as they twitched and told the story. He grabbed
Himmet’s purse and swung it at her feet, momentarily, feeling guilty for this
action. And then she came, a whirling spinning top, a springing deer, to his
cushion, to dance for him. He was bewitched, but not for one moment did he look
at her lecherously. Henna though, had seen a thousand men fall in love with
her. It meant nothing. But as the song and dance slowed, she saw through his
disguise and recognised him. He knew this; because he could see her lips smile
beneath that chiffon cloth. They both went back to the Anarkali bazaar. But
only for a moment. She heard the jingle of more coins elsewhere and moved on.
Satwant could not. But as she moved away, performing for
others, a realisation dawned upon his conscience. What was this woman doing?
What did she do with all those men? Was he to be just another? Beautiful she
might be, but so far away from Ranbir, Avatar and any other girl he had known.
What had he been thinking, asking Arjun here? He was poorer now, but no closer
to her heart. This was all a performance. And if he became rich like Chand
Roshan, paying her to accompany him? Is that love? He had run away from home to
seek adventure. He had never wanted to run away from his principles. The army
was there to strengthen them. This was wrong. Henna was wrong.
Satwant watched as she sat next to Arjun on the floor, her
chest heaving in and out, one hand on her forehead in mock misery. She was not
for him. All he had found in this city was what his father feared. He had seen
the princes drink cellars dry. He had seen gambling, women, and politicking for
power at any cost. So far away from the principles laid out by the Sikh
teachers, the ten Gurus. And the eleventh Guru had witnessed his marriage.
Solemnly sworn to Ranbir, with whom he had not even consummated the marriage.
But he was here now. In a bad place. His heart ran away to his family as he saw
Henna bring her lips (although veiled) near Arjun’s, and then teasingly shy
away. She enchanted, but also reminded Satwant of what he had done.
Padori was such a long time ago. He needed his family’s
blessings. Their forgiveness. A good Sikh boy should not be here. Then Henna
came over to him. A twinkle in her eyes opened the doors of hope again. Satwant
was enchanted.
* * * * *
Satwant prayed. “ Gratification seduces the sum of my
being, pain is the treatment for this ill. You are the architect, and I am
naught; nothing I do can reward.” He thought about the words of the Sodar
Rahiras, an evening prayer. It was late and he had an early start in the
morning. But he was still active enough to write a letter to Padori. And Himmet
was now willing to go back home.
Satwant picked up his quill and began composing a letter,
addressed to his father, Nand Singh. He asked his father for forgiveness. He
asked his mother for her blessings, and his wife for another chance. Telling
her that he would be home soon. That he was wrong about Lahore. But Satwant
could not stop thinking about Henna. She invaded his every thought. He was
falling in love. Not with the woman he had had an arrange marriage with. Nor a
Sikh woman at that. How would they all react when they found out that a Muslim
had stolen his heart? Even when Ranjit Singh had fallen for a Muslim woman, the
priests in Amritsar tied him to a tree and whipped him, and then carried on
doing so down the streets. He screwed up the latter and threw it away.
Satwant picked his quill up again and wrote once more. “ Dear
Father…”
* * * * *
Hari Singh Nalwa did not like the fact Dhyan was prime
minister. He had begun to lose his trust of Gulab Singh too. Nau had changed
everything, and was de facto king. Nalwa had waited outside Nau Nihal’s house
for him. The Prince had avoided him. He then had to ask to see him again. He
was refused. Nalwa was persistent though. Finally he had caught the Prince in
the royal stables after a game of Polo.
Nau was feeding his horse a sweet mango. Hari walked past the
Khalsa guards (who would never refuse him) and stable hands and stood next to
the prince. Nau ignored him for a few moments.
“
Hari, This is a fine animal. My grandfather loved horses.” He said without
looking away from the steed. “Even went to war with the Afghans, just over a
horse.”
“Yes
I know.” Nalwa replied flatly. Was he destined to waste all his time chasing
after these princes? “ I tried to see you twice, sir, but was refused.”
“
Who would refuse the great Nalwa? Tell me which servants turned you away and
I’ll have them flogged.” Nau now passed the reigns of his horse to the stable
hand. He turned around and examined Nalwa’s countenance. “ Nalwa, the man who
killed a tiger with his bare hands? My grandfather loved you and trusted you
enough to have him by his throne. Unlike my stupid feeble father.”
“
Sir, I need to ask you a delicate question.” He looked at the other men
standing near by. The stable hand had moved away with the horse. “ About Dhyan
Singh.”
Nau put his arm around Nalwa’a
shoulders and pulled him in the opposite direction from the soldiers, deeper
into the stable. His expression had not changed. He did not look worried,
perhaps because the rumours had meant that he had been asked several times and
had prepared a suitable reply.
“
Nalwa Ji. Dhyan Singh is scum. I would love to see him hung. I trust him and
his brothers not. But he is a better prime minister than Chet. Who knows who
killed Chet? But it was not Dhyan. Like us he see the British as a threat. Not
like my foolish uncle Shere Singh, who spends more time in their cantonment
than his own palace.” Nau stopped, his arm slithering away. He turned and faced
Nalwa. “ Nalwa Ji, Dhyan as an alibi. He was with Suchet and Gulab at a nautch.
Probably in the tart’s quarters. That is why they are not saying much. Even if
the man did kill him, to regain his own prominence, he would surely have hired
an assassin?”
“
Nau Ji, with deepest respect a guard saw you leave your father’s chambers. He
said Dhyan was there.” Nalwa replied.
“
Saw me leave? If he saw me leave, then what could I have had to do with it all?
All those people who spread vicious rumours about me. Shere Singh’s agents,
perhaps even Dhyan’s have encouraged this. I have now been effective leader
over these past few months. My father is ill, and I make the decisions. I work
well with the Muslims and keep us in power. If Dhyan was still in there
according to this witness and I was not, do not accuse me.” Nau spat out.
“
People still think you may have conspired with him.” Nalwa pushed.
“ Eh
pargal lok ha! These are mad people! I have an alibi. Your man has got the
times mixed up. And I was nowhere near Dhyan. Or Chet. I must have been seeing
someone else in the room. I cannot remember, as it was not important. It is my
father’s chambers. Is it unusual I ask you for his on to be there? Now I can
not break Dhyan’s alibi, and would leave it at that, achaa?” Nau was not to be
pressed any further.
“
Achaa, Ji” Nalwa nodded low.
“ I
need to know if you are with me or not?” Na Nihal raised his height.
“ I
am, my liege.” Nalwa clasped his hands together in Sat Sri Akal. He did not
believe a single word the prince had uttered. There was a certain glazed look
in Nau’s eye, which sparkled each time he denied his involvement. Still, Chet
was harmful with his self-interest policies. Now Nau was in true power, and
able to deal with the ghost people his own way. But power shared with Dhyan.
Everyone one of them vying for control, but not one able to trust the other. It
was better being a simple soldier. Quietly carrying out their orders.
Nalwa had had to do much for this
family. He had secured Kashmir for them. The cost was many Muslim lives. They
feared him there. Hari Singh Uppal had become Nalwa, the feared monster, whose
name was whispered to children in the night to keep them asleep. The Muslims
loathed him. If the king in Lahore became weak, a Muslim uprising may be even
more likely than a British invasion. Nau at least understood this much.
“
Our armies should protect our borders. I have recruited many and trained them.
We have the second largest force in the continent.” Nalwa said.
“
Double the men at Ferozepur. And double them at Peshawar. Jamrod Fort is
strong. Shere Singh waste time with these Ferrangi. I know you are forsworn to
his army. But I am in charge really, now. Besides the Khalsa is not a Lahori
fauj. It belongs to Amritsar. Be careful which side you choose, my dear friend.
Shere Singh will divide us all. I have seen him walk with that white woman. You
know, the priest’s daughter, and the Akali’s ride past and throw mud. There is
much mistrust. These Christians only live because of his protection. Let us
forget the episode with Chet Singh. A country needs governing.” Nau placed his
hands together. “ Sat Sri Akal.”
“ Rab
Rukkha. God be with you,” Nalwa replied and took his leave. The jackals had
indeed begun their work. And this was one he had to take care with.
Nalwa watched as Dhyan became
evermore powerful over the next few months. Eventually, the accusations ended,
and people’s attentions focused on the slow gaping split between the Khalsa
army. The Fauj-I-Ain also became aimless, less loyal to the Sukerchakias
then ever before. Taxes were being paid late, the hot summer burnt the crops,
and heat waves slew people. Forces beyond the control of their ever-weaker
king. And sure enough, Nau and Dhyan began to clash.
Satwant had changed his mind two
score times in this period. A month after he had seen Henna dance, she still nautched
in his mind’s eye. His obsession began to affect his training. He had decided
to send Himmet Ali several times to Padori, and then changed his mind again.
Eventually he passed the letter to Himmet, and sent him off. The next few weeks
he toured the kottees of Lahore in secret, looking for her, but never seeing
her there. He was too ashamed now, to even to admit to Arjun that it was more
than an infatuation. He spied on Chand Roshan’s house. He contacted Khalid
several times, blatantly asking for her address. He subtly tried this with
Arjun and others in his unit, but to no avail. Then one day he saw Ajaz, the
man he remembered from his first days in Lahore as taking the necklace to her
at Chand Roshan’s house, purchasing some vegetables.
Satwant convinced the man to give
her whereabouts, combining Mohurs and Ajaz’s memory of the purple thief, to his
advantage. And like a busy summer bee, attracted to a blooming flower, he
proceeded to her place. Even as he imagined, that Ranbir or his father would be
reading his letter.
Satwant was breath taken by her
beauty once more. She sat in the middle of her bedroom, on a Persian rug, the
hem of her salwar spread out like the petals of a large marigold. Her hands
gently glided across her dilroob. She looked up at him with her cat eyes.
“ I
remember you from Anarkali Bazaar.” She paused, the dilroob sounding her silent
thoughts. And that night from the kottee.
“ I
can never forget you!” He gasped.
“
You have been searching for me, ever since that night.” She laughed. “ And now
that you have found me, what will you do with me?”
“
Do? What is there to do? I just want to be with you.” He said, knowing he
sounded corny.
“
Come sit here. Tell me about yourself.” She smiled patting the ground next to
her. He shut the door and sat down. No words were said, but the moment was more
magical then he could have perceived. A moment that should have been Ranbir’s.
He was now Henna’s.
