The World Beyond by Sangeeta Bhargava

‘It’s a theatre.’
    Rachael was speechless. She had never seen such elegant structures, not even in England. The carriage soon halted. With Daima’s help, she wrapped the long silk chador around her, before stepping out of the carriage. She followed the elderly woman excitedly as she led her down a long corridor. She had never been inside a palace before. It was very quiet. Except for the occasional beating of the long khus mats that hung over the archways, against the walls, in the hot summer breeze.
    She stopped to look through one of the small arched windows on the outer wall and gasped in disbelief – she could see for over a hundred yards through that little peephole, beyond the courtyard and the palace gates, right into the marketplace. It was like looking through a pair of binoculars.
    Daima tapped her shoulder and gestured they had better be moving. They passed a door to what seemed like a hall. Two female guards stood at the door in a state of lethargy. Rachael looked at Daima questioningly.
    ‘Zenana,’ Daima replied. ‘We better not be seen here … Otherwise lot of questions getting asked.’
    Footsteps echoed through the corridors as someone called out to Daima. ‘Don’t stop … Keep walking,’ she whispered to Rachael in clipped tones.
    Rachael tripped over the chador and had to stop to wrap it around herself. She bit her lip as Daima gave her an exasperated look. A flight of high, narrow stone steps led them into a spacious front room. The floor was covered with white marble. There were small latticed windows along the walls.
    ‘Thank you, Daima.’ Rachael heard a voice behind her. It was the prince. She could recognise that deep authoritative voice anywhere.
    ‘I shall take your leave now, Chote Nawab.’ Daima bowed slightly and left the room.
    Rachael turned towards the prince. She played with the soft ends of the chador before taking it off and shaking her hair. ‘Thank you for your magnanimous offer to teach me Hindustani music,’ she said.
    ‘I did not expect to hear from you. Not after vexing you by killing that tigress,’ Salim replied, watching her.
    ‘Sir, who am I to question what you choose to do in your spare time? I have come here to learn music, that’s all.’ She looked around, noticing the low wooden platform covered with white sheets, the oblong pillows with red silk pillow covers, the chandelier, the silver lamps, the qatat hanging on the wall and the pitcher that stood in a corner. Biting her forefinger, she asked, ‘May I be so bold as to enquire whether this is your apartment?’
    ‘So it is. If it’s not up to her ladyship’s standards, we can go to another room, or maybe another palace?’ Salim taunted.
    ‘Pray, will the others not wonder why a woman is in your apartments and not in the zenana?’
    ‘They’ll simply assume you’re someone I’ve taken a fancy to.’ He grinned and winked at her, twirling the quill pen that he held in his hand, his eyes noting every detail of her body.
    Rachael was taken aback by his impertinence. ‘Is that what they think? That I’m a nautch girl?’
    The prince came close to her and whispered huskily, ‘Does it matter what they think?’ Again those eyes – teasing, mocking, weighing, challenging.
    Lowering her gaze, Rachael played with a lock of hair that had come loose, fuming inwardly. The arrogance! Papa would have his head for speaking to his daughter like that.
    ‘Shall we, then?’ the prince asked, holding a door open for her. He bowed slightly and added, ‘After you, ma’am.’
    Rachael sauntered into a hall – it was a music room. Her eyes lit up like Mother’s did whenever a parcel of her favourite ham arrived from back home in England. She covered her mouth with her hands as she exclaimed, ‘Oh my goodness!’
    The room was full of every plausible Hindustani, as well as Western, musical instrument that she could think of. There was the sarod, sitar, veena, harmonium, tabla, sarangi, rebab, dhol,