diplomacy.”
“ He taught me.” Hassan's voice broke. “We were fourteen.”
“And what happened after that?”
“I do not remember,” he said curtly.
Safiya did not reply. Both of them knew well that Hassan's story had not ended when his Afghan friends dragged him, shocked and bleeding, from the Hazuri Bagh. Both knew that, guessing where he lay wounded, his wife had rushed out into the dangerous city streets that night, and found him in a house by the Delhi Gate.
Without her, he would have died of infection as Sher Singh's soldiers rampaged through the streets outside.
For all his misplaced guilt and the loss of his burly, good-natured friend, Hassan had been a fortunate man.
“ Al-Hamdulillah , Allah be praised,” Safiya murmured.
“I see no cowardice in your story,” she went on in a normal tone. “You, a courtier with no history of soldiering, risked entering a battle to stop an assassination. When the moment came, you felt your opponent's humanity, and could not bear to take his life. Do not forget, Hassan,” she added, her deep voice echoing in the small bedchamber, “that you have served the Punjab and this city for seven years. I remember the day you went to join the great Faqeer Azizuddin at court.
“How many Punjabi Muslims have worked as you have, side by side with the Sikh and Hindu nobles of the court, to bring peace and well-being to this kingdom? How many have negotiated with the Pashtuns in the north, the British in the south? How many have spent night after sleepless night struggling against the ill luck that has brought one wrong person after another to the throne since Maharajah Ranjit Singh's death?”
Hassan made a small, disbelieving sound.
“You should have told me this story weeks ago. And now,” she added, yawning, “I need my sleep. Your explanation of why you went to the Hazuri Bagh in the first place must wait until tomorrow. ”
Hassan drew in his breath. “Bhaji, I—”
“Not another word.” So saying, Safiya Sultana stretched out on the groaning bed and closed her eyes. A moment later she began to snore.
“WHAT GIBBERISH are you talking, child?” Safiya demanded the following afternoon of the four-year-old in rumpled muslin clothes, who bounced beside her on the sheet-covered floor, babbling aloud in a foreign tongue. Around them in the upstairs ladies’ sitting room, women fanned themselves and talked in low tones as they waited for the afternoon meal.
“An-nah taught it to me,” Saboor said gravely. “It's called ‘Hey, Diddle Diddle.’ It is about a cat who plays a sarod and a cow that jumps so-o-o high!” He flung his arms over his head. “And a small dog who—”
“Enough, child!” Safiya rumbled. “I am too tired to listen to such nonsense. Ah,” she glanced through the curtained doorway, “your father has come. See how well he is walking now.”
Watching her nephew approach, Safiya rejoiced in Hassan's improvement since the previous night. He had bathed. Someone had washed his hair and combed it back, so that it curled behind his ears. His beard was neatly trimmed. Dark circles still lay beneath his eyes, and his broad, fair-skinned face had thinned, making his broken nose more prominent than before, but in his fine, embroidered muslins, he looked almost like himself.
Allah be praised, his wounded thigh was no longer hugely swollen and inflamed, with pustules breaking out all over it. For the past week, he had been able to sleep on his back, not stretched out on his stomach. All that was needed now was for the open wound to finish closing safely. He had also begun to use his injured left hand.
It had taken all Safiya's healing arts to keep him alive after he had been brought into the haveli, sixteen hours after his battle. It had taken all the family's prayers to drive away the illnesses that had later threatened his life.
As Hassan stepped out of a pair of embroidered slippers with upturned toes, Saboor ran to him. “Abba!” he
“ He taught me.” Hassan's voice broke. “We were fourteen.”
“And what happened after that?”
“I do not remember,” he said curtly.
Safiya did not reply. Both of them knew well that Hassan's story had not ended when his Afghan friends dragged him, shocked and bleeding, from the Hazuri Bagh. Both knew that, guessing where he lay wounded, his wife had rushed out into the dangerous city streets that night, and found him in a house by the Delhi Gate.
Without her, he would have died of infection as Sher Singh's soldiers rampaged through the streets outside.
For all his misplaced guilt and the loss of his burly, good-natured friend, Hassan had been a fortunate man.
“ Al-Hamdulillah , Allah be praised,” Safiya murmured.
“I see no cowardice in your story,” she went on in a normal tone. “You, a courtier with no history of soldiering, risked entering a battle to stop an assassination. When the moment came, you felt your opponent's humanity, and could not bear to take his life. Do not forget, Hassan,” she added, her deep voice echoing in the small bedchamber, “that you have served the Punjab and this city for seven years. I remember the day you went to join the great Faqeer Azizuddin at court.
“How many Punjabi Muslims have worked as you have, side by side with the Sikh and Hindu nobles of the court, to bring peace and well-being to this kingdom? How many have negotiated with the Pashtuns in the north, the British in the south? How many have spent night after sleepless night struggling against the ill luck that has brought one wrong person after another to the throne since Maharajah Ranjit Singh's death?”
Hassan made a small, disbelieving sound.
“You should have told me this story weeks ago. And now,” she added, yawning, “I need my sleep. Your explanation of why you went to the Hazuri Bagh in the first place must wait until tomorrow. ”
Hassan drew in his breath. “Bhaji, I—”
“Not another word.” So saying, Safiya Sultana stretched out on the groaning bed and closed her eyes. A moment later she began to snore.
“WHAT GIBBERISH are you talking, child?” Safiya demanded the following afternoon of the four-year-old in rumpled muslin clothes, who bounced beside her on the sheet-covered floor, babbling aloud in a foreign tongue. Around them in the upstairs ladies’ sitting room, women fanned themselves and talked in low tones as they waited for the afternoon meal.
“An-nah taught it to me,” Saboor said gravely. “It's called ‘Hey, Diddle Diddle.’ It is about a cat who plays a sarod and a cow that jumps so-o-o high!” He flung his arms over his head. “And a small dog who—”
“Enough, child!” Safiya rumbled. “I am too tired to listen to such nonsense. Ah,” she glanced through the curtained doorway, “your father has come. See how well he is walking now.”
Watching her nephew approach, Safiya rejoiced in Hassan's improvement since the previous night. He had bathed. Someone had washed his hair and combed it back, so that it curled behind his ears. His beard was neatly trimmed. Dark circles still lay beneath his eyes, and his broad, fair-skinned face had thinned, making his broken nose more prominent than before, but in his fine, embroidered muslins, he looked almost like himself.
Allah be praised, his wounded thigh was no longer hugely swollen and inflamed, with pustules breaking out all over it. For the past week, he had been able to sleep on his back, not stretched out on his stomach. All that was needed now was for the open wound to finish closing safely. He had also begun to use his injured left hand.
It had taken all Safiya's healing arts to keep him alive after he had been brought into the haveli, sixteen hours after his battle. It had taken all the family's prayers to drive away the illnesses that had later threatened his life.
As Hassan stepped out of a pair of embroidered slippers with upturned toes, Saboor ran to him. “Abba!” he
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