The World Beyond by Sangeeta Bhargava

was because she belonged to a poor family. Or perhaps it was because she was one of the few begums who were not scared of her. But if there was one person who could prevent Avadh from falling into the hands of the British, it was Hazrat Ammi.

    It was early evening when the hunting party passed the fields of sugar cane on the outskirts of Faizabagh. Salim brought Afreen to a halt. The twenty-odd horsemen accompanying him halted as well. He looked impatiently at the bullock and baggage carts that formed the tail of the hunting party. He had insisted on not bringing any elephants along as they would have slowed them down. But he could not say no to the carts. They were needed to carry all the tents and utensils as well as the servants. And those slowcoaches were even more sluggish than the elephants would have been. Just then, the sound of a bullock cart coming from the direction of the village drew his attention. ‘HALT! Who goes there?’ he called out.
    The driver, clad in a dhoti and vest, approached Salim with joined hands. ‘Salaam, Chote Nawab. I’ve been destroyed, My Lord,’ he wailed. ‘My wife, my beautiful wife …’ He stopped speaking to wipe his tears with the edge of the cloth draped across his shoulders.
    ‘Ya Ali, why? What happened to her?’ asked Salim.
    ‘She gone to draw water from the well this morning. The tigress appeared out of nowhere. She struck a fatal blow to her face. Her beautiful face …’
    Salim put a consoling arm on his shoulder. ‘I’m sorry, kaka. Don’t worry, we’ll avenge her death.’
    ‘Good luck to you, Chote Nawab,’ the villager replied. ‘I take no chances. I take my children far away to safety.’
    Looking thoughtfully towards the village, Salim asked, ‘Tell me, kaka, do you think the tigress is still in the village?’
    ‘I don’t think so, My Lord. She was last seen ambling towards the forest.’
    Salim nodded. The villager raised his hand to his forehead, bowed and backed away to his cart.
    The baggage carts had caught up with the rest of the hunting party by now. Salim looked at Khurram baba, who had accompanied his father as well as his grandfather on several hunting expeditions. All Salim knew about hunting and the birds and the bees, he had learnt from him. Khurram baba signalled to him and they started moving again.
    Soon they were in Faizabagh. The entire village was deserted. Salim stopped under a mango tree. A parrot took flight as he approached, letting a half-eaten mango splat on the ground. He looked around. He could see a diseased stray dog sniffing a rubbish heap intently. A crow cawed atop the roof of a hut. Other than that, there was not a soul to be seen. The silence was eerie.
    ‘Looks like the tigress has scared the hell out of them,’ Ahmed said. ‘I cannot conceive what might have turned her into a maneater.’
    ‘Some of the villagers who saw her say she was limping,’ said Salim. As he and Ahmed trotted up to a nearby well, they noticed some pug marks. Salim drew in a sharp breath. Ahmed dropped his betel box, his mouth falling open as he saw the torn pieces of bloodstained clothes scattered near the well.
    Salim turned to his men. The servants were busy feeding the horses. ‘Let’s not dally,’ he ordered brusquely. ‘The tigress might still be on the prowl. Start moving.’

    There was a sudden drop in light and temperature as they reached the greenish-black woods – the colour of henna that has just been made into a paste. Salim’s hunting party trotted around looking for a good spot. Soon they came to a small clearing surrounded by a canopy of dense trees.
    ‘This is perfect. We’ll camp here,’ said Salim, as he got off his horse.
    As the servants got busy setting up the tents as well as the machan for the hunt, Salim and Ahmed ambled through the forest. They came upon a cave partially hidden from view by the branch of a neem tree.
    Ahmed peered into the cave. It was dark. He could see nothing. He looked at Salim.