1831 A Village In Northern India
1 Duel

"Oh god!" Norgate exclaimed as he fell.

The Lancer clasped the dirt hard, clawing tightly with his right hand. He looked up, holding his bloody bosom with his other hand, at his foe's fiery features. At once his countenance betrayed regret, fear and remorse. A red delta fingered its way across the ground, spreading into a sticky quagmire. His blood. His arrogance was his downfall, but the tall Indian leaning above him was to face retribution for this violent act. Norgate looked up from the ground as one of his associates took up the challenge in his stead.

Captain Radcliffe of the Fourteenth Regiment of Light Dragoons was the new challenger. Radcliffe tore out his sabre to face the tall swarthy Sikh Horseman, who swung his curved blade, chiding Radcliffe as Norgate gulped, unable to focus on the two men. The Lancer's his head stroked the warm red wine oozing from his flesh onto the now wet ground. Life wheedled out, and he fainted into oblivion. Radcliffe had seen his partner collapse onto the earth. The stand off was now between Radcliffe and the Akali Sikh.

The Sikh horsemen would fairly often challenge the army to single combat. Normally they would be ignored, but on this occasion the expired Lancer and the Dragoon had accepted the Sardar's challenge. Radcliffe decided to show the heathen the might of the English blade. How awful that the perfidious blunt sabre failed the Lancer against the native's Kirpan, he thought.

The two adversaries charged at the same time, a loud chinging emanating from the clashing blades, each swirling in the air. The ballet had taken only seconds, before a fresh slash severed the Dragoon's flesh. Radcliffe breathed out, chest expanded, front foot forward; sword aimed at the Akali's chest.

The Akali adopted a horse saddle stance, shoulders slightly hunched, his metal canine whizzing in the air between the two adversaries. There was no smile, no jeering on the bearded visage, just a determined steely look. The man was overpowering owing to his height, and the appearance of his plain but unique blue attire lending an edge to his wild and fierce attitude. What an ally he would have made, Radcliffe thought.

Radcliffe circled his enemy, confused by the unusual Asian approach to duelling, but satisfied that the first cut was his. A moment later Radcliffe stabbed at the blue warrior, who swung his right foot behind the left, forcing the Dragoon to launch in front of him. Now the Sikh took his stroke. Luckily, the Englishman was speedy enough to block the cutting edge of the scheming scythe. Radcliffe's blunt instrument had no conclusive impact on the Punjabi's turban, scratching loudly across the quoits protecting the Sikh's head. Radcliffe did not have time to ponder his enemy's nonchalance towards the wound weeping on the Akali Sikh's left side. A square plain metal plate, surrounded by some chain mail on the arms to protect it, protected the Sikh’s chest.

Radcliffe could hear the jibes and jaunts in the loud foreign tongue of the Punjabis. He could also hear the encouraging cheers of his comrades. The din had only broken his concentration for a split second; it was enough for the Sikh's Kirpan to cut his forearm deep above his wrist. Radcliffe felt the blade burn through his flesh as it slid out.
" Ahhrgh!" He gasped, loosening his grip, turned towards the Sikh and kicked him backwards. He then quickly transferred his blade to his left hand, blocking a downward sweep, and parrying an upward jab. They were equally wounded, but the Nihang, as these blue clad Sikhs were often known, seemed to be intoxicated and immune to the reality of his own injury. The two men adjusted their stances. On Radcliffe's left, the dead Lancer was lifted by two Redcoats and taken aside. They were from among the nine men standing behind Radcliffe, next to the village well. Five of them were natives from Bengal; the others were a mixture of the Lancer Regiment and the King's Dragoons.

" Come on, old man! Finish the bloody wog!" One said angrily.
" By God, get him for Norgate!" Encouraged another.

The Akali horsemen standing directly opposite now hollered and screamed in their own language.

'Kill the foreigner!' One Shouted in Punjabi.
'Cut the white devil's chest, brother!' Added another.
So the clamour became louder. The villagers, a cosmopolitan mixture of Sikhs, Hindus and Muslims, watched from a safe distance, as the Akali leaped forward shouting "Wah Guru Ji, Ki Fateh!" at Radcliffe. The sun was eclipsed by his fearsome shadow for a moment. The next instance, the sabre wind milled silently in the air as it was thrown up. Before it had landed a shot scorched the midday sky, smashing through the Akali's forehead. Bone and brain matter pushed into the back of the conical turban, the Dastaar Bunga he was wearing. He swung to his left and then thudded into the now sloppy mud ridden ground, where Norgate's face had made its
imprint.

The village became silent.

Both sides drew swords in unison and raised rifles in the otherwise audible silence. Stunned, the watching villagers clung to each other, ran away, hid behind walls or within their homes. Radcliffe took all of this in as his eyes swooped around. He raised his left hand, as if to block the inevitable gunshot, from lacerating his limbs.

"No! Hold your fire! This is insane! Stay at ease Gentlemen. At ease! Right, Ninder, tell them we will not fire! It was an unwarranted shot. And as Captain and senior man here, I shall deal with the culprit! Remind them of who began this fray. The villagers’ blood will otherwise be on all our hands! This will be reported to our seniors and the court at Lahore."
Radcliffe listened, as the Bengali translated in general Hindi. " Gentlemen, sheath your swords. Lower your guns."
" Captain, really, these darkies…"
" Do as I tell you, damn it!"
Radcliffe reflected upon how the present situation had unravelled. The East India Company were ' Guests' in the Kingdom of Maharaja Ranjit Singh, the Lion of Punjab. They were here to trade and ensure the Company's security from Russian and French interests. Despite there being a treaty between the two powers, many of the Akalis did not trust the British. This may have been on account of the constant presence of a military force protecting the Company. Or the sheer religious fanaticism of the Akali Sikh. Slowly the Nihangs (as they were often called) put away their matchlocks and blades. To all that were present, the potential for further bloodshed peeled painfully.
This was how Radcliffe first met the Sikh's warrior saints, on his first operation into Punjab on the behest of the Company. This is what Satwant, a small Sikh boy of ten, witnessed, peering from behind his mother's side. The boy realised that one day, both the Sikhs and British would clash. And for the victor it would be a bloody conquest. Satwant knew his own fate would entangle him in this future, for the fortune teller his mother went to (despite the anger and cynicism of his holy father, a farmer) predicted intrigue would entrench his life. That he would have to tread carefully. Satwant watched Radcliffe climb onto his horse, followed by the others. The British then slowly passed by the Akalis who glared at them all the way across the well to the village rim. Radcliffe's steed moved by the child, and he smiled down at the infant. An instinct in Satwant told him that this white man too would wade into his kismet.

******

1839 Dreams and Conspiracy
2 Dreamer

The dawn doused the sky with its pink hue as clouds glowed gold-pink over the plains of the Punjab, the ranks of wheat and files of barley. A rooster grasped the top of a wall, expanded his chest, let out a loud " Cooker - oh - rooh!" Slowly the sky became blue; the sun shimmered over its edge and peeped at the waking world. In the village of Padori, the early birds readied themselves for the day's chores. Holy Sikhs recited Jap Ji after bathing; Muslims the nawaz and Hindus visited their temple's Gods. Others went straight to farming. In many houses, wives prepared rotis and parotahs for their men, to eat out in the field. It was to be another day in the rural Punjab.
Satwant Singh Sandhu rolled off his wicker bed as his mother called out to him. He dragged himself over to the water basin, washed his face and cleaned his teeth with a piece of sugar cane. Then stroking the slight beard edging around his jaw line, he picked up a towel and headed for the tub. Satwant's mother, Preetum Kaur, had already filled the tub with the village well's water. Nand Singh his father was sitting on top of his own wicker bed, reciting the morning prayer. Satwant was as devoted as Nand (who was seen as rather Puritan by most people. People more influenced by Hindu customs fused with their faith). He respected and understood his father's views. He found himself attracted to idols, though, and paintings of Gurus and other practises frowned upon by the religion common at this time. The fact was that most villagers would not be able to name more than a couple of the Gurus, probably followed Sants, or were Sikh only in name. Even those who were spiritual occasionally became Nihangs. These mighty Akali warriors roamed the land free, doing as they wished, never paying, always intoxicated on marijuana and up for a fight. Their spirit was commendable, but Satwant's father believed they gave a false image of Sikhs. Holy God fearing ones anyway, who did not smoke or drink. A simple farmer, Nand disapproved of Preetum's fixation with many traditions, which he considered a Sikh, should reject, and never spoke highly of the court at Lahore. Satwant was fascinated with the stories he had heard about the Maharaja's court and city. He was less in awe of the prayers and simple life he led, regardless of his moral devotion. He simply wanted more than a provincial life and these beliefs were not enough. Unknown to him today would change that forever.
After the Jap Ji had been recited, father and son joined Preetum in the small kitchen area where she made their food on a metal stove placed over cow manure. A large pot of boiling water contained lentils, which would provide the daal for tonight. Satwant observed as his mother mixed water with chappati flour, kneaded into a dough and then tore small pieces which were rolled into disks of flat bread, flung onto the tuva, where they cooked into large five millimetre thick rotis. Working on the village Sardar's land would require all the energy they could gain, and simple village food best suited this.

" Ma, can I have lots of butter on mine?" Satwant asked.
" You can son. Bapu Ji, how about you sir? " She always called Nand Singh Bapu at home. It would seem strange to refer to her husband as ' father' in public.
" No. Sattee , I want you to take the cart with Beant to the market. Load all of the barley and sugar cane. We also need to buy more chickens."
" Yes Sir," Satwant did not like Beant, but the man was as strong and large as a bull. Nand did not appreciate risking his harvest to thieves. No doubt, Krishan, Beant's annoying son would accompany them. Preetum smiled as her daughter, Avatar Kaur came in.
" Sit, sit. Aloo parotahs or roti?" she enquired.
" Roti and pickle," Avatar Kaur was a confident young girl of twelve. Her face was moon shaped, with a countenance just as fair. The raven hair just showed beneath her chunnee. Preetum was glad that Nand was a man of principle. A Jat Sikh, who put his honour before everything, except for his family and strong faith in the Guru Granth Sahib. His interpretation of the Holy Scriptures made it crystal clear to Nand, that men and women were equal. He would never marry his daughter too young, or to a man much older. This pleased Preetum immensely, and gave her daughter a sureness that other villagers she considered to be backward took as impertinent. Satwant as the oldest had to be married first.
Avatar quietly ate her food, not once looking up at the others. Nand observed his son's face. The boy was eighteen, it was 1839 and in his case marriage was important. Nand knew of Satwant's wondrous mind and his respect for his father. The boy needed to be married soon before he embarked on a directionless life. He needed to have the responsibility of family. Nand himself had married when he was fifteen and Preetum had had Satwant, when he was eighteen.
" Before that, I need you to help me plough the field and feed our cattle. Maji," his usual retort to Bapu Ji. " You are going to see Seesou today?"
" Yes Sir," Preetum now joined them.
" How is her daughter?"
" Not bad. She's a growing girl, quite pretty,"
"Her father rents a half acre of land from Sardar Ji. He is one of the wealthiest in the village."
" And she has no brothers, just her maternal cousin-brothers."
" They'll probably get the land, if Harpal does not marry her."
" She's sixteen. A little young, but the village is already gossiping. Your influence on Bhaji is too much. It'll get us all in trouble, " Preetum flung her Chunnee over her shoulder.
For the first time Avatar looked up, directly at her brother. He still had not understood the small talk tennis match. How exciting! There would be a wedding in the family!
" Has anyone proposed to Harpal?" Nand enquired.
" No marriage monger has come forth." Preetum replied. Marriage mongers or
Batcholahs were the traditional middlemen. There main use was to introduce families, and introduce the prospective relatives, especially at weddings. Very useful if marrying into another village. However locally the Jagir, the Sardar Ji knew everyone. Really a matchmaker was not required, but it was the done thing. Nand often ignored the done thing. Stone age Hindu practise! Nand was as subtle as an elephant charging through the Jungle, when it came to respecting traditions.
Satwant still had not shown interest. He finished his food, placed the thal next to the water bowl to be washed and stood up.
" Sat sri akal, I'll be at the field. Once we're done I'll see if Beant's awake, then I'll go to the barn." Nand nodded in acknowledgement. The instant Satwant had left, a great audible sigh released itself in the room.
" Taro, how would you like a sister-in-law?" Preetum asked.
" Very much. But did Sattee understand?" She questioned.
" Oh, I think he did girl. I'm sure of it. We will wait a while though, for it to sink in. Now both of you go to Harpal's achaa?" Nand also got up and deposited his food ware and then left for the field.
Both father and son went about their agrarian chores in the field, without a whisper of the marriage proposal. Each knew the other thought about it. It was market day, and that alone with the work at hand distracted the two of them.
Later Satwant slowly walked past the square clay houses with their white washed faces, around the village well, across the chownk shaded by a banyan tree where the village gathered to make any community decisions. He finally paused outside a grotty windowless hut, from which voices could be heard. It was Beant's humble abode. Satwant took a deep breath and bellowed out,
" Beant Chacha! It's Sattee! Dad sent me!"
" Come in!" a high pitched voice whistled out.
Satwant marched straight in to the hut. There were only three rooms. Two bedrooms, through whose doorless mouths wicker beds with shawls sprawled across them, could be seen. One large room with a heath in the corner, where a woman, head covered perched above the stove making rotis. Beant Singh crouched as if on a saddle, near the centre of the room, wearing a loincloth and a hastily tied puggree around his large head. Krishan could not be seen.
" Sit down. Have some roti?" Beant insisted in a squeaky voice that simply did not match his build. Satwant did not entertain him. He looked about for Krishan.
" Where is Krishan? " he probed.
" Out, back, tying our bushels. We too have some crops to sell. You won't mind us bringing them? " Beant's tone was more of an order.
" No. If there's space. I'm going to feed the cattle. Then I'll meet you beside the chownk. Is Krishan coming with us?"
"Why, of course. Is there an objection?"

" No Chacha Ji, the more of us, the better, eh?"
" Yes I agree." Beant was not Satwant's Chacha: father's younger brother. It was a typical term of respect used in villages to all senior men, if appropriate. This was decided by the age of the person, who could also be called Maser Ji (Mother’s sister's husband or a sibling's in-law) or Baba Ji (Grand dad).
Satwant turned to the older man's wife. " Sat Sri akal, Chachi Ji," he nodded, hands together out of respect.
" Sat sri Akal son. You sure you don't want some food?"
" Thank you. But no, I've already eaten. " He left bidding " Sat Sri Akal " to Beant by placing his hands together. It was a few minutes walk to the barn, where his father had two bullocks and three Brahmin cows. He needed to talk to Krishan now for certain. Krishan would know what Harpal's daughter was like. He was that type of boy. Satwant categorically did not want to be married. But what could he do? If Harpal agreed, they would be engaged. Unlike most boys for whom marrying Harpal's daughter would present an opportunity to gain land, he did not care. His heart was interested in adventure. His holy upbringing made Amritsar a natural pulling force, but this satellite found Lahore more attractive. Yes Taro would love the marriage. At her age, going to people weddings was exciting. And one where she actively participated! Still she was too young to have any serious effects on his father's decision. He knew they understood he had fully absorbed what they said. He could ponder it until the end of the world. If Harpal said yes, then neither he nor the girl could walk away from the marriage. The elders always made the decisions. He wondered if one day things would be different.
Satwant's thoughts quickly receded, as he found himself stopping still next to the well (he had gone back on the left-hand side of the well), and instinctively he sprinted away. That spot was eerie. It had been wet and muddy for years. In fact ever since a group of Englishmen and Nihangs has clashed there years before. The excitement of it had always stayed with him. He ran until he came to the barn, almost toppling over a trickle of women, carrying clay water vessels upon their heads. He momentarily paused for breath, and then shook out the image of the violence from childhood. The marriage. Worry about the marriage. He knew at some juncture his father would have to involve a middleman. A marriage monger in effect. This batcholah would have to take care of all the formalities. Perhaps no one who knew the two families would volunteer? The chances were that it would be Sardar Ji. As landlord he knew everyone. Then again the girl might not be all that terrible. Marriage was a game of Russian roulette. No one knew whom one would marry. In Satwant's opinion there were couples completely mismatched, for the gain of land, status or honour. Men who looked like the hindquarters of baboons marrying princesses. Women who were a deep mahogany marrying men who were as pallid as the British. Still it was up to the parents he thought. For the potential partners it was a game of chance.
Satwant pounced over the fence into the paddock. The strong smell of cow dung mingled with that tingling sensation one experiences on a hot midsummer's day that smells like a burning fire, which always reminds one of India or some other such hot place. The Brahmins seemed oblivious to Satwant's arrival. He speedily went about his tasks. He guided the reluctant oxen to his cart and loaded the items for market, making only sufficient space for the addition of Beant's crops. A bale of hay was laid before the bulls, which lethargically munched away as the young man tided up the barn. He then pulled open the gate and drove the consignment out. By the time it was locked again, Beant and Krishan had arrived.
The most striking aspect to Krishan was how unstriking he was. He was wholly bland; lentil daal without masala. His face resembled a hatchet, wearing a formless nose, sagging beneath button black eyes, which were all the more alarmingly saucer-like; due to the soft almost erased away eyebrows. His silkily hair was tied in a knot beneath a shambles of a puggree; his jutting jaw line itching with a wisp of a beard. Satwant dared not stare too long at Krishan's face, as the visage might fade away into the shadows, thoroughly forgotten. Satwant always forgot what he looked like until he met him again. Then he was sure, the picture he painted was different from the previous one. The rest of Beant's boy was a stick insect, covered in the roughest of village rags.
The two arrivals climbed up onto the cart. Beant sat at the rear end, a long oak pole in his hands. The bland boy perched next to Satwant, who tugged the ropes, starting off the stout bulls, which slowly spiralled out past the village well towards the dusty road to the market.

* * * *

Beant despite himself had spread himself between the soft barley and tight hard bundles of sugar cane and fallen asleep. His loud leviathan snores (So different from his squeaky voice!), splashed across the bales, tsunami waves over the boys.
" Your father is really loud." Satwant said.
" Not as loud as yours…” began Krishan.
" Don't start down that path. He is suppose to be protecting me. My Bapu is in the field, trusting us with this consignment. All I get is a sleeping bear and an ant for company!" he retorted.
" I'd watch your mouth Sandhu!" Krishan achieved the impossible. An expressive face.
" Now, now. If you’re such a man, you'd know much more than me about the village."
" I do."
" Even about the women?"
" What exactly about the women?"
" Who is who? What is what, that's what."
" Ask me then. And I'll prove it."
" Achaa. Seesau's daughter. How old, what she like. Is she with honour? Why hasn't she married?"
" Married? What about you, you old man!" Krishan laughed, " Wait a second. Ahh. Ha ha ha ha. Has your father been approached by them? A batcholah?"
" You haven't answered my question. And if you have to ask, that's proof you know nothing." Satwant beamed.
" Sixteen year's old. Pretty. No brother. Only child," he leaned towards Satwant, " land for you. Maybe one day you'll own it all, the whole Jagir!" he stood up,
stretched his arms and shouted.
" Ssshh! Don't wake him up!"

Krishan sat back down, grinned inanely and without warning whisked on a serious face. Satwant found himself leaning towards Krishan with his full attention.
" Her name is Ranbir. She's called Rani and from what I know her character is respectable. She is quite a diminutive creature. She has almond eyes, a petite nose, and her teeth are in perfect order! Harpal's strictness means she will be homely and unquestioning. She is aware that whomever she marries will inherit everything her father has. Brother, if only I could find such a Batcholah, I'd marry her!"
Satwant realised that the girl did not seem to be a bad bet. But was it what he really wanted? He looked around him. His father would spend all morning in the field. Then when the sun seared the plains, he would siesta, and back again in the afternoon. Social life involved going to the market, sitting amongst friends at the chownk getting drunk and visits to the temple. Occasionally there was a village mela, a festival. Vaisakh bought harvest time, and some bhangra. Hola Mahalla bought some martial action. Other then that, prior to diwali there was only the odd wedding with its glitter, or the birth of a boy. There was rare occasion to go to the nearest towns, let alone the cities. To the rest of his peers, Lahore, Multan and Amritsar were so far away. He turned to Krishan.
" Why don't you ask your father to marry you then?"
" Sattee be serious. I don't think one girl in this village would say yes. Dad's always asking around at market, you know, from other villagers. And does it matter? Who knows what she will be like, one just does what one is told."
" True." Satwant pondered.
" Don't sound too sad. At least you know a little about yours. I mean your potential partner. Still its not like there's a choice. Be happy it’s her. If you don't marry soon…your not contrary are you?"
" Shut your dirty mouth!" Satwant smacked Krishan so hard, he fell back, toppling a bundle onto Beant, who jumped up with a start, flailing his staff around, then settled and swore at his son. Satwant laughed. The market was not too far away now. In the distance, a field could be seen with ubiquitous cattle, pigs and goats. Farmers were darting in between the animals going about their business. What had caught Satwant's eye though, was bursts of dust rising and running like a willow-o-wisp across the adjacent field. Slowly the Powdery cloud revealed the outline of horses, men and Elephants!

* * * * *

Two score of men pounded across the field towards the humming market. Men in plumed turbans on elegant Arabs draped in silks rode beside several elephants. One such horse had a young lithe boy wearing shorts holding onto it's tail. Behind him a young princely boy, proudly pulled at the reign of his white steed. His turban's plume raised high up, a long silver spear in his hand, he was a sight to behold. The tail of his white puggree flowed behind like the mane of a Peacock, feathers fanned. His skin tight salwar chemise extenuating his muscles glistened with myriad pearls, precious stones and metal bangles. His long earrings glittered, a galaxy of stars. Behind him an oder man with similar attire rode, flanked by young warriors on foot carrying targets and matchlocks, and followed by in contrast an Akali on horseback blanched in blue. Others rode in-between the huge elephants, wearing chain armour; Huns on Raffael's Vatican fresco. The field was splattered with masses of horsemen. Boy servants in their loincloths and miniturbans steered the elephants; or rode on the hindsides struggling to keep on. On each elephant was a golden box, intricately carved, carrying important men; some in plate armour, in deep conversation with each other. The cuirassiers in their plated armour stroked the sky with flags of green silk triangles depicting Indian deities and symbols. These bodyguards rode behind the more important Sikhs, doused in expensive silks, gold and armour. These bejewelled warriors carried bows, bludgeons, maces and swords astride the gold box seats upon the elephants. The contrast between lords and their plainly dressed grooms was apparent. As if some satellite insect, bearing upon a heavy beasts body, jetting in, out and around, a stream of elfish boys ran beside the riders, occasionally turning over their hands on the dusty field, for display and amusement. The young boy holding the horse's tail was amongst them. The scene was a Soltykoff come to life.
Ahead of this impressive horde, rode an arrow of the Khalsa. Several men in various navy blue and saffron, accompanied the mismatched guard of the local jagir: the Sardar Ji who owned the village of Padori as well as the market, and a handful of others hereabouts. Sardar Swarn Singh. There was another man who rode beside Swarn clad in Persian armour.
" What's happening here? Are they gonna attack the market? Kill? Or are they hunting?" Krishan excitedly splattered.
" You are stupid, eh? That's the Khalsa army! There probably here to hunt, " Beant knocked the staff against his offspring's back. " Then again, there's no jungle near here?"
" I think they're from Lahore! Or Multan!" Satwant tugged at the reigns, to speed up the cart. It was a pointless manoeuvre for the party was already half a mile ahead, halfway between the snail like cart and the market.
" Don't get too excited Sattee, your here to trade. I'm trading my crops! Concentrate on what we're here for, achaa?" Beant squeaked. " I know of your silly fantasies. You want to join that lot? As what? Servant?"
" I'm a Jat!" Satwant expanded his chest " Not a lower caste."
" Perhaps. City folk are strange. And these fanatics are something else. Your no warrior."
" What do you know about anything cha-cha?" Satwant was annoyed. He was curious about the horde that had now reached the market.
When Satwant's cart crossed into the market field, most of the new arrivals had disembarked from their elephants. Some of them wondered about the market. Others stood warily watching everyone else. Most of them had gathered with the rest of the people around a chownk where Swarn Singh stood with the armoured warrior. The Sardar was making an announcement.
Satwant pulled hard on the bullocks’ reigns. Before Beant or Krishan realised he had jumped from the cart and raced through the traders, farmers and villagers near to the front of the throng. He pushed his hands on someone's shoulders trying to gain a glimpse. He attempted to push another aside and was thrown down by someone else onto the ground. A hand reached down to grab his. He looked up at digits encased in rubies, jade and amber; wrist covered in a gold Kara and a swarm of pearls. He allowed the arm to pull him up. It belonged to the young man he had seen on the horse earlier. The latter ignored him and looked ahead. This young man was from Lahore, Amritsar or Anandpur! Satwant knew it. He fell onto his belly, temporally tempting the interest of the Sikh and crawled between a man's legs to the frontline. He stood up and discovered a relic Nihang next to him. He smiled at the man shook his hand and hugged him. People dared not say anything frightened of the Akali. In front of Satwant, Swarn stood with his Sikhs. These men were a contrast in attire and attitude to the man Swarn was speaking about.
"…and they are here today, searching for new recruits. The Maharajah is not fully in health anymore. The other states have their eyes on Lahore! The Afghans watch. The Moguls watch. The Ferrangi watch! And what loyalty do the Phulkian Maharajahs really have?" he paused for effect. " The Buddha and Taruna Dal need you! The Lion's fauj-I-din needs you!" He then stepped back.
The armoured man came a pace forward as a loud applause lifted from the crowd, creating such a din that some of the animals reared, screamed and tussled. Satwant looked aghast. He could only assume this man had already been introduced or was famous. He studied him.
The man wore tanned deerskin boots to below his knees, covering a white cotton pyjama. He had a chain mail jacket that reached his knees, a decorated breastplate and large talwar. Above his turban was a steel helmet plumed with peacock. A layer of chain sprouting out of his turban protected the back of his neck.
" I understand what the East India are after. They will divide the Punjab amongst itself. They will allow us to do their task for them! Then there will be annexation! Mark my words people! Come today! Leave behind your women! Your families for a greater cause! I beseech you, take baptism and clasp the folds of the beloved!" There was passion in his voice, despite the gentle dulcet tones in which he spoke. " There is a priest with us for those who are not Khalsa! There is a Brahmin for those who are Hindu! There is a Mullah for those who are Muslim! Join the Fauj-I-Ain! We will be in this region for the next few days!" Satwant looked straight into the old man's eyes. They were sharp, his eyebrows flowing over the almond eyes drawn by a fine brushstroke. The keen nose sloped down above pointed whiskers. " Wah Guru Ji Ki Khalsa , Wah Guru Ji Ki Fateh!"
The man stepped back beside Swarn Singh. " Hail Nalwa!" the people around Satwant shouted. He looked again at the old man. My God! It was one of the King's generals. Hari Singh Nalwa! The man was here to recruit! Here! Such an opportunity would not easily come to Satwant's life again! He could run off and leave his humdrum life! And go to Lahore, Multan or Amritsar with a man who became known as Nalwa, after having cloven the head of a Tiger, which thought the warrior was
Lunch! A legend! But what of mother? Of Taro and father? And the wedding? Was there not a greater opportunity?
Satwant watched several men queue to sign up. They were placing thumbprints on some sheets the Sardar held. Swarn Singh would tell his father. Swarn would not let him go if he knew of the wedding proposal. Satwant's family had not approached him yet. Satwant could always come to the camp these people would set up. Then he could go without being recognised. He noticed many of the people had now gone back to their trading. A fair number went forward to join. He felt Krishan slide to his side, before he saw him.
" You're not are you?"
" Watch me." Satwant replied.

*******

Part 2 Continued ->>>>>