"Get back in," Ammi said in a hoarse stage whisper, gesturing wildly with her arms at my sister and me. We ignored her and continued to look through the gaps in the curtains that separated the outer section of our old haveli, from the inner world, where we womenfolk spent our lives.

Beyond the veil, Abbu was talking to a group of men, dressed in armour and armed to the teeth. Outside horses shuffled their hooves and hissed in the cold winter air.

“Where will the attack begin?” asked Abbu. I could recognize the fear in his voice, mixed with excitement and resolve.

“The barracks will be hit at sunrise, when the old Church bell strikes five,” said a tall, muscular man with a ragged beard. His kohl-lined eyes flashed in the half-lit durbar. “A dozen of us will take out the Church, after that.”

Abbu looked perturbed. “But, it’s the Christian Sunday tomorrow. There will be women and children there in the morning, Shahnawaz,” he said in an agitated voice. “It is not Allah’s will that we kill the innocent.”

So, this was Shahnawaz Alam Khan! The famous hero of the revolt, for the people of Awadh, and a villainous murderer for the British cantonment.

“Don’t be a coward, Jalaluddin,” Shahnawaz told Abbu. “The Goras don’t care when they kill our women and children. Why should we?”

Abbu did not reply, but he was clearly unhappy.

By now, Ammi had started pulling us back from the curtains, lest the soldiers saw us breaking purdah.

As we returned to bed, Amina asked me, “Appi, will the children in the Church be killed?”

“Not if I can help it,” I said, as I pulled the blanket over myself. I would have to wake up very early. It would be best to catch a few winks of sleep.

But, sleep eluded me that night. As the night sky began to fade slowly, I gently slipped out of bed and took out the pair of scissors that I had hidden under my mattress the previous night. I, then, tiptoed into the durbar hall.

There, in one corner hung Abbu’s embroidered achkan and shawl. I snipped off a lock of my hair. I now needed something to stick it on my upper lip. There was some gum on Abbu’s writing desk. I used a big dollop to stick the hair and fashion a rudimentary moustache, hoping that it would hold for the few hours that I need it to.

The unlit lamps had still not been cleaned. I scooped up some soot with my little finger and lined my eyes. Abbu’s white scarf became my turban. I looked at myself in the hallway mirror. In the dim light of the lanterns outside, I looked like an effeminate young man. I took some more soot and lightly spread it along my jawline. This time, the mirror reflected a swarthier male figure.

The Church bell chimed five times. I quietly squeezed out of the doorway. As soon as I was out, I began running towards the Church building. If everything had gone well, the soldiers would have attacked the East India Company army’s barracks by now. But, it would take them at least an hour to hit the Church.
 
As I barged through the Church door, the early morning congregation was just beginning to gather together. Sleepy children were being ushered into the pews by their weary mothers. The noise made them gasp and turn to look at me. They looked terrified, as they saw this strange ‘native’ inside their place of worship.

“I am not here to kill you,” I said, in the broken English that I had picked up from the British governess Abbu had hired to train us in English etiquette. Even though I had tried to make my voice deep, it sounded extremely feminine to my own ear.

“You need to rush back to your homes,” I urged them. “The soldiers are going to attack the Church any minute now.”

“Now. Go now!” I shouted waving my arms frantically, at the women and children, who were too stunned to react.

Then, all of a sudden, they gathered their wits, and began to rush out of the Church. It was almost a stampede, but the building emptied out very quickly. The women and children ran at full speed out of the gate. I ran behind them, looking eastwards towards the barracks, from where the soldiers were going to come. In less than five minutes, the Church had emptied out. I, too, ran back to our haveli.

As I entered the durbar hall, I could hear sounds of people stirring inside the inner quarters. I quickly discarded Abbu’s achkan, scarf and shawl, hurriedly putting them back on the hooks from where they had been hanging. I scampered into my bedroom as quickly as I could, and jumped into the bed, pulling the covers over me. The moustache and the kohl would have to be removed at some opportune moment, before the sun was fully up.

It was not to be. I must have dozed off in my disguise, because Amina was shaking me by my shoulder to wake me up.

She stared at me, in the broad day light, completely bewildered. “What happened to you, Appi?” she gasped. “Have you been visited by the night Djinns?”

“Shhh!” I whispered, putting a finger to my lips, and feeling my fake moustache. “Yes, Amina. The Djinns did visit me last night, and they helped me save the lives of more than a dozen women and children.”

“And, now, I’d better return the moustache to the Djinns,” I said, as I got out of bed.

Amina giggled knowingly.

Glossary:

Haveli: A haveli is a traditional townhouse or mansion in the Indian subcontinent, usually one with historical and architectural significance.

Abbu: father

Durbar: the court of an Indian ruler.

Revolt: the revolt of 1857

Goras: whites

Appi: sister

Achkan: a knee-length coat buttoned in front, worn by men from South Asia.

Djinns: a spirit or genie