The trip to Murshidabad was planned in advance by my brother Nirmal, who weeks before our journey, handed us some books on the history of Murshidabad and the Battle of Plassey. He was an ardent admirer of Siraj-ud-Daulah, the young Nawab of Bengal who had dared to challenge the East India Company.

By the time we set off on that historic trail, our little party of travellers was more or less conversant on the history of the area. “Things would certainly have been different had Mir Jafar not been a traitor,” I said, initiating the conversation.

“For sure, but Mir Jafar could not squander away his chances of becoming the next Nawab, even if it meant betraying his own kin,” said Nirmal. “How did Clive reach Palashi?” asked Mallika, my sister-in-law.

“It says here that prior to 22 June, Clive and his men were already stationed at Katwa. On that day, he and his troops crossed the Bhagirathi and reached Palashi,” said Rajib, my husband, reading out loud from one of the books Nirmal had given us.

“Siraj was only 23 years old when he was thrown into this history-altering battle,” I added.

“History is unkind and you have to learn your lessons. India’s history is strewn with tales of betrayal and clearly this was not to be the first or last time a ruler was betrayed by his own men,” refuted Nirmal.

Excitement ran high as we finally reached Palashi after a four hour drive. Lush paddy fields, a thicket of mango trees, and the Bhagirathi flowing by, seemed like a setting one would find in any other part of Bengal.

As we rambled on at a leisurely pace through the fragrant mango thicket, my feet started telling from the four hour long drive. I chose a large rock to sit as the exhaustion of the journey and the beauty of the place surrounded me.

Before I knew it, I was day-dreaming about the history of the area while enacting the scenes in my mind.

The crafty and manipulative Clive surely would not have left anything to chance and his strategic moves bore the hallmark of military precision. His gamble in luring Mir Jafar into inaction in exchange for Nawab-hood had paid-off and as a commander turned against his own king, a winning battle was lost while a reluctant Siraj had no choice but to be led to safety.

I suddenly woke up with a jerk as a sharp object hit my back, causing me to almost lose my balance. On regaining my composure, I realised I had lost the other members of our group.

As I got up and started searching for my party, I glanced upon a pair of eyes, peeping out at me from behind a mango tree.

“Who is there? Come out in the open!” I shouted, attempting to keep the sound of fear and apprehension away from my voice.  The eyes disappeared.

I walked towards the tree purposefully and pulled out from behind it a dark, lanky boy of about nine or ten years of age. He held a slingshot in his hand and he looked funny in his oversized dirty Bermudas with a headband woven from dry grass and hay which he wore like a crown.

“You hit me, you stupid boy!” I feigned anger, attempting to boost my confidence.

“Yes, I hit you! This is my area and you should have taken my permission to enter. I hit everyone who does not,” he fired back.

His big bright eyes in his dark little face looked at me unblinkingly.

“This place belongs to you? You little brat! Who are you, a king?” I rebuked.

“Don’t you know that I am Nawab Sirajudula!” he yelled with a dramatic flourish of his hands.

Against my better judgement, I felt greatly amused by this little urchin.

“If you are really Siraj, then I am Queen Victoria.” I mocked.

“Does Victoria wear a saree, then?” he chuckled.

Not one to be outdone, I replied “Does Siraj wear shorts?”

He burst out laughing and I joined in, seriously impressed by this rural munchkin who had taken on an educated Calcuttan.

“Seriously, Nawab Sahab, why did you hit me? I was just resting here. I meant no harm,” I said.

“I had to collect some mangoes for my group and last week some elders took away all the ripe fruit. My boys did not even get one and this is our place, our haunt. We do not let outsiders come here,” he quipped.

On seeing the disbelief in my eyes, he said “I know you do not believe me but see for yourself.”

The self-proclaimed Siraj blew a shrill whistle and within a minute I was surrounded by a group of young boys with slingshots in their hands, roughly their leader’s age.

“What is going on here? Back off you rascals! Leave her alone!” to my relief, said Rajib accompanied by Nirmal and Mallika.

“Sorry, sir, they will not disturb you.” said an old man rushing towards us wearing a kurta and lungi.

“Run you little demons!” he said, shooing little Siraj and his group away.

“Please don’t mind these fellows, sir. These boys are a nuisance and they do this to everyone who enters this grove. They claim ownership of this place,” he told us apologetically.

“Don’t worry, I understand.” I reassured the man while chuckling in my mind, about this game of claiming ownership that boys and men love to play everywhere.

“I run a tea stall close by and I would be grateful if you all come and have some tea and snacks,” he said.

This voluntary hospitality aroused suspicion that in all probability the leading prankster was his kin, and I asked him if he knew that little boy.

“He is my son Raja. I married very late and he is our first born and naturally we got a little carried away in pampering him. Look how he has turned out now, idling about all day, stealing mangoes, and calling himself Nawab Siraj.”

“Nawab indeed in a pauper’s family,” lamented the man.

“Don’t the people complain?” I inquired while smiling.

“They used to and he was even beaten up on some occasions. We are all tired of their antics and now we no longer pay any heed,” he replied sadly.

After a brief halt and some hot cups of tea accompanied with toast and ghugni we made our way to Hazarduari — the palace with a thousand doors. Events of the afternoon receding from our mind, we were again animatedly discussing the history of the surroundings. I could almost feel the love and hatred; crimes and passion; conspiracies of men and women, resonating in the air. If only these walls could speak! How wealth and splendour dazzled and attracted avarice from near and far, and how Western strategy annihilated Eastern affluence, causing Murshidabad to fall.

On our return, we did not venture back to that mango grove, but we did stop at the tea stall for another round of tea and biscuits.

As I ventured behind the stall to wash my hands, I ran into our little “Nawab” and his “men”, steel plates in hand, after gulping down their evening snacks.

“Don’t be scared, Your Highness! We won’t disturb you again as we are going back,” I said, as I washed my hands with water from a misshapen aluminium pitcher.

“Wait!” called Raja and hurriedly gathered his boys together. They huddled and whispered with great alacrity, a head or two popping up now and then to look in my direction and quickly rejoined the urgently convened royal meeting.

I really did not have time to stand and I shook my head with a smile as I turned to leave to join the others.

“Here!” said Raja with a tug at my shawl.

In the course of the day he was now miraculously washed and combed as his mother must have caught hold of him.

“Take these mangoes for Queen Victoria,” he said, extending his hand towards me in which held four unripe mangoes.

Something shook inside me as I had nothing to give him in return. Hastily transferring their day’s bounty into my hands in the blink of an eye, Raja and his gang scrambled into the paddy fields, making neighing noises, imitating soldiers on war horses.

Raja’s father, the elderly tea stall owner, had come to see what was taking me so long and on seeing the mangoes in my hands, he understood my predicament.

“He has taken a fancy to you. Bless my son, Madam and pray that he grows into a decent human being,” he said.

Before we left, I gave the gentleman five hundred rupees to by some books for Raja, which he vehemently refused at first. He bid us farewell with folded hands as the car sped off. In the poignant silence, I bade farewell to Palashi as my eyes followed the mango trees and paddy fields. Way off in the distance, Raja and his friends looked like tiny figurines running across the landscape.