Hazrat Mahal congratulates herself daily on her decision. Confined as she is to the zenana, the eunuch has become her eyes and ears. He haunts the markets of Lucknow, hanging around the stalls where he has made friends, and conveys the latest local gossip to his mistress every evening: what they are saying about the sovereign, what they are saying about the British, so much so that she is more up to date about the mood on the streets than anyone else in the harem, with the exception of the Queen Mother of course, who maintains an entire army of informers.
These days Hazrat Mahal is particularly attentive to the rumours. She has the impression that the British resident’s insolence is not a sudden whim; he has received orders and something serious is brewing. Thus, when the eunuch finally appears, she cannot contain her impatience.
“Well, Mammoo Khan, what news do you bring?”
“The people are discontent because the Angrez are increasingly disrespectful. Young greenhorns newly arrived from England, who are put in charge of the old, experienced sepoys, dare call them ‘niggers’21 or even ‘pigs’! It’s even worse when they happen to venture into the Chowk. They are incapable of distinguishing a prostitute from a great courtesan, so the latter close their doors to them. Then they make such a fuss, especially as they are very often drunk!”
“And what do they say about Jan-e-Alam?”22
“He is still much loved, but people complain he is hardly ever seen. They miss his weekly processions when anyone could place their petition in the silver boxes hanging on the side of his elephant. Everyone believes it is the Angrez who have prohibited these processions, that they are doing everything to keep him away from his people, but they say he is the king, and he should not listen to them!”
“Easier said than done!” Hazrat Mahal interrupts, shrugging her shoulders, exasperated. Until now, she has obstinately refused to doubt her husband, considering it the worst kind of betrayal, but of late she has had to face facts: progressively, the king has accepted everything, now it is the British who decide. She recalls the reforms the young man had undertaken at the beginning of his reign—reforms of the army, the legal system, the administration. She remembers his enthusiasm, his desire to help his people . . . and how, little by little, he had been discouraged by the endless objections, the obstacles, the warnings and the veiled threats proffered by the resident. The king knows the price to be paid for annoying the all-powerful East India Company; two thirds of the princely states have already been annexed.
With a fury born of despair, Wajid Ali Shah had taken refuge in his youthful passions—music and poetry. He spent his days and nights composing, versifying and dancing. The zenana had never been so joyful, it constantly welcomed new “fairies” and they produced the most elaborate shows.
Soon, the resident had cried foul and had complained to the Governor General23 Lord Dalhousie about the state of “debauchery” in this Court, where the sovereign neglected his responsibilities, concerned only with his pleasure. The governor had threatened, and the king had attempted to satisfy his demands, but no matter what he did, nothing found favour in the eyes of the Company. Therefore, to escape this inextricable situation, to forget the constant humiliations, he had again plunged into a whirlwind of parties.
He is unhappy. He is trying to drown his troubles . . . Ah, if only I could talk to him, encourage him to resist, assure him his people love him and support him . . . But he does not listen to me, I am only his fourth wife, and even his mother hardly has any influence over him . . .
Immobile, the eunuch awaits orders. She should not allow him to guess her distress; he is her faithful servant, not her confidant. She must not let him gain a hold over her. She knows how some eunuchs manage to influence their mistresses to such a degree that they end up controlling everything. She also knows Mammoo’s appetite for power, “Mammoo Khan”24 as she calls him, to satisfy his thirst for respectability. He, in fact, claims to be descended from aristocracy, and he does have a certain air about him. Small but well proportioned, he stands very straight, and his severe visage only lights up for her. Nonetheless, despite the interest shown by Hazrat Mahal, he has always remained discreet about his past and she suspects that, like many eunuchs, he is an illegitimate child who was abandoned or sold at birth. He is disliked in the palace, since whenever he feels either mocked or disdained, he takes revenge. She knows, but she does not care; what counts is that he would give his life to protect them—her son and herself.
Her son, she misses him so. Ever since he turned seven he had to move from the zenana into the men’s quarters. She had tried hard to delay the fateful moment, citing the child’s fragile health and his constant need for his mother. It had been in vain. He had been torn from her.
Slowly she had come to terms with the situation, and now they meet on Fridays but only if there are no official ceremonies, which the king’s sons, however young, have to attend.
She has not seen him for several days.
“Mammoo Khan, go and bring me Prince Birjis Qadar, please.”
A few minutes later, a radiant Mammoo reappears, followed by a frail little boy with wavy hair, who throws himself into his mother’s arms.
“Amma, we had a kite flying contest and I won!”
Touched by the child’s enthusiasm, his mother congratulates him while the eunuch cannot help commenting: “Of all His Majesty’s sons, our little king is the most talented!”—immediately drawing a dark look from his mistress.
“I have already told you not to call him that! If anyone ever heard you! Are you trying to bring misfortune down on us? You know full well he is only fourth in the order of succession and there is very little chance of his reigning one day!”
“One never knows! He is far more intelligent than his elder brothers—fat, spoilt boys. The king will realise it one day, or maybe his brothers will fall ill . . . ”
Hazrat Mahal shivers.
“Be gone before you make me really angry!”
While the eunuch leaves muttering, she clasps the surprised child against her.
“Do not fear, my darling, whatever happens I will protect you.”
What can happen? She cannot imagine, but she has the clear impression of ominous clouds gathering on the horizon.
4
The whole town, dressed in all their finery, converges on the house of fairies. The elegant theatre, adorned with white balusters and raised pavilions topped with domes, is located in the park of Kaisarbagh. The monumental doors sculpted with sirens and fish—emblems of the kings of Awadh—separating the palace and its gardens from the rest of the town, have been thrown open for the occasion. Riding high on their thoroughbreds, who are prancing about with their manes and tails dyed in bright colours, horsemen mingle with dignitaries carried by eight turbaned men, in palanquins canopied with crimson silk, and with taluqdars25 enthroned on their elephants, caparisoned with gold embroidered velvet. It is the evening of the great mela, the yearly celebration hosted by the king, to which the entire town is invited.
On entering the park, people go into raptures over the trees and shrubs trimmed into the shapes of deer, peacocks or tigers, illuminated by thousands of lanterns. From every branch hangs a perfume vial delicately sprinkling the guests. They advance slowly, fascinated by the fireworks that burst forth from small mounds, conjuring up bouquets of flowers, streams, palaces, fabulous animals and ephemeral characters of every colour. A magical world created by the sovereign, where art and dreams replace reality, a reality he is denied.
Immense tables are set out under arches of rare flowers decorated with gold filigree. They are covered with a spread of delicacies coated with silver leaf, finer than a butterfly’s wing—pure silver reputed to refresh and improve memory and sight. Awadh is proud of having taken Mughal cuisine to unrivalled heights of sophistication. The poultry is fed on pineapples, pomegranates and jasmine to perfume its meat, and young goats drink milk laced with musk and
saffron. The Court employs dozens of chefs, each striving to invent the tastiest dishes, so many masterpieces for which they will be royally rewarded. Over the space of a century, these master chefs have made Lucknow the undisputed centre of north Indian culinary art.
Now, the crowd has swelled into a never-ending stream. A hundred varied dishes are laid out to satisfy all its desires, amongst them the melt-in-the-mouth galawat kebabs, perfumed with a touch of rose essence; nargisi kofta, baby goat meatballs stuffed with egg; innumerable curries and biryanis; and best of all, the town’s speciality of seven different pulaos26: garden pulao, light pulao, cuckoo pulao, pearl pulao and jasmine pulao.
Finally, all kinds of sherbets and sweetmeats, including mutanjan, minced meat cooked in sugar, and lab-e-mashooq, “the beloved’s lips,” a preparation made from cream, almonds, spices, honey and betel nut to give it its red colouring. For the king and his inner circle, the betel is replaced by powdered rubies, said to calm the nerves.
Despite the late hour it is a family outing, as no one would dream of missing this splendid celebration for anything in the world. Everybody knows that only Lucknow, the town of nawabs, can pride itself on organising such spectacular festivities. Lucknow, with its ninety-two palaces, innumerable flowering gardens, three hundred temples and mosques, its fifty-two markets overflowing with carpets, embroidered fabric and perfumes, this capital of music, poetry and dance as well as schools of theology, this town known as “the bride of India” that some compare to Paris . . . only Lucknow is capable of offering such sumptuous entertainment.
Ali Mustapha, the copper engraver, has come with his neighbour, Suba Nanda, the embroiderer. They have known each other for years, their wives are friends and their children have grown up together. Not a single Holi, the Hindu festival of colours, has been celebrated without Ali Mustapha’s family being invited to share the milk and honey cake, not an Eid ul-Fitr meal, the feast concluding the Ramadan fast, has gone by without Suba Nanda’s family being welcomed to partake of it.
The confrontations between religious communities that sometimes trouble other states are, in fact, unheard of in Lucknow, where the sovereigns have never discriminated between their subjects. Shia Muslims themselves, they have always had a policy of employing Sunni Muslims and Hindus, who make up the majority of the population, often appointing them to the most eminent positions. They also enjoy bringing scholars of different beliefs together to discuss religious issues, following the example set by India’s greatest ruler, the Mughal Emperor Akbar. During the 16th century, the emperor used to invite representatives of different schools of thought to his capital in Delhi to hold a discussion in his presence, with a view to founding a universal religion intended to unite all men. It was Din-i Ilahi, a syncretistic ideology that borrowed from Islam, Buddhism, Christianity and Hinduism. This, at a time when the Inquisition was raging in Spain, Portugal and Italy, and when the Wars of Religion were spreading bloodshed in France.
Wajid Ali Shah perpetuates this tradition of tolerance, but his aesthetic tastes incite him to dedicate himself in particular to the domain of the arts. “All ills come from ignorance,” he often says. “It is through knowledge of one another’s culture that communities learn to appreciate and respect each other.”
Under his impetus, Lucknow, the centre of the “gold and silver civilisation,” the “Ganga-Yamuna civilisation,” named after the two sacred rivers that flow through the state, has reached the pinnacle of refinement. The marriage between the Ganga and the Yamuna symbolises the fusion of Hindu and Muslim traditions.
This evening, the sovereign stages a musical drama he himself has written, a variation on the theme of the god Krishna’s youth and his dalliances with the beautiful gopis.27
A vast stage has been set up in front of the palace of fairies, illuminated by thousands of candles twinkling in crystal candelabras. On one side is the orchestra, on the other, the important guests reclining on thick carpets and velvet cushions. As for the crowd, they will watch the show from the gardens, and if they cannot see everything, they can at least get drunk on the music.
Krishna, the blue god, is the Hindus’ most beloved divinity, and the events of his youth are an inexhaustible source of enchantment for them. Before his birth, a prediction announced he would kill the cruel king. In order to escape the curse, the latter, just as Herod would do centuries thereafter, had had all the newborns put to death. However, Krishna’s father, Prince Vasudeva, had managed to hide his son in the countryside, where the young man grew up and worked as a cowherd. His beauty, his intelligence, his noblesse attracted the favours of the gopis.
Innumerable stories and miniatures portraying his loves depict him playing the flute and dancing with the pretty gopis. But Krishna is no common philanderer; he is a god. He is able to satisfy all the gopis because he is universal love, the Divine Principle, which individual souls seek to unite with in order to attain liberation from the terrestrial world.
Wajid Ali Shah finally makes his entrance to admiring murmurs. Enveloped in white muslin, his wavy hair flows over his shoulders, and his whole body is covered in blue powder made of finely ground turquoise and pearls. Around him, disguised as gopis, are his ravishing “fairies,” adorned with their most sumptuous jewels.
They will dance and sing for hours, miming joy, jealousy, despair and again happiness, while he, the seducer, recites verses that drive them mad with love. Wajid Ali Shah has composed the poetry for the occasion in the Urdu language, a harmonious blend of Sanskrit, Persian, Arabic and Turkish, the perfect expression of which is to be found in Lucknow. Inspired by the most famous Arabic tale recounting the love between Majnun and Layla, the king has introduced a variation into Krishna’s life: Krishna falls in love with Radha, but her family is unaware of the boy’s divine and princely nature. They see him as a mere cowherd; they oppose the relationship and lock Radha up. Frantic with sorrow, Krishna abandons his games with the gopis to dance his despair.
Wajid Ali Shah now throws himself into a stunning kathak performance. A long silk cloth has been placed on the ground, along which the king will advance. His agility is astounding. Despite his corpulence, he seems to fly, his bare feet drawing skilful figures, and when the music stops, the mesmerised audience realises that the crumpled fabric on the ground forms the shape of the sovereign’s initials: W A S.
Although the Arabic tale ends with the death of Majnun, who is unable to survive the loss of his beloved Layla, to please the people the king provides a happy ending to the drama: moved by the depth of their love, the gods reunite the two lovers.
The last scene surpasses all the others. As fireworks paint the silver cascade of a waterfall, a white elephant is brought onto the stage. The royal elephant caparisoned with brocade encrusted with precious stones, his ears decorated with pearls and its legs weighed down with gold bracelets, kneels heavily before his master, raising his trunk in a respectful adab. Then, accompanied by Radha, Krishna-Wajid Ali Shah takes his place in the vermillion howdah,28 and they set off towards the palace to the audience’s admiring exclamations and blessings.
Regretfully the crowd slowly departs, leaving behind the marvellous world it has shared for these long hours of festivity. Their eyes still wide with the sight of so much splendour, Ali Mustapha and Suba Nanda allow themselves to be carried along by the colourful tide.
“It’s more beautiful every year!” Suba Nanda finally declares. “Our king is a magician.”
“Definitely!” approves Ali Mustapha. “And most of all, he is generous. Do you know of any other king who would organise celebrations like this for his people?”
“Certainly not. And I’m truly amazed to see how well he played our Krishna!”
“Your god Krishna, do you know he reminds me of our Prophet? All the women fell in love with him too, but just as with Krishna, who only really loved Radha, I think the Prophet’s only true love was his young wife, Aisha.”
Hand in hand, the two friends continue to converse all the way home.
* * *
“What a scandal! Dancing half-naked in front of the populace, with his concubines to top it all! And spending exorbitant sums on those ridiculous shows instead of carrying out the reforms we have been demanding for years!”
In his dark wood-panelled drawing room, lit with copper lamps, Colonel James Outram, the British resident, comfortably settled into a deep leather sofa, is entertaining a few friends. The scene could well be taking place somewhere in distant England, if it were not for the dark-skinned servants wearing white gloves, silently serving the whisky.
“As of now, all this is over. Gentlemen, I have a great announcement to make. I have just returned from Calcutta where I met with the Governor General Lord Dalhousie. It has been decided that henceforth the state of Awadh will be administered by the East India Company, which will have all powers and financial control. The king will retain his titles, authority over his house and we will grant him a pension of one hundred and fifty thousand rupees a year. If he refuses, we will be obliged to annexe the state and the sovereign will be relieved of all his rights and privileges.”
In the City of Gold and Silver Page 3