In the City of Gold and Silver
Page 7
“Do not let yourself be fooled, my friend, not only the British use these methods but the powers that be in general. They have always behaved in this manner and will continue to do so.”
“In this regard I find the animal world far superior,” remarks an old taluqdar. “They kill only to satisfy their vital needs, letting other creatures live. With men, there is no limit to their greed. They accumulate more wealth than they have use for, and too bad for those whom they plunge into misery!”
“And as they see themselves as they grab people’s wealth with one hand and offer alms with the other!”
“Of course, they are horrified when anyone protests!”
“And should the population rebel, they shoot them!”
The atmosphere grows increasingly heated, curses and threats fly: “We’ll confront them and fight if necessary! It will not be said that the noble taluqdars of Awadh . . . ”
“Enough, my friends,” intervenes the Rajah of Tarapur, “there is no point in our getting so worked up. We are here to decide upon a strategy. At least now we are all aware that the English are our enemies, even though we believed their empty words for a long time. The question remains: what will our plan of action be?”
“We must barricade ourselves into our forts and resist!”
“Beforehand, we should send a delegation of taluqdars to the governor general in Calcutta to explain that the country is on the verge of rebellion.”
“A rebellion? But why would the farmers rebel when they are being given land?” asks a young aristocrat in astonishment. He has just returned from Delhi where he was studying astronomy with a renowned alim.42
“Because this means we cannot ensure their security any longer. Whether the harvest was good or bad, we always gave them a decent percentage, so they always had enough to eat. They could also count on our help if they were ill or needed handouts to marry their daughters. This relationship of allegiance and trust established over centuries benefited everyone.”
Heads nod in agreement; the ideas of equality propagated in Europe have no currency here, they are considered foolish: how can an illiterate farmer have the same decision making power as his lord? How is he going to defend himself now against dishonest civil servants and find his way through the administrative jungle alone? Will he be able to pay his taxes when he has never learnt to plan ahead and, until now, has only lived on a day-to-day basis?
“It will be all the more difficult for them, as the British have undertaken a re-evaluation of all the land,” announces a taluqdar who has just returned from his estate with the latest news. “They sent out dozens of their civil servants who know nothing about our countryside and depend on the local staff for information. Of course, the latter overestimate the revenue, either to gain popularity with the British, or to take their revenge on anyone who refused to grease their palms. Depending on the districts, it appears that the next taxes will be 10 to 50 percent higher than last year!”
There is an outcry from all present: “The farmers will never be able to pay such high amounts! Are they going to put them all in prison?”
“Blessed be their greed! It is what will save us!” says the Rajah of Tarapur ironically. “Soon, even the farmers who thought they had something to gain from the new situation will return to us. That will put us in a much better position to negotiate with the Company, or, if it comes to it, to fight. But we must quickly agree on a strategy. Once again, I ask all of you to think it over.”
An animated discussion follows. However, by nightfall the only decision they reach is . . . to meet again the following week.
8
By order of the new chief commissioner, the British progressively seize Lucknow’s most beautiful palaces. Any excuse is a good excuse. At the beginning of the month of September 1856, a rumour begins to circulate claiming that Qadir Ali Shah, a maulvi who commands a troop of twelve thousand faithful, is plotting an uprising involving some members of the royal family. This provokes another series of confiscations.
At dawn on September 6th, Moti Mahal Palace is stormed by an English detachment, and on the pretext of searching for compromising documents, they brutally evict the inhabitants with no regard for the women or children. The soldiers take full advantage of the situation to grab a booty of jewellery and precious objects but stop short of wrecking the building, as the resident has decided to house some of the Company’s officers there.
A few weeks later, on October 3rd, the impressive Macchi Bhavan fortress on the southern bank of the Gomti River is attacked by British forces. The Indian officer in charge refuses to surrender and is taken prisoner, while the soldiers seize a collection of antique firearms and valuable armour along with about thirty cannons. The fortress, which is also the residence of one of the king’s brothers, is converted into barracks for the Company’s troops.
The women of the royal family and the principal wives follow these events from the sumptuous five-storey Chattar Manzil Palace on the Gomti River with heightened anxiety, as they have just been informed by Coverley Jackson that they must be prepared to leave the building. He needs the palace to accommodate the 32nd Infantry Regiment.
“House a whole regiment in the most beautiful residence in Lucknow, the man is mad! They will vandalize everything! Out of the ninety-two palaces in this town can he not find another one, or does he just want to drive us out, to humiliate us and tarnish our sovereign’s honour even further?”
“Don’t be alarmed! He cannot take Chattar Manzil,” decrees one of the begums in a knowing voice. “This palace is included in the list of properties the Company has left to the royal family for our personal use.”
“You still believe what they say?”
Hazrat Mahal has just entered the drawing room.
“We have already had a taste of their double-dealing! No matter what they promised, or even signed, they will do as they please. We have no way of stopping them!”
The women would like to silence this bird of ill omen; they do, however, recognise she is blessed with a certain worldly wisdom. In their anxiety they overlook their resentment and pester her with questions: what should they do? Does she have an idea?
The brouhaha is interrupted by the arrival of a solemn black eunuch ceremoniously carrying an engraved silver cylinder in his hands.
“Ladies! I bring a letter from His Majesty.”
A letter from Jan-e-Alam! The women stand stock-still. At last! In the eight months since his departure, they have not received a single message. They have only learnt from hearsay that he has reached Calcutta, where he had to stop and rest, tired after travelling for six long weeks, to prepare for his departure to distant England.
With a mixture of fear and hope, they stare at the casing that protects the precious parchment. Does it announce the success of his mission?
Hazrat Mahal is the first to come to her senses.
“Has the messenger come directly from England?”
“No, Huzoor. He has come from Calcutta.”
From Calcutta! The women are astonished: “Why such a detour? From England, he should have disembarked in Bombay and come directly to Lucknow. The journey is long enough, lasting at least two months, weather permitting. Well, the main thing is the letter has arrived! Hurry, let us break the seal and see what our beloved king has to say.”
The honour of reading the august message aloud falls to Begum Shahnaz, one of the king’s cousins and the oldest amongst them.
“To my respected wives and relations, so dear to my heart,
Since that fateful day when I left you and had to abandon my beloved town, not a day passes when I am not overcome by grief at the thought of all I have lost. The journey was very difficult; I fell ill and we were forced to make a long halt in Benares, where the maharajah welcomed me like a brother. Now that I am in Calcutta . . . ”
A general outcry interrupts the reading:
Finally, the begum gets angry:
“Now please! Let me continue if you want to know what happened!”
“Now that I am in Calcutta I feel better, despite the unbearable humidity. However, on my arrival I was so exhausted that I was not up to facing the long sea crossing. Therefore, I decided to send the Queen Mother instead, so that she may plead my cause before Queen Victoria. You all know how intelligent and tenacious she is. I am convinced I could not have a better ambassador. My brother and my oldest son are accompanying her, along with some of my ministers, and, in particular, Major Bird, an invaluable support who will be able to testify to what really happened. All in all, one hundred and forty people embarked on June 18th and they arrived safely at Southampton on August 20th.
There, a big crowd had gathered to see the princes, who were dressed in their richest garments, and they were given an enthusiastic reception. For her part, the Queen Mother received the city’s most influential ladies. A few days later, the delegation set off for London, where this time there was no official welcome. My brother General Sahib sent the Queen, her husband Prince Albert and the prime minister our detailed reply to Colonel Sleeman’s allegations, set out in the ‘Awadh Blue Book,’ which served as a pretext for the annexation. The Queen Mother has not yet obtained an audience with Queen Victoria, but she has been promised it will be granted imminently.”
He did not even go to England then!
Hazrat Mahal is no longer listening. She feels as if all the blood has drained from her body. She is utterly exhausted.
Why, oh why, did he not go himself to plead his cause? If only I had been with him, I would have convinced him to leave, but surrounded by courtiers and traitors, he has allowed himself to be influenced and took the easy way. Can he not see how he proves them right, all those who accuse him of fleeing his responsibilities and being incapable of ruling? But I am too severe . . . maybe he really was very ill? Maybe they tried to poison him to prevent him from disclosing the “Honourable Company’s” turpitudes to the queen . . .
The begum reads on:
“The new Governor General, Lord Canning, is very pleasant indeed. He has placed a palace at my disposal and has assured me I can remain there for as long as I like. However, in memory of my beloved Lucknow, I intend to have a new palace built, a replica of Kaisarbagh so I can recreate the enchanting setting of my lost happiness here. To pass the time I have begun to produce a new show, but I miss my fairies; the ones in Calcutta cannot be compared with Lucknow’s beauties!
And you, my dear wives, I miss you most of all. I hope that a more favourable fate will reunite us soon. I weep when I think of our separation and I kiss your beautiful hands.”
A bitter smile on her lips, Hazrat Mahal thinks of this king whom she has admired for so long.
He speaks only of himself, his regrets, his sadness, not a word of concern about what our fate has been, about how we have had to face the occupier’s tyranny alone since his departure! And not even a hint about the messages I send him. Does he even receive them? Mammoo assures me they reach him regularly, but perhaps Mammoo is lying to me. To console me and keep my hopes up . . .
As for her companions, they are ecstatic.
“This letter is a sign from heaven,” comments Begum Shahnaz. “It shows us the way out: we will write to the king describing our situation and beg him to remind the governor general of his promises.”
Relieved, the women agree. If Jan-e-Alam intervenes, they are saved! Hazrat Mahal does not share their confidence but refrains from making any comment. They enthusiastically write the letter and hand it back to the messenger who is returning to Calcutta, favouring him with a purse of gold coins for his diligence.
A month later, on November 12th at the crack of dawn, the inhabitants of the palace are woken by a clamour and the clatter of weapons. A battalion of soldiers led by a British officer is attempting to enter Chattar Manzil Palace. The guards who try to resist are rapidly neutralized, and the eunuchs are unceremoniously jostled.
“By Order of His Excellency the Chief Commissioner,” proclaims the officer, a strapping young lad swaddled in his red uniform, “the injunction to evacuate was sent to you a month ago. Out of consideration and great kindness for the ladies of the ex-royal household, His Excellency has afforded them a grace period. The deadline has expired. The ladies are requested to gather their belongings and to leave the palace within the hour.”
Panic reigns behind the heavy zenana curtains, followed by wails and outraged cries of protest: “Leave the palace? It is impossible! And to go where?”
“Ladies, you have had a month to prepare. Now you have an hour, not a minute longer.”
Inside the zenana the confusion has reached its peak. Barely awake, the women feel as if they are trapped in a nightmare. They cannot believe their misfortune. True enough, they had received the ultimatum, but they had not taken it seriously, convinced that Wajid Ali Shah would intervene to resolve everything. And now . . . such monsters! Alarmed, they rush from one room to the other, crying and scolding the eunuchs and the servants: what is to be done? What should they take? Hastily they throw heavy jewellery sets of rubies, diamonds and emeralds into makeshift bags; but amongst the dupattas embellished with pearls, the gold-embroidered gararas, the tortoiseshell or ivory toilet sets, the vermeil tableware, the silver mirrors, this multitude of indispensable precious objects, which should they take, what should they leave? A cruel, impossible choice . . . this luxury, this elegance, it is their whole lives—their lives that these bandits are asking them to abandon in an instant!
“They can kill me if they want, I will not leave!” Her eyes red from crying, Begum Akhtar sinks heavily into a sofa.
The women surround her, stunned.
“This is all so undignified! If I must live like a pauper, I prefer to die,” continues the begum in a voice trembling with emotion.
Some agree:
“If we refuse to leave, surely they won’t shoot us!”
“Who knows? They are capable of anything!”
While they are wasting precious time in futile discussions, Hazrat Mahal, with Mammoo’s help, has had her jewels, her most beautiful clothes as well as her books and manuscripts placed in trunks, watched over by her servants. A eunuch sent to enquire where they are to go comes back with the information that the royal wives, their children and their retinue are to move into the south wing of Kaisarbagh.
Returning to her companions, Hazrat Mahal hurries them along:
“There are only ten minutes left, I think you should be quick.”
“If you want to obey the Angrez, good for you! We, however, have decided to remain here,” replies Begum Shahnaz haughtily.
“Come now, be realistic! They will not allow you to stay!”
“We are not cowards, we will fight!”
Though exasperated, Hazrat Mahal is careful not to pursue the issue, but she does not understand this childish attitude! After all, their fate could be worse; the Kaisarbagh palaces are amongst the most beautiful in Lucknow and boast the largest gardens planted with the finest flowers.
Palanquins are waiting before the heavy portal of the zenana. Concealed by her veils, Hazrat Mahal steps into one, accompanied by a few servants and her son Birjis, who is delighted with the adventure. Mammoo follows her with about twenty strong men carrying her trunks.
Through the slightly parted curtains, she watches nostalgically as the gold-domed palace recedes. There she has spent the last twelve years; she had been a favourite, gratified with everything she desired, and sumptuous celebrations had greeted the birth of her son. There she had known one year of happiness and glory, then eleven years of quasi-obscurity—a fate common to all the beautiful prisoners in harems. Nonetheless, she cannot complain, as her gift f
or poetry allowed her to retain the sovereign’s friendship and attention until the end.
On reaching Kaisarbagh Palace she crosses a series of vestibules, terraces and inner courtyards, explores a multitude of empty rooms. She is alone and she takes her time. Finally, she chooses a dozen bright, spacious rooms opening onto a veranda decorated with bougainvillea. Mammoo and the servants will find a way to make them as comfortable as possible, requisitioning boxes, divans, draperies and carpets from wherever they can find them.
She has barely finished settling in when her unfortunate companions arrive late in the afternoon, their hair dishevelled and their clothes in disarray. From their accounts, interrupted by sobs and curses, she understands that at the given hour, not leaving them a minute’s grace, indifferent to their cries, the soldiers seized them and forced them out, watched by the terrified population. Then, they threw their belongings pell-mell into the street, stealing some of the jewels in the process.
This unwarranted violence inflicted upon the royal wives provokes such indignation that it reaches the ears of the new governor general in Calcutta.
Lord Canning is already besieged by letters from Wajid Ali Shah denouncing the sale of his private possessions, the theft of a large part of his treasures, the occupation of his palaces to house horses and dogs, and finally the threat of doing away with the pensions granted to the members of the royal family. The governor general attempts to moderate Coverley Jackson’s ardour, but his efforts are in vain. The latter will not listen even though his unfair and brutal measures earn him the hatred of the whole population. The Lucknawis start lending a more ready ear to fakirs and maulvis, Hindu and Muslim holy men, who travel the country preaching revolt.
Henceforth, the days in Kaisarbagh Palace pass slowly, full of gloom. Hazrat Mahal has ceased to write her daily accounts for the king. She is convinced now that he does not receive them or, if he does, he does not read them, as he is too busy recreating the splendour of bygone days in his new home. Imperceptibly she sinks into melancholy, despite Mammoo’s best efforts to entertain her.