Hazrat Mahal stifles a shiver.
So far, the chapatis have been distributed over one third of the country, could it be that preparations are being made for rebellions not only in the state of Awadh, but also in Bengal and Bihar, in the region of Delhi, in fact all over the north of India?
This thought frightens her, even though for years her only desire has been to be rid of the occupiers. In the face of an imminent general uprising, her certainties are suddenly shaken.
Against the British army, the most powerful army in Asia, are our compatriots up to it? . . .
The peasant woman’s common sense brings her back to earth.
“In any event it is up to the men. If they decide to fight there is nothing we can do about it. I wanted to warn you though, as the other day you were kind to me, and I thought you might want to protect your son and leave Lucknow for somewhere quieter.”
Hazrat Mahal stiffens. Desertion? The suggestion cuts her to the quick.
“Do not forget that my son is a prince and I am the wife of the exiled sovereign. There is no question of us abandoning our people. We belong here.”
11
The following weeks bring their share of disturbing and thrilling news. On the 17th of February, Maulvi Ahma-dullah Shah is arrested in the neighbouring town of Faizabad while exhorting the crowd to rebel against the foreigners.
“Your maulvi did not let them push him around. Everyone is talking about his courage,” Mammoo reports to the begum.
“My maulvi?”
“Yes, the one we saw on our way back from our visit to the Chowk. You told me his sharp gaze had seen right through you, even piercing the thick curtains of the palanquin.”
True enough, Hazrat Mahal is not likely to forget that look.
“What happened?”
“The English were reluctant to arrest him, as he is so popular. The officer first asked the maulvi and his disciples to lay down their weapons, which would be returned to them when they left the town. The maulvi replied haughtily that he would leave the town when he wanted to and then turned his back on the officer. As his men were becoming aggressive, the English preferred to move off, but they came back in force the next evening. The maulvi and his disciples fought valiantly, but in the end, he was wounded and taken prisoner.”
“How absurd! They are making a martyr of him, a symbolic rallying point that is far more effective than if he had remained free! White people think they can solve everything by force. They do not try to understand the other side’s point of view—much less discuss it. The net result is they are detested by one and all. They will pay dearly for it one day. The oppressed peoples will do them no favours!”
Shortly after this incident, one learns that in Berhampur, to the north of Calcutta, the 19th Infantry Regiment revolted and refused to use the new cartridges. By mid-March, the movement reaches the Ambala weapons depot where detachments from forty-one regiments are assembled to learn how to handle the new rifle. Then on March 29th, in Barrackpore, a Brahmin sepoy, Mangal Pandey, shot a British officer and wounded another with his sword while inciting his companions to rise up to defend their religion. Finally overpowered, he was to be hung a few days later, along with the Indian sergeant who refused to arrest him.
British society is stunned. In almost a century, this is the first time one of the “loyal sepoys” has dared attack a superior. To explain this “unprecedented act” people point out that Mangal Pandey was acting under the influence of drugs, but what they are unable to understand is why none of the twenty other sepoys present intervened to defend their officers.
At this point, the Governor General, Lord Canning, decides that this cartridge business has gone on long enough. All the necessary assurances have been provided and to compromise any longer would be viewed as a sign of weakness. As soon as the final order is issued, mysterious fires break out in most of the government buildings and officers’ bungalows at the Ambala garrison. All attempts to identify the perpetrators are met with a stony silence from the soldiers.
News of the uprising travels quickly, and the sepoys in Lucknow grow restless. Doctor Wells the 48th Regiment doctor’s ill-considered act of drinking a medicine directly from the bottle in the infirmary is taken as a provocation: the men unanimously refuse to be treated for fear of being polluted and losing their caste. A few days later Doctor Wells’ bungalow is burnt down. It is common knowledge that the soldiers from the 48th are responsible, but their guilt will never be proved.
In the highly charged atmosphere that prevails at the end of March, the new chief commissioner arrives in Lucknow. Sir Henry Lawrence is transferred from Punjab, where he re-established peace and won over the population to such an extent that he was nicknamed “the king of Punjab.” His methods were diplomacy and an enlightened reform policy.
Tall and thin, his long face framed by a grey beard, the chief commissioner resembles a prophet from the Old Testament. He is also endowed with a strong sense of duty and uncompromising principles. Born in Ceylon, the fourth son of a British officer, he knows the Indians well and appreciates them. Lord Canning thus judged him the best person to redress a situation gravely compromised by Coverley Jackson’s brutality and tactlessness.
Shortly after his arrival, Lawrence writes to the governor general:
“I notice the looks of hatred when I walk around, the population is deeply discontented. I immediately had it known that my mission was to rectify the mistakes that have been made over the last year. In an attempt to soothe tempers, I have prohibited any kind of destruction without my approval, particularly in what concerns religious buildings. Tomorrow I am holding a durbar48 to honour the taluqdars, who have been very harshly treated: some have lost half their villages, others have lost everything.”*
With a series of receptions and private meetings, Sir Henry manages to win over the nobility to some extent. Addressing them in Hindustani and showing them a level of consideration they are no longer accustomed to since the annexation, he promises to plead in favour of the restitution of their land. He also receives delegations representing the shopkeepers and craftsmen. They have heard the chief commissioner is an open-minded man whom one can talk to. However, he has neither the time nor the means to study the new taxation system, which is supposed to favour the peasants but is, in reality, strangling them. He has to tackle a more pressing problem: the sepoys’ discontent that is growing day by day.
This afternoon, for the first time, a delegation requested a meeting with him, and he invited the few officers present to listen in on the conversation from the adjoining drawing room.
About half a dozen devoted old sepoys, magnificently decked out in their customary red tunics, have come to see him. Lawrence has grown to know these men well over the thirty years he has served in India, and has had innumerable opportunities to appreciate their courage and loyalty.
“Come in, my friends!”
With a gesture, he encourages the small, intimidated group crowded around the door: “Do come in!”
One by one, the soldiers enter the smoking room. Clicking their heels, they stand to attention saluting the chief commissioner and remain rooted to the spot. Sir Henry, who is comfortably settled in his leather armchair, beckons them to sit down. It is contrary to usage, but he wants to show his consideration for these veterans, who took the difficult decision to come to see him, certainly going against the opinions of the younger lot.
As he expected, they refuse—never in a sepoy’s memory could one imagine infringing upon the hierarchical order in this manner—but they are touched by the gesture.
“Thank you for your kindness, Sahib,” declares the one who seems to be their leader—easily sixty, his face covered in scars, but standing straight as a ramrod. “You are like a father to us, we owe you respect. We would never be seated in your presence!”
“Very well, my good men. So, what brings you here?”
“Serious events, Excellency. Since the beginning of the year, especially after the Berhampur and Barrackpore mutinies, our regiments are highly excitable, and, despite the efforts of the oldest amongst us, it is impossible to calm them down. We tried to talk to our officers, but they say they have no time to listen to our recriminations. Therefore, we thought maybe you, who have a reputation of being a wise and understanding man . . . ”
“Is it a question of money? Seven rupees a month, the same pay for fifty years although the price of cereals has doubled, I admit it is not much! I have, in fact, spoken to the governor general, who promised to think it over.”
“We are very grateful to you, Sahib, but that is not really the problem. It is not the lack of promotion either, although it is trying for an old soldier to be insulted by a young officer, freshly arrived from England and who . . . ” The sepoy hesitates. “Well, who is not very familiar with the local customs.”
Sir Henry nods his head.
Greenhorns who know nothing and give orders wildly! It is a shame and I have warned the top hierarchy that if we were not careful, we would be headed straight for disaster . . .
He makes no comment, but his silence encourages another old sepoy:
“It used to be so different before! The sahibs were close to their soldiers, they took us hunting with them and when they had the dancers over for a show at the regiment, we used to be invited along too. There was even an officer we called ‘the wrestler’ because he used to join his men in the ring! We were fond of the sahibs, as they treated us like their children. Now they despise us, they never mix with us and when they are displeased about something, they hurl insults at us. Quite often we are court-martialled for insolence because they do not understand what we are trying to tell them, although we are only offering explanations.”
Around him, the other sepoys murmur their agreement, but their spokesman interrupts them impatiently:
“We have not come here just to complain, Sahib, we are willing to sacrifice everything for you, but . . . ”
The man’s voice catches in his throat, his eyes fill with tears.
Sir Henry is moved. He gets up and takes him by the shoulder.
“Come now my friend, speak up.”
Hiccupping, the old sepoy mumbles:
“We can accept everything but . . . we cannot renounce our religion.”
“And who is asking you to give up your religion?”
At this, they all started talking at once: the new cartridges sealed with pig or cow fat, the flour mixed with the powdered bones of prohibited animals. Sir Henry assures them repeatedly that this is only slander invented to provoke trouble, but he is unable to convince them. Even if the cartridges are not defiled with impure grease, admit the sepoys finally, everyone now believes they are: “If we use them, our families and our whole villages will reject us out of fear of becoming untouchable themselves by coming into contact with us. In doubt, we will forever be seen as plague carriers, or worse still, condemned to becoming outcastes.”
“Or Christians,” suggests one of them.
This is too much for Sir Henry.
“Is it such a great misfortune to become a Christian?” he exclaims, outraged. Then realising that with these words he is confirming their fears, he hurries to add: “We never convert people by force or trickery. It is up to each person to choose freely!”
The words are barely out of his mouth when he remembers the Inquisition, the persecution of the American Indians, the Wars of Religion in Europe . . . Fortunately, there is no chance of these simple sepoys ever having heard of such events.
“But then,” objects a man, “why teach Christianity in state schools, and why transform the Kadam Rasul sanctuary which houses the imprint of the Prophet’s foot into a weapons depot?”
“Mistakes have been made,” concedes Sir Henry, “and I am here to remedy them. I give you my word that in future no building, particularly no religious building, will be demolished without my permission. As for the new cartridges, I have good news for you. Taking into account your and your families’ misgivings in this matter, the governor general has ordered that the sepoys no longer be required to bite open the cartridges. From now on, they will be opened by hand instead. Thus, the problem will cease to exist. There, my good men!” he concludes, rising. “I hope you are reassured now. Do not hesitate to come back to see me if you need to, I will always be here for you.”
The sepoys take their leave with profuse thanks and greetings. Sir Henry’s kindness warmed their hearts—it is for leaders like him they are ready to lay down their lives. They are not, however, any more reassured than when they arrived.
“If they have changed the rules for the cartridges, it’s because they do contain impure fat,” observes one of them. “Otherwise why would they have done that?”
“It’s true! In any event, touching prohibited fat with our hands is just as polluting and means we lose our caste anyway.”
What should they do? Will they, despite themselves, be driven to revolt?
“What insolence! How dare they criticise their superiors!”
“I admire your patience, Sir Henry! I personally would have had them whipped!”
The few officers who had listened to the conversation from the drawing room next door can hardly hide their annoyance with the resident. He should at least have taken their side against these subordinates.
Sir Henry settles himself into his armchair, slowly lights a cigar and studies them with his cool gaze.
“Gentlemen, I allowed them to speak because they were only telling the truth. Over the last twenty years, I have had ample opportunity to realise how far the relationship between officers and soldiers has deteriorated, and in general too, between the population and us British. If you want people to respect you, behave in a respectable manner instead of getting angry and allowing yourselves to insult them. Do you think that after our military victory in Punjab, it is by whipping and abuse that I managed to win the loyalty of the people? It is by listening to them, trying to understand their problems and providing an efficient and fair solution.”
And, turning to pick up a document:
“I would like to read you what I wrote yesterday to the Governor General, Lord Canning, who asked me how to calm the discontent that is spreading through the garrisons:
‘Beyond the problem of the cartridges, as long as we refuse to admit that the natives, the native soldiers in particular, have the same feelings, the same ambitions, the same perception of their skills as we have, we will never be safe.’*
“Gentlemen, is it really too much to ask that for a moment you put yourselves in the place of the Indians? They are sentimental people who would give everything unreservedly, if we are courteous, and if we treat them like human beings, instead of crushing them with our Western superiority!”
“Come now, Sir Henry, how can we possibly have a discussion with such a stubborn lot? This cartridge business is pure propaganda!”
“Not necessarily! According to the information I have received, local producers seem, in fact, to have replaced the sheep fat with pork and beef fat that is far less expensive. It has nothing to do with desecration, merely a question of serious money! The sepoys, however, are all the more distrustful, as there are many overzealous officers who are trying to convert their men.”
“And why not? Converting Indians to the Truth would not only take them out of their misery and vice, but would teach them the benefits of a well-ordered society!”
“Let us say rather, as Charles Grant, a previous manager of the East India Company, did, that ‘converting Indians would raise their morality while serving the initial purpose for our presence in India—the expansion of our trade.’ At least he had the merit of frankness! As for morality, I fear that for the Indians, we are hardly role models, with our habits of swearing and drinking, borrowing money we do not ret
urn, and above all, not respecting our treaties, as was the case here in this very city when we annexed Awadh.”
“I fear, gentlemen, that by continuing in this vein, we risk losing India.”
12
Today the zenana is in a flurry of excitement. They have just heard of Nana Sahib’s arrival, which was celebrated with great pomp. This colourful character is the adopted son and heir of the peishwa, the ex-sovereign of the Mahratta confederation and lord of western India. Vanquished by the British in 1818, the old sovereign had been exiled to Bithur, near Kanpur,49 where he died a few years ago.
What is his son doing here? Princes rarely travel, and only for special occasions such as major ceremonies or great durbars.
The eunuch who had gone in search of information returns with the latest news:
“Nana Sahib informed the British administration that he is here as a tourist.”
The news is greeted with an outburst of hilarity. Tourism! That’s a beauty! Only the Angrez travel as tourists! Do they not realise that Nana Sahib is making fun of them?
“Earlier, he had visited different states in the north of the country, Jhansi in particular, where he met his childhood friend, Rani Lakshmi Bai,”50 specifies the eunuch.
“Courtesy visits, no doubt!” sneers Hazrat Mahal, sarcastically raising an eyebrow.
She remembers the impressive character glimpsed at a mushaira51 held by the king, her husband. Tall and well built, with a round face and fair complexion, Nana Sahib had shown up, his flat turban tied in the Mahratta style, studded with pearls and diamonds, and his ears adorned with heavy emerald pendants. He surveyed the assembly with a dismissive glance, and she had sensed a vain and insecure personality. What she later learned had confirmed this first impression.
On the peishwa’s death, the East India Company had refused to recognise this adopted son, contesting his title and the huge pension paid to his father. For years, Nana Sahib had tried to influence their standpoint with compliments and gifts—even claiming he was best friends with the British—but to no avail. Finally, he had sent his right-hand man, Azimullah Khan, to London to plead his cause before Queen Victoria. It had been a futile attempt. The former had not even been received at Court.
In the City of Gold and Silver Page 10