In the City of Gold and Silver

by Kenize Mourad

  “Perfect. When do we leave for Bhitauli?”

  “You will come? But your family? And the affairs of your principality?”

  The rajah looks at her reproachfully.

  “Did I not give my best friend my word that I would remain by your side during his absence? As for the principality, although they are in purdah, the women of my family know exactly what is happening and are used to running it while the men are at war.”

  The rani confirms, smiling:

  “My husband will accompany you, Your Majesty. He knows that between the Queen Mother and myself, he has nothing to worry about.”

  Hazrat Mahal is about to retort that the situation has changed and the British could well resort to retaliation on all those closest to the rajah, when she is prevented from doing so by the latter’s son:

  “Please, Huzoor, please allow me to come with you!”

  Amir Hasan Khan is a handsome young boy, barely eight years old. From the beginning of the conversation, he has had a hard time containing himself: he is dying to join the fighters!

  “You, my son, have a far greater responsibility,” the rajah assures him, placing his hand on his shoulder. “As the eldest, I entrust you with the care of your mother and your sisters. In my absence, it is you who will protect them.”

  “Ji Adab, Aba Huzoor,”99 murmurs the little boy, who has turned red with pride, bowing before his father.

  * * *

  In this month of April 1858, the entire state of Awadh is on a war footing. When Lucknow was captured, the rebels were driven out and have dispersed throughout the country. The British administration has collapsed; its indigenous police force no longer exists, as regiments have mutinied one after the other and joined the insurgents.

  As for the taluqdars and the rajahs, they have retired to their forts, where they are mobilising their troops. If they had thought of making up with the British authorities when the capital fell, Lord Canning’s proclamation at the end of March completely dissuaded them. The governor general had in fact announced that all property belonging to the kingdom’s aristocracy was to be confiscated, except the estates of half a dozen minor landlords, who had remained loyal to British interests.

  All others, including the most powerful taluqdars, will be dispossessed of their lands. Their lives and those of their people will be spared only if they submit immediately to the chief commissioner, and on condition their hands are not stained with British blood.

  By allowing the rebel lords to live, Lord Canning thinks he is showing leniency. In reality, by confiscating their property, he is depriving them of their power, their status, their honour, and thus compelling them to perpetuate the war.

  * * *

  “I did everything I could to persuade Canning to change his declaration, but he would not budge!”

  In Lucknow, the Chief Commissioner Sir James Outram’s irritation does not abate:

  “It is surely not difficult to understand that by annexing their land and their villages, we are closing the door on all those whose only aspiration, since the fall of Lucknow, is to make peace with us!”

  Sir Outram receives his friends in the drawing room of one of the rare palaces still standing. The Residency and its surrounding buildings are in ruins, and the new government has requisitioned the only beautiful houses still intact.

  “There are approximately five hundred rajahs and taluqdars in Awadh,” intervenes an elderly civil servant. “Do you think they are all against us now?”

  “Are we leaving them any choice? Do you think they are going to sit back quietly while we dispossess them? They have returned to their lands to organise the resistance, and they will fight to the end because they have nothing left to lose.”

  “But why has Lord Canning, who was mocked for his lack of determination, adopted such rigorous measures all of a sudden?”

  “Maybe he wants to salvage his reputation and show he is capable of a crackdown! But I think it is mainly because Calcutta is far away and decisions are taken in offices by senior civil servants who have no clue as to the reality in the field.”

  * * *

  Since her departure from Lucknow, Hazrat Mahal has completely abandoned purdah, only wearing a light gauze veil supposed to hide her abundant hair. The Court no longer exists and the strict decorum, the sophisticated behaviour and the extravagant delicacy that constituted “the Adab culture” and had given the capital its reputation are no longer relevant here in the Bhitauli fortress.

  Ever devoted, Mammoo has done his utmost to make Hazrat Mahal’s apartments comfortable. Now that the handsome rajah is no longer around, he feels they will finally return to their former relationship. With alacrity, he has filled the cold, empty rooms with large woollen carpets and heavy drapes, and he has boxes made of precious wood brought in for her to store her possessions.

  Touched by his kind gestures, the begum is nonetheless concerned about where he has been getting all these things from.

  “People gave them to me for you, Huzoor.”

  “People? What people?” she asks, surprised. And suddenly suspicious: “You would not have requisitioned them by any chance?”

  And as the eunuch lowers his head:

  “We have just arrived in this region. Do you want people to hate us when we are in desperate need of the local population’s support? You are to go back to those from whom you have taken these things, and offer to either pay or return their belongings. Here is some gold. Go immediately!”

  The Queen Mother would never compromise regarding her principles of honesty or the respect due to the king and herself. This year in power had taught her that the slightest familiarity is fatal to authority. Rather than the ceremony that once accompanied her every step in life at the palace, she now attaches greater importance to respect and obedience due to the war leader she has become.

  She had thought the change would be difficult for her; quite the contrary, she feels as if she has been freed, and realises with amazement how much the atmosphere of the Court weighed her down, despite having spent half her existence there. Were it not for her worries about Jai Lal’s predicament, she would almost be relieved. But apart from distressing reports of destruction and pillaging, her spies in Lucknow have been unable to bring her the slightest information on his whereabouts.

  Each day the hope of seeing him return diminishes.

  It is mainly at nightfall, at the time they used to meet, when the young woman is overcome by anguish. She does her best to be reasonable, to remind herself that she is responsible for thousands of soldiers, for a whole population who trusts her; but she feels that without the man she loves, without his advice and admiration to reinforce her strength and her determination, she can no longer summon the energy to continue the struggle.

  Fortunately, she has Mumtaz, the only one she can share her confusion with, who takes her in her arms and rocks her when she can no longer contain her sobs, stroking her hair, consoling her as one would a child.

  “Cry all you want, Muhammadi,” she murmurs, affectionately using her former name. “Cry all your tears away, so that tomorrow, with no tears left, you can be the brave, the radiant Hazrat Mahal once again—the woman we all need so much.”

  33

  From her fortress in Bhitauli, Hazrat Mahal coordinates the attacks on the British. The fighters who had been forced to flee Lucknow and its surroundings have all united under the royal banner, so much so that her forces, those of her allies and Maulvi Ahmadullah Shah’s formidable troops now represent almost a hundred thousand men. In dispersed groups, they hold all the territory of Awadh, neighbouring Rohilkhand—between the Ganges and the foothills of the Himalayas—and a part of the province of Bihar in the east.

  The new strategy is not to confront the enemy in pitched battles, but to harass them on all sides, in order to prevent them from establishing their authority and to bring their administr
ation to a grinding halt.

  In this respect, the regent follows the advice Jai Lal gave her before they separated:

  “Never try to fight regular British troops head on. They are superior to us in terms of weapons and discipline, but watch all their movements, keep control of the river ports, intercept their communications, their supplies and their mail, launch incessant lightning strikes on their camps. Never leave them a moment’s respite.”

  Every evening, when she finds herself alone in her room, Hazrat Mahal opens the medallion her lover had given her on their last evening. She studies the handsome face with its strong features, she delicately traces the contours of the arched eyebrows and the full lips with her finger; her whole being yearns for him. She senses . . . she knows he is alive!

  * * *

  For six months, the insurgency keeps the British involved in unabated combat.

  In a letter written in the spring of 1858, reporting the state of operations to the governor general, Sir Colin Campbell admits the difficulty in confronting the insurgents.

  “Awadh is in a state of active rebellion. Every time our columns go into action, they literally march over the bodies of rebels, but as soon as they have passed, the resistance regroups. They cut off our communications and supplies, and recapture the places we have liberated . . . The enemy is as daunting after having being defeated as it was before.”*

  Echoing this point of view, one of the army pastors, Reverend Alexander Duff, writes in his journal:

  “It is not a mere military revolt; it is a revolution that has been brewing for a long time and has driven Hindus and Muslims to unite. Beyond the sepoys, it is the revolt of vast multitudes against British domination. When our small, courageous armies push through these myriads, instead of leaving the deep mark of the plough, their passage is more like the wake of a vessel in a stormy sea that is covered over immediately.”*

  And it is not only in Awadh. The rebellion rages in all the neighbouring provinces. In Bihar, it is led by Kunwar Singh, an eighty-year-old taluqdar. The man, nicknamed “the old tiger” for his strength and cunning, holds off the British forces for weeks. His decisive victory at Azamgarh galvanises the Indian fighters. Despite the loss of an arm and a pierced thigh, pursued by two enemy regiments, he leads a thousand men across the Ganges to reconquer his fiefdom in Jagdishpur. Eventually, he dies of a haemorrhage. However, Kunwar Singh has become a legend throughout northern India: it is said when he was wounded, he cut off his arm and threw it into the Ganges, offering it as a sacrifice for the final victory.

  Most of the time, the rebel leaders fight independently. The begum’s troops are supported by the Rajah of Mahmudabad’s men in the northeast; Kunwar Singh’s relative Rana100 Beni Madho ’s twenty-five thousand men in the south; the maulvi’s formidable fighters in the northwest; and everywhere, numerous taluqdars and rajahs who keep the rebellion alive.

  This dispersal of forces is the most efficient tactic against an enemy scattered over such an immense territory. On the other hand, as soon as they plan a large-scale operation, the insurgents work together.

  It is at the begum’s headquarters, the seat of royal power, that the strategy is formulated and then communicated to the different leaders by the intermediary of relay messengers, stationed every six miles.

  As they have no access to the telegraph lines—which are under British control when they are not sabotaged—the Indians have revived the ancient harkara system: a message written with a pencil dipped in milk to make it invisible is slipped into a piece of quill sealed at each end. Hidden in the first messenger’s mouth, it is passed on to the next, so that within a day, the message can travel almost a hundred miles.

  Thus, in the utmost secrecy, they hatch a plan to recapture Lucknow. It is not enough to control the countryside. They must reconquer the capital, the actual and symbolic seat of power, at all costs and reinstate their sovereign there.

  To succeed, however, it is essential to work as a united front and first punish the taluqdars who have rejoined the British, in order to dissuade others, tempted to follow their example. Lucknow’s new chief commissioner, Robert Montgomery—more skilful than the General Governor Lord Canning—has in fact proclaimed that those who surrender would be pardoned, and their property would be returned to them.

  Fearing betrayal, Hazrat Mahal decides to attack the offenders without further delay.

  In May, she launches her first punitive expedition against Rajah Man Singh, who has long played a double game, and who, with great treachery, abandoned Lucknow just when General Campbell attacked.

  Riding at the head of ten regiments and followed by the loyal taluqdars’ forces, Hazrat Mahal arrives at the outskirts of Shahganj, where the rajah had taken refuge. She immediately lays siege to the fortress by positioning the troops so that all accesses are barred, thus preventing the garrison from receiving any supplies or ammunition.

  Trapped, Man Singh sends a desperate message to his allies:

  “She has ordered all the zamindars, the taluqdars and the mutineers to join together to attack me. They are about thirty thousand. Small or big, they take pride in being the begum’s allies. Even those who were close to me before have now turned against me.”*

  His call for help is ignored; the British are too busy fighting off the insurgents, who are harassing them on all sides.

  This is exactly what the Queen Mother intended to prove: the British are incapable of protecting their allies. It would be madness to join them! Proclaiming the confiscation of Man Singh’s state, she announces it will be shared between the taluqdars who are fighting him; then, after encouraging the troops, she returns to Bhitauli to prepare the forthcoming campaigns.

  Barricaded inside his fort with his men, Man Singh continues to resist.

  When British help finally arrives a month and a half later, the rebels, faithful to their strategy, retreat, only to take the war to other traitors designated by the begum, who, deaf to both promises and protests, remains unyielding.

  While directing the military campaigns, Hazrat Mahal also continues to govern: order must be maintained, justice meted out and taxes collected. The tax collectors, formerly employed by the British, no longer dare venture into the villages, but the civil servants sent by the Queen Mother are well received by the peasants, outraged by the occupier’s crimes.

  The dynasty’s prestige and her personal influence are such that even driven out of the centre of power, Hazrat Mahal still commands respect and obedience.

  * * *

  The 10th of May, 1858, is an important date for the insurgents. It is the anniversary of the beginning of the uprising, when the Meerut garrison’s sepoys revolted and marched on Delhi to free the city.

  In Bhitauli, the Queen Mother wants to celebrate the event. In the absence of khilats, the young king distributes embroidered cashmere shawls to the bravest. One will be sent to Prince Firoz Shah for his battles in central India. By means of these rewards, the Queen Mother continues, at least symbolically, to affirm her son’s power.

  Since their flight from Lucknow, Birjis Qadar has become increasingly withdrawn. He dislikes his life in exile, with no friends of his own age, surrounded by adults who only speak of war. He used to be such a joyful child, but now Hazrat Mahal never hears him laugh anymore. When she tries to draw him out, she only receives a polite reply: “I am fine, thank you, Amma Huzoor.” She has the distressing feeling her son has distanced himself from her, and that, just like the others, he sees her as the queen, not as his mother. She is fully aware it is her own fault. In order to regain his trust, she should listen to him more, discuss his concerns with him, advise him; in short, give him everything a son expects of a mother. Where would she find the time though? Her first duty is to the liberation struggle. And, after all, it is for him too that she is fighting!

  Thus, she has entrusted the boy to Mumtaz, confident that her loving and attentive
friend would look after him just as well as she would herself.

  Thirsting for affection, the adolescent soon grows attached to the young woman. She spends entire days with him, comforting him, reassuring him with her tenderness, so much so that he begins to call her “Amma Mumtaz”101.

  The first time Hazrat Mahal heard these words, she felt a pang in her heart: “Amma Mumtaz,” while he only calls her “Amma Huzoor,”102 as Court usage prescribes . . . But then, is it not what she wanted? That he should find in Mumtaz the availability she cannot give him herself.

  Cannot give him . . . ? Really?

  For your lover you found the time, but what of your child? murmurs a small voice within her.

  While the soldiers parade before her, Hazrat Mahal remembers herself as she was a few months earlier with Birjis Qadar in the throne room of Chaulakhi Palace; beside them, Jai Lal was introducing the most deserving sepoys.

  At this memory, her whole body tenses; she is so worried about him that she finds it difficult to think about anything else. A few days earlier in fact, a messenger had arrived announcing the rajah had been taken prisoner on March 22nd, the last day of the battle of Lucknow, and that his trial had begun.

  The British insisted on doing everything according to the rules, at least in appearance, for when it came to proof, they made other prisoners testify—the rajah’s former servants or companions, who did not hesitate to accuse Jai Lal of every imaginable crime, in anticipation of a pardon. They even accused him of the murder of captured women and children, which he had resolutely opposed, and which had been carried out in his absence!