City of Djinns

by William Dalrymple

  William’s body, originally hastily buried in the British cemetery near the Residency, was exhumed and reburied in a great white tomb built by James Skinner at great expense in the churchyard of St James’s Church. The design, suitably enough, had a European form, but its substance, Mughal marble inlay, was wholly Indian. The epitaph, written by James Skinner, read as follows:THE REMAINS

  INTERRED BENEATH THIS MONUMENT

  WERE ONCE ANIMATED

  BY AS BRAVE AND SINCERE

  A SOUL

  AS WAS EVER VOUCHSAFED TO MAN

  BY HIS

  CREATOR.

  A BROTHER IN FRIENDSHIP

  HAS CAUSED IT TO BE ERECTED

  THAT WHEN HIS OWN FRAME IS DUST

  IT MAY REMAIN

  AS A

  MEMORIAL

  FOR THOSE WHO CAN PARTICIPATE IN LAMENTING

  THE SUDDEN AND MELANCHOLY LOSS

  OF ONE

  DEAR TO HIM AS LIFE

  WILLIAM FRASER

  DIED 22ND MARCH 1835

  Twenty-two years later the period was brought to a bloody close by the uprising of 1857.

  The hopes of a happy fusion of British and Indian culture, promised during the Twilight, were forgotten in the massacres which initiated and the hangings which followed the Indian Mutiny. The recapture of Delhi by the British on 14 September 1857 led to the wholesale destruction of great areas of the city. The Red Fort was plundered and much of it razed to the ground; what remained of one of the world’s most beautiful palaces became a grey British barracks. It was only by a hair‘s-breadth that the great Mughal Jama Masjid was saved from similar destruction and the city spared the planned replacement, a hideous Victorian Gothic cathedral.

  Three thousand Delhi-wallahs were tried and executed - either hanged, shot or blown from the mouths of cannon - on the flimsiest evidence. British soldiers bribed the hangmen to keep the condemned men ‘a long time hanging, as they like to see the criminal’s dance a “Pandy’s hornpipe” as they termed the dying struggles of the accused’. The last Emperor was sent off to exile in Rangoon in a bullock cart; the princes, his children, were all shot. The inhabitants of the city were turned out of the gates to starve in the countryside outside; and even after the city’s Hindus were allowed to return, Muslims remained banned for two whole years. The finest mosques were sold off to Hindu bankers for use as bakeries and stables.

  The behaviour of the British in the weeks following the capture of the city is extraordinary to read. It is as if in victory all the most horrible characteristics of the English character - philistinism, narrow-mindedness, bigotry, vengefulness — suddenly surfaced all at once. The account of Hugh Chichester, who visited Delhi at this time, is not at all untypical:There are several mosques in the city most beautiful to look at. But I should like to see them all destroyed. The rascally brutes desecrated our churches and graveyards and I do not think we should have any regard for their stinking religion. One was always supposed to take one’s shoes off before going to visit one of these mosques, or to have an interview with the King. But these little affairs we drop now. I have seen the old Pig of a king. He is a very old man, and just like an old khitmutgar [waiter].

  Similar sentiments were expressed in verse and even hymns. ‘Avenge O Lord Thy Slaughtered Saints’ (a pastiche of a sonnet by Milton) was published the same month in the Civil and Military Gazette; the author develops a theme which was becoming increasingly common in the second half of the nineteenth century - that God was really an Englishman, and subduing the rebellious heathen was his own special work:And England now avenge their wrongs,

  By vengeance deep and dire,

  Cut out this canker with the sword,

  And burn it out with fire,

  Destroy these traitor legions,

  hang every Pariah-hound,

  And hunt them down to death,

  in all the hills and cities round.

  Years later the city had yet to recover. In 1861 the poet Ghalib, who had earlier written that he felt the death of Fraser ‘like a father’, now bemoaned the fall of his own people and the desecration of the city he loved: ‘Helpless I watch the wives and children of aristocrats literally begging from door to door. One must have a heart of steel to witness the contemporary scene ... the moon-faced Begums of the Red Fort wandering around the streets in filthy clothes, ragged pyjamas and broken shoes.’

  Even today, stories about British atrocities in the aftermath of the Mutiny are current. In Karachi, Ahmed Ali told me how he vividly remembered his grandmother describing in hushed tones how she was thrown out of her haveli and forced to take shelter in a tomb to the south of the city; later a pair of British ‘Tommies’ found her hiding there. They pulled off her chador and stripped her naked in their search for the jewels they supposed she was hiding from them. Up to then she had never once left the family zenana or revealed even her face to anyone except her maid.

  Yet, perversely, the British remembered the siege and capture of Delhi as one of the great moments of the Empire, one of the golden bulwarks of the Raj which, along with Plassy and Seringapatam, had established Britannia’s rule over the Indian waves. Places associated with the Mutiny were preserved and became popular late Victorian tourist attractions. Monuments were erected all over the subcontinent commemorating massacres and last stands. The most important of these is the Delhi Mutiny Memorial, erected on the site of the British Camp on the Ridge. A strange, displaced Gothic spire, illegitimate first cousin to the Albert Memorial, it still stands today above the swirl of domes, rooftops and bazaar shacks that is Old Delhi. The original British inscriptions commemorating the siege and capture of the City remain, though they are now complemented by another plaque which intends to set the record right:THE ‘ENEMY’ OF THE INSCRIPTIONS ON THIS MONUMENT WERE THOSE WHO ROSE AGAINST COLONIAL RULE AND FOUGHT BRAVELY FOR NATIONAL LIBERATION IN 1857. IN MEMORY OF THE HEROISM OF THESE IMMORTAL MARTYRS FOR INDIAN FREEDOM, THIS PLAQUE WAS UNVEILED ON THE 25TH ANNIVERSARY OF THE NATION’S ATTAINMENT OF FREEDOM, 28TH AUGUST 1972.

  But the most striking thing is not either of the two inscriptions; it is the statistical tables raised by the British to commemorate the Mutiny’s casualties. Each of the monument’s eight sides has one of these tables, set in a little Gothic trefoil. Against a list of the engagements fought in 1857 are three columns: KILLED, WOUNDED and MISSING; each of the results are then, inevitably, divided into NATIVE and EUROPEAN. The cold and exact set of mind which could reduce the human casualties of a bloody war to the level of bowling averages was a world away from the attitudes of Ochterlony and William Fraser. The Twilight was finished; the sun had finally sunk.

  Yet, ironically, the Memorial stands only a few feet from the great white house which William Fraser laboured throughout the early years of the century to build. One monument with its Mughal borrowings and position determined by Timur’s camp represents what the Raj might have been. The Mutiny memorial represents - crudely and distastefuMy — what was.

  SIX

  DECEMBER ENDED as it had begun, both bleak and cold.

  On New Year’s night the poor huddled in primeval groups under the flyovers. You could see them squatting on their hams silhouetted around bonfires; sometimes one of the figures would throw a lump of dried buffalo-dung on to the flames. Nearby, in Golf Links and Chanakyapuri, the rich were celebrating. As midnight drew near, they burst balloons, popped champagne corks and tore around Delhi honking the horns of their new Marutis. At the traffic lights, as outstretched palms were thrust through open car windows, the two worlds briefly met.

  That night we went to a party given by a magazine editor. Outside the house, alongside the usual mêlée of Marutis, stood a line of imported Mercedes - the ultimate mark of arrival for a nouveau-riche Punjabi businessman - and a few white ministerial Ambassadors distinguished by their little red roof beacons. Inside we were greeted by the sight of a gaggle of top-heavy Sikhs energetically bopping around the hall to 1970s disco music; beautiful Hindu ladies lilted
delicately from side to side trying to avoid stepping on each other’s saris. Liveried bearers carried trays of kebabs around the room. On the walls, spotlights illuminated sensuous Hindu sculptures torn from the brackets of ruined temples.

  At the other Delhi parties we had been to - mostly boring official events - it had been a struggle to avoid getting cornered by some grey under-secretary from the Ministry of Fertilizer Distribution. But the tone and guest list at this party was very different; here it seemed were the elusive Delhi jeunesse dorée. Pearl chokers glittered on every female neck; huge diamonds flashed in the strobe lights.

  Mosque at Safdarjung’s Tomb

  The disc-jockey put on Earth, Wind and Fire and Olivia was whisked away by a young columnist from Amritsar; I was left talking to a rather bulbous Congress MP.

  ‘You are British?’ he asked.

  I nodded.

  ‘Did you go to Eton?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘How sad,’ he replied, moving quickly away.

  As I walked forlornly around on my own, I could hear fragments of different conversations wafting over the music:

  ‘She thought she was getting a millionaire. What she did get was five children and two poodles ...’

  ‘Actually I think they are saying she was an air hostess before she met her husband, ya? It was case of trolley to lolly.’

  ‘... The children are one thing. But imagine having to take on those disgusting poodles ...’

  ‘I really don’t know where His Highness is. Bapji swore he would be here before twelve.’

  ... at least her husband bought her a nice little boutique in Hauz Khas Village. But you should see her new collection. Ohl So vulgar ...‘

  ‘... Ya, Rohit is so talented. Really he is Delhi’s Yves St Laurent.’

  Most of the guests seemed to be either journalists, politicians, or fashion designers, the three occupations most favoured by the nascent New Delhi chattering class. The different cliques stood together in their separate groups, talking shop: the ethnic collection of the new Paris-trained designer; the likely winners in the next cabinet reshuffle; the latest chapter in the interminable Bofors corruption scandal. Only the Sikh men seemed to have other things on their mind as, twirling their moustaches, they downed great tumblers of whisky and tried to lure the prettiest girls on to the dance floor. Around the room the chatterers were still gossiping:

  ‘Acha. It’s true: his grandfather had one hundred vintage cars. He drove whichever one happened to match his cuff-links.’

  ‘Rajiv looks really sexy in his shahtoosh, ya? But Sonia - so awkward. Really she is just some common bricklayer’s daughter.’

  ‘Bubbles is nothing but a little tart. You should have seen her at Neemrana ... clinging chiffon or some wet sari ... straight out of the worst kind of masala movie ...’

  ‘Did you see Bina at the horse show? Even that Chanel suit she got in Paris can’t disguise all the weight she’s put on. And she used to be so pretty ...’

  At midnight everyone joined hands and tried to sing ‘Auld Lang Syne’, but despite a spattering of British diplomats, only a pair of Indian army generals knew the words. The Sikhs bounced off the dance floor, dripping with sweat, and joined in. After the toasts and handshakes, the socialites opened their diaries and began to swap telephone numbers and lunch dates. Then, en masse, they embraced and staggered off towards their waiting cars and frozen drivers.

  ‘It’s the drivers that run this town,’ muttered one politician as he tripped off into the driveway. ‘I was at a party last week. Half-way through one driver came in and said that the Minister for Human Resources had spent half an hour longer than he had agreed.’

  ‘No!’ replied his friend. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Imagine it. The Minister actually apologized and left without an argument ...’

  ‘Servants these days! They are less reliable even than the telephones.’

  ‘Unless you give them paan, cigarettes and seven days’ notice, they won’t do a thing.’

  ‘I ask you. What is our India coming to?’

  Mrs Puri did not see the New Year in, but the following day she celebrated the event in her own inimitable fashion.

  Soon after we had finished our New Year’s lunch, we heard the familiar sound of the Indian National Anthem chiming defiantly around the flat. I opened the door to find Mrs Puri standing to attention outside. As I let her in, she put on her best funeral face.

  ‘Mr William, Mrs William,’ she said. ‘Have you been reading our Hindustan Times?’

  ‘Yes,’ we replied, noncommittally.

  ‘In that case you will know that the rupee is in a parlous state.’

  Mrs Puri went on to describe, at some length, the trials and tribulations currently being faced by the Bombay Stock Exchange.

  ‘In short,’ she concluded, ‘our Indian economy is far from tip-top condition.’

  ‘But, Mrs Puri,’ we protested, having heard this all several times before. ‘Indian industry is going from strength to strength.’

  ‘Ah, you are kind, Mr William. But sadly things are very dire in our India.’ She paused and shook her head: ‘I’m afraid I am forced to put up your rent.’

  There followed protracted negotiations; and it was not until weeks later that we settled on a permanent arrangement that satisfied everyone. Our rent, in pounds sterling, was to be sent monthly to Mrs Puri’s bank account in deepest Ludhiana. The amount was to be fixed for one year. Fluctuations in the value of the pound were, however, to be made up in Marks and Spencer underwear which we would get our friends to mail out from Britain.

  ‘You must understand,’ explained Mrs Puri, ‘that we are not having your Marks and Spencer lingerie in India.’

  ‘No,’ we replied, embarrassed. ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Our Indian lingerie is most unsatisfactory.’

  ‘Why is that?’ Olivia asked.

  ‘In India we are having no good viscose. Here we are having only cotton and silks. For quality modern undergarments you are needing viscose.’ Mrs Puri tapped her stick triumphantly on the ground.

  ‘Actually, Mr William, I think you have no head for business,’ she said with unexpected frankness as we shook hands on the deal. ‘Really this arrangement is most satisfactory for me.’

  Although the early mornings and evenings remained grey and foggy, the afternoons at the beginning of January became increasingly warm and bright. In the gardens there appeared the first signs of spring: leaf-buds reappeared on the bougainvillaea and the poinsettias burst into flower.

  One day, inspired by the balmy weather, I decided to go and see the great onion-domed tomb of Safdarjung, the last really great Mughal building to be built in India. It was a landmark I had passed a thousand times and yet had never properly explored. From my reading, however, I knew a little about its occupant. Safdarjung was a Persian nobleman from Nishapur in Iranian Khorasan. In the late seventeenth century he came to India, gained a prominent post in the Imperial army and married into the Mughal aristocracy; a few years later he succeeded his father-in-law as Nawab (Governor) of Oudh.

  Safdarjung interested me because his life seemed to encapsulate perfectly the intriguing but cataclysmic half-century that linked the Mughal high noon at the close of the seventeenth century with the decay and disintegration of the Twilight fifty years later. When Safdarjung arrived from Persia, Aurangzeb was still Emperor and Delhi was still the richest, most magnificent and most populous city between Istanbul and Edo (Tokyo); with its two million inhabitants it was far larger than either London or Paris. Its army was invincible; its palaces unparalleled; the domes of its many mosques quite literally glittered with gold. By the time of Safdarjung’s death, the Persian Nadir Shah had been and gone, carrying with him the accumulated riches of eight generations of Empire. Three Emperors had been murdered (one was, in addition, first blinded with a hot needle); the mother of one ruler was strangled and the father of another forced off a precipice on his elephant. Delhi, the great capital
, was left a city of gutted ruins.

  To be Emperor during this period was a highly dangerous undertaking. The longest surviving sovereign of the age, the Emperor Muhammed Shah (called Rangila, or the Colourful), survived by the simple ruse of giving up any pretence of ruling: in the morning he watched partridge and elephant fights; in the afternoon he was entertained by jugglers, ventriloquists, mime artists and conjurers. Politics he wisely left to his scheming advisers.

  While the empire was being gradually reduced to a fraction of its former size, the court gave itself over to pleasure and sensuality. As the aristocracy gradually lost all interest in war and soldiering, they diverted their remaining funds into frequenting courtesans, patronizing poets, holding mehfils (literary evenings) and constructing pavilions and pleasure gardens. Music, writing and nautch dancing all flourished; the old military aristocracy complained that it was now sitar and sarangi players, not generals and cavalrymen, who were rewarded with honours and estates. Poets were so highly esteemed that it was said that a Delhi-wallah visiting a friend in another part of India would always take with him as a present not jewels or hookahs or fine weapons but a few of Mir Taqi Mir’s new verses copied on to a single sheet of paper. A new ghazal (love lyric) by one of the great Delhi poets was considered the most desirable gift that any civilized host could wish for.

  While Muhammed Shah and his circle busied themselves with amusement, Safdarjung consolidated his position. From his palace in Lucknow, the Nawab governed a province which stretched from Bengal through the rich plains of North India to the Doab. It was the most fertile land in India; Delhi was far away and the hold of the Emperors was becoming ever weaker. Safdarjung was the richest and most powerful man in India; in all but name he had become an independent ruler. On the death of Muhammed Shah, Safdarjung moved in to take over. He seized the post of Vizier (Prime Minister) and within weeks Muhammed Shah’s ineffectual successor had been effectively excluded from all decisions; he remained a figurehead, left to console himself with drink, opium and his harem.