Joseph Lawrence felt his pulse. It seemed normal. He sent for Fort William’s chief physician, Dr. McGregor.
Old McGregor arrived driving his buggy at top speed. He was a jovial and expansive Pickwickian character let loose in Fort William. He examined the great man who was still in a stupor and had been carried to the sofa.
“Sir Cyril is fine. Just overwork, needs complete rest,” he told Lawrence and eyed the bottle of good cheer freshly imported frae bonnie Scotia.
In a few minutes Sir Cyril came to and said, “Oh, hello, doc, good afternoon. Have a drink. Joseph, take out the glasses and join us. Bandobast. Ek dum. Juldee.”
They had a boisterous office party.
Cyril climbed up on his table and began singing a Cornish folksong at the top of his voice.
“What if I lay you down on the ground, my purty maid?”
“I’ll rise up again, sweet Sir,” she said.
McGregor took up the refrain zestfully,
“Sir,” she said, “Sir,” she said.
“I’ll rise up again, sweet Sir,” she said.
“They are celebrating Burra Saheb’s Knighthood,” two baboos remarked as they passed by in the corridor.
Cyril jumped down and began dancing a jig.
Hot cross buns
One a penny, two a penny
Hot cross buns.
If your daughter doesn’t like them
Give them to your son . . .
He proceeded to make up his own rhyme:
My daughter is a holy
Holy Cross nun,
She can’t like a hot cross bun.
Her Mammy is wanton, runs a den,
One a penny, two a penny . . .
Tears rolled down his face and he sat down. McGregor was busy drinking and did not notice his anguish. Cyril continued crying silently. He would never meet his first love, Maria, never see his daughter, a sad, middle-aged woman shut off from the world. And soon his high-born wife was going to produce for him a much desired, thorough-bred heir or heiress.
He wiped his face, placed his pince-nez on the tip of his nose like a preacher, and addressed his audience.
“Please turn to page number 0, 0, 0.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” his drunken congregation of two answered in unison, “0, 0, 0.”
Cyril stood up and made up his own lullaby:
Rock-a-bye Baby
On Pagoda’s tree
Your cradle is White
Your future is Bright
Your mother is a Lady
Your father a Knight . . .
Doctor and clerk sang the chorus. Suddenly, Cyril threw up his hands and implored, “Sister Eliza of the Holy Cross, pray for us sinners. . . .” Then he staggered to the sofa and plonked himself down on it.
Lady Ashley gave birth to a son. The Bishop of Calcutta baptised him Cyril Edwin Derek Ashley, and the Governor-General of India and his lady were his godparents.
After some time Gautam Nilambar resigned from his government job. He had acquired a Bachelor of Arts degree and became a teacher in a Brahmo Samaj school. One evening as Gautam sat in the Samaj office going through the day’s newspapers, he came across a headline announcing Sir Cyril Ashley’s sad demise at the age of 65. Gautam was overcome with grief. Cyril was a rare human being, they didn’t come like him anymore.
Death came to Cyril Ashley in a lonely circuit house in a remote corner of Bihar. He had returned on horseback after inspecting his indigo plantations. His orderly had taken off his riding boots, he had bathed and changed for dinner and was awaiting his usual sundowner in the drawing room when, all of a sudden, he felt he was going to die.
He stammered and could not call out, Koi Hai— he had had a massive stroke, and died quietly in his armchair.
Sir Cyril Ashley was buried in a small European cemetery in the nearby district headquarters. He had retired a few years earlier from the Company’s Service and had spent most of his time reading Persian and Sanskrit classics. Something seemed to have snapped within him after that fateful Morning of Revelations in Fort William on September 14, 1825. His friends and subordinates attributed his unhappiness to his bad marriage.
Upcountry papers carried long articles eulogising the deceased. He was one of the Empire builders, a noted Orientalist and an immensely likeable person. The Royal Asiatic Society of Bengal and Fort William College were closed for a day, and special church services were held in Calcutta and Lucknow.
His unpleasant wife sailed back to England with little Edwin Derek Ashley.
25.The Waterway of Tears
In Lucknow, Ghaziuddin Hyder was succeeded by an equally flamboyant Nasiruddin Hyder. An opera titled The Barber of Lucknow could be written about the King’s French coiffeur, de Russett, because he was as unscrupulous as Figaro, hero of the French opera, The Barber of Seville. Nasiruddin Hyder’s maid, Dhania Mehri, had also become very influential. The King had bestowed upon her husband the title of Raja Mehra. Many noblemen of the Court went to England, some became Freemasons. Lucknow had a modern racecourse and tennis courts called gend-khanas. Nasiruddin’s successors, Mohammad Ali and Amjad Ali, were lack-lustre and pious.
Vajid Ali Shah, the tenth ruler of Oudh, became a legend in his lifetime. He endeared himself to the people as Akhtar Piya, or Jan-i-Alam—life and soul of the world. Like Hussain Shah Nayak of Jaunpur and Sultan Baz Bahadur of Malwa, he was an accomplished musician. He composed thumris and dadras, perfected the dance style of kathak and created the ballet called Ras Lila or Rahas in which he danced as Krishna. In the annual Jogia Mela or Spring Festival held at Qaiser Bagh everybody wore yellow, signifying the colour of mustard. Vajid Ali Shah wore the ochre robes of a yogi, and his favourite dancer was dressed as a jogan.
There was fun and frolic all year round. People loved Jan-i-Alam. When he went out, two officers rode ahead with boxes in which the commoners put their petitions. The King attended to the petitions himself.
In January 1856 Sir James Outram, the new Resident, arrived in Lucknow and told Vajid Ali Shah to quit because he was no good. The Company’s army was given seven hours to sack Lucknow if the King did not agree to Step down. The King’s mother, Malika Kishwar, argued forcibly with Outram. No way—Vajid Ali had to go. Most people in Britain felt that the forced abdication was unfair. Jan-i-Alam’s advisors asked him to take his case to London. The Hindu populace made a kabat. Hazrat jatey hain London, Kirpa karo Raghu Nandan—the venerable King is going to London, come to his aid, O Lord Rama.
He was to be banished to Calcutta. The grief-stricken populace cried and wailed when the ex-King climbed on to his carriage called Bad-i-Bahari, Breeze of Spring, and left for Cawnpore. The city was plunged in gloom. Muddabir-ud-Daulah, Raja Jwala Parshad and Mir Munshi Raja Daulat Rai Shauq insisted on accompanying him. He asked them to stay back in Lucknow because they were too old to travel. Mir Hasan “Londoni” had brought an English wife from Britain who had written a book about Lucknow which had become a bestseller in England. Mir Hasan also stayed back due to his infirmity, but a large number of royal relatives, courtiers and servants went with the King to Calcutta.
After the abdication Revenue Minister, Mushir-ud-Daulah, Moin-ul Mulk Maharaja Balkrishan Jasarat Jung and others went to the Residency and were placed in charge of the English officers. The King’s property and valuables were auctioned, his elephants, horses and cattle sold. When his tuskers were being auctioned some of them scooped up dust in their trunks and squirted it upon their heads. They shed tears, too. The Sahebs asked if they had sore eyes—the mahouts replied that they had never seen the elephants behave like this.
The ex-King was taken on a steamer from Cawnpore to Allahabad. His traditionally faithful ally, Kashi Naresh Maharaja Ishwari Parshad Narain Singh, requested him to break journey and stay in Banaras for a few days. When he arrived there the Maharaja observed all the protocol as of old. He stayed there for fourteen days. On May 13 the mournful caravan reached Calcutta. A Kothi belonging to the Maharaja of Burdwan
in Garden Reach was rented for him.
Akhtar Piya had not fully recovered from the trauma of his forced exile. The hardships of the journey by steamer, train and coach from Lucknow to Calcutta made him physically ill. He gave up the idea of going to England. But his mother Malika Kishwar, widow of King Amjad Ali Shah, was a politically astute and strong woman; she decided to proceed to Britain herself, present the case of unlawful dispossession before Parliament, and meet Queen Victoria herself.
Much earlier, Asaf-ud-Daulah’s mother, Nawab Bahu Begum, had defied Warren Hastings. She was also a good poet. About tears she had once written—Tari ki raah se jata hai qafala dil kae—a convoy of sorrows has come out on the waterway.
The royal party prepared to leave. Her Majesty, Badshah Bahu Malika Kishwar Nawab Taj Ara Begum was accompanied by her younger son, General Sikander Hashmat, Prince Hamid Ali, son of the ex-King, Vakil Masihuddin Khan and a number of noblemen, ladies-in-waiting and servants. One hundred and ten men and women boarded the S.S. Bengal at midnight, June 18, 1856. There was a heartening send-off, crowds at the pier broke down and wept. Everyone had very little hope of getting any justice from the East India Company’s Court of Directors.
When the ship passed by the Kothi of Matia Burj the 37-year-old ex-King stood on the upper-floor veranda and waved a tearful goodbye to his mother, younger brother and son.
It was a sad journey. The Queen Mother, Malika Kishwar, and her ladies-in-waiting stayed in seclusion in the staterooms. Sometimes they held majlises in which the soz-khwan women recited the dirges for Imam Hussain in classical ragas. The English crew thought they were singing melancholy songs. The box containing the Queen Mother’s priceless jewels fell overboard at Suez and was never retrieved. Perhaps it was Stolen. The voyage seemed to be jinxed.
From Suez, Malika Kishwar’s party travelled to Cairo where they rented the villa of Ibrahim Pasha. On the tenth day, they left Cairo by train in the morning and reached Alexandria the same evening. Hormuzjee Parsi, Royal Treasurer, joined them in Alexandria. Then they boarded the S.S. Indus. The boat cast anchor in Southampton harbour on August 20, and the party was accorded a royal reception by the Mayor. The Queen Mother disembarked in her gold-and-silver palki, the carpeted pathway to the coach curtained on either side. H.M. Malika Kishwar was escorted by khwaja saras, the royal eunuchs. Major Bird, a personal friend of Vajid Ali Shah who had preceded the royal entourage, was present at the pier. He requested Her Majesty to shake hands with the Mayor through the venetian blinds of the coach. Thousands of spectators cheered and shouted, “Hurray, hurray!”
The entourage included a court jester, cooks, footmen, maids and the royal sweeper, Mansa. There were five hundred trunks, some of which contained raw foodstuff and spices to prepare Indian meals in England. The party was taken to the Royal Park Hotel. Crowds had assembled in front of the hotel as well. Major Bird was back on the soil of liberal England. He addressed the public and made an impassioned speech.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “The Queen Mother of Oudh is sixty. In her old age she has undertaken this long voyage in order to seek justice in Britain. As an honest Englishman, I must tell you that her son was our loyal friend. He helped the Hon’ble John Company with enormous loans which the Company never paid back. Tell me, if the Emperor of France or another monarch mightier than Queen Victoria breaks his pledges and forcibly dethrones Her Majesty, would you be happy?”
“No! No!” shouted the crowd.
On August 22 a throng of lords and ladies of Albion came to the hotel. The Princes held their durbar in the ballroom, Majors Brendon and Rogers acted as Interpreters. On August 30 the party reached London by train. Harley House was rented to accommodate them.
The Queen Mother’s arrival was officially ignored in London, perhaps because Major Bird’s Southampton speech was not to the government’s liking. Londoners were fairminded, and they would not have approved of the high-handed manner in which the King of Oudh had been deposed. On October 11, 1856, General Mirza Sikander Hashmat met Queen Victoria in Crystal Palace.
On January 16, 1857 the Princes, accompanied by Mashiuddin Khan and Major Bird and others, went in a procession of five coaches to India House. Spectators thronged the pavements. The delegation was received by English officials who doffed their hats. The Princes were taken to see the Indian Museum and meet the Directors of the East India Company. During the banquet Masihuddin Khan told them to prove the charges levied by the former Resident of Oudh, General Sleeman, against Vajid Ali Shah. “If he is found not guilty and you still justify the annexation, we will take the case to your Parliament.”
The Directors made no reply.
On January 21, 1857, the Great Sahebs came to a lavish dinner at Harley House the Princes hosted. Money was running out. The Queen Mother sold a necklace for two lakh rupees to a lord, who bought it for his bride.
H.M. Malika Kishwar went to meet Queen Victoria. She was received by eight Englishwomen who had lived in India and could speak Urdu. Malika Kishwar wore a simple Egyptian dress she had bought in Cairo. She was accompanied by her son and grandson and the envoy, Mashiuddin Khan. Queen Victoria shook hands with the Princes and asked the Malika about her voyage. The Queen Mother said, “We had never sailed in a boat on our sweet little stream called the Gomti. Now we have crossed the seven seas to seek justice for our son.”
Queen Victoria was probably not amused, though she expressed her sympathy for the hardships experienced by Queen Mother Kishwar during her journey. Then she changed the subject and said, “We have ten children, some of whom are still in their cribs. The eldest, the Prince of Wales, is thirteen years old. Will you allow him to come in?”
Malika Kishwar said, “Yes, indeed. We would love to see him.”
The Prince of Wales was called in with his governess. Malika Kishwar graciously made him sit near her and, according to Eastern royal custom, took off her diamond necklace and put it round the British heir’s neck. The ornament’s pendant contained a phial of rare perfume. Victoria asked about it. Malika Kishwar said, “In our country when a guest leaves, he is given a phial of perfume.”
The interpreter did not translate this correctly and Queen Victoria thought Malika wished to leave. She said to the Indian queen, “Perhaps you are very tired. Do take a little rest over here before you go. We’ll meet again and talk at leisure some other time.”
The case was presented in Parliament. Lord Dalhousie who had come home after his annexation of Indian states, expressed his inability to attend Parliament and answer the questions put by the Members, due to indisposition. Most Members of the House of Commons said the annexation of Oudh was unlawful. Unfortunately, the Sepoy Mutiny broke out in Meerut Cantonment on May 9, 1857, and this totally altered the situation.
In Matia Burj, Calcutta, the ex-King had just finished his early morning prayers when he was arrested and jailed in Fort William. His former people said, “Joseph of Canaan is imprisoned in Pharaoh’s Egypt.”
Telegraphic news from India, of English men and women being massacred by the mutineers enraged the British. Public opinion turned against the royal visitors—according to them it was these very people who had instigated the rebellion in India. Malika Kishwar realised that the situation was now hopeless and dangerous. She left for France from where she planned to go to Mecca via Egypt. In Paris she fell ill and died.
There was no love lost between France and England because the British had ousted the French from India. The government of France telegraphed the British Foreign Office: ‘La Majeste died on French soil. She was our guest. We will give her a state funeral’. No satisfactory reply was received from Whitehall. The French gave a fitting farewell to the poor queen who had died of a broken heart. Sikander Hashmat was too grief-stricken to walk along with the cortege, so the French Prime Minister made him sit in his coach. Multitudes wore mourning dress and accompanied the procession, thousands of Frenchwomen waved black kerchiefs from their balconies. Malika Kishwar was buried with full state honours in
the compound of the Turkish embassy.
The shock of his mother’s sudden death proved fatal for General Sikander Hashmat who had been ailing for some time. He died in February 1858. He was also given a state funeral, and was buried in the mosque yard of the Ottoman Embassy. It was uncanny—the Prince’s four-year-old daughter also died, and followed her father and grandmother to the grave.
Eight months earlier, Malika Kishwar’s fearless daughter-in-law, Queen Hazrat Mahal, had indeed declared war on the Company’s government in Lucknow. She had instigated and inspired the entire population of Oudh to take up arms against the British.
26. The Queen and Her Knights
It was a pleasant afternoon in the winter of 1868. Two elegant men in their late sixties sat on a lakeside bench in Calcutta, conversing slowly. The older man wore an embroidered Kashmiri choga, his friend was rather nattily dressed in tweeds. He looked the kind of person Britons sneeringly referred to as a WOG—a Westernised Oriental Gentleman. The two friends had met a few days ago after nearly forty-five years. It was a chance meeting at a mehfil of Hindustani music held in the house of the nominal Nawab Bahadur of Murshidabad.
“When Sultan-i-Alam was exiled from Lucknow I was away in Iraq and Turkish Arabia on pilgrimage. In Medina I read in an Egyptian newspaper about Her Majesty Malika Kishwar’s departure for Inglistan from Alexandria. I had enough money with me, so I rushed to Alexandria and took the next ship to Southampton. In October ’58 I returned from Europe and found that Lucknow had changed. My house had disappeared, too.” The man in the gray Kashmiri robe continued, “They had demolished a large part of the city and laid seven wide roads to help quick troop movement. They had engineers, sappers and miners. The latest armaments. Telegraphic communication, tinned food for soldiers and a network of our own men who spied for them . . .
“Begum Hazrat Mahal’s massive lashkar had a lot of patriotic fervour, little training and less organisation. They had antiquated guns. And yet, and yet, within a month they liberated Oudh with sheer guts.
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