In the City of Gold and Silver

by Kenize Mourad

  She, the little orphan . . . as Allah is her witness, she has come a long way.

  Slowly, drawing in the smoke from her crystal hookah, Hazrat Mahal remembers . . .

  2

  Muhammadi was her name at the time. She was born into a family of small artisans from Faizabad, the ancient capital of the kingdom of Awadh. It had been a prosperous town until King Asaf-ud-Daulah chose to move to Lucknow in 1798. His departure led to the ruin of thousands of artisans who supplied the vast and refined court with jewels, rich fabrics and precious ornaments. Muhammadi’s grandfather had died of despair, and her father, Mian Amber, survived by doing all kinds of odd jobs until, in 1842, he was finally offered a position as a caretaker in Lucknow.13

  The whole family had accompanied him to Lucknow, but a few months later, Mian Amber died of tuberculosis. Muhammadi, his youngest daughter, was taken in by her uncle who had a reputation as the city’s finest topi114embroiderer. His topis were said to be so perfect, they would fit the head of the person they were made for exactly, but if anyone else tried wearing them, they would end up with an unbearable headache!

  One day, when the embroiderer was working on a topi for the crown prince, Muhammadi could not resist the temptation. As soon as her uncle left the room, she placed the midnight blue silk marvel, dotted with a constellation of tiny diamonds, on her head. She was stunned by the image she saw reflected in the mirror—a ravishing princess was looking back at her. Regretfully, she laid the topi back on the table. Just in time! Her uncle had come to fetch the hat, which was to be delivered immediately.

  The next day, their peaceful lane resounded with raucous cries:

  “Where is that rascal of an embroiderer? Beat him up!”

  Terrified, the embroiderer had escaped through the backyard while his trembling wife opened the door. Before her stood a huge black eunuch accompanied by two guards. He held out the topi.

  “Where is your husband?”

  “He has gone out . . . ”

  After signalling to the guards to search the house, the eunuch continued in a threatening tone:

  “Who dared to wear the crown prince’s topi?”

  “But nobody would ever dare . . . ”

  “Then how do you explain this?” the eunuch shook the hat, revealing a strand of long black hair inside, and threw it on the ground.

  Meanwhile, the guards had returned, pushing a terrified Muhammadi before them.

  “We didn’t find the embroiderer, but this girl was hiding in the back room!”

  The eunuch looked her over carefully and, softening, he asked:

  “Who is she?”

  “An orphaned niece we took in,” the embroiderer’s wife hurried to answer, grateful for the diversion.

  “Is she married?”

  “Not yet.”

  The eunuch had nodded his head.

  “Well, this time your husband is safe, as my prince is indulgent and abhors violence. But if it ever happens again, tell him I will deal with him personally and he will regret the day he was born!”

  A few days later, two women had come to the embroiderer’s home. Under their black burqas they were wearing brightly coloured gararas15 and their faces were heavily made-up. The embroiderer’s wife had immediately recognised them: they were Amman and Imaman, former courtesans who groomed beautiful girls for aristocratic harems. They taught them etiquette, dance and other arts, the most accomplished girls being destined for the royal palace.

  The matter was quickly settled. All the more so, as overcome with guilt, Muhammadi had admitted her mistake and her aunt, who had never liked her, no longer had any scruples about getting rid of her. Luckily, her husband, who may have been moved by his niece’s tears, was away. Amazed and delighted with the purse the two women had slipped into her hands—so much money for this scrawny girl!—she had tried to warn them about her difficult nature, but Amman and Imaman were no longer listening. They covered Muhammadi with a burqa and pushed her into the waiting palanquin.

  Muhammadi did not cry for long. The world she entered was fascinating. Amman and Imaman’s large house was in the centre of the Chowk, the main bazaar in the old town, with its stalls selling kebabs and other tasty treats, its innumerable artisans, famous jewellers, shoemakers, perfumers and amazingly delicate chikan16 work embroiderers, famous throughout India. All of this, steeped in the fragrance of spices and jasmine. Behind the openwork balconies above the stalls, one could catch fleeting glimpses of prostitutes dressed in colourful silks, chewing paan17 as they watched the hesitant men lingering below.

  However, the Chowk’s real fame lay in the fact that it was the courtesans’ district. In Lucknow, courtesans enjoy a very high status, quite unlike that of prostitutes. Renowned for their elegance and sophistication, they usually have a wealthy patron and every evening welcome aristocrats and artists into their salons to share art, music, dance and conversation.

  Some courtesans are also accomplished poets and musicians. All of them are hostesses whose language and etiquette is so refined that young men from prominent families are often sent to them to complete their education.

  However, attaining this respected position requires hard work and pitiless discipline. Those not gifted or dedicated enough to reach the required level of perfection find themselves relegated to the poorer part of the Chowk as second-rate courtesans, or even reduced to the status of mere prostitutes—a prospect that terrifies these women.

  Amman and Imaman’s house was large enough to accommodate ten boarders—more would have compromised the remarkable quality of their training. The young girls were woken up at 5 A.M. to perform their morning ablutions in cold water, and then they said their prayers. Religion and morality were a fundamental part of their education.

  Lessons in comportment, dance and singing began after a light breakfast and continued until two in the afternoon. Music lessons were also a must; each girl had to know how to play at least one instrument: the sitar, the sarangi or the tabla.18 After a frugal lunch, the afternoon was spent in learning Persian, the language of the Court and of poetry. Muhammadi loved these moments when her imagination could run free, within the limits of the precise codes of classical poetry, of course.

  In the evening, the boarders had free time and they made full use of the absence of their “benefactors,” who were often out visiting potential clients. They had great fun, carefully applying make-up, dancing while dressed up in transparent veils, miming scenes of passion and jealousy in which they surpassed their rivals, vying for the attention of a handsome prince, who fell madly in love and covered them in jewels. Every evening, they added a new episode to the dream, living in anticipation of the brilliant future the two sisters had promised their most gifted students. Each one saw herself as the most talented.

  At first, Muhammadi had taken part in the games, but she soon tired of them. She preferred to sit alone, writing her poems, practicing her calligraphy, or talking for hours with Mumtaz, a young girl who also came from an area near Faizabad.

  Amman and Imaman had found Mumtaz during their yearly visits to the most remote villages of the kingdom. Enchanted by her fresh beauty, they had dangled the prospect of a rich marriage before her parents, who were poor farmers. A few pieces of silver convinced them.

  Mumtaz had been in Lucknow for two years now and had come to realise she would probably never have a rich husband, at best it would be a succession of rich patrons.

  This realisation in no way diminished her gaiety. Naturally cheerful, she saw no ill will in others. Muhammadi had often tried to warn her of the boarders’ gossip and malice. Despite being two years younger than Mumtaz, she was much more perceptive and capable of thwarting their schemes.

  One day, when Muhammadi had just turned fourteen, Amman and Imaman came with some exciting news: the crown prince needed more “fairies” for his parikhana, and tomorrow the best of them would be presented at
the palace. Without a moment’s hesitation, they chose three girls: Yasmine, Sakina and Muhammadi. Then they promptly left the room, ignoring the protests and supplications of the other girls.

  Mumtaz and Muhammadi had spent the night together—maybe their last—crying, dreaming, promising they would never forget each other, swearing they would meet again, no matter what happened. Losing each other was like losing their families all over again.

  “Don’t be so sad, I probably won’t be chosen,” whispered Muhammadi, kissing her friend’s tears away.

  “Don’t be silly, I know you will captivate the king. You are so beautiful! You will reach great heights. I can feel it . . . Promise that you’ll ask me to join you. Among all those courtesans, you will need a loyal friend, and I . . . I only have you.”

  Muhammadi had sworn she would, and exhausted, they had fallen asleep in each other’s arms.

  The next day, the day I arrived at the palace . . . eleven years ago . . . it seems like yesterday . . .

  Hazrat Mahal remembers how frightened she had been when she was taken into the main zenana hall along with her two companions. There were about a hundred women belonging to the Court dressed like princesses, who stared at the girls, laughing and making comments she guessed were unkind.

  She stood waiting with her eyes lowered as the agitation and laughter escalated around her, all the while feeling her anger rising. She had never tolerated being humiliated; no matter if people deemed her awkward and said she would never find a husband. That was how her father had brought her up: “We are poor, but we are from an old family, never forget this, and under any circumstances always keep your dignity, whatever the cost. Know that the worst thing in the world is to lose your self-respect.” Her beloved father . . . she missed him so much, she wished she was far away from here, this palace, these women, whom she already detested.

  “Silence, ladies! Do you not realise you are terrifying these young girls?”

  The voice was melodious but the tone severe. Muhammadi looked up in surprise. A handsome man stood before her smiling, wrapped in an embroidered cashmere shawl. Speechless, forgetful of all the usages and greetings she had gone over a hundred times, she stood there, gaping at him.

  Outraged, Amman and Imaman stepped forward and forced her to bend her neck.

  “Forgive her, Your Highness, this girl is one of our most accomplished students. Your presence has made her lose her head!”

  The crown prince began to laugh. He was twenty-four years old, and although used to his success with women, he knew how clever they were at pretending to be in love. Nonetheless, this ravishing child delighted him. She was so troubled, so awkward and clearly not feigning her admiration, that he felt flattered. However, he quickly collected himself and addressed the matrons:

  “Your protégées are charming, but let us see if they are talented. I have thought up a new play for Lord Krishna’s birthday, and I need dancers who are not only beautiful, but who possess a real sense of rhythm. There is no room for mediocrity in kathak.”19

  He clapped his hands and immediately a small group of women sitting on a low stage began to play.

  As if in a dream, Muhammadi watched as Sakina and Yasmine moved onto the floor and began to dance gracefully to music alternately sensual and merry. She would have liked to join them, but her legs were leaden, and she remained glued to the spot while the rumble of indignant murmurs rose around her.

  Brusquely, the prince motioned to the orchestra to stop, and said in an irate tone:

  “Did you not hear? I asked you to dance!”

  Her eyes full of tears, Muhammadi lowered her gaze. She had been preparing for this moment for months, her life was being decided and now she had spoilt it all . . .

  “Why are you not dancing?” asked the prince impatiently.

  “I am not a dancer!”

  Where had she found the courage to reply in this manner? Later, she often asked herself and ended up admitting that the most desperate situations pushed her to discover her strength, her truth. In that instant, she realised that although she had learnt to dance like all her companions, to her, it was just another activity; she had never seen herself as a . . . dancer. She had other dreams.

  As she had already gone this far, she found the strength to add:

  “I am not a dancer, I am a poetess!”

  Her declaration was greeted by a stupefied silence, soon followed by exclamations. Wajid Ali Shah quietened them with a gesture:

  “Poetess, really! What vanity! How old are you?”

  “Fourteen, Your Highness.”

  “Fourteen! Your insolence is unheard of! I do not know whether I should laugh or get angry.”

  Amman and Imaman intervened, stammering:

  “Forgive us, Huzoor, we could never have imagined . . . This creature has gone mad! We will punish her. Send her away. This is the first time such dishonour . . . ”

  “First, I want to punish her myself by letting her ridicule herself in public. Come, sit down here and recite one of your poems for us. I warn you, I am well versed in this art myself and know all the masters, so you cannot fool me!”

  She felt as if she was teetering on the edge of a black hole. She could only see shadows, she was going to fall . . . she was falling . . .

  “No!”

  The sound of her own voice brought her back to herself. She opened her eyes, around her the women were sniggering. She would not give them the pleasure of watching her humiliate herself. She thought of her father, who said that courage is the greatest virtue; then, taking a deep breath, she began to recite accompanied by the resonant notes of the sitar. Her voice, feeble to begin with, gradually grew firmer and stronger. Sometimes a whisper, sometimes vibrant, following the rhythm of the images she spun out into a sumptuous fresco. She was no longer in the malicious harem. She was the beauty carried away by her lover on a spirited horse. She was the snowy mountains and flowery valleys they galloped through. She was the spring they drank from and the bed of moss where he held her so gently and placed a kiss on her lips, like rose petals.

  When she stopped her recitation an hour later, a deep silence reigned over the assembly. A few women furtively wiped their eyes, while the prince looked at her thoughtfully.

  Muhammadi realised she had won, and suddenly all the tension she had repressed was released and she began to cry.

  3

  Amman and Imaman departed, leaving the three young girls behind in the prince’s harem.

  While Sakina and Yasmine were taking part in the daily rehearsals conducted by the prince, Muhammadi, who was not invited to join them, became increasingly concerned and kept to herself. No one spoke to her. The women, touched by her poems at the time, had withdrawn, unable to forgive her for wanting to be different, and they commented loudly on Wajid Ali Shah’s flighty nature. Overnight, he was capable of forgetting the girl who had captured his attention for a brief moment.

  As for her former companions, they did nothing to reassure her: “His Grace is excited about his new ballet, and he is so nice to all the dancers! You were wrong to stand up to him, he does not like ill-natured women and those who have been here the longest say you risk spending the rest of your life as a chamber maid.”

  A week passed, and then one evening Wajid Ali Shah had her summoned to his private apartments. Surrounded by a few friends, he was leaning against plush cushions, smoking a splendid hookah inlaid with gold. Petrified, Muhammadi froze at the entrance.

  “Come, do not be afraid, we want you to recite some of your poems for us,” he encouraged her with a smile.

  Reassured, she took a few moments to collect herself, then, in a vibrant voice, began with a poem dedicated to the glory of the most amorous of men, the Emperor Shah Jahan, who had the Taj Mahal—the white marble wonder—built for his beloved. At length she displayed her talent and charm, interrupted only by flattering exclam
ations from the gathering.

  Late at night, everyone went home, but Wajid Ali Shah asked her to stay. “If you want to that is,” he murmured.

  If she wanted to! That was the moment she had fallen in love.

  She remembers the nights they spent together, reciting poems and loving each other until dawn. She was amazed by his delicacy, he at her innocence. He had even composed a poem in her honour; it began like this:

  “By what miracle did Amman and Imaman bring this modest young girl here? Her whole body exudes a perfume of roses, she is a fairy.”20

  A few weeks later, she was pregnant. That was when he gave her the title of “Iftikhar un Nisa,” “the pride of women,” as he appreciated her dignity that set her apart from the others who were so submissive.

  When Allah finally blessed her with a son, she thought she had found a certain security. Quite the reverse, it was the beginning of a war, the covert war of harems, where accidents and poisons are the weapons that mothers must ceaselessly protect their offspring from.

  Fortunately, she has her faithful Mammoo! In this world of jealousies and intrigues, the eunuch is her only protector. For today, she is no longer the king’s favourite. As charming as he is fickle, he is far too busy with new beauties, and if she wants to retain his affection, she must entertain him, amuse him, as she did this afternoon, but certainly not discuss her problems with him.

  Wajid Ali Shah himself had offered her Mammoo, or more precisely, had accepted that she engage his services. At the time, nobody wanted the eunuch, he was said to be unlucky. His mistress—one of the new favourites—had died under mysterious circumstances, and Mammoo had been accused if not of collusion, at least of negligence. Wajid Ali Shah should have sacked him then, but he hesitated. The man was certainly the most skilful of the zenana’s servants and excelled at resolving delicate matters. So when Hazrat Mahal, who had just given birth to a son, had come to ask her husband to give her the eunuch as a housekeeper, he had agreed, relieved at this unexpected solution. The other women had tried to dissuade her, arguing that she was credulous and the eunuch was unworthy of her trust; she had stood her ground. It was not only out of charity. Of course, it was sad to see Mammoo in this pitiful situation. Dismissed from the palace, all doors would be closed to him, and he would have ended up on the street. Hazrat Mahal, who had suddenly found herself alone at the age of twelve, understood his despair. However, she was also guided by her intuition. Gifted with a capacity to judge beyond appearances, which earned her as much loyalty as unflagging hatred, she had sensed a keen intelligence and a great deal of ambition in the eunuch, and had felt that by engaging him she would have a worthwhile ally. As for Mammoo, it was clear: the young woman had saved him. He would henceforth be devoted to her, body and soul.