In the City of Gold and Silver

by Kenize Mourad

  “Mammoo, do you know who this man is?”

  “Of course, everyone here knows him. He is Ahmadullah Shah, the maulvi from Faizabad. Nobody really knows where he comes from. There are all sorts of stories about him: some say he is from Madras and related to the former sovereign Tipu Sultan; others, that he belongs to a good family from across the river Indus, and it is said that he has visited England. In any case, he is rumoured to possess supernatural powers and he has thousands of disciples. A fierce enemy of the British, he exhorts Hindus and Muslims to jihad in order to drive them out of the country.”

  “And the British do nothing to prevent him?”

  “Oh, a new ‘prophet’ appears almost every day, inciting the people to rebel. Most of them are arrested and executed. Just last week, a Hindu fakir arrived to spend a few days here and is supposed to have met with the sepoys, but by the time the police began to make enquiries about him, he had already left for the north. In Ahmadullah Shah’s case, the government hesitates. The crowds revere him as a holy man, and the British fear his arrest will stir up too much controversy. But how much longer can they tolerate his impassioned speeches?”

  What power in his eyes . . .

  Hazrat Mahal is deeply shaken, she has an intuition she will see this man again and that their destinies will be intertwined . . .

  10

  When Mammoo comes to see his mistress this morning he is all excited: the latest “Dum Dum” rumour is the talk of the town!

  Word has spread that new cartridges sealed with pig fat, prohibited to Muslims, and cow fat, taken from the Hindus’ sacred animal, are stored in the Dum Dum ammunition depot near Calcutta. Now, as the soldiers have to bite the cartridges open, using them would be sacrilegious for any sepoy—the Hindus would be reduced to the status of untouchables, while the Muslims would be defiled.

  “It is a worker at the cartridge factory who inadvertently revealed the secret,” recounts Mammoo, “all because a Brahmin sepoy denied him a drink from his water jug. This challenged the factory employee to retort sarcastically: ‘There’s no need to be so high-handed, all of you will soon have lost your caste anyway, as the English have put impure fat into the new cartridges!’”

  “What new cartridges?” enquires Hazrat Mahal, who can just about distinguish a rifle from a revolver.

  “The ones for the Lee-Enfield rifles that the army is soon planning to switch to. They are more accurate than the old Brown Besses, and above all, they have a range of eight hundred metres, instead of two hundred. But the sepoys will never agree if the cartridges really are sealed with impure fat! The news has spread throughout the garrisons and everyone is worried, especially the high-caste Brahmin and Rajput Hindus, who make up the overwhelming majority of the Bengal Army. They have long suspected the English of wanting to convert them.”

  “Ridiculous! Just a few missionaries are not going to make a difference . . . ”

  “Don’t be mistaken, Huzoor, the number of missionaries is constantly on the increase and, in addition, some of the officers do not hesitate to proselytize and seek conversions.”

  Hazrat Mahal shakes her head sceptically:

  “This cartridge story is strange. The British are generally too clever to offend their troops’ religious feelings.”

  Yet the population no longer trusts them. People have barely recovered from the shock of the circular a certain Mr. Edmond recently sent to the Company officials, recommending that since India is under Christian rule, all the Indians should be converted to the “true faith.” As the letter was posted in Calcutta, it is rumoured to have come from the governor’s office. The latter categorically denied this. He did not convince anybody.

  A few days later, a new rumour had surfaced, confirming another of the “foreigners’ diabolical plans”: it claimed that powdered pig and cow bones had been added to the flour distributed to the soldiers. The sepoys, beside themselves with anger, had dumped entire consignments of flour into the river.

  “Despite their officers’ protests, who swore this was just slander, the men are overexcited,” Mammoo reports. “There are allegations that mysterious envoys have arrived in Lucknow, and that every night secret meetings are being held in the barracks.”

  Secret meetings? A conspiracy against the occupier . . . Finally!

  “This very evening, you will attend one of these gatherings,” the young woman instructs the eunuch, “and you will faithfully report back to me on everything that is said there. But take care not to be recognised!”

  * * *

  Tonight, a crescent moon sheds a weak light over the base camp while silent shadows creep stealthily along the barracks’ walls. One by one, they join the group of soldiers squatting around a fire, sipping cups of tea and smoking a chillum45. In contrast to the usual noisy, cheerful meetings, this evening everyone is quiet, lost in their thoughts.

  Suddenly one hears a branch crack and a man raises his head:

  “Look! He is here!” he whispers.

  A tall figure dressed in a sepoy uniform approaches; his badge indicates that he belongs to the 19th Infantry Regiment stationed in Berhampur, about five hundred miles east of Lucknow. The men greet him, their hands on their hearts, then, fussing over the visitor, they provide him with a blanket to sit on, a good hot drink and a few chapatis, which he accepts gratefully, admitting he has not eaten anything since the previous day.

  “I left Berhampur two weeks ago and have already visited half a dozen military bases. I only travel by night, for although the British have no idea of my mission, if I am caught, I will be executed as a deserter.”

  He studies his audience carefully:

  “Before I go ahead to explain the purpose of my visit, I need you to give me your word that everything said here will remain secret.”

  For over two hours, the man evokes the indignation felt by the soldiers and populations throughout the north of the country towards the foreigners, who are acting as if they were the masters here, dethroning kings and ill-treating a population they despise.

  “They even treat us sepoys, the spearhead of their army, as their slaves, even though we have conquered vast territories for them. If not for us, they would still be no more than a small trading company! However heroic our actions, however many victories we win, we have no hope of attaining the rank of officer. While a young fellow, fresh from England is immediately promoted to a position of command, just because he is white, for them, we remain the ‘natives’ . . . niggers! This is the first time in our history we have been treated as inferiors in our own land!”

  Gathered around the messenger, the men nod their approval; they are very upset: all of them belong to high castes or are from honourable families, and are used to being respected, which makes them even less tolerant of the new officers’ arrogance and vulgarity.

  “And now, in order to control us better, they are trying to convert us,” adds the messenger.

  Indeed, over the last twenty years, some political or military leaders have been striving to convince the population to embrace the Protestant faith, and openly denigrate their religious practices. On different pretexts, hundreds of Hindu temples, mosques, madrassas46 and Sufi sanctuaries have been closed or destroyed.

  “Near my village they have even confiscated the land belonging to the mosque so that they can build a church!” grumbles a sepoy.

  “The worst is they try to poison our children’s minds,” continues the messenger. “Just imagine, they had secretly begun to teach the Bible to the students at the large secular college in Delhi! When one of the teachers underwent a scandalous conversion, only then the families realised what was going on and hurriedly withdrew their offspring from the establishment. But it is still happening in other government schools.”

  The men clench their fists. These attacks on their religion are attacks on their honour. They find it intolerable.

  “We had no
problems as long as we were fighting neighbouring states,” remarks an old sepoy. “The principalities have always waged war on each other. But now it is our own state that is being annexed, and we find ourselves serving the occupiers. It is as if we were betraying our own and betraying ourselves. When we return to the village, their silent disapproval is palpable. It is even worse now that the situation has deteriorated with the new reforms. The price of wheat and corn has almost doubled and there is a threat of famine.”

  “We need to act now, but how?”

  The messenger silences them with a gesture.

  “You will know soon enough. Our committee for the defence of the Hindu and Muslim religions has set up active cells throughout the northern half of the country. The infidels want to direct our consciences in order to control our behaviour. We will not allow this. You are the advance guard, talk to your comrades, soon all the sepoys will rise up to drive the foreigners out. But remember, it must remain a secret until the signal for the general uprising is given—our success depends on the element of surprise. You will soon be receiving a sign advising you to be prepared and . . . ”

  His sentence is interrupted by the sound of a sneeze. The sepoys immediately jump up, and from behind a curtain of trees, they drag out a small man who fights like the very devil.

  “A spy! He heard everything! We have to kill him!” shout the soldiers, pushing him towards the messenger, while, terrified, the man attempts to protest.

  “I was not spying. I am the servant of an important person.”

  “You weren’t spying? Then what were you doing there listening to us? ”

  “I was out for a walk, I heard voices and . . . ”

  A resounding slap interrupts him.

  “If you value your life, answer us immediately: who is your master?”

  “My ma . . . my begum . . . ? One of our king’s wives,” stammers Mammoo.

  “Her name?”

  The eunuch hesitates, but as his life is at stake, he can forget his promise!

  “Begum Hazrat Mahal, the fourth wife.”

  The men surrounding the eunuch roar.

  “He is lying! The English sent him!”

  Mammoo is livid, how can he prove his good faith? He can only see one solution:

  “Then send a man to the palace to verify my story!”

  He does not dare imagine his employer’s fury; she had ordered him to keep her name secret, but he has no choice: these men will not hesitate to torture him to death.

  The messenger is puzzled:

  “Why would one of the sovereign’s wives be interested in our meetings?”

  “My begum is interested in anything that can harm the usurpers and bring our beloved king back,” declares Mammoo, regaining some of his haughtiness. “She writes to His Majesty every week to inform him of everything that is happening here.”

  He does not specify that the letters remain unanswered, that, almost certainly, they never arrive. The conspirators must believe the begum has the king’s ear, that she can be a useful ally, and hence he, an asset to be handled with care.

  “This begum . . . Hazrat Mahal, does she have a son?” questions the messenger thoughtfully.

  “Yes, Prince Birjis Qadar. He is only eleven, but he is surprisingly mature for his age.”

  “Well then, we are going to send you to the palace with two soldiers to check on all this. Know that if you attempt to escape, they will kill you immediately. On the other hand, if what you say is true, here is a letter to give to your mistress.”

  * * *

  To Mammoo’s amazement, Hazrat Mahal did not get angry. Lying on her divan, a triumphant smile on her lips, she reads and rereads the letter the messenger from Berhampur sent her. What she has spent the last year hoping for is taking shape. She cannot contain her excitement:

  “Look, Mammoo, what do you think?” she asks, holding the letter out to the eunuch.

  “Huzoor,

  Great events are underway. Be prepared.

  We are counting on His Majesty’s close relatives.

  Sepoys, faithful to their king.”

  “What do you think? What should I do?”

  “Nothing, just wait.”

  “Wait! Always wait!”

  Hazrat Mahal raises her eyes to heaven, exasperated.

  “We women spend our whole lives waiting, until . . . we have nothing left to wait for. But this time it is different, do you not see that? The people are ready to fight against the Angrez. It is true their weapons are superior to ours, but we will drive them out! There is not one single example worldwide of an occupier able to remain in power when he is not wanted, however strong he may be!”

  The young woman gets up and paces the room nervously.

  “According to the messenger, apart from the Sikhs,47 the whole army—from Calcutta to Delhi—would be ready to rebel, about one hundred and twenty thousand sepoys! Do you think the king is behind the plot?”

  “He must know about it, but until he has received an answer from Queen Victoria, I don’t think he will act. If he can obtain satisfaction through negotiation, why would he fight? This is what he replied to Rajah Jai Lal several months earlier, when the latter offered him the taluqdars’ support to resist the annexation.”

  “I wonder if the rajah knows,” murmurs Hazrat Mahal thoughtfully.

  “Certainly. He is a trained soldier and has always been in contact with the sepoys. I would not be surprised if he were directly involved.”

  “Try to find out. And from London, what news?”

  “Public opinion is on our side as the press, informed by Major Bird, exposed the Company’s lies and betrayals. The debates in the House of Lords were very lively. Lord Hastings even asked for the resident to be recalled: ‘Our problems are entirely the result of our attitude,’ he declared. ‘If the annexation of Awadh is confirmed, the Indian sovereigns, realising they cannot trust our word, will turn from friend to foe.’* Feeling the winds of change, the managers of the East India Company finally received the crown prince and the king’s brother with all the honours. They offered them vast amounts in compensation but refused to discuss the annexation of Awadh, claiming they acted on government orders.”

  “Certainly just another lie! The only person who can solve the problem is Queen Victoria. The Queen Mother has been in London for six months now, why has she not obtained an audience yet?”

  “They keep making promises, but the audience is put off from one week to the next on different pretexts: the queen is not in London, or she is tired, or she has too much to do. In fact, this affair must be an embarrassment to her, as it is difficult to challenge the East India Company, which has brought so much wealth to the Crown, but she cannot condone an injustice either. I think she is dragging things out as she has not yet decided on what position to adopt.”

  * * *

  A few weeks later, chapatis mysteriously begin to appear in northern and central India. These small flatbreads arrive in packs of six. They are left with the village guard during the night, with orders to distribute them to the six neighbouring villages, which, in turn, are to cook six chapatis and distribute them to the six nearest villages, and so on. So much so that in less than three weeks the tiniest hamlet has received these chapatis, and everyone wonders what all this means exactly. But everybody guesses they announce great events.

  Alerted, the British administration tries to discover where the phenomenon originates from and its significance. In vain. Speculation is rife, theories abound—from a simple joke to a possible conspiracy, not forgetting the possibility that these chapatis could be a popular talisman against the cholera which is rampant at the time.

  On Hazrat Mahal’s orders, Mammoo scours the town searching for explanations, to no avail. Having run out of options, he ventures into the Chowk, as far as Amman and Imaman’s house. Earlier it used to be th
e best-informed area of Lucknow. Maybe he will find some information here today . . .

  The two matrons are absent and Mammoo is about to leave when Nouran, the young woman they had taken in, shouts out to him.

  “I know something about these chapatis, but I will only tell your mistress.”

  “How can a peasant like you know something everyone else in town doesn’t? You are just trying to get into the palace,” retorts Mammoo, exasperated.

  “As you like, but the begum will not be happy,” sniggers the woman.

  “Where did you get your so-called information from?”

  “I repeat, I will only tell the begum.”

  “Well, I will take you to her, but if you have lied to me, know that you will be whipped. Do you still want to come with me?”

  Nouran’s only response is to shrug her shoulders and, getting up, she nimbly slips on her burqa.

  It is late afternoon; the drawing room is filled with a shadowy light. Hazrat Mahal dismisses all the servants, including Mammoo, who leaves muttering that she is wrong to trust this peasant woman.

  Looking over her shoulder as if afraid of being overheard, the woman murmurs under her breath:

  “Huzoor, be prepared, the distribution of chapatis announces the Great Mutiny.”

  “What mutiny? And how do you know this?”

  Instinctively, Hazrat Mahal has also lowered her voice.

  “My grandmother is from Madras and she often told me the story of the Vellore Mutiny that took place when she was a child. She said everything had begun with chapatis being distributed mysteriously and, just like today, no one knew what it meant, only that something important was about to happen.”

  “And what did happen?”

  “The British officers wanted to force their sepoys to abandon their religious symbols, maybe they wanted to convert them even then . . . As they could not rebel openly, the men organised themselves secretly, and one night they massacred all the officers and some of the soldiers while they were sleeping.”