On May 12th, before an audience of rajahs, taluqdars, British officers and Indian non-commissioned officers—the latter being given the right for the first time to sit with the English—the chief commissioner delivers a long speech on the benefits of British power and his absolute neutrality on the question of religion.
“Rest assured that we will never interfere with your customs or your beliefs, we respect them. Unlike the Mughal Emperor Aurangzeb, who disparaged the Hindu religion and forced conversion to Islam, unlike Shivaji, too, the great Hindu hero, who loathed Islam and put thousands of Muslims to the sword.”
Stone-faced, his guests nod their heads politely.
Then it is time to distribute medals to the deserving soldiers who helped put down the rebels—heroes in the eyes of the British, traitors to their comrades.
Finally, refreshments and all kinds of delicacies are served by impassive servants. To the Indians’ great astonishment, the British officers join their groups, joking and informally discussing the latest events, forgetting, for the occasion, their usual arrogance that prevents them from mixing with the natives. If they think they can win the sepoys’ sympathy in this manner, they are wrong. Their sudden congeniality leads the latter to conclude that the English are afraid and are trying to soften them.
As for Sir Henry’s speech on the benevolence with which Christians regard other religions, as opposed to Hindu and Muslim intolerance, it amused them. It is, in fact, common knowledge that the Mughal emperors, even the deeply pious Aurangzeb, had Hindu generals leading their troops. As for Shivaji, the illustrious hero of the Hindus, during his war against the Mughal emperor, maintained Muslims in crucial positions within his army. Besides, in the event of defeat, the population always gave shelter to the vanquished, whatever their beliefs.
In the state of Awadh itself, religion has never led to the slightest discrimination. Sovereigns like Safdarjung and Asaf-ud-Daulah offered Hindu priests land for their temples and often even financed them. A few years before he was expelled, Wajid Ali Shah himself had allocated a superb piece of land in the centre of Lucknow to some Irish nuns for them to build a Christian school called Loreto Convent. It later went on to accept girls from the best Hindu and Muslim families.
“This policy of discrimination began when the English arrived, with only Christians being offered the highest positions!” a rajah says.
They all agree, fully aware the British are trying to turn them against each other in order to weaken them.
13
On the morning of June 10th, Mammoo Khan bursts into the zenana with extraordinary news: the Meerut garrison has rebelled! After shooting a colonel, the mutineers freed their comrades, imprisoned for refusing to use the new cartridges. They also released all the other captives, then spilled into the streets, burning houses occupied by Europeans and killing those they met on the way.
“The memsahibs and children too?” gasp the horrified women.
While Mammoo hesitates, Hazrat Mahal offers an explanation:
“These acts were certainly carried out by the criminals who were freed along with the soldiers. Our sepoys would never attack defenceless women and children! But tell me, how many of ours were killed?”
“That is the most astonishing thing! The English were so surprised that they did not react immediately, and so the insurgents had time to flee on horseback. They galloped forty miles towards Delhi to His Majesty the Emperor Bahadur Shah Zafar’s palace. There, they massacred the English guards who tried to intervene and demanded the sovereign be awakened. When the latter appeared, asking what the commotion was all about, they greeted him with applause, proclaimed him the Emperor of India and leader of the rebellion, then they lifted him up on their shoulders in triumph.”
“Without asking his opinion?”
Incredulous exclamations burst forth. The eighty-two-year-old man, who bears the honorary title of King of Delhi, is the last Mughal emperor and Akbar the Great’s54 descendent. However, he now only reigns over his palace, the splendid Red Fort and its adjoining buildings, some thirty square kilometres at the centre of the old city, on the banks of the Yamuna River.
Even before the arrival of the British, the Mughal emperors, who had dominated India for two and a half centuries, held only nominal power. In 1739, Delhi and the palace had been pillaged by the Persian king, Nader Shah. He had seized the Peacock Throne,55 a marvel encrusted with sapphires, rubies, emeralds and pearls, as well as the famous Koh-i-noor diamond. Ten years later, an Afghan invader, Ahmad Shah Durrani, looted the capital, leaving the empire in a severely weakened condition. Since then, the Muslim and Hindu lords enjoyed a de facto independence. In 1788, another Afghan invader, Ghulam Qadir, had the reigning emperor Shah Alam blinded for refusing to reveal where the remaining treasure was hidden. Taking advantage of the power vacuum, the Mahrattas then occupied Delhi. Anarchy prevailed for fifteen years, until the British made their entrance in 1803 and re-established order—to their advantage. Since then, they have maintained the Mughal representative in a state of splendour, but with powers restricted to within the walls of the citadel.
Nevertheless, the imperial family had been up in arms against the British for some time now. They had in fact learnt that Lord Dalhousie now considered the great Mughal an empty figurehead, and for economic reasons had decided to put an end to this “farce.” On his death, his heir would not be recognised as the emperor, and the privileges enjoyed by the imperial family would be abolished. At the palace, concern vies with fury. Some of the princes have even made contact with the dispossessed rajahs and nawabs, so much so that when the sepoys arrive there on May 11th, they are not only welcomed with open arms but everything has been organised for their arrival. All of them, from the emperor’s sons to the courtiers, are well aware that Bahadur Shah Zafar’s death will mean the end of the house of Timur.56
Mammoo Khan’s announcement has stupefied the women of the zenana.
“It was said the emperor was only interested in poetry and his thousands of pigeons that flew in close rows above his head to protect him from the harshness of the sun whenever he went out. We were told he was a sage who stayed well away from the political scene. Could he possibly be behind this conspiracy?”
“Certainly not! Still, they did not leave him much of a choice: in order to legitimise their movement and to be able to spread it across the country, the sepoys need to give it a credible historical basis. By raising Bahadur Shah Zafar to power, they are reviving the prestigious Mughal era, which both Hindus and Muslims consider the most brilliant period in their history, and hence, erasing two centuries of British colonisation. The people, who applauded the emperor when he appeared on his elephant and proclaimed swaraj,57 understood this perfectly.
“‘Oh you, sons of Hindustan, if you so desire, we can destroy our enemy,’ he declared. ‘We will liberate our religion and our country, both dearer to our hearts than life itself. Hindus and Muslims rise up! Of all God’s gifts, swaraj is the most precious. What the oppressor demon stole from you through lies and trickery, is he going to keep it forever?’*
“His speech was greeted by a cheering crowd. It was as if the humiliating foreign occupation had never occurred, as if suddenly India was regaining its very soul and the Indians, their identity and their pride.”
The women are speechless; do they even dare believe it? Is it possible that the British, these all-powerful masters . . .
Hazrat Mahal trembles with excitement.
“You mean to say the Angrez were beaten by our troops?” she asks in a strangled voice. “It is not just a mutiny that will be put down tomorrow, like the all the others?”
“I do not believe so, Huzoor, I heard Rajah Jai Lal say . . . ”
Mammoo hesitates, the words he is about to pronounce seem so overwhelming.
“He said . . . that it was the beginning of the war for freedom.”
“Allah be praised!
After all these misfortunes, our country will finally be rid of these villains!” exclaims an old begum.
Little by little, the importance of the news slowly sinks in. Excited and distraught all at the same time, the women embrace and congratulate each other, some laugh, others cry, exclamations ring out along with a thousand questions that the confused eunuch cannot answer.
At last, Hazrat Mahal manages to restore calm.
“And in Delhi, tell me, how did the British react?”
“Strangely enough, there are few British troops in the city, and the sepoys, who certainly had advance warning, immediately made contact with those in Meerut. For twenty-four hours, a real witch-hunt was carried out against the Europeans. Some were killed, but the majority, including the women and children, were imprisoned, until some British officers blew up the arms depot, killing dozens of sepoys. In retaliation, the rebels executed all the prisoners.”
These words are met by murmurs of dismay:
“Killing their women and children . . . The Angrez will never forgive us!”
“This seems to be exactly what the leaders of the rebellion desire,” retorts the eunuch. “This morning I overheard a discussion between Rajah Jai Lal and the Rajah of Mahmudabad. They suspect the decision to go through with massacre was made in order to eliminate any possibility of backing down. The sepoys in Delhi no longer have a choice. They have to fight. If they surrender, they know they will be hanged.”
“And in Lucknow, what are our men doing?” asks Hazrat Mahal impatiently. “Are they finally going to take up arms, restore legitimate power and bring us back our king? Or are our smooth-talking rajahs and nawabs still procrastinating? I was under the impression that at least Rajah Jai Lal was a man of action.”
“That’s true, he is quite unlike the other taluqdars, and the soldiers love him, but he has to wait for the precise date.”
Seeing the look of incomprehension on the begum’s face, Mammoo continues:
“A date was set for a general uprising that would take the British by surprise, but now everything has to be reconsidered. While walking through the town, I noticed that people were terribly excited. The latest events have banished all their fears, and they are ready for anything.”
In the zenana, enthusiasm slowly gives way to anxiety.
“But then . . . anything can happen?”
“We are already in a difficult situation, if there are riots in town, the British may well take it out on us . . . ”
“Do you remember how they vandalised Moti Mahal Palace while looking for proof of a so-called conspiracy!”
Exasperated by her companion’s faintheartedness, Hazrat Mahal rises, signalling to the eunuch to follow her.
“Run along and find me a burqa,” she whispers to him. “We do not need a carriage this time, we will walk.”
A silent shadow follows Mammoo through the narrow alleys of the old bazaar. There has not been such a dense crowd for a long time. It seems as if the whole of Lucknow has decided to meet at this centre, which is humming with the latest rumours. On a street corner, a half-naked fakir with the trident of Shiva—the god of destruction—painted on his forehead, preaches to the spectators:
“The prophecy, remember the prophecy! This year, the Angrez, who have oppressed us for a hundred years, will be annihilated! United, we will crush them like vermin!”
A little further on, a maulvi with a long black beard hurls curses against these monstrous Christians, who hold macabre ceremonies during which they “drink their God’s blood and want to force us to do the same!”
The crowd shivers with horror. “Angrez murdabad!”58 they roar at the top of their voices, while the Indian policemen sitting a few metres away ignore them.
Groups deep in passionate discussion cluster around the food stalls, where nobody intends to buy anything today.
“It seems the population in Persia rebelled and the British troops suffered huge losses. In China too, there were demonstrations, and fearing a general uprising the British requested reinforcements from the Singapore garrison, which was refused, as they themselves were expecting trouble.”
“It is the Russians who are funding this operation behind the scenes. During the Crimean War, they realised how weak the British Army actually was, and swore to drive them out of the region.”
“In London, the queen has no idea what to do. It seems she was so badly shaken by the events that she has shut herself up in her palace and refuses to see her ministers!”
What nonsense, thinks Hazrat Mahal, Queen Victoria is as solid as a rock! But she dares not intervene, as she knows her vocabulary and her intonations and the Court’s sophisticated language would betray her.
It is Mammoo who speaks up instead:
“And where did you get this amazing information from?”
They do not appreciate his tone. Where has he come from? Maybe the news upsets him? The animosity is palpable. In this overexcited crowd, the slightest doubt, the tiniest contradiction, is considered a betrayal. Fortunately, a group of young people walking up the street, waving black flags, diverts their attention. Hazrat Mahal tugs at Mammoo’s sleeve and both of them use this moment to slip away.
On the way back, they notice that some shops are shut and the word “traitor” is written in red letters on the doors. When Mammoo asks what this is about, he is informed these shops belong to traders who have ignored orders and continued to extend credit to Europeans. Vindictive graffiti appears here and there along the walls, the streets are buzzing with feverish activity, but there is not a British uniform in sight. The authorities seem to have decided to ignore the troublemakers instead of arresting them, in order to avoid fuelling the tension.
“I would never have imagined the people could be so angry!”
As soon as she reaches the palace, Hazrat Mahal takes off the burqa, heaving a sigh of relief.
“Mammoo, bring me my writing case, I must write to Rajah Jai Lal. You will take the letter to him immediately.”
She chokes with indignation. What are these cowardly taluqdars doing? She has a good mind to tell them what she thinks of their passivity . . . But it would be of no use. As the Indian proverb says, “It is better to drink the milk than eat the cow.”
So, taking hold of her best kalam,59 she begins:
“To the Most Honourable Rajah Jai Lal Singh,
from Begum Hazrat Mahal,
wife of His Majesty King Wajid Ali Shah
Huzoor,
This afternoon I have had the opportunity of observing the enthusiasm of the people of Lucknow at the announcement of the latest events. They dream only of fighting to drive out the British and to bring their king back. They are ready to sacrifice their lives, but they await instructions, a leader, and they do not understand the rajahs’ silence.
May I add, as I am in regular contact with His Majesty, I noticed certain questions regarding the loyalty of friends he has always counted on. I know you will not want to disappoint him.”
It is true she has embellished things a little, but with this last sentence, she intends to hurt the rajah’s pride. As he is a man of honour, he will find the idea that his friend doubts him unbearable.
She seals the letter, and, handing it to Mammoo says:
“Go as quickly as you can and bring me back the reply.”
Unlike most of the taluqdars’ palaces protected by dozens of armed men, Rajah Jai Lal’s house is guarded only by two watchmen. The first one registers the visitor’s name and function, the second takes the information to the rajah’s secretary. The rajah’s answer to those who criticise his imprudence is that his rare enemies are no longer alive. If they point out that this reduced staff does not befit his rank, he retorts that he is first and foremost a soldier and enjoys a simple life. This attitude is unique in Lucknow’s high society, where extreme sophistication is the rule and the most decadent el
egance a virtue.
And if one accepts the eccentric Rajah Jai Lal’s quirks, it is because he was and still is the king’s friend and confidant. In fact, he leads people to believe that they continue to communicate, right under British noses.
Mammoo Khan is not left waiting for long. The secretary considers him the cleverest eunuch in the palace; he has had several dealings with him in the past, and has always been satisfied with the precision of his information. So today, he is ready to help Mammoo. His Lordship has asked not to be disturbed, but if it is urgent business, he will see what he can do.
A few minutes later, Mammoo is shown into a vast room with wide arcades that open onto a deserted veranda. The rajah is poring over Ordnance Survey maps laid out on a table.
“What does the palace want that is so urgent?” he asks, irritated, while he continues to study and annotate his maps.
“It is not the palace, Your Honour, it is the most important begum in the palace, the only one the king trusts,” replies Mammoo confidently. “I bring you a letter on her behalf.”
The rajah raises his head and studies the eunuch, who holds the letter out to him. He reads it rapidly and bursts out laughing.
“Your mistress is certainly audacious, she dares challenge me! In fact, I have already heard of her. I am told she has a keen political sense. It is a rare enough quality in a woman for people to remember it. I was also told she has a son?”
“Oh yes,” answers Mammoo eagerly, “a brilliant boy, a true king in the making!”
“How old is he?”
“Eleven.”
“Eleven?” The rajah utters a curse. “What can one do with an eleven-year-old child!”
Mammoo, however, is not ready to pass up the opportunity he has just glimpsed. Choosing his words carefully, he says:
In the City of Gold and Silver Page 12
