* * *
Under torrential monsoon rain, two sepoy regiments in full regalia are standing at attention in front of the elegant white marble Baradari63 at the centre of Kaisarbagh gardens. Inside, taluqdars and officers are gathered, awaiting the arrival of the crown prince. Contrary to tradition that dictates the king be crowned in the centre of town in the Lal Baradari made of red sandstone, it was judged more prudent to remain within the palace grounds.
Rajah Jai Lal had the greatest difficulty in persuading the soldiers that the choice of such a young child was the only appropriate alternative under these difficult circumstances. It took two long days of negotiations to reach an agreement: Birjis Qadar is to follow the directives of the great Mughal in Delhi, the supreme authority over northern India; the prime minister will be chosen with the army’s agreement; and the officers will have to be approved by the soldiers, whose pay will be doubled. Lastly, the sepoys will be allowed to punish anyone who collaborates with the British in the manner they see fit.
Thus, the rebel soldiers in Lucknow—as in Delhi and other insurgent towns—demand not only monetary concessions, but also the right to participate in political decisions.
Amongst the notables awaiting the prince and his mother, one of the main victors of Chinhat, Maulvi Ahmadullah Shah, is conspicuously absent. Officially, he is incapacitated due to a battle injury and is unable to travel, but everybody knows he has no intention of swearing allegiance to the young king and, even less, to his mother. What can a woman understand of politics, or of warfare for that matter? He has reminded his partisans—who are quick to pass on his comments—of the bitter defeat Prophet Muhammad’s youngest wife, Aisha, suffered when she led the army into the “Battle of the Camel,” and he quoted the words of a famous alim: “A nation which places its affairs in the hands of a woman shall not prosper.”
Taking advantage of a lull in the storm, the royal procession finally leaves the Kaisarbagh Palace for the Baradari. In contrast to past splendours, the procession only consists of about a hundred guards and a few phaetons carrying the prince and his mother, as well as the ladies and eunuchs, who are part of their retinue. Gone are the orchestras with their brightly
coloured uniforms, gone are the jugglers and dancers, glaringly absent the elephants caparisoned with brocades or the superb thoroughbreds, their saddles encrusted with precious stones—the main attractions of the ceremonies held during Wajid Ali Shah’s time. Since his exile, they have been confiscated—stolen, say the Indians—by the chief commissioner, for the benefit of the British crown.
Nonetheless, the crowd is enthusiastic. People throng both sides of the road to watch the procession pass. When the young boy steps out of the carriage, followed closely by his mother, the begum, enveloped in veils, the crowd’s deafening clamour of cheers and applause spreads across the immense esplanade.
Inside the illuminated Baradari, the noble gathering waits in silence, curious but mainly sceptical about this eleven-year-old child who is being presented to them as the king. However, Birjis Qadar’s majestic bearing and the confidence with which he takes his place on the masnad64 that replaces the throne—also confiscated—deeply impresses the entourage.
“Oh, you, Father of Victory, supporter of the religion, magnificence of Alexander the Great, you, the righteous King, Caesar of our times, Sultan of the universe!” Emphatically the great alim enumerates all the titles that the sovereigns of Awadh have taken great pride in for generations, then—as the royal crown has also disappeared—he takes the mandil65 and solemnly sets it on the young boy’s wavy hair.
And when the small, frail figure of Birjis Qadar stands up to solemnly take the oath before God and vows in a clear voice to do his utmost to serve and protect his people and his country, even the hardest of hearts cannot help feeling a shiver of emotion.
As he finishes, the traditional twenty-one gun salute rings out, announcing the coronation of a new king. This is followed by a long line of eminent taluqdars and officers who, parading slowly past their sovereign, have come to swear allegiance to him. One by one, they bow deeply and he acknowledges each one with a word, a slight nod. His whole being exudes a nobility and calm, impressive in someone so young.
Beside him stands his mother, slightly in the background, her head held high and her eyes sharp. She is only too aware that these taluqdars, who prostrate themselves here today, will change sides at the drop of a hat. Loyalty and fidelity are not these princely families’ greatest qualities. Shifting allegiances, depending on the needs of the moment, are an old and accepted practice. She has a plan to counter them.
The parade of dignitaries comes to an end. Silencing the gathering with a gesture, the Rajah of Mahmudabad declares:
“Given our king’s young age and according to custom, his mother, the very noble Begum Hazrat Mahal, is named regent until her son’s majority. She will be advised by myself, as representative of the taluqdars, along with Rajah Jai Lal Singh, the army’s representative, and, of course, by her ministers. I ask you to swear allegiance to her.”
“Allow me, Rajah Sahib!”
The begum moves forward while the rajah, surprised by this unceremonious intervention, steps aside.
Majestic in her brocade garara, Hazrat Mahal, henceforth the Queen Mother, scrutinizes the audience with an imperious glance. She takes her time—what she is going to say requires their full attention.
“Highnesses, Sahiban, the dramatic situation our country is facing has convinced my son and myself to accept the heavy responsibility of power. In these troubled times, this means we are putting our lives at stake. We have decided to take this risk, as we are aware that the struggle for independence needs an unquestionable symbol as a rallying point, and this can only be the son of our beloved sovereign, the king, Wajid Ali Shah.
“However, as we have chosen to commit ourselves, so we ask of you a commitment in return. If I do not receive this assurance, if I must constantly worry that any setback will lead you to abandon the struggle, I will not risk my only son’s life. Hence I request each of you to come and swear, either on the Holy Quran, or on this jar containing sacred water from the Ganges, to fight faithfully and relentlessly to the very end; that is to say, until we have driven out the British.”
What a woman!
Rajah Jai Lal watches her, stunned. He would never have expected this speech, he who thought he knew her!
Anyone else would have been content at becoming the regent. They would never have thought of imposing their conditions. She is right though, she knows how fickle the taluqdars are.
Murmurs rise all around him:
“How dare she speak to us in this manner? Who does she think she is? She was a mere dancer before. She cannot make demands on us. If she does not like it, we can do without her!”
Jai Lal senses the danger; if someone does not intervene immediately, the situation is likely to deteriorate. And without a king’s authority it will be impossible to contain the army and unite the taluqdars, leaving the British the chance to rapidly regain power, and their vengeance will be terrible!
He exchanges a look with the Rajah of Mahmudabad. The latter is going to try to calm the gathering:
“We should be offended by your words, Huzoor,” the Rajah of Mahmudabad declares, “but we understand they are dictated by your maternal love and the fear of the danger in which you place your son. Our mothers would doubtless have acted in the same manner. Thus, I think I am speaking for all of us when I say we do not hold it against you. The taluqdars’ generosity will not be found wanting. If the only way in which we can allay your fears is to agree to your surprising request, I think we can grant you this favour.”
And without giving the begum time to react, he steps up to the Quran and raises his hand to swear the oath, followed immediately by Jai Lal, who goes towards the jar containing the sacred water of the Ganges. Then, after a slight hesitation, all the rajahs and
nawabs step forward, one by one, to take the oath on their sacred symbol.
Without the slightest inkling of the narrowly averted disaster, the hundreds of soldiers gathered on the esplanade shout their enthusiasm and impatiently demand to see their king. When the latter finally comes out of the ceremonial hall, followed by his mother, he is welcomed with a huge roar that resonates from one end of the garden to the other.
“Krishna! You are our Krishna!”*
Laughing, crying, the men jostle each other to see, to approach, to touch their young sovereign. They are placing all their hopes in him, merging him into their adoration for Krishna, the child god, who personifies infinite love for the Hindus. Overcome by elation, some even dare to kiss him, and if Rajah Jai Lal had not rapidly brought the situation under control with a few blows from his cane, Birjis Qadar may well have died of suffocation. With great difficulty, the officers open a path to the phaeton, where his mother is waiting. As the jubilant crowd showers them with blessings, the procession makes its way haltingly back to Kaisarbagh Palace, accompanied by a throng of admirers.
Throughout the night, in the glow of multicoloured paper lanterns, the people celebrate. Men dance and sing to the sound of tablas and nagaras,66 cheering the ascension of their new king, while hidden behind the jalis, the women praise the young boy’s qualities and marvel that for the first time in Lucknow, power is in the hands of a woman.
Not far from there, inside the Residency steeped in semi-darkness, the atmosphere is quite different. In every home only wails and sobs are to be heard, while outside, the soldiers pace up and down, their heads lowered.
In the main building, lit by a few candles, a bed has been set up, around which a group of officers and their wives read the Bible and recite the prayers for the dead. The tall, thin body of the person they so greatly loved and respected is lying on an immaculate sheet. This was the man who kept up their courage with his unchanging smile in the worst situations, the man whom they had trusted as a father.
Sir Henry Lawrence had been killed by a cannonball that entered his room while he was resting. Before he died, and despite his suffering, he took the time to appoint Major Banks chief commissioner and Colonel Inglis head of the fighting force, leaving him instructions on how to deal with the siege. He also insisted on dictating his epitaph, as simple as the man himself:
“Here lies Henry Lawrence who tried to do his duty.
May God have mercy on him.”*
19
The British flag flutters defiantly over the main Residency building. To vent their mounting frustration, the sepoys regularly use it as target practice, for since King Birjis Qadar’s coronation they have been instructed to stop random attacks until further notice. This decision was taken by Rajah Jai Lal and the regent at their first meeting, when he told her of the futile deaths of soldiers, who set off to attack the cannons armed solely with rifles and their courage. A conference was called in order to define a strategy.
On this afternoon of July 7th, the military high command, the taluqdars’ and rajahs’ representatives, as well as the rest of the government, are assembled in Chaulakhi Palace, near the Kaisarbagh palaces, where the Queen Mother has chosen to set up home with her son.
They are awaiting the new regent with scepticism and slight irritation after Rajah Jai Lal had informed them that she wants to participate in every decision regarding the struggle against the occupier and the country’s administration. He had, however, judged it wiser not to report her exact words: “If these honourable sahiban imagine I am going to be a puppet, content to merely record their decisions, they are mistaken,” she had declared. “Observing the way the kingdom has been managed for a long time, I have noted a number of errors, and not all of them can be blamed on the British! Too often, our advisors place their own interests before those of the country. This is now over. The situation is serious, I will show no leniency.”
At precisely 4 P.M., the Queen Mother enters, preceded by her Turkish guards in their dark green uniforms. Sumptuously dressed in a garara interwoven with gold and decorated with pearls, she slowly steps forward, no longer wrapped in her veils, as she had appeared on coronation day before the gathered people. Today her face is uncovered—a light gauze is draped over her hair, concealing her elaborate coiffure—in a gesture indicating to all present that it is not the woman presiding over these government sessions, but the regent and leader of the government and, as such, purdah has no place here.
Its significance is not lost on the men assembled before her. Their first reaction is one of shock, but above all, her beauty perturbs them and so they avert their eyes. Nonetheless, they have to answer her explicit questions on this or that point on the agenda, and slowly they pull themselves together.
Hazrat Mahal smiles to herself, satisfied. She enjoys repeating the words spoken by the Prophet’s granddaughter, Zeynab, who refused to wear a veil: “If God gave me beauty, it is not for me to hide it.” And maliciously she notes that if women’s beauty disturbs men so much, they can always choose to look away!
Rajah Jai Lal is the first to present his report:
“As the majority of the sepoys have gone to Delhi, we have twenty regiments under our command, about fifteen thousand men,” he announces. “It will not be enough if Calcutta sends reinforcements, which they certainly will. We are at an even greater disadvantage, as our weapons are highly inferior to those of the British: our soldiers are equipped with the inaccurate Brown Bess rifles that have a range of two hundred metres, against their Lee-Enfields with a range of eight hundred metres. In addition, the only cannons we have are outdated and far less powerful than their Howitzers. Lastly, we are likely to run out of ammunition very soon, as the British made sure to blow up the depot before barricading themselves into the Residency.”
His words elicit worried comments. The Chinhat victory gave them such a sense of invincibility that they have forgotten certain realities.
The regent makes herself heard over the hubbub:
“Why not reinstate the thousands of soldiers and officers belonging to the former royal army who, having been dismissed by the British, are now unemployed? That would give us about thirty more regiments! As for the ammunition, can we not quickly set up a factory and engage enough men to produce the quantities we need?”
“The problem, Huzoor, is that we have no money,” objects Rajah Bal Kishan, the finance minister. “As Your Majesty saw with her own eyes, Captain Birch had the state treasure forcibly transported from Kaisarbagh to the Residency, thus depriving us of the means of financing our action.”
“But as far as I know, we still have His Majesty’s private treasure?”
“I have no idea where it is. His Majesty sealed it himself and entrusted it to two of his right-hand men. I doubt they will agree . . . ”
“Have them brought here immediately.”
“We will try to find them, Huzoor.”
“Rajah Sahib, I am convinced that if you try, you will succeed,” interrupts Hazrat Mahal icily.
And then, seemingly oblivious to the murmurs of the dignitaries, outraged at being treated with so little respect, she turns to the governor of Lucknow, who has come to report on the situation in town.
“It is a disaster, Huzoor! All the bazaars are completely deserted, as the shopkeepers have shut their shops after the extensive damage perpetrated by the pillaging soldiers over these last few days. There is no grain to be found anywhere except in the black market at exorbitant prices, so much so that part of the population is starving and ready to revolt.”
Hazrat Mahal cannot repress an outburst of anger.
“Summon the tradesmen’s leaders, Governor Sahib, and have their grain purchased at the normal rate, of course. Then, in the name of the king, my son, you will organise a distribution of wheat and lentils for the needy. Be sure to have it proclaimed all over Lucknow and in the surrounding villages that we will show no me
rcy—those who starve the people will be hanged!”
And, glaring at the shocked assembly that seems astounded at such stringent measures:
“Remember, we are at war, gentlemen! If we do not impose strong discipline, our enemies will soon get the better of us, in which case it will not be just a few dishonest traders who will be hanged but all of us present here.”
She realizes from their reaction of stony silence and apprehensive looks that, this time, her words have left their mark.
Meanwhile, Hisam-ud-Daulah and Miftah-ud-Daulah, the two guardians of the treasure, have arrived. Informed of what is expected of them, they hesitate. Without an order from His Majesty, it would be a betrayal of his trust. Even though the prime minister explained that this gold is indispensable to finance the war against the occupier, that it is their patriotic duty to hand over the treasure, they refuse: they have sworn an oath of loyalty to King Wajid Ali Shah, not to the government of Awadh.
“But how do you expect His Majesty, imprisoned in Fort William, to issue such an order?” asks an irate Jai Lal, who would gladly strangle these overzealous servants.
Hazrat Mahal discreetly slips a note to one of her Turkish guards, who disappears immediately.
The discussion has been underway for over half an hour, each one trying in vain to influence the two men, when the head of protocol appears and announces in stentorian tones:
In the City of Gold and Silver Page 17
