In the City of Gold and Silver

by Kenize Mourad

  As a man of integrity, the colonel is perfectly aware, however, that for those under siege, the situation is very disparate: while many find it hard to even survive, others lack for nothing. As the Residency is composed of individual bungalows, people form groups based on affinity, with each household living as they choose, or as they can. Some prominent citizens possess their own personal stores of provisions and never go hungry. Money can buy a great many things, in particular the goods the dead have left behind that are auctioned off: foodstuffs, tobacco and clothes have all reached astronomical prices. Those who have the means to pay manage to organise a surprisingly comfortable life for themselves. At the Financial Commissioner Martin Gubbins’s house, for example, a glass of sherry and two glasses of champagne are being served every night at dinner, and they make it a point of honour to drink tea with biscuits at 5 P.M., despite the cannon thundering away, whereas the garrison’s everyday fare is reduced to a few chapatis with a lentil puree, and some children are dying of malnutrition.

  At the height of the drama, when death can strike at any moment, the inequalities and social barriers of this microcosm of Victorian society remain. The ladies keep the ordinary women at a distance, and as soon as it is possible to move around the camp again, despite the heat, the vermin, the foul smells and the swarms of flies, they will call on each other in an attempt to uphold the etiquette which prevailed within the garrison before the rebellion.

  Even if he disapproves of these inequalities and prejudices that persist amidst this tragedy, Colonel Inglis knows the sense of hierarchy is too deeply ingrained, and it would be useless to try to intervene. He is not going to provoke a civil war to add to the war!

  * * *

  The date of Operation Sawan or “Rainy Season,” thus baptised by Begum Hazrat Mahal, has been set for August 18th. It is the second large-scale action since the beginning of the siege, and this time the Indians are sure to win thanks to the mine explosions. The Pasi workers have dug all night long to finish the job. They have even drilled noisily towards the north face of the compound to create a diversion while they set mines in another gallery on the southern side.

  At dawn on August 18th, Captain Orr, his second-in-command Lieutenant Mecham and two sentries are standing on the roof of Johanna House observing the enemy camp, when a violent explosion pulverises the building. All that will be found of them are scattered limbs. A few minutes later, another mine goes off, opening an enormous chasm in the southern ramparts, then another one, even closer to the houses. The flying debris has barely settled when sepoys jostle through the tunnels to access the breaches opening into the camp. However, the batteries have not been hit and, intact, they now spit heavy fire upon the men who emerge into the Residency compound. Total chaos ensues. Both sides shoot blindly, while inside the tunnels the sepoys regroup to confront the British who surge through the openings.

  For hours, they engage in battle with knives drawn in the dark galleries; the heat is unbearable, the dust suffocating, the men trip over the wounded and the dead, but they continue to fight fiercely.

  Meanwhile, Jai Lal and Mahmudabad launch an assault on the Residency fortifications, each of them leading several regiments. They intend to take advantage of the confusion to move into the camp. Despite the enemy artillery fire, they continue to advance. The soldiers fall by the dozen, but behind them their comrades rush forward, gritting their teeth, resolved to die rather than retreat.

  The battle rages on when suddenly the sky darkens. The blinding midday summer sun disappears. Within moments, the surroundings are plunged into darkness. Before this demonstration of God’s fury, the alarmed sepoys come to a standstill. Then, suddenly and in total confusion, they panic: they fall back, and, despite their officers’ exhortations, they flee in absolute disorder. They run, they do not stop running until they have reached the town and the shelter of the garrison. There, they begin to pray, begging Vishnu to protect them and Shiva, the destructor, to spare them his wrath.

  In Chaulakhi Palace, Hazrat Mahal awaits the results of the assault, which she hopes will be decisive this time. Messengers arrive at regular intervals to bring her the latest news: the mines exploded as planned, the sepoys must have entered the camp, the regiments led by Rajahs Jai Lal and Mahmudabad are fighting like lions, they are breaking down enemy defences . . .

  Jai Lal . . . always at the forefront leading his troops . . . his men adore him, he never asks anything of them he would not do himself, unlike so many officers who remain at the rear, claiming they have to control everything. I hope he is not hurt, I hope he . . .

  She does not dare imagine that he could disappear. His death would be an immeasurable loss . . . for the cause. As darkness suddenly invades the room, she twists and turns in her seat, she feels breathless: is the fear only about losing her best lieutenant? At that very moment, when his life is in danger, she is forced to admit to herself that she is attached to this devil of a man, this cad who visits courtesans as soon as he leaves her house.

  Why do women prefer adventurers who make them suffer, rather than men who are kind and attentive? Are they seduced by the man or by the vast horizons he allows them to glimpse? Is it the man they love or the dream he represents? . . .

  A messenger arrives, interrupting her thoughts.

  “Huzoor, the fighting has stopped! We were winning, when the sun abruptly disappeared and the soldiers fled, terrified!”

  “Fled?” Hazrat Mahal cannot believe her ears. “And Rajah Jai Lal, did he not stop them?”

  “He tried to, but he was unable to stem the panic. Three quarters of the soldiers are Hindu, what can one do against these people’s superstitions?”

  “Silence! The next time I hear this kind of disparaging remark, I will have your tongue cut off. Get out and send Mammoo Khan to me at once!”

  A few moments later, it is not Mammoo but Rajah Jai Lal who enters. She hardly recognises the proud solider in this spent man, his uniform lacerated and stained with blood.

  “You are hurt!”

  She has been unable to contain her cry, but he promptly reassures her:

  “I am not hurt, it is the blood of our wounded. There are hundreds of them . . . ”

  Mortified at having revealed her concern, Hazrat Mahal pulls herself together and, now in a regent’s haughty tone, she asks him to describe what happened.

  While the rajah relates the sequence of events, she feels her anger rise. Brusquely, she interrupts him:

  “Yesterday the mines were badly positioned, today it is the sun’s eclipse, what will it be tomorrow?”

  “There will be no tomorrow if we are not provided with decent ammunition,” retorts the rajah curtly. “Do you realise that I too am fed up of seeing my men killed, unable to defend themselves?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Something is wrong with the ammunition we are producing. Our soldiers were shooting, but their bullets just crumpled on impact without harming the enemy—they barely scratched them. Tomorrow I will check the arsenal.”

  “The arsenal set up by Mir Wajid Ali, Mammoo Khan’s friend?”

  “Precisely! I am also going to send my spies on a mission, as it seems we are being betrayed. The British knew in advance where and how we were going to attack. They moved their batteries accordingly so that our mines exploded in the wrong places. In addition, I am told some of the traders are providing the besieged Residency with supplies.”

  Hazrat Mahal flinches, but she declares in a confident tone:

  “Please find these traitors, Rajah Sahib. I give you my word that their punishment will be exemplary.”

  The rajah bows and takes his leave without another word.

  Sadly, the young woman watches him depart. She would have liked to prolong the conversation, to discuss the future as they used to do. He did not give her the chance; undoubtedly, he must have been hurt by the criticism that was never aimed at
him.

  Why is she so awkward with him?

  23

  In the vast Kaisarbagh square, situated between the royal palaces and the spice market, twelve gallows have been set up. A few metres away, on a platform covered by a crimson canopy, comfortable seats await the dignitaries and the Queen Mother. It is whispered that, braving tradition, she has decided to attend the traitors’ execution in person. On each side of the dais, a regiment of sepoys stands to attention.

  The long copper horns suddenly ring out; the Court makes its appearance. All the ministers are present, wearing silk chogas73 and embroidered topis on their heads. The army chiefs are there too, proudly sporting their medals won on British battlefields, and of course, the regent, draped in dark veils, her face half-covered, impassive.

  As soon as they are seated, the mournful drum rolls resound, announcing the arrival of the condemned: twelve men in dhotis,74 stumbling under the lathi75 blows delivered by the guards, who force them to move forward.

  Arrested the previous day, tried and sentenced on the spot, they have been condemned for high treason. Some were shopkeepers who had provided the besieged British with provisions; others, working at the new ammunition factory, had filled the bullets with straw, bran and dust, instead of gunpowder and lead. Under interrogation, they had soon admitted everything: their intention was not to help the Angrez, just . . . to make a bit of money.

  Now, down on their knees and trembling from head to toe before the sovereign—this young woman with her penetrating gaze, who holds their fate in her hands:

  “Have pity, Huzoor!” they plead, sobbing. “We are not traitors, just ordinary men who gave in to temptation. It was not for us but for our children. You are a mother, surely you can understand. We beg you, let us live! We will be your most devoted servants, you can ask anything of us, but grant us your grace. Do not plunge our families into misery and despair. Leave our innocent children their fathers!”

  The sight of these men crying is intolerable, even for a hardened soldier. Worried, Jai Lal looks over at the regent. Her face is livid. She raises her hand—the convicted prisoners are silent, each one holding his breath—then she drops it slowly.

  The crowd’s cheers drown the victims’ cries. Justice has been served! If some still had doubts, now every single one of her subjects knows they are governed by a true sovereign.

  On the way home, huddled in a corner of her sumptuous palanquin, Hazrat Mahal shivers. What has she done? How could she, cold-bloodedly, have sent these men to their deaths? But she had to dispense justice . . . Justice? She is too lucid to be taken in by pretences—what justice?

  After all, these poor wretches have done nothing worse than others who, today, are the rich and powerful. I did pardon Mir Wajid Ali at Mammoo’s insistence. But even if he was not directly involved in the sabotage, he was incapable of detecting it . . . I could have forgiven the others too . . . No, it was my duty to make an example of them in order to remain firmly in command . . . in reality, it is more a question of politics than justice . . . It is absolutely vital that I defend this population. I am responsible for them, and acts like these place us in danger, she reassures herself. However, the unease persists. Deep down, a small, insistent voice whispers: what you are really upset about is not these deaths but tarnishing the beautiful image you had of yourself—the powerful and generous sovereign beloved by all.

  How illusory it all is! She knows full well that power forces one to be decisive, it does not permit the luxury of procrastination, nor yielding to either emotions or scruples. The regent of Awadh cannot allow herself young Muhammadi’s tender feelings.

  By force of reason, Hazrat Mahal finally regains her composure, and by the time she reaches the palace, her self-confidence has returned. To her astonishment, a dozen wives and relatives of Wajid Ali Shah are waiting for her. She is disconcerted by their aggrieved expressions; she was not aware they were so sensitive to the common man’s fate.

  As if it had anything to do with that! While she was presiding over the execution, a messenger had arrived, bringing news from Calcutta: His Majesty is very ill. After being imprisoned in Fort William for the last two months, he has sunk into depression and refuses to eat.

  “It is all your fault!” accuses Begum Shahnaz, shooting a look of hatred at the new Queen Mother.

  “My fault! And why?”

  Then they all start talking at once:

  “Of course it is your fault! Out of vanity, you pressed for your son to take over our beloved’s position and now you preside over this government of mutineers! . . . That is why the Angrez imprisoned the king. They were convinced he was behind the rebellion. How could they ever imagine that a mere wife would take such a momentous decision without consulting him! . . . You have not only betrayed his trust, you will end up being responsible for his death!”

  “And of what use has it been?” interjects Princess Sanjeeda, one of the king’s sisters. “Your great words about freeing the country, what a laugh! Your thousands of men are incapable of dislodging a few hundred British people! All utter nonsense, just to force us to submit to your whims . . . You do not really care about the country, nor do you care about your unfortunate husband. You are driven by your ambition alone! But it will not bring you luck, Allah will punish you!”

  Hazrat Mahal tries to respond, to make these clamorous women listen to reason—in vain. Finally, she gives up and retires to her apartments, followed by a flood of insults and rants.

  I would never have suspected how much they hate me . . .

  The venomous criticism proffered by her former companions has left a bitter taste. All the more so, as she had been unable to defend herself. In any event, it would have been futile. No matter what she might have said, she would have been condemned anyway.

  Sitting by the window she looks out, unseeing, towards the splendid flowerbeds in the Chaulakhi gardens, stretching all the way up to Kaisarbagh Park. Her solitude has never weighed so heavily upon her. No one to confide in, to share her doubts with, no one to ask for advice. For a short while, she had believed she could depend upon Jai Lal, but he had proved unworthy of her trust . . . As for Mammoo, she cannot allow him to suspect the slightest vulnerability; he would only try to take advantage of it. He loves her, of course, as much as he is capable of loving . . . but his frustrations leave no room for generosity. His insatiable need for power drives him to divide mankind into two categories: the weak, to be crushed, and the strong, whom one latches on to in an attempt to manipulate them.

  But what is she complaining about? After all, it was her choice to abandon the cosy existence of the zenana for the dangerous adventure of power. So that her son could be king? Not only that . . . She has to admit, she also relishes power—not for its material benefits, but because she can use it to improve others’ lives and . . . be loved in return.

  This love she had so sorely missed as an orphan, she still thirsts insatiably after it. For this very reason, any kind of rejection hurts. It is the same story every time, and every time she tries to reason with herself: so many people place their trust in her, and expect their new regent to provide them with help and guidance, so why let this malicious gossip upset her?

  Shaking her head to dispel these doubts she cannot allow herself to entertain, Hazrat Mahal has her daily mail brought to her, along with a heap of petitions. Despite all her other occupations, she insists on reading these appeals herself; she finds them far more informative than the reports her ministers submit, and feels this is the best way to really know what the people think.

  * * *

  “Huzoor, a lady is asking to see you. She did not want to give her name but claims to be a very old friend. I told her you were busy, but she replied she would wait the whole day if she has to.”

  Seated at her writing desk, Hazrat Mahal sighs in exasperation. What she particularly dislikes in her new position is this unending stream of beggars a
nd flatterers, who all consider they have a right to her help. Is she not all-powerful? Are they not her devoted subjects? She realises it is emotional blackmail but is unable to reject them; she of all people, who knew unhappiness in her childhood and so often dreamt of a helping hand.

  While they were still friends, Rajah Jai Lal had chided her for this:

  “Remember you are no longer Muhammadi, nor even Hazrat Mahal; you are the regent and must keep your distance. Your role is to ensure the proper functioning of the kingdom and the well-being of all, and not to concern yourself with the personal problems of this or that person. It is a bottomless pit and it will sap all your energy. You will end up being slandered, as you cannot satisfy everyone.”

  “What should I reply, Huzoor?” persists the eunuch.

  “A madwoman capable of waiting all day, I might as well get it over with quickly! Tell her to come in, but come back for her in ten minutes.”

  Going against the customs of the Court and high society that consider it normal to make the lower classes wait indefinitely, Hazrat Mahal has never been able to accept this disregard for others, this manner of monopolising their time—hours, days, for nothing—this tendency to make them waste their lives, just out of indifference.

  She knows very well that for those who have nothing, offering their time is proof of their devotion. Thus, in India, the powerful are surrounded by millions of poor, with their insistent and silent presence, their oppressive humility. She cannot get used to it, but realises she is powerless to transform a situation ingrained in the age-old structures of her country’s society.

  The woman standing at the entrance, however, shows no signs of humility. She stares at the regent, a broad smile on her face, as if expecting a sign of recognition. In fact, Hazrat Mahal is sure she knows her—those brown gold-speckled eyes, the well-rounded forehead . . . And suddenly she exclaims: