In the City of Gold and Silver

by Kenize Mourad

  The planned ambush has worked perfectly.

  After cutting the maulvi’s head off, the two brothers wrap it in cloth and, galloping the thirteen miles separating them from Shahjahanpur, arrive at the British officers’ mess at dinnertime. With a theatrical gesture, they throw the maulvi’s bloody head at their feet.

  They depart with the promised reward of fifty thousand rupees—the price of their betrayal—but this act will earn them the contempt of their friends as well as their enemies.

  The following morning Mammoo goes to see his mistress. He is jubilant; not only is his personal enemy, Rajah Jai Lal, in prison, but the begum’s most dangerous competitor is no more.

  “Huzoor, I have good news!” he announces triumphantly. “The man who has constantly caused you so much trouble has just been killed.”

  “Who? Hope Grant? Colin Campbell?” asks the begum, her eyes shining in anticipation.

  “No, Ahmadullah Shah!”

  “The maulvi?” Hazrat Mahal starts. “But he was our ally! How dare you rejoice? Have you gone mad?”

  “Well, he was constantly challenging you . . . ”

  “Clearly you will never understand anything! Go now, leave me!”

  Once alone, the Queen Mother is thoughtful for a long while, staring into the distance . . . The maulvi dead? He, who always managed to get himself out of the most desperate situations without a scratch, so much so that his partisans called him “Allah’s protégé” . . . She cannot believe it . . .

  He was certainly a threat to her, but what an amazing leader of men!

  The poor, in particular, were devoted to him, as he promised them an end to their humiliation in a free society based on the equality the Quran extols. He also reminded them that to call the faithful to prayer, the Prophet had chosen a black slave, thus showing his refusal of social or racial discrimination. His disciples revered him as a kind of reincarnation of the Prophet Muhammad.

  If there were more like him, I might have lost my power, but we would have won the war.

  Does that mean she thinks she can lose the war? She immediately corrects herself:

  Of course, the loss of the maulvi is a severe blow, but we will vanquish our enemies, even without him!

  For although Ahmadullah Shah was a precious ally, did she really wish him to be victorious? Victory against the foreigners and for the country’s independence, of course, but . . . to create what kind of society? If the maulvi had succeeded in taking control, would his power have been any more acceptable than British rule? They could at least revolt against the latter, but can one revolt against the word of God that he claimed to represent? Once he had won, would he not have imposed a rigid interpretation of the Prophet’s religion, the opposite of the open and tolerant Islam which has existed in India for centuries?

  Maybe Mammoo was right after all . . .

  On the other hand, a few days later, the announcement of the Rani of Jhansi’s death affects Hazrat Mahal deeply. They were almost the same age. Charismatic, strong-willed and valiant, they were like soul sisters; one a Hindu, the other a Muslim, both leading their people into a fight to wrest independence from the occupier.

  Lakshmi Bai was killed three days after the maulvi, on June 18th, during the Battle of Kotah-ki-Serai, a few miles from Gwalior.

  The messenger who brings the Queen Mother the news also hands her a letter from the rani, written the day before she died—a letter full of optimism in which she relates her latest victories:

  “My dear Begum,

  I am happy to announce that we have taken Gwalior! Nana Sahib was not present as he is still in hiding. But his nephew Rao Sahib represented him, and we had Tantia Tope’s armies with us. We arrived near the citadel with four thousand cavalrymen and seven thousand foot soldiers. At dawn, the Maharajah of Gwalior marched on us with eight thousand men, but to his great humiliation, his whole army, except his personal guard, switched sides and joined us!

  The following day we conquered Gwalior with its treasure and arsenal. Tantia wanted to organise sumptuous festivities to which he invited all the Mahratta lords. He is trying to win over the principalities of the former confederation in order to have Nana Sahib recognised as the peishwa there. But the great Mahratta princes, the Maharajahs of Indore and Gwalior in particular, remain allies of the British, and they are followed by a number of smaller rajahs. Nonetheless, during these festivities, Nana Sahib was officially proclaimed peishwa; his nephew Rao, vice-peishwa; and Tantia Tope, prime minister.

  As I obviously had nothing to do there, I retired to a small neighbouring palace, where finally it is quiet enough to write to you. I am now convinced that we will win. You will get your Lucknow back and I, my Jhansi. I have faith, as the people are with us. Has one ever seen an occupier crush a whole population? It will take time, but we shall emerge victorious.

  Whatever happens, we must stand firm!

  Your friend,

  Lakshmi, Rani of Jhansi”

  In tears, the messenger recounts the events that were to follow:

  “While we believed them far away, on June 18th, the British arrived and struck like lightning. Tantia Tope and his troops had been celebrating for days. They did not realise what was happening. The rani was the first to grasp the situation. Leading her troops, dressed as a horseman, she tried to stop the British advance. In vain. She was shot dead by a soldier, little suspecting he was killing a woman, moreover, the legendary heroine of Jhansi! She was eventually identified by the fabulous rows of pearls that never left her person, which contrasted strangely with her uniform.

  “Surprised in the middle of their drinking session, Tantia Tope and his men were easily defeated by General Rose, who took over the Gwalior citadel and reinstated the maharajah.”

  The rani’s letter trembles in Hazrat Mahal’s hands. Her eyes clouded with tears, she rereads the last lines:

  “Whatever happens, we must stand firm.”

  It is like a message from beyond . . . The population is with us, we must continue the fight.

  * * *

  In central India, the British troops advance. Sir Hugh Rose knows that if the rebellion spreads through the Mahratta territory, the entire western part of the country will turn out to support it. Taking back Jhansi and Gwalior had been important steps, but now they must finish off with Tantia Tope and Prince Firoz Shah, who continue to defy them.

  Fortunately for the British, the two largest states in the centre of India—Bhopal and Hyderabad—have not only remained loyal, but even provide them with elite troops.

  Tantia Tope, who fled from Gwalior with twelve thousand men, is intercepted by General Rose’s army. But he manages to escape and continues to harass the enemy columns. He has the advantage of speed over the adversary, as he travels without tents or provisions; all his needs are met by a population totally committed to his cause.

  As for Hazrat Mahal, she has retreated further north to Baundi Fort, beyond the Ghogra River. From here, she controls the whole region. She is accompanied by her friend, the Rajah of Mahmudabad, and a few other loyal rajahs and taluqdars.

  From her new base, the Queen Mother continues to launch campaigns against the British detachments and the traitor taluqdars, implementing increasingly harsh measures to punish the latter as the number of deserters multiplies. General Campbell knows how to talk to them. He is himself the grandson of a Scottish clan leader, who saw his family land confiscated just after the Jacobite Uprising of 1745. He understands the taluqdars’ dilemma, and rather than confronting them, he tries to win them over.

  Throughout the summer, Awadh holds its own, leaving the enemy no respite. Until October, Hazrat Mahal and her allies, in particular Prince Firoz and Rana Beni Madho, mount coordinated campaigns. Together they command a force of seventy thousand fighters.

  Unconditionally loyal to the begum, just like Tantia Tope, the rana’s greatest asset is h
is mobility. A thousand times the British think they have him, a thousand times he escapes, reappearing where they least expect him. He has become such a legend that decades after his death, his praises will continue to be sung at village gatherings.

  Meanwhile, Campbell’s promises have finally won him the support of the majority of the taluqdars. Now, at the beginning of autumn, there are only about fifty of them left out of the three hundred who had actively participated in the rebellion when it was at its peak. It is a blow to the Queen Mother, all the more so as her hopes of convincing the Maharajah of Nepal have been crushed. Shortly after the Nawabganj defeat, the latter wrote saying he was a friend of the British, categorically refusing her offer of an alliance.

  From the fall of Lucknow in March until autumn, for eight long months, Hazrat Mahal and her allies manage to hold back the British forces and often even defeat them. But in this month of October 1858, the beginning of the dry season, General Campbell—knighted Lord Clyde by the grace of Her Majesty Queen Victoria—begins his winter campaign at the head of an army stronger than ever.

  35

  Amidst the military campaigns and strategic discussions, the only moments of relaxation for Hazrat Mahal are those she spends with Mumtaz. Sometimes, though, she is ashamed of her selfishness. For years she had forgotten about her friend, and now that she has found her again, she uses her as a confidant to give vent to her troubles, never once asking after the young woman’s own feelings, nor showing any interest in her personal life.

  One evening, while her companion is brushing her long hair, she asks her:

  “And you, Mumtaz, have you ever been in love?”

  She did not expect the turmoil her question provokes. Mumtaz blushes, hesitates, then finally decides to talk.

  “In love? I was madly in love, but I have never been so deeply hurt. I told you that after I was repudiated, I went back to being a courtesan in another house, not Amman and Imaman’s, as I was too ashamed to face them. Every evening I sang, danced and conversed with the visitors, but I still had no protector. Although there was a taluqdar who came every day; he watched me as if I fascinated him, without ever speaking to me. And I . . . I felt like an adolescent in love for the first time. I sang and danced only for him. He was handsome in a way that moved me: tall, very thin, dark eyes in a strong-featured face, a hooked nose. All day long he was in my thoughts, but in the evening I barely dared glance at him, as I feared my feelings would be evident to everyone. This lasted for a month, a month of marvellous dreaming, where I imagined an intense and luminous relationship with him, long confidences, joys and sorrows too, certainly, but shared. I felt he had suffered, and I was ready to give him everything. I knew I could make him happy.

  “Finally, one evening he came over and spoke to me and, to my great surprise, he confided in me immediately: his only son had died in a riding accident; his wife had gone mad with grief. It had already been two years, but he was unable to get over it. I listened while he poured out his sorrow. Suddenly, he realised people were watching us. ‘These people bother me,’ he whispered, ‘when can we be alone?’

  “When? I had to control myself not to answer, ‘Immediately,’ and suggested the following day, in my apartment, which was on the first floor but could be accessed without having to go through the salons.

  “The day we were to meet, he sent me a message: he had to go away to settle some urgent business but would be back in three days. Would I be free? I hurriedly confirmed I would.

  “I spent the following three days preparing for his visit. I examined myself critically: would I please him? He, who was so seductive, must have been used to the most beautiful women, and although I knew I was charming, I also knew I was no beauty.

  “On the appointed evening, I paced up and down my room, arranging a cushion here, a vase there, my hands moist with apprehension. He arrived two hours late. I had given up, believing he would no longer come. I was as nervous as a young girl—me, a courtesan!

  “I had had a light supper prepared, but he was not hungry. He took me in his arms and tried to draw me towards the large bed, whispering how desirable I was. Somewhat shocked at this haste, as I had imagined a more tender approach, I tried to resist, but he was not the kind of man to countenance refusal.

  “We made love and he fell asleep instantly. I remained by his side, eyes wide open, a bitter taste in my mouth, feeling I had been treated like a prostitute. I tried to make excuses for him . . . Perhaps he was merely exhausted by his journey. Gently I caressed his forehead, and he woke up.

  “‘I must leave,’ he announced abruptly.

  “‘You aren’t spending the night here?’ I asked, stunned.

  “‘Impossible, I have an important meeting tomorrow morning.’

  “I pressed myself against him. ‘Then I will see you soon?’

  “‘Certainly,’ he replied in a tone that seemed to imply the opposite, but I quickly chased the idea away.

  “I waited for him every evening for weeks. He never returned. I was angry with him, but I was even angrier with myself for my awkwardness. He had poured his heart out and won me over, then he had disappeared. Should I have hidden my feelings? Tell me, Muhammadi, why do we always have to be so calculating when we are in love? If we have to hold back our true feelings, pretend to be detached to better capture the other’s heart, where is the joy in loving?”

  Hazrat Mahal has no answer to these questions. With Jai Lal, it was a different world . . . At the thought of her lover, she suddenly feels an intense pain in her chest, like a tearing sensation . . . as if something terrible were happening, as if, far away, Jai Lal was suffering . . . and calling out to her.

  * * *

  Cut to the quick by the critics who reproach him for having prolonged the war by allowing the begum to escape, General Campbell is now determined to crush the rebel forces once and for all.

  His strategy is simple. The powerful British army will attack Awadh from the south, the east and the west, simultaneously, in order to push the insurgents northwards towards the Bahraich region, where the Queen Mother resides.

  The regiments advance methodically, covering one district after the other, like a huge net. They comb every inch of land to ensure that every possible escape route is blocked. Their aim is to force the rebels to retreat towards the Terai, the region bordering Nepal, to surround them there and then finish them off.

  Feeling the winds of change, Mammoo is filled with a nagging unease, but he dares not speak to his mistress, fearing she will be angry with him again. Since she scolded him about the maulvi’s death, he has not appeared before her, waiting to be summoned. However, she does not even seem to notice his absence . . . In a fit of pique, he had even thought of leaving her and surrendering to the British, as a number of taluqdars have already done. Particularly since he has no desire to end up a martyr for a cause he does not believe in. For him, independence remains an empty word. He has always served the powerful—whether they be Indian or British, what difference does it make? It is true the British despise the “natives” . . . but is there any contempt worse than the kind his compatriots inflicted upon him when they emasculated him?

  For days he nurses his rage and toys with the idea of leaving, but deep down, he knows he cannot abandon his mistress. For the twelve years he has lived beside her, she has come to represent his universe. Despite his anger, he cannot do without her. Is this love? It is, in any case, a powerful connection that he is incapable of breaking. He will protect her, even against her will!

  In secret, he has sent a messenger to Lucknow to discuss with Sir Robert Montgomery the conditions of the begum’s capitulation.

  As always, however, Hazrat Mahal has been informed by her spies.

  Furious, she immediately sends for the eunuch.

  “You too, you are betraying me!”

  “I am not betraying you, Huzoor,” stammers Mammoo, red with embarra
ssment. “Quite the contrary, I am trying to save you.”

  “Save me? By dishonouring me?” She chokes with indignation. “How could I have trusted you? This time, it really is over. I never want to see you again!”

  After Mammoo’s deception, Hazrat Mahal feels even more alone. She has always been aware of his weaknesses, but despite everything, he had long been a part of her life. Now she has only her faithful Mumtaz to confide in. At least with her, she can talk about the man she loves, whom she still believes she can save. All day long, busy with a thousand problems, she manages not to think of what his fate may be, but at night, she trembles for him and devises the most audacious plans, until she sinks into a deep sleep filled with nightmares.

  * * *

  While to the south of the country, General Campbell’s regiments advance like steamrollers, the begum and her allies continue their lightning attacks, still supported by the vast majority of the peasants. Even when the rebel cause seems lost, the village people continue to boycott the British, refusing to deliver food and providing them with false information.

  They play a determining role in this revolt, as they make up the majority of the fighting force.104

  Nonetheless, despite their heroism, towards the end of the year the situation begins to turn against them.

  Queen Victoria’s offer of an amnesty is to incite a number of war leaders to change sides. Her proclamation, read out all over India on November 1st, 1858, announces the dissolution of the East India Company and the transfer of its authority to the British Crown. Solemnly declaring a total break with past errors, the queen guarantees all the treaties signed with the princes, and confirms each and every one in the position they had obtained during Company rule. Finally, she denies any new territorial ambition and promises religious freedom.