In the City of Gold and Silver (10 page)

Returning to her companions, Hazrat Mahal hurries them along:

“There are only ten minutes left, I think you should be quick.”

“If you want to obey the Angrez, good for you! We, however, have decided to remain here,” replies Begum Shahnaz haughtily.

“Come now, be realistic! They will not allow you to stay!”

“We are not cowards, we will fight!”

Though exasperated, Hazrat Mahal is careful not to pursue the issue, but she does not understand this childish attitude! After all, their fate could be worse; the Kaisarbagh palaces are amongst the most beautiful in Lucknow and boast the largest gardens planted with the finest flowers.

Palanquins are waiting before the heavy portal of the zenana. Concealed by her veils, Hazrat Mahal steps into one, accompanied by a few servants and her son Birjis, who is delighted with the adventure. Mammoo follows her with about twenty strong men carrying her trunks.

Through the slightly parted curtains, she watches nostalgically as the gold-domed palace recedes. There she has spent the last twelve years; she had been a favourite, gratified with everything she desired, and sumptuous celebrations had greeted the birth of her son. There she had known one year of happiness and glory, then eleven years of quasi-obscurity—a fate common to all the beautiful prisoners in harems. Nonetheless, she cannot complain, as her gift for poetry allowed her to retain the sovereign's friendship and attention until the end.

On reaching Kaisarbagh Palace she crosses a series of vestibules, terraces and inner courtyards, explores a multitude of empty rooms. She is alone and she takes her time. Finally, she chooses a dozen bright, spacious rooms opening onto a veranda decorated with bougainvillea. Mammoo and the servants will find a way to make them as comfortable as possible, requisitioning boxes, divans, draperies and carpets from wherever they can find them.

She has barely finished settling in when her unfortunate companions arrive late in the afternoon, their hair dishevelled and their clothes in disarray. From their accounts, interrupted by sobs and curses, she understands that at the given hour, not leaving them a minute's grace, indifferent to their cries, the soldiers seized them and forced them out, watched by the terrified population. Then, they threw their belongings pell-mell into the street, stealing some of the jewels in the process.

 

This unwarranted violence inflicted upon the royal wives provokes such indignation that it reaches the ears of the new governor general in Calcutta.

Lord Canning is already besieged by letters from Wajid Ali Shah denouncing the sale of his private possessions, the theft of a large part of his treasures, the occupation of his palaces to house horses and dogs, and finally the threat of doing away with the pensions granted to the members of the royal family. The governor general attempts to moderate Coverley Jackson's ardour, but his efforts are in vain. The latter will not listen even though his unfair and brutal measures earn him the hatred of the whole population. The Lucknawis start lending a more ready ear to fakirs and maulvis, Hindu and Muslim holy men, who travel the country preaching revolt.

Henceforth, the days in Kaisarbagh Palace pass slowly, full of gloom. Hazrat Mahal has ceased to write her daily accounts for the king. She is convinced now that he does not receive them or, if he does, he does not read them, as he is too busy recreating the splendour of bygone days in his new home. Imperceptibly she sinks into melancholy, despite Mammoo's best efforts to entertain her.

She, who used to love composing poetry so much, does not even feel the desire to anymore. She had written to share beauty and dreams, to convey ideas, feelings and fragments of life, those small pebbles on the path to the serenity she was seeking, and wanted to share with others. She does not write to exhibit her pains and is averse to the morbid narcissism that considers one's own miasma so worthy of interest that one wants to display it to the whole world. Is anything more banal than unhappiness? Everyone experiences it, we “encounter misfortune” daily. Happiness, on the other hand, is an art. Books and schools of philosophy have constantly tried to reveal different means of attaining it. This is her chosen path.

Nonetheless, the trials of her youth taught her that misfortune can also be a gift if one is capable of seeing it as a stage rather than a state, a stage necessary to understanding oneself and to come to an understanding of the world, to go beyond oneself, and thus gradually reach a state of serenity. In her case, this transformation occurs through writing. She sees the writer as an alchemist whose whole existence is an attempt to transform darkness into light, an immense task both challenging and involving total dedication of the mind and body.

She is not yet ready for that though. She needs an active existence. Writing for her is an indispensable time for reflection, but it cannot satisfy her thirst for life.

Life? Her lips twist into a bitter grimace. What life can she hope for locked up in this zenana? As a child she dreamt of horse rides and adventure, drunk on the freedom her unorthodox father had permitted her, conscious that her condition as a woman would impose its limitations soon enough. With the onset of puberty, she had discovered her unfortunate fate as a prisoner when, having become an orphan, an uncle for whom tradition was no laughing matter had taken her in. However, unlike her companions whose whole existence had been confined between high walls, the acidic taste of freedom was imprinted on her very being and prevented her from giving in. Ah, if only she had been blessed with the same carefree nature as her friend Mumtaz, for whom everything was cause for laugher!

Mumtaz . . . they have not seen each other for twelve years!

Yet I had sworn nothing would separate us, I would send for her as soon as I was settled . . . She must have waited and worried, certainly been upset with me and despaired. And I, immersed in my new life, my love for the king, then for my son, busy evading the intrigues and creating an undisputed position for myself, I forgot all about her! Because in such a different world, I had no need for her . . . never thinking that she may have needed me . . .

Hazrat Mahal gets up. She feels a desperate urge to see her friend again.

The eunuch comes running to answer her call.

“Mammoo Khan! Find me a modest palanquin carried by two men. Have it brought to the servants' entrance. I also want you to borrow a burqa from one of the slaves. Be discreet, nobody must guess it is for me.”

“But Huzoor, the palace has dozens of palanquins! As for the burqa, surely you are not going to wear that horrible black tent that only commoners wrap themselves in!”

“Mammoo!” She raises her eyebrows. “Did I ask for your opinion? Come on now, hurry up!”

P
eering out through the curtains of the palanquin, Hazrat Mahal can barely recognise her town. She had been told about the destruction but had never imagined it to be so widespread! The network of small lanes that led from Kaisarbagh to the centre of Lucknow had been torn up, and under the burning sun emaciated workers toil away, building what seems to be a wide avenue. Here and there, ancestral homes have been razed to the ground. Ahmed Ali Khan's palace, General Aneesuddin's too, the Qahwa Khana Club near the Residency, and even . . . the great Khas Bazaar, where she used to buy her ribbons when she was an adolescent. She cannot believe her eyes. Why this devastation?

“To modernise the town,” explains Mammoo, sarcastically. “Thus have our new masters decided!”

While the palanquin continues towards the Chowk, moving away from the noise and the dust from the road works, Hazrat Mahal has the strange sensation of disappearing into a grey, silent world. Until recently, it was difficult to forge a path amidst the sumptuous carriages,
sukhpal
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finase
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palanquins, and horses with silver harnesses, surrounded by a joyful, colourful crowd thronging the stalls overflowing with goods for sale.

Nowadays the town seems to have been ravaged by the plague. Most shops are shut and only a few bamboo sedan chairs are to be seen out on the streets. Consequently, despite its modest appearance, Hazrat Mahal's palanquin attracts attention. They are surrounded by hordes of beggars whom Mammoo tries to disperse by distributing a few small coins. Amongst these pitiful wretches, Hazrat Mahal is astonished to see what she believes are soldiers in rags.

“They are indeed soldiers who belonged to the king's army, dissolved by the British,” confirms Mammoo. “Of the seventy-thousand-strong force permitted by the resident, and closely monitored by him, the current government has taken on fifteen thousand men, who felt compelled to accept so they could feed their families. The majority, however, refused to serve their former master's enemy. Perhaps they hoped to find employment with the rich taluqdars, but the latter, ruined by the agrarian reform, no longer have the means to hire them. Subsequently, most of the ex-soldiers are left destitute. For these proud men this represents an intolerable decline, and they wait for the first opportunity to take revenge.”

The palanquin turns into the main street in the very heart of the Chowk, with its shops trading in luxury goods and courtesans' houses. Hazrat Mahal cannot believe her eyes, all the doors are shut and the balconies, previously full of flowers, where languishing young beauties stood fanning themselves, are now deserted and overgrown with weeds. Where once chimes of laughter, song and poetry rang out, there now reigns a deathly silence. Finally, the palanquin
 
comes to a halt at the end of the street in front of Amman and Imamam's stately house.

They have to wait several minutes before the heavy door opens slightly, revealing an old lady wrapped in a black shawl.

“What is it?” she asks suspiciously.

“This is the house belonging to the ladies Amman and Imaman, is it not?” enquires Mammoo, disconcerted by this unexpected apparition. “Do they still live here?”

“What is your business with them?”

“Now there, old woman, watch your tongue! Go immediately and inform them that my mistress, the very noble and respected Begum Hazrat Mahal, wife of our King Wajid Ali Shah, has come to visit.”

A good fifteen minutes pass before hurried footsteps and exclamations are heard, and suddenly the main door is thrown wide open to allow the palanquin to enter.

“Muhammadi! May Allah be praised! What a surprise!”

Drawing aside the curtains, two plump, white-haired women hurry to help Hazrat Mahal descend. The latter hesitates for a moment . . . Is it possible that these two old ladies are Amman and Imaman? She remembers majestic women, not beautiful but imposing, with their copper-coloured hair, painted lips, eyes outlined with
kohl
, always dressed in expensive clothes. How could they have changed so much? It is not only the wrinkles but a general air of neglect in their appearance, which no longer seems to matter to them.

The same air of neglect is evident everywhere as she enters the house. The furniture is covered with dust, the large crystal chandeliers and the copper objects are tarnished, the carpets do not seem to have been cleaned in months and the silk on the huge sofas is creased, even torn in places. The house looks abandoned.

Two hastily summoned servants dust and plump up the cushions, they spread a white sheet on the carpet, while a third brings sherbet. The two sisters apologize profusely:

“We do not even have any sweets to offer you! Ah, if only we had known you were coming! No one has visited us in months and we have had to send all our boarders away.”

“But why?”

“If you only knew! It has been a disaster! Since the government confiscated the taluqdars'
 
villages and raised taxes, our clients, the cream of Awadh's aristocracy, have been ruined. And the few who have something left are so worried, they do not have the heart to enjoy themselves. All the respectable houses in the Chowk have closed. Only a handful of second-class establishments still remain to cater to the Angrez military or the nouveaux riches, who made a fortune buying up for a song the land distributed to the farmers.”

“The farmers are selling their land instead of cultivating it?”

“Clearly you know nothing of what is happening in this country!” retorts Amman bitterly. “I have a young cousin staying here. She has come from the countryside with her children. She will tell you what is going on.”

Offended by this lack of consideration—something she is no longer accustomed to—Hazrat Mahal falls silent, leaving Mammoo and Imaman to exchange a flood of courtesies in an attempt to lighten the atmosphere.

She treats me as she did when I was thirteen and I was one of her boarders! But do I prefer it when people make fun of me and speak ill behind my back, as they do at Court? In fact, I am no longer used to being spoken to frankly. She is right; I am too cut off from the world
. . .
A world that is changing so fast . . .

Calm and poised again, she welcomes Amman's relative with a big smile. Nouran is a peasant from the Sitapur area, some fifty miles outside Lucknow. She had walked all the way into town with her five young children. Although she is not even thirty years old yet, she looks closer to fifty, exhausted by toiling the land and the harsh climate.

“Our village belonged to the Rajah of Salempur,” she says in a colourful dialect, forcing Hazrat Mahal to concentrate to be able to follow. “We have always worked his land and, as is the custom, he used to give us a quarter of the harvest. It was also he, of course, who provided us with the seeds, the water, the tools, the cart to transport the wheat or sugar cane, and who paid all the taxes. If it was a good season, we had enough to survive on and even a little extra, and if it was poor, the rajah helped us until the next harvest. We never went hungry. He was a good master. His army protected us from bandits and marauders, and his presence dissuaded the civil servants from creating trouble for us. He was like a father to us and we were all devoted to him, he could ask whatever he wanted of us in exchange, like repairing the fort, cleaning the drains . . . Although he could be severe at times, he was always fair and we respected him. Until the Angrez came along and upset everything!”