In the City of Gold and Silver (16 page)

“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
,
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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 elegance 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:

“The mother is at least as intelligent as her son and is ready to do anything to free her country.”

The rajah bites his lips: this damned eunuch can read his thoughts; he would never have believed himself so transparent. He wants to end the conversation rapidly.

“All right. Well, tell your mistress I thank her for her letter.”

Then, seeing the eunuch is waiting, motionless, he adds almost despite himself:

“Tell her also that when the time comes, I will remember her.”

A
fter the tense days following the assault on the city of Delhi and Bahadur Shah Zafar's enthronement, Lucknow seems to have returned to its usual calm. To all appearances at least, life continues unabated. The British make it a point of honour to modify none of their habits; they continue going out on horseback or in carriages but are now armed with loaded revolvers. Beneath the usual compliancy however, every so often the occasional suspicious murmur and insolent glance surfaces.

In this month of May, as temperatures soar with each passing day, everyone's nerves are on edge.

At the Residency, Sir Henry Lawrence has assembled the leading civil and military authorities. The governor general has just accorded him plenipotentiary powers, and he wants to discuss the measures to be taken to reinforce security in the vast Residency and the twenty adjacent buildings spread over this thirty-acre property. In the event of danger, they must be capable of providing shelter for the fifteen hundred members of the British community, half of whom are women and children, along with some seven hundred members of their native household staff. He also intends to have a moat dug and a boundary wall erected along a perimeter of a mile and a half.

“And the neighbouring houses?” objects a major. “We are at the centre of a highly populated area. It would be easy to shoot at us from the terraces.”

“Have those houses evacuated, but only destroy them if absolutely necessary. And most importantly, no religious buildings are to be touched!”

“Even if they overlook the Residency compound? Then of what use is the wall?”

Sir Henry shrugs his thin shoulders.

“Do you want us to antagonise the entire population? Do you not think we have been inconsiderate enough already? Let us try not to generate more hatred. Groups of sepoys requested an audience yesterday to assure me of their loyalty; I do not want to do anything that could alienate these men. We may need them.”

“Because you intend to continue accepting natives within the Residency compound?”

“So they can cut our throats at leisure?”

The two captains look at Sir Henry as if he has gone mad.

“You don't understand the first thing about these people!” interjects old Colonel Simpson. “I have been living beside them for so long. I can assure you the older ones will never betray us!”

Sir Henry calmly puffs on his cigar while he scrutinizes his officers:

“I am sure you are perfectly aware, gentlemen, that we only have one European infantry battalion here—six hundred soldiers—whereas there are over twenty thousand sepoys in the Awadh region alone. If the situation turns ugly, do you seriously think we can contain it by ourselves?”

“Calcutta will send reinforcements.”

“Their equipment will slow them down. They will take over a month to reach here. In the meantime . . . ”

“All right, let us say that a handful of old sepoys
 
will remain loyal,” admits an officer, “but all the others, who meet every night to plot against us and are only waiting for the first opportunity to revolt, are we finally going to disarm them?”

“Have I given an order to that effect?”

“No, but I imagine you will do so soon.”

“Well, once again, you are mistaken.”

Sir Henry's tone is icy. The young, vain, ignorant upstarts they have been sending out here for the last fifteen years are ruining the work of generations of soldiers, who have earned the Indians' respect, and often their love.