In the City of Gold and Silver (28 page)

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 and 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:

“Mumtaz?”

They fall into each other's arms, kissing and exclaiming with joy. They cannot believe it; it has been so long! They hug each other tenderly, move slightly apart, looking at each other.

“You are still so beautiful!”

“And you even more beautiful than before!”

Holding each other around the waist, they laugh in pleasure, and embrace again, happy, so happy to be united after all this time! How had they done without each other all these years?

Examining her friend more closely, Hazrat Mahal notices the fine lines at the corners of her lips and around her eyes, little wrinkles of unhappiness. She recalls what the matrons had told her—the marriage, the sterility, the repudiation . . .

Even though Mumtaz no longer glows with the innocent optimism of her adolescence, in no way does she seem like a woman dejected by life. A sparkle twinkles in her eyes.

“Why did you never come to see me?” asks Hazrat Mahal.

“You know, Muhammadi,” she bites her lip. “Forgive me, but you will always be Muhammadi to me, the brave friend who intervened when others made fun of my naivety. I did not come because I feared I would be a burden on you. And then I said to myself, if you had really wanted to see me, it would have been easy for you to send someone to fetch me.”

Hazrat Mahal feels tears welling up in her eyes.

“Can you forgive me? I have been so selfish, swept away by the whirlwind of my love for the king, the pride of giving him a son, then drowning in the conflicts and intrigues of the zenana, where one has to be on one's guard at all times if one's do not want to be crushed. When I finally searched for you about a year ago, nobody knew where you were. I was terribly worried. I imagined the worst . . . Tell me, what happened to you? After you were repudiated, who looked after you? Why did you not contact me?”

“I did not contact any of my former acquaintances. I felt too ashamed. And you, well, there are so many people demanding your attention . . . ”

“Mumtaz! It is not at all the same thing! You were my best friend!”

“I was afraid you had changed, and feared being rejected. That would have been the last straw. I preferred not to try, so I could keep the wonderful memories of our adolescence intact.”

“But then what convinced you to come today?”

Mumtaz straightened herself up, a mischievous gleam in her eyes:

“Today I do not need to ask you for anything. On the contrary, I have something for you.”

Then, in response to her friend's surprise:

“Let me tell you what happened to me. My marriage soon turned into a nightmare. My mother-in-law humiliated me constantly, particularly after she realised I could not bear her any grandchildren. She began to beat me . . . four years of insults, abuse and ill-treatment. My husband did not dare say anything, he had feelings of affection for me, but he was weak. And on his mother's insistence, he eventually
 
divorced me.

“Repudiation is so dreaded by women that they are willing to endure anything to avoid it. For me—quite the reverse—it was an extraordinary relief. Finally, I was free! But penniless . . . So I took on protectors who were kind and treated me with far more consideration than my husband and his family ever had. I discovered that a married woman's ‘respectable' status is far less enviable than a courtesan's. After all, what respect are we talking about? A married man does not respect what he considers his property, he has nothing left to conquer, he uses you any way he likes. You are even less than a prostitute, who at least has the freedom to refuse to share her bed. A married woman who does not possess a personal fortune is totally dependent on her husband's good will and moods, especially if she has children.

“As a courtesan, my life began again. My first protector was an older man. He treated me a bit like a daughter. He died after two years. I wept for him. The second had a heart attack when the Angrez
 
confiscated the taluqdars' lands, after the king, your husband, was deposed. He was left paralysed. I wanted to visit him to bring him some comfort, but believing I was after his money, his family refused to receive me.

“Everything has changed since the kingdom was annexed. As you must have noticed, half the Chowk is closed. The old days, the brilliant nights when we were admired and feted, are over. The new rich have replaced the ruined aristocrats, and just because they pay us, they think they are entitled to everything. The few Angrez who send for us from the Kanpur garrison are no better. Their puritanical religion has riddled them with
 
a sense of guilt. Like children on the verge of a forbidden act, they suffocate with desire. But as soon as they are satisfied, they leave without a word, as quickly as possible, without a glance, as if they wanted to forget what they consider shameful filth, rather than a celebratory meeting of bodies. All the courtesans hate them; in fact, most of them refused such a degrading relationship until we were made to understand how useful it was.”

“Useful?”

“We are the only ones who can travel freely, even now. We are invited to sing and dance at weddings, circumcisions. Nobody thinks to question our comings and goings, so we also have access to the Angrez. We allay their suspicions by charming them and making their heads spin with our useless chatter, then we try to make them talk, to get information out of them—details that often seem insignificant to us, but, when pieced together, can provide the military command with precious information. At the moment I am seeing an officer who disagrees with his commander, and when he has had enough, he talks to me without suspecting for an instant that
 
his sweet bird-brained courtesan could be a spy. I must say, I have come to enjoy this double game and I am quite good at it. The chief has congratulated me several times.”

“So who is this chief then?” enquires Hazrat Mahal, intrigued.

“Come on, guess! You know him very well. He is one of your advisors. Somebody whom no one suspects, as he has always visited the courtesans. Although, these days the women whom he used to see are in despair, as he neglects them. It seems he has been seduced by a beauty who keeps him at arm's length, and he no longer even looks at other women!”

Hazrat Mahal feels as if her heart is going to stop, could it be . . .

“Is it . . . Rajah Jai Lal?” she guesses in a strangled voice.

“Exactly! It is he who persuaded us to start seeing the Angrez again, and every week we report back to him what we have learnt. I thought that, as the regent, you should also know so that the decisions you make will be informed ones.”

When the two young women separate late in the evening, promising to meet again soon, Hazrat Mahal hugs her friend tightly in her arms and Mumtaz, amazed, wonders why the regent is thanking her so effusively.

W
elcome, Rajah Sahib! Please be seated and let us chat for a while.”

Hazrat Mahal greets Rajah Jai Lal with her most dazzling smile when he turns up for his usual afternoon session to report on the latest military operations and the state of the army.

Amazed at this warm reception, which he is no longer used to, the rajah stands rooted to the spot, frowning. For weeks now, the regent has addressed him in a strictly professional manner, whereas before, she had encouraged a relaxed, almost friendly contact. He had not understood the abrupt change of heart, which had hurt him. But he had finally come to terms with it, telling himself he had overestimated her, as he
 
should have known by now that all women, especially queens, are fickle.

What has come over
her today? She suddenly seems to notice I exist. Is she expecting me to fall at her feet, overwhelmed with gratitude? Who does she take me for?

When he answers her, his tone is chilly:

“Forgive me, Huzoor, I cannot stay, I have a lot to do. Recorded on these sheets of paper, you will find an account of operations of the past few days and the army's requirements for the coming week. Would you please take a
 
look at
 
them, we can discuss the details later.”

And without
 
giving her the time to react, he takes his leave.

Left alone, Hazrat Mahal is momentarily stunned, then she starts laughing.

Well done! Could I have imagined he would react otherwise? It is this quality of freedom I appreciate in him . . . Whatever is at stake, he is incapable of docility or behaving like a subservient courtier. I hurt him; it will not be easy to regain his trust, but I will. His friendship is very precious to me.

His friendship? . . .

With an impatient gesture she rejects the other word that imposes itself with increasing insistence. Is she not married to Wajid Ali Shah? A good man, whom she respects and who is all the more deserving of her loyalty since he is a prisoner, separated from his loved ones.

Jai Lal is also married and has sons he is proud of. His wife, it is said, is primarily his children's mother. There is little romance in arranged marriages—generally set up between cousins so that all the land remains within the family. But it is precisely because these marriages are devoid of romantic illusions that they are solid: the woman devotes herself to the children, and the man has the freedom to pursue his dreams . . . elsewhere!