In the City of Gold and Silver (6 page)

“Sir, I always suspected you were a friend of the British, but your words prove you are only their minion!” exclaims Rajah Jai Lal, red with indignation.

Behind the jalis, the Queen Mother lets out a small laugh of satisfaction.

“Well said! I have often advised my son to be wary of him, this Ali Naqvi is a traitor employed by the British to spy on us.”

Hazrat Mahal does not reply; she only has eyes for the rajah. What a brave man! If the king would listen to him, instead of those servile courtiers who surround him . . . She remembers what she has heard about Jai Lal Singh: his family is Hindu and of modest origin. His father was a small landowner who had once saved King Nasiruddin Haider from a panther attack during a hunt. The sovereign ennobled him and made him his trusted confidant. As children, Jai Lal and Prince Wajid Ali Shah played together. However, fearing the Court's atmosphere would soften him, Jai Lal's father had sent him away to pursue a military education. The two friends had nonetheless remained very close. The king knows he can completely rely on the rajah's loyalty.

In the Council Hall, the discussion grows heated, and if the weary king had not ordered them both to calm down, Ali Naqvi and Jai Lal would most certainly have come to blows. This confrontation is the last straw for the two men who have always despised each other. The former, an old aristocrat, astute and corrupt, has nothing but contempt for the military man of recent nobility, with his behaviour and language that are far too direct. All things considered, the corruption this greenhorn criticises him for is far more convivial, when executed elegantly, than boring, blunt honesty. As for Jai Lal, the prime minister represents everything he detests—hypocrisy and political short-sightedness, minor compromises and great cowardice, which have imperceptibly brought the carefree Lucknawi society to its present crisis.

“I have given my opinion and have nothing more to add. Would Your Majesty permit me to retire?” whispers the prime minister, hoping all the while he will be asked to remain.

But the king has heard enough for the moment; he wants to speak to his friend alone. With a sweeping gesture, he dismisses all his advisors.

Then, turning to the rajah:

“Do you really think we stand a chance?”

“I think we can win if we are united. In any event, surely you will not give in and let these bandits steal Awadh from you! We must fight, Your Majesty. Your honour is at stake, as is that of your family, who shaped this prosperous kingdom and edified this admirable town, the pearl of northern India! And then think of your people! They trust you, how could you abandon them to these foreigners, who have nothing but contempt for their values and want to force them to adopt their own, supposedly for their own good?”

The rajah has turned purple with indignation:

“The tactics are always the same! When a power has decided to invade, they accuse you of every crime under the sun: either you are a cruel dictator, or you are incompetent. Public opinion—for in these so-called ‘civilised' countries, they prefer to have the support of public opinion—is manipulated by a press that meticulously describes the supposed vices of the man to be brought down. Of course, you know the British press portrays you as a libertine and a drunkard, although you have never touched a drop of wine, you scrupulously pray five times a day, and no woman lies with you without first receiving the
maulvi
's blessings
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!”

“I know all that, as well as how powerless we are in the face of this slander . . . But tell me, you who are a military man, how much time do you need to gather the taluqdars and prepare our forces?”

“About two weeks.”

“And I have three days to give them an answer! If I refuse, the British army will march on Lucknow, it will be a bloodbath. No, my friend, resistance is impossible. I would be sacrificing my people in vain.”

“You will agree to abdicate?”

“Never! To take control, they will have to violate the treaty and remove me by force. The whole world will see them as the aggressors they are, I am sure they will hesitate.”

“Do not delude yourself, Your Majesty, the world forgets very quickly. One event erases another, and he who is in power imposes his own version of history, which, within a few years, becomes the unquestionable truth.”

 

* * *

 

On the afternoon of February 1st, 1856, at precisely 4 o'clock, Colonel James Outram, followed by an interpreter, arrives at the entrance to one of the most sumptuous palaces in Lucknow, Chaulakhi Palace, the Queen Mother's residence. The latter has asked to see him and he eagerly responds to her invitation. She has her son's ear and he hopes to be able to convince him through her. If the king would only listen to reason and agree to relinquish power, it would be a thousand times preferable to an annexation, which is likely to provoke violent reactions, as he has repeatedly warned Lord Dalhousie. The governor general would not listen. After eight years in India during which he successively annexed the states of Satara, Punjab, Jaipur, Sambalpur, Jhansi, Berar, Tanjore and Karnataka, he is about to leave, and is particularly anxious to cap his efforts by offering the state of Awadh to the British Crown. To achieve this end, he is willing to use any possible means, including breaking the treaty that binds them.

The colonel has every intention of preventing the situation from deteriorating to such an extent. The king is more concerned with poetry than politics, and his mother is an intelligent woman, who will soon understand where her family's interest lies.

At the entrance to the palace, he is saluted by women guards dressed in black kurtas and
churidars
,
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a cartridge belt strapped across their chests. Being short and corpulent himself, the colonel always feels uneasy with these dark, muscular Amazons, who are far more imposing than his own soldiers. Nicknamed “the black cats,” they are said to be of Abyssinian origin. The first ones are supposed to have come to Awadh during the time of Bahu Begum, Wajid Ali Shah's ancestor, who had maintained her own army. They are efficient and completely loyal, unlike the eunuchs, who are ceaselessly plotting. The only problem is they often fall pregnant . . .

Inside the palace, the resident is released to another group of female guards, Turkish this time, with milky complexions. They precede him, shouting “
Purdah karo!
”
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in order to warn the women of a stranger's presence. He is led through a labyrinth of vestibules giving on to small, shady inner courtyards, up and down narrow staircases, without meeting another living soul. However, Sir James has the clear sensation of being watched by hundreds of pairs of eyes.

Finally, they reach the audience room, the Hall of Mirrors. The colonel has heard of it, but this is the first time he is actually entering the place. At the threshold he stops, dazzled: lit by high crystal candelabras, the walls and ceiling are covered with mosaic and thousands of tiny mirrors, depicting the gardens of paradise, sparkling with a profusion of multicoloured flowers and birds.

At the centre of this splendour, sitting on a simple white sheet, two black shapes are awaiting him.

Purdah, of course! He had forgotten; it is going to be easy to converse with shadows! The colonel feels his irritation rising, all the more so as in all traditional interiors, the hall is devoid of chairs, and despite the cushions the servants bring, he is unable to sit comfortably. What else? He has to remove his shoes as well? That is out of the question! It is the custom in India, and even considered the most elementary courtesy, but he is an Englishman and sees no reason to comply with the traditions of the natives.

The Queen Mother receives him with a long formula of welcome, transmitted to the interpreter by the dark silhouette seated next to her. It would be improper for a man to hear the Queen Mother's voice.
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While the interpreter responds with a flowery speech, Colonel Outram arms himself with patience. Experience has taught him that in India, and especially in Lucknow, the heart of the matter is only approached after long detours and to want to hurry things along only results in delaying them further.

Young girls enter the hall carrying silver platters filled with acidic-coloured delicacies. He has to refuse them seven times, as etiquette dictates. He will only accept a glass of “lemonade,” a very sweet juice of lemon and rose. Despite his efforts, he has never managed to acquire a taste for this refreshment, but he has mastered the art of wetting his lips while seeming to drink it.

An hour passes interspersed with trivial comments and long silences. Finally, the Queen Mother makes up her mind:

“Is it true, sir, that the honourable East India Company, which you represent, has decided the king, my son, is no longer fit to reign?”

“That is true, Your Majesty.”

“Is it true that it has decided to relieve him of all powers and take over the administration of the state?”

“It is true.”

“And if the king refuses, is it true that the Company has decided to annexe our state by force?”

“It is true, Your Majesty, but I dare hope we will not have to resort to such extremes.”

“And how so, Mr. Resident?”

“It is very simple. The king has only to abdicate and the Honourable Company, in its clemency, will grant him a generous pension of one hundred and fifty thousand rupees, and will permit him to retain his titles and authority over his Court.”

After a long silence, the Queen Mother's husky voice rises. Ignoring protocol, she addresses the resident directly.

“What crimes has my son committed? How has he provoked the wrath of the British government, for whom he has only respect and admiration? Tell me, sir, what he must do and I promise he will follow every instruction to the letter!”

“I regret, Your Majesty, but these are the orders. I can only follow them.”

“You can at least convey a message to the Governor General Lord Dalhousie. Tell him the king is only too willing to administer his state in accordance with the governor general's directives, if he would kindly define them clearly.”

“The king has already made such promises. The Company has been very patient, now it is too late.”

The Queen Mother is silent for a moment, overwhelmed, then:

“I see now, sir, that my son is condemned. But if the British government does not consider him fit to reign, why not appoint his brother, Mirza Sekunder Hashmat, in his place, or his son?”

Taken unawares, Colonel Outram remains silent. The proposal makes sense. He has no valid answer to oppose it. Except that Lord Dalhousie will never . . . He mumbles:

“I do not see . . . how this would be to your advantage?”

The dark silhouette straightens.

“Not to our personal advantage sir, but at least the kingdom of Awadh would endure, and our name would not be dishonoured!”

“I am sorry, Your Majesty, London's decision is final and irrevocable. I have come here to request you to persuade the king to agree. If he signs, he will live opulently, with nothing more to worry about. If he refuses, he will lose his kingdom and his whole fortune. We are convinced that as a mother, you will want to ensure your son's and all his dependents' welfare. Besides, you will have an independent income for yourself, as the Company is offering to pay you a pension of a hundred thousand rupees.”

“Enough!”

A harsh voice pierces the dark veil:

“What gives you the right to be so insolent? How dare you try to bribe me so that I will convince the king to abdicate and bring this dishonour upon himself! For you Angrez nothing matters but money! Do you think we have not understood your game? You have long coveted Awadh's wealth and whatever my son might have done, he had no hope of satisfying you!”

With an abrupt sweep of the hand, the Queen Mother indicates to Sir James that the interview is over.

As the Turkish guards surround the resident to escort him away, the slim black figure, who is none other than Hazrat Mahal sitting beside the Queen Mother, leans towards her:

“He is white with rage, Huzoor, he will take his revenge.”

“Well, my daughter, they are stealing our country, what more can they do? I have been far too patient. When this lout insulted me, I had to stop myself from ordering my Amazons to whip him! When I think that a hundred years ago, the Queen Mother of Awadh, Begum Sadr-i-Jahan, travelled in a palanquin carried by a dozen British prisoners . . . Alas! How times have changed . . . ”

D
ay after day, the British troops advance on Awadh. To demonstrate his peaceful intentions, the king has supplies sent to them and has ordered his own troops be disarmed and his artillery dismantled. He intends to show he does not harbour the slightest desire for rebellion, and thus ensure that the East India Company has no excuse to annexe the state. Incapable of duplicity, he refuses to believe they can violate the treaty that has bound them to their faithful ally and most generous donor for the past fifty-five years.

No matter how many times his friend Rajah Jai Lal reminds him that the governor general has already annexed a dozen states over the last few years with no valid justification, and therefore will have no scruples about seizing Awadh, Wajid Ali Shah will not listen.

“Hundreds of taluqdars have pledged their support,” insists the rajah. “They can raise an army of a hundred thousand men and a thousand pieces of artillery! And you know very well that since most of the British army's sepoys are from Awadh, they will refuse to shoot their brothers! Just one word from you, Your Majesty, and the country is ready to fight to avoid falling prey to the Angrez!”

To no avail. The king continues to declare he does not want to shed the blood of his people. Maybe he does not really trust the taluqdars' sincerity either, and Jai Lal cannot blame him entirely for this. The region's history shows that most of these prominent feudal lords' first loyalty is to their own interests, and when they find themselves in a position of weakness, they do not hesitate to change sides to rally behind the strongest. But most of all, Wajid Ali Shah is not a man of action, much less a warrior . . . Jai Lal loves him and respects his humane qualities, but he is perfectly aware that his friend lives in a dream world and has always fled confrontation.