In the City of Gold and Silver (12 page)

Gathered around the messenger, the men nod their approval; they are very upset: all of them belong to high castes or are from honourable families, and are used to being respected, which makes them even less tolerant of the new officers' arrogance and vulgarity.

“And now, in order to control us better, they are trying to convert us,” adds the messenger.

Indeed, over the last twenty years, some political or military leaders have been striving to convince the population to embrace the Protestant faith, and openly denigrate their religious practices. On different pretexts, hundreds of Hindu temples, mosques,
madrassas
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and Sufi sanctuaries have been closed or destroyed.

“Near my village they have even confiscated the land belonging to the mosque
 
so that they can build a church!” grumbles a sepoy.

“The worst is they try to poison our children's minds,” continues the messenger. “Just imagine, they had secretly begun to teach the Bible to the students at the large secular college in Delhi! When one of the teachers underwent a scandalous conversion, only then the families realised what was going on and hurriedly withdrew their offspring from the establishment. But it is still happening in other government schools.”

The men clench their fists. These attacks on their religion are attacks on their honour. They find it intolerable.

“We had no problems as long as we were fighting neighbouring states,” remarks an old sepoy. “The principalities have always waged war on each other. But now it is our own state that is being annexed, and we find ourselves serving the occupiers. It is as if we were betraying our own and betraying ourselves. When we return to the village, their silent disapproval is palpable. It is even worse now that the situation has deteriorated with the new reforms. The price of wheat and corn has almost doubled and there is a threat of famine.”

“We need to act now, but how?”

The messenger silences them with a gesture.

“You will know soon enough. Our committee for the defence of the Hindu and Muslim religions has set up active cells throughout the northern half of the country. The infidels want to direct our consciences in order to control our behaviour. We will not allow this. You are the advance guard, talk to your comrades, soon all the sepoys will rise up to drive the foreigners out. But remember, it must remain a secret until the signal for the general uprising is given—our success depends on the element of surprise. You will soon be receiving a sign
 
advising you to be prepared and . . . ”

His sentence is interrupted by the sound of a sneeze. The sepoys immediately jump up, and from behind a curtain of trees, they drag out a small man who fights like the very devil.

“A spy! He heard everything! We have to kill him!” shout the soldiers, pushing him towards the messenger, while, terrified, the man attempts to protest.

“I was not spying. I am the servant of an important person.”

“You weren't spying? Then what were you doing there listening to us? ”

“I was out for a walk, I heard voices and . . . ”

A resounding slap interrupts him.

“If you value your life, answer us immediately: who is your master?”

“My ma . . . my begum . . . ? One of our king's wives,” stammers Mammoo.

“Her name?”

The eunuch hesitates, but as his life is at stake, he can forget his promise!

“Begum Hazrat Mahal, the fourth wife.”

The men surrounding the eunuch roar.

“He is lying! The English sent him!”

Mammoo is livid, how can he prove his good faith? He can only see one solution:

“Then send a man to the palace to verify my story!”

He does not dare imagine his employer's fury; she had ordered him to keep her name secret, but he has no choice: these men will not hesitate to torture him to death.

The messenger is puzzled:

“Why would one of the sovereign's wives be interested in our meetings?”

“My begum is interested in anything that can harm the usurpers and bring our beloved king back,” declares Mammoo, regaining some of his haughtiness. “She writes to His Majesty every week to inform him of everything that is happening here.”

He does not specify that the letters remain unanswered, that, almost certainly, they never arrive. The conspirators must believe the begum has the king's ear, that she can be a useful ally, and hence he, an asset to be handled with care.

“This begum . . . Hazrat Mahal, does she have a son?” questions the messenger thoughtfully.

“Yes, Prince Birjis Qadar. He is only eleven, but he is surprisingly mature for his age.”

“Well then, we are going to send you to the palace with two soldiers to check on all this. Know that if you attempt to escape, they will kill you immediately. On the other hand, if what you say is true, here is a letter to give to your mistress.”

 

* * *

 

To Mammoo's amazement, Hazrat Mahal did not get angry. Lying on her divan, a triumphant smile on her lips, she reads and rereads the letter the messenger from Berhampur sent her. What she has spent the last year hoping for is taking shape. She cannot contain her excitement:

“Look, Mammoo, what do you think?” she asks, holding the letter out to the eunuch.

 

“Huzoor,

Great events are underway. Be prepared.

We are counting on His Majesty's close relatives.

Sepoys, faithful to their king.”

 

“What do you think? What should I do?”

“Nothing, just wait.”

“Wait! Always wait!”

Hazrat Mahal raises her eyes to heaven, exasperated.

“We women spend our whole lives waiting, until . . . we have nothing left to wait for. But this time it is different, do you not see that? The people are ready to fight against the Angrez. It is true their weapons are superior to ours, but we will drive them out! There is not one single example worldwide of an occupier able to remain in power when he is not wanted, however strong he may be!”

The young woman gets up and paces the room nervously.

“According to the messenger, apart from the Sikhs,
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the whole army—from Calcutta to Delhi—would be ready to rebel, about one hundred and twenty thousand sepoys! Do you think the king is behind the plot?”

“He must know about it, but until he has received an answer from Queen Victoria, I don't think he will act. If he can obtain satisfaction through negotiation, why would he fight? This is what he replied to Rajah Jai Lal several months earlier, when the latter offered him the taluqdars' support to resist the annexation.”

“I wonder if the rajah knows,” murmurs Hazrat Mahal thoughtfully.

“Certainly. He is a trained soldier and has always been in contact with the sepoys. I would not be surprised if he were directly involved.”

“Try to find out. And from London, what news?”

“Public opinion is on our side as the press, informed by Major Bird, exposed the Company's lies and betrayals. The debates in the House of Lords were very lively. Lord Hastings even asked for the resident to be recalled: ‘Our problems are entirely the result of our attitude,' he declared. ‘If the annexation of Awadh is confirmed, the Indian sovereigns, realising they cannot trust our word, will turn from friend to foe.'* Feeling the winds of change, the managers of the East India Company finally received the crown prince and the king's brother with all the honours. They offered them vast amounts in compensation but refused to discuss the annexation of Awadh, claiming they acted on government orders.”

“Certainly just another lie! The only person who can solve the problem is Queen Victoria. The Queen Mother has been in London for six months now, why has she not obtained an audience yet?”

“They keep making promises, but the audience is put off from one week to the next on different pretexts: the queen is not in London, or she is tired, or she has too much to do. In fact, this affair must be an embarrassment to her, as it is difficult to challenge the East India Company, which has brought so much wealth to the Crown, but she cannot condone an injustice either. I think she is dragging things out as she has not yet decided on what position to adopt.”

 

* * *

 

A few weeks later, chapatis mysteriously begin to appear in northern and central India. These small flatbreads arrive in packs of six. They are left with the village guard during the night, with orders to distribute them to the six neighbouring villages, which, in turn, are to cook six chapatis and distribute them to the six nearest villages, and so on. So much so that in less than three weeks the tiniest hamlet has received these chapatis, and everyone wonders what all this means exactly. But everybody guesses they announce great events.

Alerted, the British administration tries to discover where the phenomenon originates from and its significance. In vain. Speculation is rife, theories abound—from a simple joke to a possible conspiracy, not forgetting the possibility that these chapatis could be a popular talisman against the cholera which is rampant at the time.

On Hazrat Mahal's orders, Mammoo scours the town searching for explanations, to no avail. Having run out of options, he ventures into the Chowk, as far as Amman and Imaman's house. Earlier it used to be the best-informed area of Lucknow. Maybe he will find some information here today . . .

The two matrons are absent and Mammoo is about to leave when Nouran, the young woman they had taken in, shouts out to him.

“I know something about these chapatis, but I will only tell your mistress.”

“How can a peasant like you know something everyone else in town doesn't? You are just trying to get into the palace,” retorts Mammoo, exasperated.

“As you like, but the begum will not be happy,” sniggers the woman.

“Where did you get your so-called information from?”

“I repeat, I will only tell the begum.”

“Well, I will take you to her, but if you have lied to me, know that you will be whipped. Do you still want to come with me?”

Nouran's only response is to shrug her shoulders and, getting up, she nimbly slips on her burqa.

 

It is late afternoon; the drawing room is filled with a shadowy light. Hazrat Mahal dismisses all the servants, including Mammoo, who leaves muttering that she is wrong to trust this peasant woman.

Looking over her shoulder as if afraid of being overheard, the woman murmurs under her breath:

“Huzoor, be prepared, the distribution of chapatis announces the Great Mutiny.”

“What mutiny? And how do you know this?”

Instinctively, Hazrat Mahal has also lowered her voice.

“My grandmother is from Madras and she often told me the story of the Vellore Mutiny that took place when she was a child. She said everything had begun with chapatis being distributed mysteriously and, just like today, no one knew what it meant, only that something important was about to happen.”

“And what did happen?”

“The British officers wanted to force their sepoys to abandon their religious symbols, maybe they wanted to convert them even then . . . As they could not rebel openly, the men organised themselves secretly, and one night they massacred all the officers and some of the soldiers while they were sleeping.”

Hazrat Mahal stifles a shiver.

So far, the chapatis have been distributed over one third of the country, could it be that preparations are being made for rebellions not only in the state of Awadh, but also in Bengal and Bihar, in the region of Delhi, in fact all over the north of India?

This thought frightens her, even though for years her only desire has been to be rid of the occupiers. In the face of an imminent general uprising, her certainties are suddenly shaken.

Against the British army, the most powerful army in Asia, are our compatriots up to it? . . .

The peasant woman's common sense brings her back to earth.

“In any event it is up to the men. If they decide to fight there is nothing we can do about it. I wanted to warn you though, as the other day you were kind to me, and I thought you might want to protect your son and leave Lucknow for somewhere quieter.”

Hazrat Mahal stiffens. Desertion? The suggestion cuts her to the quick.

“Do not forget that my son is a prince and I am the wife of the exiled sovereign. There is no question of us abandoning our people. We belong here.”

T
he following weeks bring their share of disturbing and thrilling news. On the 17th of February, Maulvi Ahma-dullah Shah is arrested in the neighbouring town of Faizabad while exhorting the crowd to rebel against the foreigners.

“Your maulvi
 
did not let them push him around. Everyone is talking about his courage,” Mammoo reports to the begum.

“My maulvi?”

“Yes, the one we saw on our way back from our visit to the Chowk. You told me his sharp gaze had seen right through you, even piercing the thick curtains of the palanquin.”

True enough, Hazrat Mahal is not likely to forget that look.

“What happened?”

“The English were reluctant to arrest him, as he is so popular. The officer first asked the maulvi and his disciples to lay down their weapons, which would be returned to them when they left the town. The maulvi
 
replied haughtily that he would leave the town when he wanted to and then turned his back on the officer. As his men were becoming aggressive, the English preferred to move off, but they came back in force the next evening. The maulvi and his disciples fought valiantly, but in the end, he was wounded and taken prisoner.”

“How absurd! They are making a martyr of him, a symbolic rallying point that is far more effective than if he had remained free! White people think they can solve everything by force. They do not try to understand the other side's point of view—much less discuss it. The net result is they are detested by one and all. They will pay dearly for it one day. The oppressed peoples will do them no favours!”