In the City of Gold and Silver (2 page)

“We all do, my dear. Only whores enjoy such disgusting things!”

In the
parikhana
, the audience is in fits of laughter. Jeers erupt from all sides; it takes a while before the actors can continue.

A red uniform advances to the front of the stage:

“Whores or not, these Indians are lucky to have at home what we have to go looking for elsewhere, with all the risks—and expenses—involved!”

“Do you know,” his neighbour retorts, “that barely thirty years ago, before our young English girls started coming out to India to get married and thus establishing the rules of decency, every officer had his bibi at home, his native mistress—gentle, devoted, sensual . . . It was paradise!”

They both sigh, raising their eyes skywards.

“Maybe these poor Indians deserve to be pitied rather than blamed,” dares a thin violet crinoline. “Some adore gods with monkey or elephant heads, others follow a false prophet and call us polytheistic because we believe in the Holy Trinity. Fortunately, over the past few years, more and more of our missionaries have been coming out here. I've heard some Indians have begun to convert . . . ”

Loud cries from the audience interrupt her midsentence. The women, who had been roaring with laughter until then, now protest indignantly:

“What lies! These deceitful Angrez are spreading slanderous rumours to divide us! Who would possibly want to become one of these cannibals who boast of eating their God in a piece of bread? A God they crucified, a God who . . . ”

“Calm down, ladies!”

A deep voice resounds. Instantly, the women fall silent and turn towards the gilded divan upon which their beloved master lies.

At the age of thirty-four, Wajid Ali Shah is a handsome man with fair complexion and jet-black hair. His plumpness, a sign of wealth and power, accentuates the dignity of his every gesture. His hands, small and delicate, seem weighed down by heavy rings, but it is his eyes that draw everyone's attention: those immense black eyes full of sadness that not even the sweetness of his smile could deny.

“It is unfortunately true that some have converted, or at least, they pretend they have. Not out of conviction—how could anyone believe this nonsense? The English themselves cannot explain it, so they call them ‘mysteries.' In my opinion, these so-called conversions are motivated by utter poverty. They occur amongst the poor, mainly because the missionaries distribute money and educate their children.”

“But the converts are despised by everyone around them!” objects a woman.

“That is why I am convinced they are making fools of these foreigners and continue to practice their ancestors' religion in secret.”

Then, looking around at the audience, he continues:

“Back to this afternoon's entertainment, I found it very witty. Who is the author?”

A young, slender woman moves forward. Her dark green eyes contrast sharply with her fair complexion. She bows gracefully, raising her hand to her forehead as a sign of respect.

“Hazrat Mahal! I knew you were a poetess, but I was not aware you also had such a keen sense of satire! You have made me laugh on this difficult day. You truly deserve the name I gave you: Iftikhar un Nissa, ‘the pride of women.'” He pulls an enormous emerald ring from his finger: “Here, take this as a token of my appreciation.”

“The pride of women! That good for nothing!” sneers Alam Ara, who cannot suffer Hazrat Mahal. Around her a murmur of acquiescence spreads, as much to please the first wife—the uncontested queen of the zenana after the Queen Mother—as out of jealousy for all the other women the sovereign honours.

“Forgive me, Huzoor,” Alam Ara hazards, “but do you not think it is dangerous to make fun of the Angrez in this manner? If they were ever to hear of it . . . ”

“If they were to hear of it, it would mean we had spies in this palace, and that I cannot imagine,” says the king ironically. “If, however, the echo of our games were to reach their ears, I would not mind their realising that we make as much fun of them as they do of us. They have their cannons, our only weapon is mirth, and I have no intention of depriving myself of it!”

With this, Wajid Ali Shah gets up and takes leave of his “fairies,” a smile still hovering on his lips.

 

* * *

 

He is too good, too soft, and maybe too . . .
 

Hazrat Mahal tries to banish the words that repeat themselves insistently in her head, words that cannot apply to the man she loves and admires—the sovereign. Words that had shocked her to the core when she had heard them pronounced just a few days ago by Rajah Jai Lal Singh, reputedly her husband's best friend.

 

She had ventured out onto the northern terrace of the zenana, the one that overlooked the Diwan-i-Khas, the hall of private audience. Hidden behind the high
jalis
11
no one could see her, but she could watch the comings and goings of the dignitaries. It made a change from the gossipy company of the women and eunuchs.

A tall man, whose slim elegance stood out among the chubby silhouettes of the members of the Court, was deep in discussion with two other men:

“Under the present circumstances, this is not wise! The more we give in, the more the British think they can control everything. His Majesty should put them in their place. Unfortunately, he is too weak.”

Shocked, Hazrat Mahal had leaned forward to identify the speaker. She recognised the rajah, a man reputed for his frankness as well as for his courage and loyalty towards the king.

At Court there were not many like him.

She had felt as if she had been punched in the stomach. She trembled with indignation. Weak, the king? He, who presided over the destiny of his millions of subjects, who led and protected them! She had hurried back to her apartment and dismissed the servants. She longed for peace.

Curled up on her divan, she continues to tremble, no longer out of anger but out of fear. She has a strange feeling, similar to the despondency she had felt when her father died. She was only twelve at the time, and since her mother had died while giving birth to her, his death left her an orphan. She had lost the only person who loved and protected her; she was now defenceless . . .

Like today . . . But what was she imagining? Today, the king is in power, he is young, in perfect health, she is one of his wives, and most importantly, she has a son who looks exactly like his father.

She remembers the eleven-gun salute that had marked his birth ten years ago. Wajid Ali Shah was crown prince at the time, and the whole palace seemed to rejoice at the arrival of this fat baby, even though he was only fourth in the line of succession. Elevated to the envied position of mother of a boy, she was given the title “Begum Hazrat Mahal”,
12
Her Exalted Majesty.

She, the little orphan . . . as Allah is her witness, she has come a long way.

Slowly, drawing in the smoke from her crystal hookah, Hazrat Mahal remembers . . .

M
uhammadi was her name at the time. She was born into a family of small artisans from Faizabad, the ancient capital of the kingdom of Awadh. It had been a prosperous town until King Asaf-ud-Daulah chose to move to Lucknow in 1798. His departure led to the ruin of thousands of artisans who supplied the vast and refined court with jewels, rich fabrics and precious ornaments. Muhammadi's grandfather had died of despair, and her father, Mian Amber, survived by doing all kinds of odd jobs until, in 1842, he was finally offered a position as a caretaker in Lucknow.
13

The whole family had accompanied him to Lucknow, but a few months later, Mian Amber died of tuberculosis. Muhammadi, his youngest daughter, was taken in by her uncle who had a reputation as the city's finest
topi
1
14
embroiderer. His topis were said to be so perfect, they would fit the head of the person they were made for exactly, but if anyone else tried wearing them, they would end up with an unbearable headache!

One day, when the embroiderer was working on a topi for the crown prince, Muhammadi could not resist the temptation. As soon as her uncle left the room, she placed the midnight blue silk marvel, dotted with a constellation of tiny diamonds, on her head. She was stunned by the image she saw reflected in the mirror—a ravishing princess was looking back at her. Regretfully, she laid the topi back on the table. Just in time! Her uncle had come to fetch the hat, which was to be delivered immediately.

The next day, their peaceful lane resounded with raucous cries:

“Where is that rascal of an embroiderer? Beat him up!”

Terrified, the embroiderer had escaped through the backyard while his trembling wife opened the door. Before her stood a huge black eunuch accompanied by two guards. He held out the topi.

“Where is your husband?”

“He has gone out . . . ”

After signalling to the guards to search the house, the eunuch continued in a threatening tone:

“Who dared to wear the crown prince's topi?”

“But nobody would ever dare . . . ”

“Then how do you explain this?” the eunuch shook the hat, revealing a strand of long black hair inside, and threw it on the ground.

Meanwhile, the guards had returned, pushing a terrified Muhammadi before them.

“We didn't find the embroiderer, but this girl was hiding in the back room!”

The eunuch looked her over carefully and, softening, he asked:

“Who is she?”

“An orphaned niece we took in,” the embroiderer's wife hurried to answer, grateful for the diversion.

“Is she married?”

“Not yet.”

The eunuch had nodded his head.  

“Well, this time your husband is safe, as my prince is indulgent and abhors violence. But if it ever happens again, tell him I will deal with him personally and he will regret the day he was born!”

 

A few days later, two women had come to the embroiderer's home. Under their black burqas they were wearing brightly coloured
gararas
15
and their faces were heavily made-up. The embroiderer's wife had immediately recognised them: they were Amman and Imaman, former courtesans who groomed beautiful girls for aristocratic harems. They taught them etiquette, dance and other arts, the most accomplished girls being destined for the royal palace.

The matter was quickly settled. All the more so, as overcome with guilt, Muhammadi had admitted her mistake and her aunt, who had never liked her, no longer had any scruples about getting rid of her. Luckily, her husband, who may have been moved by his niece's tears, was away. Amazed and delighted with the purse the two women had slipped into her hands—so much money for this scrawny girl!—she had tried to warn them about her difficult nature, but Amman and Imaman were no longer listening. They covered Muhammadi with a burqa and pushed her into the waiting
palanquin
.

 

Muhammadi did not cry for long. The world she entered was fascinating. Amman and Imaman's large house was in the centre of the
Chowk
, the main bazaar in the old town, with its stalls selling kebabs and other tasty treats, its innumerable artisans, famous jewellers, shoemakers, perfumers and amazingly delicate
chikan
16
work embroiderers, famous throughout India. All of this, steeped in the fragrance of spices and jasmine. Behind the openwork balconies above the stalls, one could catch fleeting glimpses of prostitutes dressed in colourful silks, chewing
paan
17
as they watched the hesitant men lingering below.

However, the Chowk's real fame lay in the fact that it was the courtesans' district. In Lucknow, courtesans enjoy a very high status, quite unlike that of prostitutes. Renowned for their elegance and sophistication, they usually have a wealthy patron and every evening welcome aristocrats and artists into their salons to share art, music, dance and conversation.

Some courtesans are also accomplished poets and musicians. All of them are hostesses whose language and etiquette is so refined that young men from prominent families are often sent to them to complete their education.

However, attaining this respected position requires hard work and pitiless discipline. Those not gifted or dedicated enough to reach the required level of perfection find themselves relegated to the poorer part of the Chowk as second-rate courtesans, or even reduced to the status of mere prostitutes—a prospect that terrifies these women.

Amman and Imaman's house was large enough to accommodate ten boarders—more would have compromised the remarkable quality of their training. The young girls were woken up at 5
A.M.
to perform their morning ablutions in cold water, and then they said their prayers. Religion and morality were a fundamental part of their education.

Lessons in comportment, dance and singing began after a light breakfast and continued until two in the afternoon. Music lessons were also a must; each girl had to know how to play at least one instrument: the
sitar
, the
sarangi
or the
tabla
.
18
After a frugal lunch, the afternoon was spent in learning Persian, the language of the Court and of poetry. Muhammadi loved these moments when her imagination could run free, within the limits of the precise codes of classical poetry, of course.

In the evening, the boarders had free time and they made full use of the absence of their “benefactors,” who were often out visiting potential clients. They had great fun, carefully applying make-up, dancing while dressed up in transparent veils, miming scenes of passion and jealousy in which they surpassed their rivals, vying for the attention of a handsome prince, who fell madly in love and covered them in jewels. Every evening, they added a new episode to the dream, living in anticipation of the brilliant future the two sisters had promised their most gifted students. Each one saw herself as the most talented.