In the City of Gold and Silver (45 page)

“Oh, for us villagers it's all the Terai—half-Indian, half-Nepalese. Nobody would know where the border is if the British soldiers weren't there sometimes to stop us from crossing it.”

Would it be possible . . . No, she cannot entrust this child with such a dangerous mission . . . Yet, this coincidence seems to be a sign . . .

Ambika is waiting. She can see the rani wants to say something but seems hesitant. Then, overcoming her shyness, she dares:

“You do so much for us, Rani Sahiba. I was talking to my companions about how, for the first time, a lady has shown interest in us and made us proud. I do not really know how to say this, but I just want to tell you that I will always be ready to serve you.”

“I am grateful, Ambika. Now be a good girl, bring me some embers for my hookah and leave me. But please do not go away without coming to see me first.”

 

Ever since her first taste of it in the house in the Chowk, the gurgle of the hookah's water and the clouds of honey and rose-scented smoke have had a soothing effect on Hazrat Mahal, and help her to think. She has decided to be frank with Ambika, certain the young girl will not betray her. But if she gives her the gold, which she could sew into the hem of her own wide skirt, how will she manage to make contact with Beni Madho?

It is Ambika herself who provides the answer:

“I cannot go out of the house myself, but I have cousins and brothers. They have all heard of you and admire you. And my family has little love for the maharajah. They don't know it here, but my mother's brother was one of the king's loyal followers. When the coup d'état took place, he tried to resist. He was captured and tortured to death. So if we can help you, for us it will be an unexpected opportunity for revenge!”

Hazrat Mahal marvels at the young girl's simple and direct manner. Anyone else would have beaten around the bush, might have waited to be asked in order to obtain something in exchange. Ambika, however, agrees without the slightest hesitation, despite the danger, of which she is perfectly aware.

For a month, Hazrat Mahal is to wait anxiously for her return.

 

Meanwhile, on July 8th, 1859, peace is officially declared in India. This draws several sarcastic comments from the begum, who is well placed to know that battles continue in the Terai, as well as in central India where, despite Tantia Tope's disappearance, Prince Firoz and a few hundred men attempt to continue the struggle.

The following day, Hazrat Mahal and her son are overjoyed to learn that in a symbolic gesture of good will, the British have released Wajid Ali Shah from the Fort William prison.

“Amma
 
Huzoor, I would so like to see my father again. Do you think they would allow me to?” asks the adolescent, quivering with enthusiasm.

“I doubt it, jani. You know very well that we are in exile and do not have the right to return to our country.”

“But just for a few days! To see my father again! I miss him so much. He has been gone for three years! Please, Amma
 
Huzoor, can you not ask this favour of the maharajah?”

“It is not he who decides, my son, it is the British, and I do not wish to ask them for anything.”

“Why?”

“Because they would refuse just for the pleasure of humiliating me, or worse, they would use my request to spread the rumour that we have given in and made peace with them!”

The adolescent lowers his head to hide his disappointment. He admires his mother, but sometimes he finds her too harsh.

Sad at having to dishearten him, Hazrat Mahal is well aware that he is not convinced and that she talks to him as if he were an adult, while he is still merely a young boy who does not understand why his mother's political choices prevent him from seeing his father.

In any event, it is preferable that he not meet him, so he may continue to idealise him and imagine him a hero, a martyr to his convictions . . . If he were to see him in his palace in Calcutta, surrounded by his dancers, busy with music and poetry, a thousand miles from his people's struggle, his world would collapse. It is better he continue to admire his father from a distance, even if he is to hold it against me . . .

Ambika has finally returned. She brings a letter from Rana Beni Madho, who blesses the Queen Mother for her help and informs her he has finally found a way to return to Awadh, where he intends to rouse the population in the king's name.

Hazrat Mahal no longer has enough gold to help him, so she decides to sell two sets of jewellery—marvels made of rubies and diamonds. A servant of hers had earlier been employed by one of the king's wives. Can she contact her? The royal family despises Nepal's new master; their discretion is assured. But what of her retinue? The begum knows she is taking risks, but are the fighters in the Terai not risking far more?

Chance works in her favour. The jewellery sets are bought immediately and the gold handed over to Ambika, who, this time, is to leave to supposedly bury her grandmother.

She will return very soon, as the begum fears her repeated absences will appear suspect, but she has been able to entrust the gold to a cousin, overjoyed at being able to do the maharajah a bad turn. They have agreed upon a signal to confirm the success of the mission.

Two weeks later, Ambika and her mistress have still received no news.

 

“You are playing a dangerous game, Huzoor!”

Jung Bahadur enters without even having himself announced. His face is contorted with rage. In his hand, he holds a letter from General Grant, which he waves in front of the begum.

“The general writes to me that his soldiers stopped a young peasant carrying two purses full of gold. They worked him over thoroughly, but he died without speaking. As the arrest took place not far from Beni Madho's camp, Sir Grant concluded that the gold was destined for this terrorist. Who was sending it to him? Would you have any idea?”

He stands threateningly before Hazrat Mahal, who feigns surprise:

“How would I know? I have been a prisoner here for months. You do not even allow me outside the garden!”

Beside himself, Jung Bahadur cannot repress a curse.

“Do you know I can have you placed in solitary confinement, both you and your son, and forget you there . . . forever?”

The green eyes flash, contemptuously.

“Then do it! Thus history will remember you forever!”

She senses he is about to strike her, but he just stares at her with hatred and leaves without a word. The next day the surveillance is reinforced and all the servants replaced. Fortunately, Ambika is not under suspicion.

From now on, Hazrat Mahal has no means of communicating with the rebels.

 

Convinced that the Indians will revolt again and eventually drive out the occupiers, she devotes herself entirely to her son's education. One day Birjis Qadar will reclaim the throne; she must prepare him for it.

The adolescent is lively and intelligent. The ordeals have matured him, but he is often prone to bouts of sadness that worry his mother, as they remind her of Wajid Ali Shah's melancholic tendencies. However, is it necessary to search that far? Although the young boy has finally found some kind of security, he is paying the price for the long months of fear and deprivation, and most of all now, at an age when all adolescents are discovering life and freedom, he is under house arrest and paces like a caged lion.

With her extraordinary powers of persuasion, Hazrat Mahal works at convincing her son that he can transform his current situation into a great asset for the future. Instead of wasting his time in hunting, riding and futile parties, surrounded by hypocritical courtiers, he has the leisure to learn his profession as a ruler. She is there to help him. Has she not held the office of head of state and, to a certain extent, that of military leader, for almost two years? And beforehand, close to the seat of power for over ten years, she had been able to carefully observe court tactics, learn to foil intrigues; in short, she had been initiated into the art of politics.

She will not have to insist for long: Birjis Qadar needs to believe he has a destiny as a last resort to save himself from despair.

 

Henceforth, the only visitor to the bungalow is Jung Bahadur. Hazrat Mahal tolerates his appearances despite her scorn for him, as it is the only opportunity to learn what is happening, even if he takes pleasure in sharing nothing but bad news with her.

Thus at the end of August, she learns that Jai Lal's trial is still in progress . . . For over a year now! The witnesses continue to testify: former servants or ex-allies like Rajah Man Singh. She understands only too well why the judges prolong this masquerade. They have no intention of pardoning one of the main leaders of the insurrection, but the rajah is admired throughout the country. His execution would be seen by all as the assassination of a hero of the independence movement. They must find a way to sully him, and until now, the witnesses have been too contradictory to be convincing.

My jani . . . I hope these monsters have not tortured you . . .

She cannot bear to imagine the marks on this body she so often caressed, on the handsome face she loved so passionately . . . She remembers that one day he had brought up the subject of torture:

“More than betraying anyone else, to give in is to betray oneself,” he had said. “It is to forsake everything one has lived for. It is not surprising that traitors kill themselves or become like the living dead. It is the price to be paid for renouncing oneself in the misguided belief that one is saving oneself.”

Jai Lal . . . Whatever his jailers do, she knows he will never submit. Oh, how she would love to avenge him!

Unexpectedly her son's words ring in her ears.

“The British have done us so much harm, I would like to kill them all!” he had once exclaimed. She had reprimanded him for this simplistic reaction, unworthy of an intelligent person. And here she is reacting just like him!

Violence that breeds violence, she is too well aware of this dangerous cycle, where the right to be cruel in turn is invoked because of cruelty suffered. People consider they have the right to crush others, just as they themselves have been crushed.

The Indian population is caught in this spiral of violence. Once one conquers the blinding, paralysing fear, docility is often replaced by hatred, reinforced by the fact that it is also hatred for oneself, for having been a coward. Hazrat Mahal has never been placed in such a situation, but in her youth, she had seen so many people humiliated that she can understand their feelings.

By killing the other, we kill the vision that locks us into our insignificance and denies us our human dignity.

Yet, when violence breaks out the whole world is indignant:

“Why did you not speak up earlier? Why did you not explain yourself?”

These crushed men have long tried to make themselves understood. When they asked for a little justice, they found themselves beating their heads against a wall. And if no door in this wall ever opens, there comes a day when they will have to break it down.

This is the basis of all uprisings, of all violence: the impossibility of making oneself heard, however hard one tries.

Hazrat Mahal is certain that if the British government does not learn from this popular fury that has almost swept it away, India will rise up again sooner or later.

 

In the following months, Jung Bahadur returns regularly with news and a smile that grows more sardonic with every passing day.
 

At the beginning of September, he announces he has received a letter from Nana Sahib and Mammoo, who are both sick and begging for asylum. He seems to hesitate, but the begum knows he is waiting for her to plead their cause, just to have the pleasure of refusing. She nods her head, making no comment. He retires, disappointed.

Three weeks later, he informs her that the Nana has died of a severe jungle fever.

“I could have taken him in if I had thought it was important to you, but you seemed so indifferent to his fate,” he whispers, looking sorrowful.

Hazrat Mahal looks him up and down with such a grimace of disgust that he falls silent, petrified.

 

“Amma
 
Huzoor, so who was this Nana Sahib?” her son asks her.

She does not know what to reply . . . Had anyone ever known who Nana Sahib really was? It is difficult to define this ambiguous and contradictory character . . . a coward driven by vanity to surpass himself, a weak man sometimes capable of courage, an arrogant personality riddled with complexes, a man who was often attentive but capable of allowing the perpetration of terrible massacres, asking his musicians to play louder to cover the cries that distressed him . . .

 

One day, the news Hazrat Mahal has feared for a long time arrives: Rajah Jai Lal Singh has been executed.

This time Jung Bahadur adopts a devastated expression:

“When I think of how he was killed . . . They did not shoot him, as they would a soldier. They hung him like a vulgar bandit!”

His snakelike eyes stare at her. He has a doubt; he would like it to be a certainty: if he could topple the irreproachable begum from her pedestal, it might be useful to the British.

Gathering all her strength, Hazrat Mahal manages to reply:

“Rajah Jai Lal was a hero. At least he did not betray his people by allying himself with the occupier.”

Then she turns her back on him.

Having barely reached her room, the young woman collapses. Against all reason she had clung to the hope that Jai Lal would only be condemned to captivity, that he would manage to escape, or that a popular uprising would open his
 
prison doors. She cannot believe that she will never see him again . . . Maybe Jung Bahadur had lied to her . . .
Jai Lal, my jani
. . . She presses her hand to her chest; she is suffocating . . . When she regains consciousness, her distraught servants surround her, but she sends them away. She wants to be alone . . . with him.