The silly girl covered her face with her hands and went into fits of laughter. As his eyes were fixed on me, I suspected the couplet was about me. While his mother was talking to some of the ladies, he again said in Persian: ‘An arrow in the side of a young damsel is better than an old man.’ His wife re-doubled her laughter. This only encouraged the lout to go on:
When she saw something in her husband’s hand
Something limp, hanging like the lower lip of a hungry man...
My ministrations will rouse one asleep but not a corpse.
I was really gussa. ‘What is this
buk buk
your husband is saying?’ I demanded of his wife. Jawan Bakht tried to be very clever. It did not occur to the fool that I could understand Persian. ‘Aldwell memsahib, this is poetry in praise of youth and beauty,’ he replied with a smirk on his face. ‘You have no cause to be angry. Regarding an angry woman, the same poet, the peerless Saadi, has said..’ And he quoted in Persian:
A woman who rises unsatisfied from her bed
Will quarrel and contend with her man;
An old man who cannot rise without the aid of a stick
How can his own stick rise?
‘I know exactly what it means,’ I cut him short in Persian. ‘You should be ashamed of yourself. Shall I tell your mother what you have been saying?’ You should have seen the fellow’s face! Yellow as a dry banana-leaf. And squirming like a worm on the hook. His mother turned to me and asked: ‘What are you two quarrelling about?’ ‘You ask your son, Your Majesty,’ I replied.
I left Jawan Bakht’s group and went across the room to speak to one of the girls who had been trying to catch my eye. She wanted to try out the words of English she had learnt. Jawan Bakht also quickly turned away and began to talk to Mrs Scully. I don’t know what he said to her but she suddenly stood up and spoke to Mrs Flemming: ‘Mother do you hear what this young rascal is saying? He says that he will soon have the English under his feet, after that he will kill all Hindus.’ Mrs Flemming was old and very blunt.
‘Did you say that, Jawan Bakht?’ she demanded angrily.
The queen looked very angrily at her son. Jawan Bakht grinned like a monkey with red teeth. ‘I was only joking,’ he replied.
‘What kind of jokes have you been learning lately?’ asked Mrs Hernming. ‘First you are rude to a lady (meaning me) and then to the English race! If there is any trouble in Hindustan, you will be the first to have your head taken off your shoulders.’
‘
La haul valla quwwat!’
chanted the maidservants. Queen Zeenat Mahal’s face was flushed with embarrassment. Everyone knew that she had been knocking at the doors of the sahibs wanting them to proclaim Jawan Bakht as the next king of Delhi. And there he was pouring cold water on her hopes. ‘What kind of ill-mannered talk is this? You must apologize at once,’ she said very firmly.
‘Amma Jan!’
whined the lout, ‘I was only saying that there are rumours afloat that the Persians are going to invade Hindustan. And like Nadir Shah a hundred years ago, they will massacre the infidels.
Amma Jan
, you know very well that I would give my life to protect the lives of the European ladies of Delhi.’
That just proved what I had been saying about these natives—blatant liars from head to foot! Anyway I had something for Mr Metcalfe.
The reception came to an end. Zeenat Mahal sent for the tray of
betel
leaves and gave us one each with her own hands. I can’t stand
betels
any more than other Europeans, but court etiquette required us to accept. So we stuffed the leaves in our mouths,
salaamed
the queen and left.
I told my hubby about the party in the palace. He was not surprised. He said he had overheard natives talking of a Persian or a Russian invasion and even seen posters on the walls of the Jamia Masjid saying that the invasion would take place that summer. He said that these rumours had been going on since the day Lord Canning had become Viceroy. When walking up to take the oath of office His Lordship’s foot had caught in the carpet and he had stumbled. The natives were saying that this was a sign from Allah that Canning’s government would likewise stumble and fall. Alec said that most natives believed that British rule would end on the hundredth anniversary of the Battle of Plassey, which was to be some time in June. ‘All these bloody niggers can do is to
yak
yak,
’ he assured me. ‘Let them try and we will stick a greased pole up their dirty black bums.’ Alec had been using that kind of language ever since he had gone
phut
.
Alec called on Mr Metcalfe and told him what I had picked up at the palace and what he had heard in the bazaar. Mr Metcalfe thanked Alec and asked him to request me to keep in touch with the ladies of the harem of Mirza Abdullah, one of the many grandsons of the king.
Mirza Abdullah lived in Daryaganj. He was a follower of a fellow called Hassan Askari who lived in the street behind our house. This Hassan Askari was known to have the king’s ear. The king’s daughter who had died two years ago had been his mistress. Mirza Abdullah’s sister had called on me many times. I really had no intention of returning her calls. But after what Mr Metcalfe had said to my hubby I felt I should do my bit for the Old Country.
One afternoon I dropped in at Mirza Abdullah’s house. My, how flattered these natives are when a European lady calls on them! And how flustered! The women were so excited and out of breath that they could hardly talk. And they were all very eager to tell me of the rumours about invasions and risings. ‘You can’t stop tongues from wagging, can you?’ said Mirza’s senior begum. ‘There are as many rumours as there are people.’ I asked her about Hassan Askari. ‘He’s a man of Allah,’ replied the begum. ‘But he is not of our faith. He is a Shia and we are Sunnis. We have nothing to do with him.’
I knew this was a lie. The tailor who did odd jobs for me also worked for Mirza Abdullah’s family. He had told me that he often saw Hassan Askari in Mirza Sahib’s house. As I said before, you can never trust natives. They learn to lie from the day they learn to speak. They think it’s more clever to tell a lie than tell the truth.
Alec went to report on my visit to Mirza Abdullah’s house to Mr Metcalfe. When he returned he told me of mysterious fires in the cantonments and strange people running about with
chappaties
. That the wily blacks were plotting against us we were sure, but we did not realize how soon these double-faced traitors would stab us in the back. How well I recall the day it happened!
Our usual practice before we retired was to spend the evening on the roof-top (unless there was a dust-storm blowing) where we had our sundowner and our dinner. Then as I’ve said, we’d have the
bhishties
sprinkle water and servants lay out the beds. At first I had mine alongside Alec’s. But when he had eaten hot curry, he used to get very windy and make things unpleasant. So I had his bed removed to a distance so that we were not disturbed by his farting. On the roof-top the nights were cool and the early morning breeze very pleasant.
The betrayal began one morning in the month of Ramadan when Muslims fast from sunrise to sunset. I remember being woken by the muezzin’s call for prayer. It was still very dark but I could not sleep because there were many mosques in Daryaganj and one muezzin followed another. Our Muslim servants were making a racket cooking and gobbling their day’s meal. Just as the dawn appeared above the jungle across the river, a cannon was fired from the Royal Mosque. The explosion woke Alec and the children. The
khansama
brought up our
chota hazri
.
My girls were soon romping about on the roof, taking their time over their tumblers of milk. Alec and I were having our tea when we saw a fat Bania come with his brass jug and squat down near the wall: these natives can never resist a wall. Alec always had a catapult and a trayful of pebbles brought up with his morning tea. Before the Bania could relieve himself, Alec sent a pebble flying towards him. It hit the brass jug,
ping
. The Bania quickly stood up to adjust his
dhoti
. ‘Bugger off you black bastard!’ yelled Alec. And so the poor fellow did. We had a big laugh. Then along came a man carrying a wicker cage with a partridge in it. Another partridge ran a few yards behind calling
teetur, teetur, teetur
. Alec raised his
bundook
—he always had his
bundook
by his bedside to shoot geese or duck coming overhead from the river — aimed it at the partridge and said ‘Bang! I’d like to get that fat one; make a nice partridge pie, what!’ He used to aim his
bundook
at the partridge every morning and say the same thing. The day had begun like any other day.
The sun came up bloody red and bloody hot. With the sun came the flies. Alec and the children went downstairs. I was near the staircase when I noticed a cloud of dust on the other side of the river. I stopped to see what it was: It was a party of horsemen galloping over the boat bridge, firing their carbines. ‘Alec, Alec,’ I shouted, ‘Come up and see!’ By the time Alec came back to the roof-top the horsemen had disappeared behind the fort. But another party followed. This lot rode along the wall towards Daryaganj. They saw us standing on the roof and yelled ‘
Maar dalo saley firangi ko
—kill the bloody foreigners.’ They were in the Company’s uniforms.
We ran downstairs and had the gates of our bungalow shut.
The Last Emperor
There is a saying that when a sinner goes on fast Allah makes the day longer. So it seemed to us during the month of Ramadan of the year 1273 of our Prophet (Allah’s blessings on Him), corresponding to May 1857 of the era of Jesus the Healer (on Whom be peace). We did our best to observe the injunctions of Islam; but the flesh is weak and often bends the will to its satisfaction. And that year the holy month of fasting fell during the mango season. The best time to enjoy mangoes is between mid-morning and the afternoon. This was forbidden. So be it. If Allah wished to test our faith, we who are King would abjure the fruit which is king among the fruits of our land.
Of late it had been our habit to rise a watch before sunrise and sit on the balcony overlooking the river. We had issued instructions that no one was to disturb us till we had said our
fajar
prayer. This gave us three to four hours to be alone with ourselves. We used these hours for contemplation. We liked to sit wrapped in darkness and in silence; we liked to watch the light of the waning moon reflected in the Jamna; on moonless nights we liked to gaze into the black heaven with its myriad stars; we liked seeing the silvery brilliance of the morning star fade into the paling sky. We liked to see the sun come up noisily with the screaming of
koels
. The cool morning breeze never failed to rouse the melancholic muse of poetry in our breast. Sometimes we would light the taper and pen a couplet or two; at other moments we would allow the lines of a
ghazal
to turn into song in our mind. And there were mornings when we scanned lines sent to us by Zauq or Mirza Ghalib or one of the other poets of our city.
We cherished these hours of peace and repose because we felt closer to our Maker then than at any other time; they prepared us for the unpleasant realities that pressed upon us during the day. When the world is itself draped in the mantle of night, the mirror of the mind is like the sky in which thoughts twinkle like stars; it is the best time to commune with one’s inner self and realize how insignificant one is even though he calls himself King of Kings and Emperor of Hindustan.
After these hours of solitude we repaired to Moti Masjid built by our illustrious ancestor, Alamgir Aurangzeb (may Allah rest his soul in paradise). In the snow-cool atmosphere of this marble mosque we paid homage to our Maker (who gave silver to the stars and the moon, the fire and light to the sun) and His Messenger (Allah’s blessings upon Him).
In the holy month of Ramadan this routine was somewhat altered. Kitchen fires were lit in the early hours so that people could feed before dawn appeared over the eastern horizon. During Ramadan we spent these early hours on a couch in the Diwan-i-Khas telling the beads of our rosary and repeating the ninety-nine names of Allah. Our morning meal was brought to us. We ate it alone. Our beloved Queen, Zeenat Mahal, sent us a
betel-
leaf rolled by her own hands. We chewed
betel
, smoked our
hookah
and watched the stream of the Jamna change its hues under the ordinance of the heavens. As the cannon roared over Lahori Gate to proclaim the beginning of the fast, our
hookah
-bearer removed the pipe from our presence.
*
To the best of our recollection this is exactly what took place on the morning of Monday 11 May 1857, the 16th of Ramadan. The night before, our royal consort Begum Zeenat Mahal and we had spent some time strolling on the balcony. She made some remark on the reflection of the moon in the river for the moon was full and the sky clear. And when we complained of the oppressiveness of the weather, she replied that it took the searing heat of the desert winds to give mangoes their delicious flavour, the jasmine and the
maulsari
their fragrance. She untied from her hair a chaplet made of these flowers and presented it to us as proof. We inhaled their perfume and when we held it back for her she said: ‘Keep it beside your pillow. It will remind Your Majesty of your servant Zeenat.’ Since knowledge of women is forbidden during Ramadan we had accepted this floral token. Its fragrance had filled our dreams; when we woke, the morning star and the morning breeze both reminded us of our beloved.
On the 11th of May we were a little late in our ablutions and prayers—nevertheless we beheld the dawn come over the Jamna. We saw the fires lit by the melon-growers across the river grow pale under the light of the rising sun and our soldiers change guard on the boat-bridge. We had a light meal of partridge
pilaf
, followed by a couple of
Tsamar Bahisht
(paradise) mangoes which had just come in season. We also drank a tumbler full of ice-cooled milk spiked with saffron. This was followed by the usual
betel
-leaf and a few pulls at the
hookah
. After
fajar
prayer we returned to the Diwan-i-Khas. The royal physician, Hakeem Ahsanullah Khan, was ushered into our presence and permitted to feel our pulse. By the grace of the Almighty who alone determines the humours of the mortal frame, he pronounced us in good health. Then our slaves, the eunuch Basant Ali Khan and Vakil Ghulam Abbas, presented the accounts of the royal household. Our expenses were, as always, more than our income. We refused to look into them and waved the men away. We turned our back on the crowd of petitioners that had assembled and began to gaze at the scene along the Jamna.