Authors: Sangeeta Bhargava
Abba turned to Saheb-ud-Daula and angrily waved the treaty papers at him. ‘Why this new treaty? What happened to the old one?’
‘Your Majesty, the Resident feels the administration of Avadh has grown slack.’
‘What utter nonsense,’ Salim muttered under his breath. Of all the allegations levied against Abba Huzoor, this was the most outrageous. Avadh was at the height of its glory, there was no doubt about it. The land was fertile, trade was booming and taxes were low. Why, with all the poets, musicians and artists flocking daily to its courts, it had even become the centre of cultural integration and etiquette.
Abba Huzoor’s nostrils flared. He was trying to get a hold on his temper. Salim had never seen Abba fly into a rage.
‘How dare he say that? Are the people in our land not happy and flourishing?’ Abba finally spoke through gritted teeth.
‘Yes, Your Majesty,’ answered Saheb-ud-Daula.
‘The Company has no right to dispense of the old treaty which clearly states that it can govern Avadh but cannot dethrone us.’
‘I agree, Your Majesty.’
Abba stopped pacing and stroked the lion carved on either side of his throne. ‘Our ancestors have already given half of Avadh to the British. Now they want to swallow the rest.’ He looked at the mermaids carved on the wall, the royal insignia of the Naishapur dynasty. A dynasty that had ruled over Avadh since 1722. He absent-mindedly felt the velvet softness of the oblong pillow, before sitting down on the throne. Nobody spoke. Everyone stood silently with heads hung low. The only sound that could be heard was the sound of breathing. A stale, sweetish smell pervaded the hall. It came from the vase that stood in a corner. The tuberoses it held were half-dead.
Abba Huzoor finally spoke. ‘Go and tell the Resident that we will not renounce the throne without a fight.’
Salim sat alone in the music hall trying to play the sitar. But he could not concentrate. He kept thinking of all that had transpired in the Zard Kothi that morning. He tried again. The strings of the sitar were tight and sounded harsh. It was no use trying to hide behind his music. Abba Huzoor needed him. He should go to him.
He put on his cap and made his way towards Abba’s parlour. As he passed the kitchen, he could smell biryani being cooked. Bland white rice with rich juicy chunks of meat. Like the friendship between the English and the nawabs that had lasted eighty years. But the biryani had begun to boil over now. He doubted anyone would be eating in the palace that night.
This corridor was much too dark. Once all this was behind them, he would ask Daima to get the servants to place a couple of candles at the two ends.
Just then, the Queen Mother, Janab-e-Alia, rushed past him. Salim’s mouth fell open. It seemed she had come running from her palace barefoot, without her veil and without waiting for her attendants, as soon as she had heard the news of the new treaty.
Salim followed her quietly to the parlour and stood trembling at the door.
‘Ammi,’ Abba Huzoor exclaimed as Janab-e-Alia entered his parlour, shocked at her appearance.
‘We’re lost, you have destroyed us,’ she shouted without preamble.
‘Ammi, please sit down.’
Abba led her to the takhat and gestured to the servants to leave them alone.
‘How many times did we tell you to forget your begums and Parikhana and pay attention to the administration of the country?’ she accused.
Abba averted his gaze and pulled at his hookah instead. ‘Ammi, no matter what we did, they would have still annexed Avadh under some or the other pretext. Look at how they swallowed the other kingdoms. Ours was the only one left.’
‘We should never have stopped you from conducting those parades,’ the Queen Mother replied with deep regret.
‘Do you remember, Ammi, how we used to watch our army parade for hours on end? What eloquent names we had given the regiments – Banka, Tircha, Ghanghor. We even had a regiment of women soldiers. Why, oh why, Ammi, did you make us stop?’
‘Your hakim told us your health was deteriorating from standing too long in the sun.’
‘And you believed him? If only you knew he was a spy planted in our court by the English. They said to me, “Why do you want to waste money maintaining an army when our army is there to fight for you?” … You see, Ammi, we played right into their hands.’
Salim stood rooted in the doorway. He felt guilty eavesdropping like this, but found himself unable to move. He wanted to go and embrace Abba, console him, but knew he mustn’t.
‘And the irony is, the bravest and the strongest soldiers in the Company’s army are from Avadh,’ said Abba Huzoor.
Begum Janab-e-Alia walked over to the window, lifted the curtain and looked out. ‘That’s another reason we can’t fight,’ she said.
‘Meaning?’
Begum Janab-e-Alia dropped the curtain and looked at her son. ‘Nothing would be gained by asking our sepoys to fire on their own brothers.’
‘But we can’t just give up.’
‘We won’t. We’ll fight for justice in Queen Victoria’s court.’
Salim’s jaw dropped and his forehead creased. He stared at Janab-e-Alia. What the hell did she mean? Then he looked at Abba Huzoor. Abbu, don’t pay any heed to her. Queen Victoria’s court, indeed. Abba Huzoor would have to go to England for that. It would take him months. What would become of Avadh meanwhile? Of Lucknow? Of the people? What kind of advice was that?
Salim could not believe what was happening. This whole day had been one long nightmare. He dragged his feet to his room. Yes, it was a nightmare. He would wake up any minute now. Any minute.
Chapter Twelve
S
ALIM
It was not a nightmare. Two days later Salim found himself smiling contemptuously as Major General Outram, the English Resident, marched into the hall of Zard Kothi Palace, his heels clicking on the tiled floor. He walked briskly up to Abba Huzoor and embraced him. He clearly meant business.
Frowning, Salim tried to remember the name of the first resident to be appointed to the Court of Avadh. It was something Middleton. He was supposed to strengthen the friendship between the Company and the nawab. Friendship indeed! Salim smirked. What Middleton and his successors actually did was extort huge sums of money from the nawab and stealthily dig away his power.
Unfolding his arms, Salim put them behind his back and stared grimly at the Resident. Why in Allah’s name had Abba Huzoor met the Resident’s expenses all these years? For this? In the beginning the Residents merely had a secretary. Now they employed an entire retinue running into thousands, and the poor nawabs not only paid their salaries, but provided and maintained their accommodation as well. And the temerity of that firangi! Did he have no shame? After feeding on Abba’s mercy all his life, he was now talking about deposing him? How could he? How dare he?
The two men could not have looked more different. Abba in his silk brocaded angarkha, his neck covered in pearls, wide-bottomed silk pyjamas and pointy velvet shoes. The Resident dressed smartly in his uniform – red jacket displaying all his medals, and black trousers which tapered down to the ankles.
He bowed slightly before Abba Huzoor and said, ‘May I remind His Majesty the terms of the new treaty are generous and it would be in his best interest to sign it.’
The nerve of the firangi! Asking Abba to give up his throne, his entire kingdom, for a meagre twelve lakhs an annum and calling it generous! He must be jesting! Salim continued to watch, fuming.
‘We don’t want your money, we want justice,’ Abba Huzoor replied quietly.
Major General Outram ran his fingers over his head and again began to extol the generosity of the British Government. Salim unfolded and folded his arms again as he stared at him. The bloody viper. Ya Ali, he could cut off his tongue right there and then.
‘Treaties are signed between equals. Who are we to sign a treaty with the mighty British Government?’ Abba Huzoor said evenly.
Salim noticed a vein twitch near Abba’s left eye and his jaw tighten as he spoke. He was finding it difficult to keep a rein on his temper. There was no need for that Abbu, Salim thought. Just pick up your rifle and shoot the bloody angrez.
‘I think it would be in Your Majesty’s interest to sign the treaty,’ Ali Naqi Khan, who was Abbu’s minister as well as father-in-law, interjected. His head was lowered and his eyes were intent on studying the black and white tiles of the floor.
Abbu’s brother General Sahib roared. ‘Did you not hear? The king is not independent. His hands have been tied. How can he sign the treaty?’
Abba Huzoor took off his crown and, handing it to the Resident, said, ‘Now that we have lost our rank as well as our title, we are in no position to negotiate.’
Salim looked at Abba Huzoor in dismay. What was he thinking – handing his crown like that to that firangi? It seemed so unreal. It could not be happening. He was watching one of Abbu’s performances – based on the eternal love story of Lord Krishna and Radha, or the drama where he wore the garb of a Jogi and went around in search of his lost love Gijala. Ya Ali, if only!
A shaft of sunlight came in through the window and the jewels on the crown sparkled for a brief moment before a cloud covered the sun. Abba Huzoor walked to the window and looked out at the grey skies, his back to the Resident. A pigeon flew in and perched itself on Abba’s arm, cooing soothingly. Salim saw a flicker of a smile on Abbu’s face as he lovingly stroked the bird’s soft head.
‘Your Majesty,’ said the Resident, ‘if you do not sign the treaty within three days, I will have no choice but to take over the reins of the Kingdom of Oudh.’ With that, the Resident left the palace.
Abba Huzoor left Lucknow on 13
March 1856, in the quiet of the night. He was seated in one of the Cawnpore mail coaches. It was followed closely by the coach with three of his begums and children, Queen Mother Begum Janab-e-Alia, General Sahib and the heir apparent Nawab Munawar-ud-Daula. There were about three hundred courtiers, including ministers and officials. Some of them were in coaches while the rest were on horseback. They would be spending a few days in Cawnpore, before proceeding to Calcutta. From there, Abba Huzoor and Janab-e-Alia would leave for London. Abbu had been told he could not take more than five hundred people with him. Hence some of his begums and children had to stay behind.
Salim watched the retinue leave. It seemed strange. Earlier, all such processions were accompanied with a din of bugles, trumpets, drums and a lot of shouting and cheering. Today, all that could be heard was shuffling and whispers and coughs. Even Abba Huzoor looked peculiar without his crown and velvet robe. He reminded Salim of his torn kite. ‘King of the skies’ the shopkeeper had said.
The train of attendants following Abba Huzoor became smaller and smaller until all that was visible was the flying dust. Salim stormed into his room.
‘Should I get your hookah, Chote Nawab?’ Chilmann asked as soon as he entered.
‘I don’t need anything. Leave me alone.’
He sat down and threw his cap and waistband on the takhat. Chilmann hastened to remove his shoes. ‘I said leave me alone.’
Chilmann and the other servants hurriedly left the room.
Salim walked to his desk and slammed his fist on it. With a swipe of his arm, he sent everything on the desk crashing to the floor. Ya Ali, how could the British do this to Abba Huzoor? He felt enraged, cheated. And how could Abba Huzoor abdicate without a fight? How could he? Salim kicked the table.
‘Chote Nawab.’ It was Daima.
‘Daima, all is lost.’
‘Don’t lose heart so soon, my son,’ she said, stroking his head.
‘How could Abba Huzoor give up just like that? Like a coward?’
‘If he was a coward, he would have signed the treaty … He’s merely leaving for England to plead his case before Queen Victoria.’
‘But we could have won, Daima, thrown those firangis out of Avadh for good. Leaders of all communities had approached Abba Huzoor and pledged to lay down their lives for him. He shouldn’t have left without a fight.’
Daima handed him a glass of water. ‘Why spill blood when matters can be resolved amicably, huh?’ she said.
‘I guess,’ Salim muttered as he slowly drank the water. He thought of the lines Abba Huzoor had uttered as he left Lucknow.
Daro deewar par hasrat ki nazar karte hein,
Khus raho ahle watan hum to safar karte hein.
(I look at the door and walls of my palace with longing and despair,
Be happy my people for whom I undertake this journey.)
Covering his eyes with his hands, Salim wondered how long that journey would be. Would it take him to Cawnpore, Calcutta, London and back to Lucknow? He hoped so.
Salim stood under a jamun tree in front of the Dilaram Kothi. The ground under the tree looked like a purple rash. Some birds were pecking at the fallen fruit. It was just a few weeks since Abba Huzoor had left Lucknow. Navroz and Holi had fallen on the same day that year, but neither of the two festivals had been celebrated. The entire city was in mourning for its king.
Salim watched, bored, as the auctioneer banged the hammer on the table and said ‘going, going, gone,’ for the umpteenth time that day. He was barely audible above the trumpeting, neighing, roaring and chattering. The air was heavy with the smell of animal sweat and dung. As if that wasn’t enough, there was dust everywhere. It had filled his nostrils, was making his eyes burn and had covered his angarkha like garnish. He looked around at the people bidding. Some of them had come from as far as Delhi and Lahore. Each eager to get hold of a regal animal and thus enhance his social status, Salim thought bitterly.
He watched sadly as Sambhu was led away by its new owner. Sambhu – Abba Huzoor’s favourite elephant. How often had he watched Abba sitting on his golden howdah on top of Sambhu and swelled with pride. He wondered if Sambhu’s new owner would be able to take as good care of him as they had done in the palace. Or would he merely be used for bragging?