Begum Hazrat Mahal: Warrior Queen of Awadh

PREFACE

Sometimes a city speaks to you not through its people and their voices, nor its food and music. It speaks to you through its silences, the silence of the dead below the unending hoot and buzz of traffic that have formed like scabs over wounds. It speaks to you through its gaps, bullet holes in old walls, an empty park, a piece of red foundation tripping you up at a traffic light. It also speaks to you in the unexpected. The sight of Rumi Darwaza looming up from a sea of traffic, sounds mingling and distorting in the maze of tunnels in the Bara Imambara, and the swish of the Gomti as she curves past the Chattar Manzil. I heard the story of Lucknow in many such voices. I walked among the missing palaces and broken tombs of the nawabs, grieving for the young queen Hazrat Mahal who fought so valiantly with her rebel army.

And then I came upon another graveyard. The British Residency. Old green spaces punctuated with red brick-and-stone buildings. Ruins of houses, churches, messes, clubs, hospitals. Dried up wells. Dried tears. And stories of those laid to siege within these walls by the angry revolutionaries.

History cannot be about just one point of view nor can it be only about events. As famously said, history tells us what people did; historical fiction helps us imagine how they felt. So here is India’s first War of Independence retold. Not just what happened on both sides of the Residency walls, but what happened to the people who lived through the times.

CHAPTER 1

When the sun sets on a civilisation, they say its last rays fall more brilliantly on the symbols of its glorious zenith. So, too, that summer of 1857, the evening sun turned the minarets and spires and domes of Lucknow into golden pots and jars and crocks from an alchemist’s shelf, making them glow, catching the final burst of evening light, before dimming into stone and iron at dusk.

That summer evening, as the market places cooled, the people milled around bustling in muslin; buying gourds in every shape and shade of jade, stopping for chilled kesar kulfi from the depths of a huge clay pot wrapped in wet cloth, throwing a coin down to have the parrot tell their fortune; greeting each other, gathering to talk, to linger, whisper, conspire.

If only the people of Awadh, teeming on the streets, in the bazaars, around the mosques and temples, the air murmuring and their hearts swelling with the passion and fire of rebellion, had seen the portents for what they were. That what appears to be gold in the fire flare often turns out to be just stone after the sun sets. That sometimes even the greatest of fights does not always mean victory; that when wave upon wave of righteous anger rises, it may drown the enemy, but it may also wash away the ground beneath their own feet.

That summer evening, the city of Lucknow, with its gracious monuments and spacious gardens, its gentle people with their genteel mores, its vibrant music and vivacious dancers, was at the brink of a revolution. And it was willing to pay any price for it. In blood.

***

Major Kenneth Murphy walked his horse out of the gates of the Residency returning the guard’s salute, and then turned south and began to canter towards the complex of palaces at Kaiserbagh, his mood lifting with the slight breeze that blew through his red brown hair and cooled his bearded face.

The infernal Indian summer! It’s like being baked and broiled like a slab of meat!

As he rode, he was as always, fascinated by the culture shock of leaving the rolling green landscape of the Residency, the walled Cantonment where the British lived, with its stately red brick buildings and orderly roads laid out with military precision, and meandering through the maze of narrow lanes of the town overrun by bullock carts and horses and just people, so many of them, hurrying and scurrying, lounging and scrounging. Weaving through the chaos, Kenneth calmed down as he finally turned into Tabeli Marg that lead to one of the Kaiserbagh palace entrances. He rode down the stone-paved lane, the hooves clattering loudly as he passed the empty stalls of horses gaping like a toothless grimace. Finally he stopped at the arched gateway and his demeanour changed. With a sudden flushing of his face, he took out a large handkerchief and mopped his brow, ran a comb through his hair and beard and straightening his back, began to trot into the palace grounds, unaccosted by any guard, for there was no Nawab here now to protect.

But Kenneth was not interested in meeting anyone other than Begum Hazrat Mahal, the second wife of the last Nawab, who had refused to accompany her husband to Calcutta when he was exiled by the British some months ago. He thought of her beauty, her charm, her big eyes that sparkled with laughter and mischief or flashed with anger and passion. And then, he thought of her hatred for the British.

It made him squirm, the look she often turned on him. Then those very stars in her eyes would freeze to flints of ice and her tone would make his spine tingle uncomfortably. She had many a bone to pick with the Angrez, as she called them, and he had no choice but to listen to her incriminations.

If she had been just another native royal rejecting the British control of Hindoostan, he would have lifted an arrogant eyebrow and told her off. But he was totally under the spell of Hazrat Mahal. In the ripeness of maturity, she was so attractive that she had given him many a sleepless night ever since he had been assigned his job as the Company’s liaison officer to the Nawab’s family and estates.

Ahh, Hazrat! You have snared me in your silks and wrapped me in your perfumes! Even your detachment only serves to fan my desire! I wait with bated breath for the day you will reciprocate my love with a smile, perhaps even an invitation to stay!

Kenneth shook his head at his own fanciful thoughts and passed through the Mermaid gateway and entered the square courtyard of Hazrat Chowk, on one side of which lay the royal residences of Badshah Bagh and on the other side the Lakhi Gate led to the main complex of Kaiserbagh palaces. He turned instead to a modest whitewashed structure in the corner of the square and brought the horse to a stop outside Chaulakhi Kothi. He looked up at the building that sat like an ugly mole on a beautiful face and shook his head.

‘How art thou fallen from heaven,’ he quoted softly from the book of Isaiah before running up the steps to the entrance.

***

The baithak khana, a large, square, high-ceilinged sitting room in the south wing of the Chaulakhi Kothi, was like a furnace on long summer days, but it had the miraculous quality of cooling down dramatically at sunset. As the heat dimmed, both the maidservants, Zarina and Rashida, threw open the tall windows and placed dried khas grass sheets over them, wetting them generously so that the evening breeze could come in, scented and cooled. They mopped the red oxide floor again and again till it felt as smooth and cold as sandstone in moonlight. Reed mats were brought in and laid out along all the walls and scattered with bolsters and cushions. Finally, they carried in wide terracotta vats of water, fragrant jasmine blossoms floating in them, to be left in all the corners.

When the room was ready, Rashida hurried away to attend to her mistress who had paced her darkened room all afternoon thinking, planning, pondering, and who now sat, looking deceptively relaxed as she stroked a large white cat curled purring on her lap.

Begum Hazrat Mahal accepted the bowl of cloth pieces soaked in rose water. She carefully wiped her face, her neck, her arms and feet, changed out of her crumpled clothes into a swirling skirt in pale green with maroon mirror-worked choli and a deep green odhni edged with tinsel that danced silver with every movement. Rashida helped her wear bangles, armlet and anklets and fastened her necklace at the back of her neck and wrapped a gajra of jasmine blossoms around her wrist. When Hazrat was finally ready, she turned slowly to face her servant woman and smiled.

‘Well? Do I look ready to face the world?’ she asked.

Rashida touched her closed fists to her temples and nodded adoringly.

Hazrat uttered a ripple of laughter.

‘Ah, that all women have one such as you to keep their belief high in themselves! Then let me go and do what my destiny tells me to do. Send word to Mammu Khan, tell him the durbar is open.’

***

Hazrat Mahal’s evening durbar exuded not just the heady perfume of summer blossoms, but eclectic, electric emotions. There was anger, excitement, resentment, hope and anticipation throbbing in the hum of voices from the congregation who sat, stood, half hid around her and along the walls. Seated on a floor mat and leaning against a mass of cushions, Hazrat took in her loyal band of supporters, the people she had come to rely on in this time of intense revolutionary fervour. There were the rulers of small and large domains around Awadh, there were representatives from different religious communities; there were the merchants, farmers, taluqdars and rich zamindars, and there were the poorest manual workers ready to lay down their lives for freedom from the foreign rulers. There were Sunni Muslims, Shias, high-caste Hindus and Dalits. It was a true tribute to the Ganga Jamuni tehzeeb of Awadh.

Next to her, seated on a cane moda, her closest confidant Raja Jailal Singh was like a pillar she was figuratively leaning on.

Hazrat looked around her and spoke in her low, husky voice.

‘For the past few months, we have been meeting here, airing our anger, our impotence, against the Angrez. We have talked, we have debated, we have endlessly considered the options. Now the time for words is over. We need action. The time has come my friends, for action!’ She raised a fist in the air.

A roar went up from the gathering.

‘No more words! Only action!’

‘No more Angrez! Only action!’

Hazrat glanced towards Raja Jailal Singh who sat on her right. His eyes met hers, an unspoken message passed and he stood up. Although not very tall nor conventionally handsome, Jailal was well built with a quiet presence that made not just men listen, but women take a second look at him. Everyone fell silent.

Jailal put his hands into his sherwani pockets and looked from one face to another, taking his time. Zarina, who was serving sharbat in silver tumblers, stopped and backed away to the doorway.

Finally, Jailal spoke in his deep timbred voice that alone could send a thrill down one’s spine. But it was his words that made the gathering turn still and wide eyed.

‘You are all ready for action. But what will you do, what do you plan to do? Ambush a few British soldiers? Attack a few white women in their carriages? Kidnap some children? What action are you talking about? Have you even given it a thought?’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘Are we going to give in to our immediate anger against what happened in Kanpur and Meerut and make random attacks as they did? No!’ He raised a thick finger. ‘What we need to do is build an army, to plan, to strategise and to attack.’

There was a wave of assent, exclamations, nodding heads, raised voices.

‘But!’ he kept his finger up, ‘but we need clarity of thinking. We need focus. And we need manpower, weapons, we need logistic support. Horses, guns, cannons, food, uniforms!’

As the clamour of voices rose, offering money and manpower, shelter and support, one thin, deeply tanned man in white kurta and skull cap stood near the wall and watched the scene silently. Finally, he stepped away and walked to the centre of the room and raised his arms, eyes closed dramatically, until the voices ebbed and flowed and slowly faded away.

Mammu Khan opened his eyes and looked around.

‘In the name of Begum Hazrat Mahal, last Begum of Nawab Wajid Ali Shah who was exiled by the power-hungry British, I have a proposal to make!’

There was complete silence.

‘Yes, every one of you is ready for a revolution! Yes, we shall form a rebel army! But every army needs a leader!’ His voice rose. ‘Who shall lead us all?’

The silence quivered. Eyes shifted and fell uneasily. It was easier to create a force than to choose its leader.

‘Who better,’ thundered Mammu Khan, ‘than a scion of the Nawab’s royal lineage? Who better than Prince Birjis himself?’

He turned towards the door and waited. As if on cue, a small figure clad in formal sherwani and a voluminous turban came hesitantly into the room.

In one voice, the congregation shouted, ‘Prince Birjis! Prince Birjis!’

The young boy’s eyes timidly sought his mother and spotting her on the mat, sank down next to her, trying to shrink behind her shoulder.

People had begun to talk among themselves, a little loud with relief that one so apt had been found for the difficult role. There was a general reluctance to work closely with the Begum; they were too much in awe of her.

Then Veera Passi spoke, his tone humble yet decisive. ‘Begum Saheba, while the young prince is a fitting figurehead to lead our troops, we all surely know that his youth and inexperience will not give him the voice of authority!’

‘Yes, Veera,’ smiled Hazrat. ‘As you say, Birjis will only be a figurehead. We need a military strategist like you to take charge and guide him.’

‘Me? Oh no, Begum Saheba! I am only a Dalit, a small farmer, ready to fight the cursed foreigner! But I cannot accept this honour.’

‘Veera, I have the greatest regard for you. You have proved yourself time and again as an able administrator.’

Veera bowed his head humbly. ‘Forgive me, but I believe we need someone with great charisma to lead us. Someone loved by the people, someone with great mental strength and fortitude. Who will not just plan and organise the rebellion, but stay true to our cause throughout.’ He looked at her significantly.

All eyes turned to her and someone cried out, ‘Begum Hazrat Mahal!’ With new vigour, the crowd took up the chant.

Hazrat’s smile faded and she sat a few minutes, teeth worrying her lower lip as she contemplated this new turn of events. Although she intended to actively participate in the action, she had not imagined that they would actually want her as the commander. Finally, she looked up and raised a hand. The voices slowly faded into silence.

‘All right. I humbly accept this honour and hope that I will never let down your faith in me. But first,’ she glanced at Birjis next to her, ‘first, we have to crown the prince as the new ruler.’ She looked enquiringly at Raja Jailal. ‘I propose that we crown him at the earliest.’

Before Jailal could reply, a manservant entered the room, bowed to Hazrat and came close to whisper in her ear.

‘Begum Saheba, the Angrez is here to see you.’

‘Major Saheb?’

‘Yes, Huzoor.’

‘Hmm.’ She looked up at the servant thoughtfully. ‘Ask him to wait.’

The man moved restlessly. ‘He is outside, Huzoor, on the baranda.’

‘Ask him to wait, Salim. On the baranda. I will see him after my guests leave.’

The man bowed himself out. Hazrat turned to the gathering.

‘I thank you all from my heart for placing your faith in me. You shall be hearing from my messengers about the date of the new Nawab’s coronation. Until then,’ she bowed her head, lifting her fingertips to her brow.

When they had all filed out, and only Hazrat, Jailal and Birjis were left, with Mammu Khan skulking in the background, she gave her son a hug and said, ‘So, my son, you are going to be the eleventh Nawab of Awadh! Your people have placed their faith in you.’

Birjis gave a confused smile.

Jailal patted him on the shoulder and playfully pushed him towards the door. ‘Time enough to understand your responsibilities, Birjis. Now go and play with Salim.’

Once the boy ran away, Jailal turned to Hazrat with baffled annoyance.

‘Major Kenneth! Once again! What is going on, may I ask?’ There was an edge to his voice.

Her cheeks flushed in sudden annoyance. ‘Why should you ask?’

‘Well, I am surprised that you are often entertaining one of those very people you are planning with all of us to throw out.’

‘Entertaining him need not mean anything. It is a courtesy call. I cannot refuse to see him.’

‘Courtesy!’ Jailal’s lips curled unbelievingly. ‘There is no courtesy between the Angrez and us! They are our oppressors, our self-proclaimed masters!’

Hazrat looked beyond him at Mammu, who was adjusting his cap and pretending not to listen.

She lowered her voice and looked at Jailal, her eyes beseeching understanding. ‘Jailal, please trust me.’

Jailal abruptly turned on his heel and walked out, his back straight and rigid with anger.

Hazrat gave a deep sigh and nodded to Mammu. ‘Call him in.’

When Major Kenneth Murphy walked into the baithak khana, he was hit by the thickness of the air inside, a cloying sweet odour of fresh jasmine mingling with stale sweat. His eyes sought Hazrat, his pulse pounding with anticipation. In the past six months, their every meeting had brought him closer to a state of helpless adulation while his relationship with her remained frustratingly distant. With the practised ease of a Nawabi queen, she would greet him politely and after seating him, would wait for him to speak. As he stumbled through his agenda, her manner would visibly cool until the air between them could be cut with a knife. How could he evoke that warmth in her that he had glimpsed in the way she greeted her close circle? Dammit!

‘Qen-neth Saheb!’ She pronounced his name like an Urdu word, the K soft against the palate.

He began to bow, then seeing her doing aadaab, made a clumsy return greeting, almost poking his eye in the bargain.

She spoke smoothly. ‘Please sit down. Zarina, some sharbat for our friend, please. Qen-neth Saheb, I am sorry, I have never in all these years offered anything but thandai and shahi lassi to my guests in the summer months; but then, that was another world we lived in, wasn’t it? Khair,’ she shrugged, ‘what brings you to my humble home this summer evening?’

‘Begum Saa-hee-ba, I...’ he stammered, forgetting on what pretext he had made his trip here today. Then he said the first thing that came to his mind. ‘I was thinking of our last meeting, and how it had been inconclusive.’

‘Our last meeting! Of course.’ She raised her large eyes and gazed at the ceiling. ‘Let me see, as the Company’s official representative to the Nawab’s court, or shall I say erstwhile court, you had come to tell me that the Kaiserbagh palace would have to be vacated completely. That the British officers needed the premises for their troops. For the British soldiers!’ She gazed at his face sorrowfully. ‘Really? You intend our gracious palaces and gardens and pavilions to be overrun by the stomping boots of your soldiers? To have the stench of su’ar meats and boiled puddings pervade every corner of our marbled halls through which perfumed water ran? To have your preachers and evangelists sprinkle their holy water here in order to sinfully convert our sepoys to their faith?’

Kenneth moved uneasily.

Hazrat shook her head. ‘Of course, it was inconclusive! What did you expect me to do? Hand over the palaces to your battalions, even this humble house where I live?’

‘I understand. I do understand.’ His eyes slipped over her glowing skin and long loose tresses, then down over her curves. He could barely believe she was the mother of a twelve-year-old boy.

‘And yet you, as the Company’s liaison officer, have not been successful in conveying to your