However, when the eunuchs announce the rebellion of the state of Jhansi, led by the rani, the exhilaration reaches its peak. All the women have heard of Lakshmi Bai, whose unconventional father had raised her to become an outstanding horsewoman, skilled in the art of warfare. They are full of admiration for her. Hazrat Mahal, in particular, feels an instinctive empathy with the young sovereign. They are more or less the same age, and although their backgrounds are very different—one is the daughter of a minister, the other of a minor craftsman—both are beautiful, intelligent, courageous, and most of all, ambitious. Whether it be for themselves or for their sons, they have both decided to force destiny’s hand.
The uprisings continue; Benares, Jaunpur, Allahabad, Sultanpur, Gonda, the whole of north India is ablaze. The joy is short lived however, as the palace soon receives distressing news: suspected of being behind the rebellion, King Wajid Ali Shah has been imprisoned in Fort William, near Calcutta.
As if the people needed any further encouragement to revolt! Hazrat Mahal is indignant, while her companions lament.
The foreigners seize our country and our wealth, they take control by exiling our beloved sovereign, crippling the population with taxes, ruining craftsmen, confiscating the land, even attacking our religion—and they are surprised that there is rebellion! They are looking for a scapegoat, refusing to admit that they are solely responsible for this situation.
This, however, is something the whites cannot understand, as they are utterly convinced of their superiority. Do they ever put themselves in other people’s shoes and imagine their suffering and possible reactions? Never! As long as they are the strongest, they continue to crush and kill to preserve order and the values of civilisation . . . What civilisation? A traders’ civilisation where gold is prized above all else, an attitude they conceal under a veil of morality.
She is shaken out of her thoughts by the women’s imprecations; now they curse this insurrection, which they were celebrating just a few days ago.
“What can we do to help our Jan-e-Alam?” they wail.
“We could start a hunger strike to force the Angrez to release him,” suggests a curvaceous begum.
“Well, you certainly could,” sniggers a small, thin girl, to the furious looks of the elders.
“It would be of no use at all. The British would be overjoyed to let us perish. So much less expense for them!” cuts in Hazrat Mahal, dryly.
The women spend the whole afternoon in discussion, drawing up the most absurd plans. Worried, Hazrat Mahal finally retires to her apartments. For the time being, her doubts and grievances against her husband are forgotten. She remembers only his charm and his kindness. Now that he is in difficulty, she will do everything possible to help him. There must be a way: can she find a spy to carry a message to him, buy off the guards, or divert attention using some kind of distraction . . .
“Mammoo Khan,” she declares to her trusted servant, who is standing at the threshold of her room, “I want to see Rajah Jai Lal.”
“See the rajah?”
The eunuch cannot suppress a shudder. He is used to his employer’s unconventional ideas, but she has never expressed such an unreasonable request.
“See him where? And how?”
“I am sure you will find a way, you are so clever,” she whispers in her most winning voice. “Obviously, no one must know. It is impossible to bring him here into the apartments, but maybe the garden?”
“Huzoor, you know very well that no man is allowed to enter the zenana gardens!”
“But a woman . . . in a burqa?”
“Come now, Huzoor, the rajah will never agree,” objects Mammoo, trembling at the very idea of having to transmit such a proposition to the impressive soldier.
“To save his imprisoned, maybe even tortured master, can he not accept this inconvenience? I am counting on you to convince him. We could meet in a quiet corner during the siesta. Nobody would dream of stepping out in this heat. Go, Mammoo, you are serving your mistress and your king. We will not forget it.”
And with this majestic “we,” by which she includes herself for the first time in the sovereign sphere, the young woman dismisses the dumbfounded eunuch.
Two shadows slip through a door, concealed under a thick curtain of jasmine. Following the palace eunuch—recognizable by his plum-coloured kurta—a tall, well-built woman in a black burqa trips up, letting fly a loud string of curses; a frightened “sshh!” from the eunuch silences her. As soon as they reach a dark corner with a small marble bench, from under the burqa the rajah appears, perspiring and furious.
“What a fool I am to have allowed myself to take part in this farce! I warn you, if it is not something important, you will not have heard the last of it!”
A clear laugh answers him.
“It is important business Rajah Sahib, have no fear!”
Taken aback, the rajah tries to peer through the shrubbery, in vain. There is a slight rustling behind the opulent rose and jacaranda bushes; a slim, elegant woman emerges. Wearing a long brocade garara, held up by a belt decorated with topazes and pearls, she has covered her net kurta with a gold-embroidered dupatta that hides her chest, her hair and the lower part of her face. As she approaches, the rajah realises her slender figure and proud bearing made her seem taller than she is.
With none of the shyness and simpering airs common to the palace women, she takes a seat on the marble bench and, with a gesture, invites the rajah to sit down. A quick glance confirms there is only this one bench, yet the rules of etiquette forbid . . . A mocking glance brings him back to reality. What rules? Are they not already breaking the most sacred one—the dictates of purdah?
Embarrassed, he sits down at the other end of the bench, cursing his awkwardness in front of those beautiful green eyes growing more and more amused. Why did he agree to this absurd meeting? He hates the affectation of the Court! If he had not been the king’s friend, he would never have set foot there. He far prefers soldiers to all these degenerate aristocrats, and the witty courtesans of the Chowk to the evanescent palace beauties. Not that he has ever approached the latter—he has only glimpsed them during the shows hosted by the sovereign—but these languid creatures, confined to a world of artifice, seem to him to be more akin to dolls than women.
“The reason I wanted to meet you personally, Rajah Sahib, is because the matter is urgent. The king is in mortal danger. You and I know him well enough to realise he will not be able to bear captivity in that horrible Fort William. We must free him. You are a man of action, but above all, you are his most loyal friend. Do you have a plan?”
The voice is serious, slightly husky, mesmerising. The rajah is surprised at his own thoughts and tries to discern the speaker’s features through the light fabric.
“Well, Rajah Sahib?”
The voice has shifted from charming to impatient.
“I have not really had time to think about it,” pronounces the rajah, collecting himself. “We have so much to do at the moment, to coordinate our actions . . . ”
Brusquely he stops himself, biting his lip. What is he revealing to this woman whom he does not even know . . . Has he lost his mind?
The green eyes shine with excitement.
“Allah be praised! Would the rajahs finally be deciding to act?”
In her enthusiasm, the young woman has allowed her veil to slip, revealing an aquiline nose and a determined chin that contrasts with her voluptuous lips.
Some temperament! thinks Jai Lal, noting with amusement that the begum is in no hurry to rectify her veil.
“And when do you intend to launch the operation? Can the palace help?” she asks passionately.
“Help? How could the zenana help?” grumbles the rajah, mortified at having given so much away. “Please forget what I just said. The greatest service you can render our country and our king is to be silent.”
 
; What a rude person! Disgusted, Hazrat Mahal stiffens and draws her dupatta around her:
“I do not need any lessons from you, sir. It appears that you are quite unfamiliar with the women of this country. Are you not aware that over centuries, they have fought innumerable times? Some have even reigned and led armies on behalf of a captive or deceased father or husband . . . Razia, the Sultana, who . . . ”
“Sshh! Huzoor!”
With frantic gestures, Mammoo forces her to lower her voice. In her indignation, she had forgotten the danger of their situation. If anyone were to surprise them, the punishment would certainly be death for both of them.
While the eunuch goes to check the adjacent alleys, the rajah attempts to redress the situation. He has no desire to anger the young woman: she is intelligent, passionate, she could be useful one day and—why deny it?—she intrigues him.
“I did not express myself well, Huzoor, please excuse a soldier, inept at the subtleties of the Court. I pray you, let us return to the subject of our meeting: freeing the king. Do you have a plan yourself?”
Hazrat Mahal hesitates. She would like to walk off and leave him sitting there—the lout! But she restrains herself; of all those close to Wajid Ali Shah, the rajah is certainly the most capable: she needs him. But he has to understand that he needs her too!
“Until he was imprisoned, I maintained a regular correspondence with His Majesty,” she declares. “I kept him informed of everything that is happening here, the people’s growing discontent and the fact that they are awaiting his return. Now he is in captivity, it will be more difficult, but I am sure a few pieces of gold will be able to sweeten the guards.”
A lie for a good cause, but the rajah is not fooled, as he himself has also spread the rumour that he is in touch with Wajid Ali Shah. He knows his friend well enough to be aware of how quickly he forgets those he is separated from. Why would he write to a begum whom he clearly did not like enough to take into exile with him?
Hazrat Mahal guesses his doubts—the same ones her own retinue shares—but she has long since found a way to parry them.
“The day he left, the king asked me if I would remain here to be his eyes and ears. He said he did not trust any of his other wives. He insisted I was the only one capable of undertaking this mission. How could I have refused? We left each other in tears. I miss him terribly, but I console myself with the knowledge that I am useful to him.”
“Your devotion honours you,” comments the rajah with a conviction Hazrat Mahal suspects is tinged with a touch of irony.
Unperturbed, she continues:
“This is my plan: there must be an ammunition depot inside Fort William, just like in all the forts. We will have to find a way to blow it up, then, we can take advantage of the panic to free the king with the help of our men stationed there.”
“But it is impossible to enter Fort William. It is the best-guarded prison in the whole of India!”
“My eunuch, Mammoo, knows a sepoy who used to be with the Bengal Army. He served at the governor general’s in Calcutta for years. He claims there is a secret passage that exists between the governor’s residence and the fort. We will just have to get one of our men into the Residency under some kind of disguise. Once in place, the guards we will have bribed would show him the underground passage to the fort and the arms depot. In the confusion provoked by the explosion of the depot, we would be able to help the king escape. He would, of course, have been forewarned. We need half a dozen accomplices inside, which should not be difficult to find, given the resentment against the British . . . and a generous reward for the job.”
“Why so few? To protect the king during his flight, we need a lot more men!”
“We are not planning to fight, but to help the king escape during the few minutes following the explosion while everyone is busy containing the fire! The fewer people who know, the less the risk of indiscretion.”
“I must admit it is a good idea. Does one learn these things in the zenana?” The tone is light, but his eyes are admiring. “There remains, however, a considerable problem: once the king is free, where should he go? Obviously not back to his palace in Calcutta, nor to his Lucknow palace. The British would put him right back into prison.”
Entirely taken up with her plan, Hazrat Mahal has not envisaged this problem.
Not truly convinced herself, she ventures:
“He could join the sepoys and lead the revolt.”
Given the rajah’s silence, she adds:
“He has not dealt with military matters for a long time, but you could be his advisor . . . ”
“I could ask for nothing better . . . if he so desires.”
They look at each other. There is no need to say more. They both know the king well enough to realise he will never accept such a risky undertaking. Wajid Ali Shah is a poet, a faithful friend, an affectionate husband and, in times of peace, a benevolent and generous sovereign, but one cannot expect him to be a warrior.
Given the young woman’s turmoil, Jai Lal takes pity on her.
Does she still love him so much, even though he abandoned her . . . ?
Suddenly, he wants to reassure her:
“Trust me, Huzoor, we will free this country and reinstate the king, with all his powers!”
As she does not reply, he concludes with a smile:
“And maybe, we will even need the help of some people in the zenana, whose skill, I must admit, I had underestimated until now.”
16
June 17th: telegram from Sir Henry Lawrence
to the Governor General Lord Canning, in Calcutta
“The news from Awadh is terrifying. In under two weeks, the British forces have been swept aside and our administration has totally collapsed everywhere, except in Lucknow, where we are waiting. Our spies have informed us of important rebel concentrations, some twenty miles to the north of the town.
“I sent troops to support Kanpur, where General Wheeler is under siege, but en route the soldiers killed their officers and joined the mutineers. Wheeler is begging me to send more reinforcements; it is with a heavy heart that I have had to refuse, as we are expecting an attack here any day now and we are only a few hundred fighters.
“Please, send troops to save Kanpur as soon as you can, they will not be able to hold out for much longer.”*
Indeed, the situation in Kanpur is alarming.
Since the beginning of the events in May, Sir Hugh Wheeler had realised it was not a mutiny, but a rebellion intent on overthrowing British power. In anticipation of an attack, he had two brick buildings at the centre of the garrison fortified. A trench was dug and a three-metre high wall erected around it; the whole structure was defended by ten cannons. A quasi-symbolic defence that Azimullah, Nana’s right-hand man, had ironically nicknamed “the fortress of despair.”* Although Kanpur was one of the most important garrisons in India, oddly enough, it had only three hundred European soldiers for three thousand sepoys. Sir Hugh was not particularly worried, however, convinced that, as in Meerut and Sitapur, the mutineers would set off for Delhi once they had burned and pillaged the bungalows.
Sir Hugh had joined a sepoy regiment at the age of sixteen and has served in India for fifty-two years. A small-built man with twinkling eyes, he is one of the older generation of officers who speaks fluent Hindustani and is a great admirer of the local culture. He even married a young girl of mixed Irish and Indian race, and they had six children. He loves his men, who, in return, are unstintingly devoted to him. Nonetheless, he is fully aware of the deep discontent British policy has aroused over these last years. He alerted the authorities several times, but they did not respond. Now he knows the time for revenge has come. His confidence is not shaken though: his sepoys will never attack him or his entourage.
On May 21st, General Wheeler learns that the 2nd Cavalry Regiment will engage in a mutiny during the night. He
has the women and children moved into the fortified camp and gives orders that the treasure be transported there as well. However, the sepoys responsible for guarding it profess their undying loyalty and refuse to hand it over. The atmosphere is electric.If he insists, Wheeler knows he may provoke a confrontation, but can he really leave eight hundred thousand gold rupees accessible to the mutineers? It is the faithful Nana Sahib who provides a solution by offering to send two cannons and three hundred of his Mahratta warriors as reinforcements to guard the gold. Sir Hugh hesitates, but he lets himself be convinced, remembering the numerous occasions when the Nana had done him favours and how, just recently, he had offered to place fifteen hundred men at his disposal to help reconquer Delhi.
It is Azimullah who serves as the go-between.
“Would you believe it, they actually agreed!”
On his return to Nana Sahib’s, Azimullah cannot contain his hilarity.
“I will never understand these English! They think nothing of stripping you of your titles and your inheritance, and yet swallow all your claims of friendship, as if it were perfectly natural that all you think about is helping them. Do they not realise that you hate them for what they have done?”
“Oh, but I do not hate them!”
“Because you are too kind and too noble, Your Highness. But you are not the only one they have robbed. They ruined the taluqdars and, in fact, the whole country by forcibly banning our crafts in order to force us to buy their industrial products at very high prices. And to top it all, they crush us with their contempt!”
“Personally, I have always had a good relationship with them.”
“On the condition that you respect the distance between them, the whites, and us, the blacks! Have you already forgotten the previous resident’s outrage when you dared asked for his daughter’s hand in marriage, although he used to claim he was your best friend? He turned his back on you and never spoke to you again.”