Abstract
The uprising of 1857 in various parts of British-dominated India was one of the first concerted efforts to overthrow the colonial rule over the subcontinent. It is still a subject of debate in the arena of history writing, an ongoing war between two competing narratives—the colonial history and the Indian nationalist tradition. While the British historians continue to refer to it simply as the ‘sepoy’ mutiny—or a mutiny of ‘soldiers’—thereby, diminishing the scale and effect of the rebellion, the Indian historiography, underscored by the currents of nationalism, has reconstructed the events of 1857 as the first war of Indian independence.
Kenize Mourad’s In the City of Gold and Silver can be seen as a French intervention into the debate. It is a translation of her highly praised book Dans la ville d’or et d’argent. Translated from French by Anne Mathai in collaboration with Marie-Louise Naville, the book tells the history of the Awadh, in the present-day state of Uttar Pradesh in India, during the rebellion.
The kingdom of Awadh played a crucial role in the uprising of 1857. The exile of Wajid Ali Shah, the tenth Nawab of Awadh in 1856 and the subsequent annexation of the kingdom by the East India Company, was one of the final incidents that fuelled widespread angst in region. The 10-month-long battle that began in June 1857 in Awadh was the longest resistance put up by the rebels against the British forces.
The book revisits Awadh during this volatile period of history. It begins with the last days of Wajid Ali Shah in Lucknow and covers the fate of the war-torn kingdom under the leadership of Begum Hazrat Mahal. The subtitle of the book, ‘The Story of Begum Hazrat Mahal’ indicates the central position occupied by the Begum in Mourad’s narrative.
Begum Hazrat Mahal was a contemporary of the Rani of Jhansi, an iconic figure in Indian history, and the fourth wife of Wajid Ali Shah, the ruler of Awadh and a much-maligned figure in Indian colonial history. The Nawab’s alleged misrule was the official reason offered by the British to annex his state. Mourad’s book challenges the colonial historiography by recounting a different story of the Nawab of Awadh and Begum Hazrat Mahal. At the same time, it provides a disparate account of the sepoy rebellion touted as the ‘mutiny’ by the British press. While the portrayal of Wajid Ali Shah as a patron of art caught in the tussle for power evokes sympathy, Mourad’s focus is on Hazrat Mahal whom she describes as ‘a dazzling meteor in Indian history’ (p. 428), the queen who led one of the fiercest battles during the rebellion. The British soldiers, Mourad tells us, often referred to her as ‘the soul of the revolt’ (p. 431). Thus, Mourad’s book is the story of Hazrat Mahal and the rebellion in Awadh that she steered till the end. The book takes into account various historical evidences and texts to reconstruct the public image of Hazrat Mahal. At the same time, Mourad uses storytelling to fill in the gaps in our knowledge of the woman who rose from humble beginnings to fight one of the longest battles in the uprising of 1857.
The book crosses over from history writing to fiction as Mourad uses the known and the unknown to tell the story of the enigmatic ruler of Awadh and the times she lived in. The narrative uses the historical accounts of colonial intrigues, the simmering tensions within the state and eruptions of violence during the siege of Lucknow. Elements of storytelling add colour to the narrative. Clever characterization makes Begum’s persona becomes appealing to the readers. For instance, when she is brought to Wajid Ali’s court as a courtesan and asked to dance by the king, she declares, ‘I am not a dancer, I am a poetess’ (p. 35). When, Begum Mahal reprimands Wajid Ali for surrendering his state to the British by saying ‘. . . he who is in power imposes his own version of history, which, within a few years, becomes the unquestionable truth’ (62), her wisdom echoes with the current debates on history writing, which Mourad’s text evokes. After the exile of the Nawab, Hazrat Mahal takes command of a turmoil-ridden state, establishing her son Brijis Qadir as the ruler and conducting civil and military meetings on his behalf. In a whirlwind of activity, she mobilises people, saves British women and children, discards her purdah and leads her men into war, thereby earning the total devotion of her subjects. She hardens and remains uncompromising. ‘To me she is the greatest hero of the first war of independence because she was the leader in Lucknow which was the centre of this war. Of course there was Tantya Tope and Rani of Jhansi but she fought the British the longest—for two years. She is ‘. . . one of the forgotten of history,’ says Mourad (Bhattacharya, 2013).
The book is an interesting contribution to intersecting fields of historiography and narrative re-visioning. It uses the genre of narrative history that merges the form of a story-telling with the practices of history writing. Popularized by contemporary writers like William Dalrymple, the accounts of history in form of a story do away with the pretensions of objectivity that characterizes the traditional form of history writing. For instance, the fantastical accounts of the cuisine, music, rituals, architecture, layout of palaces (‘bigger than the Louvre and the Tuileries combined’) hint at the Orientalist preoccupation with exotic splendor. These alternate with satire and mimicry of the British and their attitude towards Indians whom they deem to be lazy, sensual and decadent. The micro and the macro fuse in descriptions of the rebellion, relentlessly propelling ahead the story of Awadh and Hazrat Mahal. Alternating between situations and conversations—real as well as imagined—Mourad writes a compelling account of the sack of Lucknow: the zoo, ancient monuments, palaces and religious buildings; on the English side, the fortification of the Residency, the positioning of the cannons, the preparations for the siege, and the persistence of the social barriers of class through the days of the siege.
The traditional rivalry between Britain and France underwrites the narratorial tone of the book. Though of Turkish and Indian descent, Mourad has spent her life in France. The form of the narrative allows her to comment on the British and the Indians even as she retains her own attitudes and biases—a practice that would have been frowned upon in the field of traditional history writing. The genre of narrative history allows the author to explore the gaps in historical accounts of Awadh and the sepoy mutiny through the stories that she weaves. The British press of the time was dominated by the reports of rape and the killings of civilians and wounded British soldiers. Accounts frequently reach the ‘hyperbolic register’, according to Herbert (2008), especially in the often-repeated claim that the ‘Red Year’ of 1857 marked ‘a terrible break’ in British experience. It led to universal approval of the drastic measures taken by the British to suppress the revolt. The trend continued in the fictional accounts of 1857 uprising. From critically acclaimed texts like J.G Farrell’s Siege of Krishnapur to the popular writings of M.M. Kaye—the accounts of the 1857 uprising concentrate on the travails of the hapless British men and women caught in the web of violence.
Though Mourad’s heart is clearly with India, the book tries to paint an honest picture of the double-dealings, greed, spying and violence on both sides. No one is naïve. Both sides are guilty of carnage and hideous torture, which was practiced at times with gruesome nonchalance and at times with vengeful fury. One is ever conscious of the complex relationship Mourad bears towards her subject matter. As a writer, she pens the story of Begum Hazrat Mahal, of Awadh and of the uprising, by wresting it from the control of British history writing and storytelling.
Thus, as a narrative history, Mourad’s book reveals the ideological positions and cultural politics inherent to the practices of history writing. The book draws on the author’s extensive experience as a journalist and her interest in historical research to create a unique blend of objectivity and in-depth characterization of a historical figure. Navigating thought the abundance of conflicting accounts and lack of reliable narrative, Mourad refers to her research as a kind of ‘detective work’, a legacy of long career as a political journalist. Diverse historical figures make an appearance during the course of the narrative—Maulvi Ahmadullah Shah, Nana Sabib, Tantiya Tope, Raja of Mahmudabad, Malika Kishwar. But unlike the usual picture of divided Indian royalty, where everyone is out to seek their own interests, Mourad’s landscape of 1857 Awadh is constructed in retrospect. The narrative often seems to make way for nationalistic reconstruction of 1857 uprising as the diverse characters, so divided in their intents and purposes, stand as one. And yet as we all know, Awadh did fall and Hazrat Mahal took shelter in different places before her final halt in Nepal where the king, an ally of the British, kept her a prisoner.
The tools of fiction also allow Mourad to take artistic liberties with her subject matter. She has woven in a tale of love and intrigue into the matrix of history. This, she insists, is derived from peripheral narratives like rumours and gossip, the often discounted bearers of history. ‘I don’t invent, I recreate,’ Mourad declares. ‘The liberty I have taken is her love story. Hazrat Mahal was intelligent, strong, she empathized with the poor, she was a kind of Robin Hood. She met Raja Jai Lal every day. I imagined that these two good-looking young people must have fallen in love. . . . In a novel, you give more space to people’s hearts and minds’ (Padgaonkar, 2013).
Mourad’s book evokes the composite culture of Awadh. The gold and silver in the title stand as the ‘sophisticated symbol of Hindu-Muslim culture’ that defined the glory of Lucknow (p. 47). Mourad quotes William Russell, the London Times correspondent who was there before the assault on the city: ‘No city in the world, not Rome, nor Athens, nor Constantinople, can be compared to its stunning beauty. A vision of palaces, minarets, azure and gold domes, cupolas, colonnades, long beautifully proportioned facades, rooftop terraces. . . Are we really in Awadh? Is this the capital of a semi-barbarian race? Is the city built by a corrupt, decadent and vile dynasty?’ (p. 357).
Mourad’s narrative history, therefore, effects a cultural re-visioning of the past, a task that lies at the heart of postcolonial narratives and historiography. In writing about Hazrat Mahal, she insists that she is ‘moving against prejudice, building a bridge between East and West, trying to reconcile the qualities and uniqueness of these two worlds. Identity is not country, religion or politics but people with whom you share values’ (Padgaonkar, 2013).
Arguing in favour of cultural engagement in history writing, William Dalrymple insists that ‘It seems to me that it’s perfectly possible to do your scholarship and your work as minutely and as thoroughly as any academic but to write it up not in the language of post-modernism and post-colonialism and in the jargon of academe but in the language of literature’ (‘William Dalrymple Talks’, 2007). The form of storytelling intricately woven with the wealth of historical details fills in the interstitial spaces of conventional history writing. The story of Awadh in Mourad’s book opens a way of understanding history that is distinct from the conventional positions taken by British and Indian historiography.