The sun had risen.
Dhobis
were pounding their washing on slabs of stone while their women were spreading out washed garments on the sandbank to dry. Their children played in the sand. A line of labourers carrying baskets of melons was crossing the boat-bridge. It was like any other summer morning.
Suddenly there was tumult. We saw horsemen galloping across the boat-bridge firing their carbines in the air. The sentries on the bridge did not arrest their progress. The men galloped across the sand towards us and drew rein beneath the palace walls. ‘
Dohai!
Dohai!
’ they screamed. ‘Listen to our
faryad!’
Some shouted slogans: ‘
Badshah Salamat zindabad!
’ We looked down over the parapet. The men wore uniforms of the East India Company. As soon as they saw us, they saluted and repeated: ‘Long live the Emperor of Hindustan!’ One shouted at the top of his voice: ‘We have murdered the
firangis
in Meerut. The
nasara
(Christians) want to destroy our faith. We will rid the country of these vile infidels. We will make you Emperor of Hindustan!’ Then they all shouted together: ‘Long live the dynasty of the Mughals!’
‘
La haul valla quwwat illah bi-illah hil ali yul aleem!
No fear, no power save Allah who is powerful and mighty!’ We exclaimed. ‘Who are these men?’ we demanded of the eunuch Basant Ali Khan. He did not reply. He had a smirk on his black, bloated face. ‘Inform Captain Douglas at once and see that they are not let inside the city,’ we ordered.
Basant Ali Khan bowed and withdrew. Something in his manner told us that he was in no haste to carry out our command. We sent another messenger to the Captain. The soldiers from Meerut moved along the wall towards the harem apartments and began to yell: ‘Long live the
Malika-i-Hind!
’ More horsemen came galloping across the boat-bridge.
Captain Douglas who was officer-in-charge of the palace guards made his obeisance. He wanted to go down to speak to the men. We forbade him from endangering his life. We went to the balcony. We stood beside him to see that no one harmed him. ‘What do you want?’ he demanded of the men. ‘What right do you have to disturb His Majesty in this way? Return to your regiments at once or you will be severely punished.’ The men below stopped shouting and rode away to join their comrades assembled under the windows of our harem. Captain Douglas took leave to apprehend the mutinous gang.
We waited. We saw troops of soldiers wearing the uniform of the Company marching over the bridge. Mr Simon Fraser, who also lived in the fort, sent a messenger begging for a loan of palanquins to bring their ladies to the safety of our harem and permission to mount cannons on the gates of the fort. We ordered that these requests be complied with at once. But as fate would have it, the ‘man’ to whom we entrusted the execution of these orders was the eunuch Basant Ali Khan.
We waited. Messengers brought news of disturbances from different parts of the city. We pondered. Could we, whilst the fires of confusion were burning low, put them out by sprinkling on them the waters of stratagem? We issued orders that the mutineers should not be allowed to enter the city. We advised the sahibs going out of the city to remonstrate with them. No one paid heed to what we said.
An hour later we heard that the mutineers had been let into the city and had killed some Europeans in Daryaganj. Then we heard that the family of the manager of the bank who lived in Begum Samru’s palace in Chandni Chowk had also been murdered. We became very concerned about the safety of the Europeans in the fort and enquired whether their ladies had been brought into our harem. It was then that we learnt that poor Captain Douglas, Mr Fraser and their ladies had been slain in their apartments.
Someone opened the gates of the fort to let in the mutineers. We were surrounded by a mob of soldiers which included many of our palace guards. They acclaimed us as their true monarch and the Emperor of Hindustan. ‘Who calls us Emperor?’ we protested. ‘We are a
fakeer
prolonging our days on this wretched earth. We have no strength in our arms; our feeble voice is not heard beyond the walls of this fort.’ But they would not listen. We were like a paper-boat set afloat on a mountain torrent.
All through that morning and afternoon soldiers kept streaming into our palace uninvited and unannounced. They did not bother with court etiquette. They pushed aside our servants, marched into the Diwan-i-Khas meant for special audience, grabbed our hands, kissed them and so extracted our blessings. Some presented us with silver coins; most of them only soiled our fingers with their lips.
It seemed like a dream compounded of episodes good and bad. And as sometimes happens we were violently roused from our dreams by an explosion which sounded like a thousand claps of thunder. The walls of our palace shook as in an earthquake. A few minutes later we were informed that English soldiers had set a torch to the powder magazine in Kashmiri Gate; several hundred of our subjects had been killed by the explosion. The whole city was in tumult.
Alice Aldwell
alias
Ayesha Bano Begum
I have never trusted the word of an Indian and I have been proved right every time. But as I said that afternoon we had no choice. I told my husband: ‘Alec, let’s not put all our eggs in one basket. You go with the others. I’ll take the girls to Mirza Abdullah.’ Alec agreed.
I dressed my girls in the native costumes that Begum Zeenat Mahal had given them. I borrowed a clean pair of
salwar-kameez
from my
ayah
and put on her dirty
burqa
. I sent for two palanquins. I put the two older girls in one and took the baby with me. One of our servants agreed to come with us. The flaps of the palanquins were lowered as they are when native women of rank travel in them.
Mirza Abdullah was, as I said before, grandson of the king. He lived in Urdu Bazaar close to the Royal Mosque. He had received many favours from my husband. His wife and sister had often called on me. ‘You are our sister,’ they used to say and called my children
betis
.
The crowd let us pass. We got to Urdu Bazaar without anyone questioning us. The ladies of the Mirza’s household received us very kindly. His sister kissed my children and said that as long as she was alive she would not allow a single hair of their heads to be touched. I assured them that as soon as the trouble was over my husband would compensate them for their hospitality.
Urdu Bazaar was a Mohammedan locality. It had some bookstores and an assortment of shops—butchers, dyers, kite-makers, sweetmeat-vendors,
betel-
leaf-sellers. Behind these shops were the mansions of the rich
nawabs
. Although the approach to Mirza Abdullah’s house was through a narrow lane, with a foul-smelling drain running alongside, the inside was very airy, with a large courtyard and verandahs. In the centre of the courtyard was a big
peepal
tree with boxes for Mirza’s flocks of pouter pigeons. The verandahs were lined with potted palm and jasmine. On one side of the courtyard were the women’s apartments where lived the Mirza’s wives, mother, sister and a host of other female relatives and maidservants.
Mirza Abdullah was a bird fancier. On the roof of his house he had a loft where he kept his champion birds. He used to fly them round every afternoon directing them with a scarf and a whistle. He also owned partridges and fighting quails. Like other princes of royal blood, the Mirza had never grown up to be a man. Although he was in his thirties, he had never done a stroke of work. He lived on the allowance he received from the king. He was always in debt to the local Banias; his womenfolk were forever pawning their jewellery. None of this prevented him from taking more wives and going to brothels. He spent his afternoons challenging his neighbours at kite-flying or enticing their pigeons. In the evenings he took out his quails and partridges to fight other
nawabs
’ quails and partridges. And if there was anything going on in the city, Mirza Abdullah was sure to be there.
Mirza Abdullah came home after dark. He was talking at the top of his voice. I could tell from his tone that he was boasting. He suddenly quietened down as someone told him of my presence in his house. He came into the
zenana
and greeted me with a familiarity he had never dared to assume before. ‘Good-evening, memsahib,’ he said in English, ‘or rather, seeing the way Madam and her children are dressed, I should say
As-
Salaam-Valai-kum.’
The natives have a saying: a poor man’s wife is everyone’s sister-in-law. They think nothing of sleeping with their brothers’ wives. I was certainly a poor sister-in-law to them. I accepted the pleasantry and replied very polite-like: ‘
Valai-kum-As-
Salaam. Nawab
Sahib, it is very noble of you to allow us the shelter of your home for a few days. Allah will reward you for your kindness.’
‘It is a great honour to have you here,’ he continued in his bantering tone scratching his privates. ‘But I would advise you to be in some place safer than Urdu Bazaar which is entirely Mohammedan,’ he said. ‘You know how Muslims feel about the
firangi
and the
nasara!’
I could hardly believe he would use the word
firangi
for us and
nasara
for Indian Christians! There was no telling with these fellows.
‘But now you look a true Mussalmani,’ he went on. ‘For your own safety all of you should learn the creed of Islam. I will send a
maulvi
to teach you. He will also escort you to my other house in Nai Sarak. You can leave your valuables here for safekeeping. Your slave will present himself tomorrow to see that you are comfortable.’
I decided to fall in with anything by which I could save my children’s lives. When the
maulvi
came, I told him that my mother was a Kashmiri Mussalmani and that though I had been given away in marriage to a sahib, I had remained a Muslim. He had us repeat: ‘
La Illaha Lillillah
,
Mohammed Rasool Illah
—there is one God and Mohammed is His Messenger.’ He gave us Muslim names. From Alice I became Ayesha. The elder, Mary, became Maryam. The second, Fiona, became Fatima. Georgina became Jehanara. The
maulvi
was very pleased at having made three converts.
I left a bundle of silver rupees in safekeeping with Mirza Abdullah and took my leave of the women and set out for the
nawab’s
other house. I took the girls in my palanquin. We were challenged many times but a word from the bearded
maulvi
was enough to let us through. We arrived at a
haveli
off Nai Sarak. The
maulvi
spoke to the caretaker who let us in.
With half an eye I could see that Mirza Abdullah used this place for his fun and games. The caretaker was a
hijda
. The room he showed us into had a wall-to-wall carpet covered over with white sheets. Bolsters were scattered about on it. There were large mirrors on the wall and a chandelier hanging from the roof. There was a dark anteroom with
charpoys
which was made over to us. The girls were worn out and fell asleep at once. I spent the night sitting beside them.
The next morning I sent my servant to Mirza Abdullah for the money I had left with him. He came back an hour later and said that Mirza Sahib denied having received anything from me. Furthermore he wanted us to get out of his house by the afternoon. The
hijda
promised to intercede on our behalf if I did as he told me. I agreed. I did not care what happened to me as long as my girls were safe.
In the afternoon the
hijda
came to help get me ready for the Nawab Sahib. He put henna paste on my palms and the soles of my feet. While the paste was drying he got
bhishties
to fill the bathtubs and poured cupfuls of rose-water in them. In the bathroom he undressed me. He ran his calloused hands over my body. He made me lie on the floor and spread out my thighs to shave my pubis. He inserted his dirty finger in me and made lewd gestures. While bathing me he squeezed my breasts. After drying my body with a dirty towel he rubbed gallnut powder on my privates: natives believe it tightens the muscles. To make sure that the powder had the desired result he made me lie down and applied his tongue. What these
hijdas
lack in the real stuff they make up for by doing lots of other things. This fellow worked himself into a frenzy. He stripped himself and thrust his stinking misshapen middle into my face screaming hoarsely, ‘Kiss it, kiss it.’ That was too much. I pushed him away. He slapped me. ‘If you breathe a word to the Mirza,’ he threatened, ‘I’ll slit the throats of your girls.’
He dressed me in embroidered silks. He put lamp black in my eyes and made me chew a foul-tasting, aromatic
betel
-leaf.
Confusion and shame together describe what I passed through that afternoon. I narrate what happened to me so that the world knows how rotten, villainous, treacherous, degraded and lecherous these Indians are! The entire nation deserves to be put against a wall and their carcasses thrown to pye-dogs!
Mirza Abdullah arrived with two of his cronies: their hair was oiled, eyes black with antimony, ears stuffed with swabs of scented cotton, mouths drooling the bloody phlegm of
betel
-leaf- juice. They wore thin muslin shirts and baggy pyjamas.
‘Wah! Wah!
Memsahib! How this dress becomes you,’ shouted Mirza Abdullah as he introduced me to his friends. ‘They are like my real brothers; nay, dearer to me than my real brothers!’
‘You have shot a tasty piece of
shikar,
’ said one of them.
‘She looks ripe and experienced.’
Even in the circumstances in which I was that remark stung me.
‘It’s been my heart’s greatest desire to make love to a white woman,’ remarked the other. ‘Mirza Sahib, I have to thank you for fulfilling my life’s ambition.’
‘You can only half thank me because only half of your desire will be fulfilled,’ replied Mirza Abdullah. ‘Alice
alias
Ayesha Begum is only half a memsahib; the other half is Kashmiri. No doubt you’ve disported yourself in many a Kashmiri vale!’ The men roared with laughter and slapped each other’s hand. This half-caste business I did not like at all.