Last King in India: Wajid Ali Shah Read online

  Wajid ‘Ali Shah defended the appointments. When Richmond asked him sarcastically if he considered that Haji ‘Ali Sharif, a ‘common singer’, was a proper person to be put in charge of leading a cavalry regiment (risalah), the king said ‘Yes’. He also pointed out that the officer’s proper name was Musharraf ud-daulah Haji Sharif (a man who had made the pilgrimage to Mecca), that he had previously led Wajid ‘Ali Shah’s bodyguard, that he was a native of Abyssinia, and that he was not a singer.38 Richmond had to back down over this, but then sent the king a list of names of ‘dancing men’ who were not to work in any government office. It included Ghulam Riza, commander of the Ghanghor Platoon, who had asked his horsemen to pay for the privilege of serving under him and Anjum ud-Daulah, the king’s messenger to the Residency, who had once held back a letter from the king for three days. One appointment that did get through was that of the eunuch Diyanat ud-Daulah, who was put in charge as collector of customs and excise. The eunuch, also an African, was to prove another loyal supporter of the king for the rest of his life, though Richmond noted with disapproval that the first thing he did was to farm out the customs collections. It was agreed that the ‘singing and dancing’ men should be removed from the official posts to which they had been appointed, but would be retained in their ‘private capacity’ with the king, who was planning further theatrical entertainments.

  By September, as Hardinge’s visit approached, Richmond felt that things were improving. The king had stopped sulking in his palace and was going out more, seeking ‘for amusement in out of door occupations and recreations’.39 ‘Ali Naqi Khan was settling down into his new role, and appeared ‘a man of honest purpose [who] professes his entire willingness to be guided by my advice in matters relating to the better government of the country, but he is deficient in experience, [and] not sufficiently firm in office to set these petty intrigues at nought’.40 He was as anxious as the Resident to get the land revenue sorted out, and to limit the excessive demands of local collectors. He also improved and reinforced the Oude Frontier Police, as Hardinge had suggested.

  For his part, Wajid ‘Ali Shah issued a proclamation that there was to be no more bribery in the army and that new recruits no longer had to buy their way in. More controversially, in order to save money, he reduced the pensions of his relatives, which were paid monthly from the Awadh treasury. A vast number of dependants were entitled to receive sums of money for their support. Often this would be a small amount, a few rupees a month, but it was a matter of pride to be seen as a wasiqahdar, a royal pensioner. Widows of former kings, of course, had to be supported, but there were other people, too, whose tenuous claims went back over a century because they were related to the nawab Shuja-ud-daulah who had died in 1775. Normally the Resident would welcome any attempt to reduce royal expenditure, but now he reported that the king’s relatives had gone ‘on strike’ and were refusing to accept their reduced stipends. Although Richmond did not say so, this might be why the king had started going out more, in order to avoid being ambushed by indignant aunts and cousins. He was, however, persuaded to settle a pension on nawab Imdad Husain Khan, the former chief minister, and to release the old man from the house arrest under which he had been placed.

  One of Richmond’s preoccupations, when not dealing with more urgent matters, was the line of succession following Wajid ‘Ali Shah’s coronation. At a public breakfast given by the new king in April, Richmond noted that his eldest son, eight-year-old Nosherwan Qadr, was absent. This was the unfortunate lad who had been born deaf and dumb, and was consequently regarded as ‘weak in intellect’. It was the second son, seven-year-old Falak Qadr, ‘a fine intelligent-looking boy’, who performed the ceremony of offering itr (perfume) to the guests at the end of the meal, a graceful gesture normally carried out by the heir apparent.41 Because the eldest son was clearly not fit to succeed to the throne, Wajid ‘Ali Shah needed to nominate his second son in a written proclamation. Richmond hesitated to approach the king, ‘out of respect to his feelings on so delicate a matter’, but it had to be sorted out. It was a constant concern among British officials that Wajid ‘Ali Shah’s health seemed so precarious, an impression assiduously fostered by the king himself, who frequently complained of various illnesses. In an exchange of letters to which the king was not privy, the Resident and Sir Henry Elliot, Secretary to the Foreign Department, agreed that if the king died before his second son Falak Qadr came of age, then ‘a Council of influential and competent people about the Court’ should be brought together, under the Resident’s leadership.42 The Council would not be able to pass any orders without the Resident’s agreement, and the Resident himself would hold the king’s seals of office.

  Supposing that Wajid ‘Ali Shah was to die prematurely, Richmond pondered, it would thus provide an opportunity for ‘the gradual introduction of reforms and the princes should receive a liberal Education under responsible supervision’. This was to remain a pleasant fantasy on the part of the Resident and the governor general. The idea that an English education was superior to that provided by Indian tutors was a recurring theme in nineteenth-century India, not just in Awadh, but throughout the so-called Princely States.43 To the Resident’s relief, Wajid ‘Ali Shah issued a written statement making it clear that because his eldest son ‘from the will of fate is unable to speak or hear and is not fit to undertake the administration of the affairs of the Kingdom’, Prince Falak Qadr would become the heir apparent. ‘From the bounty of the Almighty many children have been given to me’, the king boasted, ‘yet they are young.’44 Sadly, Falak Qadr was to die from smallpox two years later, and the disabled elder boy was killed by a cannon shot during the Uprising of 1857.

  Elaborate arrangements were made to welcome the governor general. Henry Elliot was sent to Lucknow in advance of the visit, to brief the king and to catch up with the Resident’s news and views. At some point, the question of what the king should wear during his interview with Viscount Hardinge had arisen, and Hardinge’s own views had been sought. Richmond passed them on to the king.

  ‘As regards shoes, the Governor General desires me to state that if His Majesty and his sons put on English patient [sic] leather shoes, His Lordship will not object to their wearing them in his presence. This much the Governor General is prepared to concede to the merely nominal equality between himself, as the representative of the Paramount power and the King of Oude. The Governor General however desires that it may be clearly understood that under no circumstances can he admit of shoes of Hindustanee make and pattern being worn in his presence, whatever the rank or title of the wearer may be.’ If anyone had worn Hindustanee shoes before, when meeting the governor general, then that was no precedent for the king’s guidance now.45 ‘Ali Naqi Khan, as the chief minister, was also allowed to wear English shoes during the durbar, if the king permitted him to do so. Naturally this guidance on shoes has subsequently been the subject of much amusement and critical analysis among historians and anthropologists, and rightly so too, but it is also a useful indication of the minute measures of control that the Company was exerting at the start of Wajid ‘Ali Shah’s reign.

  A royal encampment, lavishly decorated, was set up on the Awadh side of the Ganges, opposite the British cantonment town of Cawnpore and near the bridge of boats, which was then the only semi-permanent structure across the river. Wajid ‘Ali Shah arrived at the camp on 6 November during heavy, unexpected rain, and it was not until 10 November that he was summoned to the governor general’s equally grand camp on the British side of the river.46 He was accompanied by his brother, Sikandar Hashmat, commander-in-chief of the Awadh forces, and the ill-fated little prince, Falak Qadr. Also among the party were ‘Ali Naqi Khan, Captain Robert Bird as translator, and Colonel Richard Wilcox, astronomer at the Lucknow Observatory. After feasting with the governor general, his staff and dignatories from the cantonment, the royal party was presented, as was customary, with trays of gifts. The following day, Hardinge paid a return visit to the Awadh camp, accompanie
d by his two sons. The same elaborate ceremonies took place, with trays of gifts for the governor general and his family. If the two camps, with their large tented enclosures and flying pennants, situated on either bank of the river, reminded spectators of a medieval jousting tournament, then this was not so far from the truth. It was, in fact, the beginning of the last encounter between the East India Company and the rulers of Awadh, which was subsequently to be played out between the two, armed with opposing ideologies instead of staves. Both parties punctiliously still observed the rules of the game, although there could be only one victor.

  The governor general travelled on to Lucknow, and a water-colour now in the India Office Library shows the moment when Viscount Hardinge was greeted by Wajid ‘Ali Shah, in the great hall of the Chattar Manzil palace.47 The king, in a long robe and wearing a plumed crown, is warmly embracing the governor general, who is more soberly clad in a morning suit of black. The arched hall is full of courtiers in turbans, and Sikandar Hashmat is just visible in the throng, wearing a crown. Young British officers from various regiments, uniformed and impeccably groomed, are looking on, while Indian officers proudly display unfurled standards. It has been suggested that the occasion might represent the presentation of new standards by the East India Company to its regiments, stationed in Awadh. Certainly it is a very formal occasion, and the unknown artist has cleverly avoided having to show the royal footwear by inserting a low balcony, which effectively hides Wajid ‘Ali Shah’s feet from view.

  The meeting between Hardinge and the king took place on the afternoon of 22 November, and lasted for two hours. It was attended by Henry Elliot, ‘Ali Naqi Khan and Richmond, who reported the scene. A twelve-page written letter from the governor general was read out, in Urdu, to the king, and was reiterated in a Persian translation delivered later. Wajid ‘Ali Shah, said Richmond, ‘whose expression or countenance is usually dull and animate [sic] exhibited the liveliest interest during the recital of the paper. Afflicted with deafness and particularly invited to say what passage he could not hear or understand [he] gave signs that he comprehended each sentence at its conclusion and asked no portion to be repeated.’ He appeared ‘much affected’, said Richmond, and did not speak during the reading.48 It was a mind-numbing document—at first seeming to be a rational review of treaties between the rulers of Awadh and the Company dating back to 1801, but in reality a series of scarcely veiled threats. The governor general had been well briefed by the Resident. He knew all about the destruction of the ‘Hindoo pagodas’, as he called them, at Haidarganj. He knew about the ‘dancing and singing men’ turned out at Richmond’s request and the appointment of ‘Ali Naqi Khan against the Resident’s advice, and he also knew about the strength of the king’s army, which was being kept up ‘contrary to the treaty of 1801’. Sportingly, Hardinge said that he did not wish to make the king answerable for the wrongs of his ancestors and recognised his inexperience as ruler, but the perceived maladministration of Awadh had to cease, and in particular the land revenue system was to be overhauled so that peasants knew how much they were to be taxed. Before leaving the palace, Hardinge indicated to the king which of the royal presents on offer he had decided to accept; then, according to Richmond, Wajid ‘Ali Shah ‘retired apparently much gratified with the interview’.

  The king was given a week to respond to Hardinge’s complaints, and a grace period of two years in which to implement the reforms. Richmond reported that the king wrote a letter of thanks to the governor general and suggested a feast ‘to commemorate our Glorious Victory on the Sutlej before our advance on the Punjab’ but unfortunately Hardinge’s stay in Lucknow was so short that this was not possible.49 However, since the king had mentioned the Punjab (which was subsequently added to the Company’s Indian portfolio), the Resident noted that this was ‘a good opportunity to remind His Majesty how careful we were to maintain Native Princes in the exercise of their power provided it could be done with due regards to the happiness and protection of the people’.

  Ironically, it was the Company’s own aggressive policies that extended the postponement of the threat of annexation well beyond the two-year period specified by Hardinge. In succession, the Company fought the Second Anglo-Sikh War, which took place in the winter of 1848–9, and then embarked on the Second Anglo-Burmese War four years later (1852–3). In both conflicts the Company was the victor, and subsequently both the Punjab and the area designated as Lower Burma needed troops and administrators to consolidate the gains. This drew attention away from the comparatively minor problem of Awadh, where its ruler was compliant to the Company and presented no military challenge. Yet it was an annoyance—a nagging, unresolved irritation for the new governor general, Lord Dalhousie, who took up office in January 1848, and for his employers, the Court of Directors. Although external events had led to an interregnum of eight years, the annexation of Awadh was still a goal to be achieved. British politicians may have forgotten why it was important to annex Awadh, and the impetus for reform had long gone, but Lord Dalhousie had remembered.

  While Wajid ‘Ali Shah was allowed by the British to coast along, producing extravagant musical events, writing poetry, building Qaisarbagh and marrying innumerable wives, the threat of annexation always hung over his reign. Perhaps it was this that intensified the creative fer-vour in Lucknow, a fin de siècle moment in the middle of the nineteenth century. Meanwhile, to continue the theatrical analogy, while the king was busy centre stage, his nemesis, Sir William Sleeman, was waiting in the wings.

  3

  THE SORROWS OF AKHTAR

  A new Resident, William Sleeman, is appointed and submits a damning report on Awadh and the king to the governor general. The blow falls, the kingdom is annexed, without bloodshed, by James Outram, and the king and his relatives travel to Calcutta. A year later he is imprisoned in Fort William following a suspicious incident. His release, after the Great Uprising is over, marks the start of his thirty-year exile in Bengal.

  The East India Company had had Awadh in its sights since the middle of the turbulent eighteenth century, when policy was decided on the battlefield and through unlikely, but expedient, alliances. Wajid ‘Ali Shah’s great-great-grandfather, the nawab Shuja-ud-Daulah, had challenged the East India Company at Buxar, in Bengal, in 1764. Fighting alongside his temporary allies, the nawab of Bengal, Mir Qasim, and the Mughal Emperor Shah Alam II, Shuja-ud-Daulah was defeated by the Company’s army, commanded by General Sir Hector Munro. This led to the start of British interference in Awadh and the stationing of Company troops there, at the nawab’s expense, ostensibly to defend the province. It was to lead, within a few years, to the installation of a British Resident at the Awadh Court, who reported directly to the governor general in Calcutta. It also led to various treaties (always in the Company’s favour), and to huge loans extracted from the nawabs by the Company.

  It was a nawabi loan of £2.5 million that had financed the British expedition against Nepal in 1814. Another loan of £1.5 million paid for the First Burmese War (1824–6), and a further loan of £100,000, brought British troops back to India following their defeat in the First Afghan War. Seven loans were made by Awadh to the Company between 1814 and annexation. Some loans were paid back in the form of pensions to individuals or land grants, while others were quietly transmuted into ‘gifts’. But even so, a decade after annexation, the British government was found to owe Awadh nearly £2 million, including interest. To British embarrassment the paperwork for these loans was not readily available when called for years later. It was ‘scattered over various documents’1 or lost somewhere between the Financial Department in Calcutta, the Shimla record office and the office of the chief commissioner of Awadh, who of course had the perfect excuse that all the Residency records had been destroyed during 1857. While the money for these loans had come from the nawabi treasury, they had been authorised by the nawabs, and when loans were repaid, they were repaid to the nawabs themselves, the dividing line between state income and personal nawabi income
seemingly non-existent. This goes some way towards explaining Wajid ‘Ali Shah’s nonchalant attitude towards money. He was certainly a spendthrift, and an easy dupe in financial matters, but at the back of his mind he knew how generous his ancestors had been towards ‘borrowings’ by the Company and felt, justifiably, that the Company’s successor, the British government, owed him reparation.

  Exchanges between the Company and the nawabs were not completely one-sided, however. In 1819 Wajid ‘Ali Shah’s great-uncle, the ruling nawab Ghazi-ud-Din Haidar, became king of Awadh. The bauble of a crown had been dangled in front of him by the Company and he took it eagerly. The Company’s gesture was not entirely altruistic, but was an attempt to wean the nawabs away from their allegiance to the Mughal emperor. By the second decade of the nineteenth century, the once great empire had been reduced to little more than the confines of the Red Fort in Delhi. The Company had abandoned the pretence that it ruled in the name of the emperor, and now struck coins in its own name. Nevertheless, there was a powerful, emotive residue of awe and respect towards the descendants of the great Mughals. The Company suspected that the Mughal heir, Prince Jahangir, who had taken a potshot at Sir Archibald Seton, the British agent to the Court of Delhi, might form an anti-British alliance with other disgruntled Muslim rulers. In a classic example of divide and rule, the Company encouraged nawab Ghazi-ud-Din Haidar to declare his independence from the nominal Mughal emperor and to name himself ‘King of Awadh’. (Other regional rulers were offered the title of king too, including the nizam of Hyderabad, but only Awadh accepted.)