Last King in India: Wajid Ali Shah Read online

  And finally, one last tragedy. In what is called today the Paddington Old Cemetery at Kilburn, in north London, a small, flat tombstone was discovered and identified a few years ago. It looks as if it has been moved from its original location. Its inscription reads: ‘Sacred to the Memory of Princess Omdutel Aurau Begam daughter of the late General Mirza Sekunder Hishmut Bahadoor, brother to his Majesty King of Oude, who died the 14th April 1858, aged 18 months’. This was the daughter of one of the General’s two Rajput wives, who had been pregnant on arrival at Southampton. The little tomb is now known as that of the Paddington Princess.

  The Awadh mission, deprived of its two senior members, fell into disarray. Prince Hamid ‘Ali was nominally in charge, but Masih-ud-Din still held the funds sent by the king. There were claims and counterclaims, and both the prince and the agent went to court. Servants who had accompanied the group from India sued for unpaid wages, and after a final, futile plea to Parliament that his father should receive a fair trial57 the prince returned to France, where he had to be coaxed back to India by his father. Robert Bird remained loyal to the king, despite his earlier outburst. He gave two lectures at the Southampton Athenaeum, in the spring of 1858, in which he exonerated the king of any responsibility for the revolt and trenchantly expressed unfashionable views about the Uprising, as well as repaying a few old scores against Sleeman and the whole business of annexation. He retired to become a country gentleman in the south-west of England.58 John Rose Brandon, released from royal service, sailed for New Zealand with Mary Ann and his family, where he led as colourful a life as he had done in India.

  The Awadh royal tomb was identified in Père Lachaise cemetery by the author, with the help of French friends, several years ago. It is a large, square, raised platform of crude brickwork that bears no inscription, and apparently never has done. It was erected in April 1858 by Masih-ud-Din, who paid a local stonemason to do the work. In an odd postscript of 1884 the Préfet de la Seine, Eugène Poubelle, wrote to the British ambassador in Paris saying that the tomb was in a very poor state, regrettable in itself, and particularly as it took up a lot of ground. Since the kingdom of Awadh was now under English protection, perhaps the ambassador would care to take measures towards its upkeep?59 The message was passed through various officials to Wajid ‘Ali Shah, together with estimates for demolishing the tomb’s superstructure, rebuilding it and facing it with stone. The work would cost between £264 and £448 depending on whether or not marble was used. When this modest amount was put to the king, he claimed to be unaware that any tomb had been constructed over the remains of his mother, and declined to contribute anything towards the repairs. A British peer stated that there was no justification for expenditure from the public revenues of India, and there the matter rested.

  Janab-i ‘Aliyyah’s death in a foreign country, after a fruitless mission, is a sad one. The bad timing that dogged her son’s life was clearly at work here too. Although the annexation of Awadh could not be reversed, Wajid ‘Ali Shah could have negotiated better terms from the British government had he come to England himself in 1856. A speedy and more favourable settlement in his favour could, just possibly, have deflected some of the anger of the mutineers in Awadh. There was certainly sympathy in Britain for the Queen Mother, even from Queen Victoria, who insisted on meeting her against the wishes of her advisors. But news of the Uprising put an end to any hopes of success for the visitors from Awadh.

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  PAGEANTS AND PANTOMIMES

  Wajid ‘Ali Shah as poet and theatre director in his newly-built Qaisarbagh Palace. On his father’s death in 1847 he becomes king and immediately runs into trouble with the British Resident at Court. The governor general visits Lucknow and gives the new king two years to reform himself and the kingdom, or face its annexation.

  One of the most intriguing images from nawabi Lucknow is both unnamed and unsigned. It is a large painting by Indian standards, more than three feet wide and nearly two feet high (95 cm by 54 cm), and painted on cloth. It cannot be called a miniature, although the many figures depicted in it have the detail and individuality of this genre. Even the cloth’s large size is not big enough for the unknown artist’s vision, and two strips have been carefully added to either side.1 It is a night-time scene, but the central courtyard of Qaisarbagh Palace, with its gardens and pavilions, is glowing with lighted lanterns. It is a bird’s-eye view, looking down from an elevated angle, so we can see over the walls and into the fantastic scenes being played out within. The courtyard depicted still survives, and is actually a rectangle, but it has been compressed in this painting so that it appears square.

  A few uniformed soldiers are on duty outside the eastern gateway, but the action is inside, where Janab-i ‘Aliyyah’s son, the king, Wajid ‘Ali Shah, is being carried shoulder-high on a portable throne. Gorgeously dressed and jewelled, his long ringlets spread over his shoulders, he appears a god-like figure, an impression heightened by the golden halo or nimbus around his head, the artistic convention to denote royalty. The gold ceremonial umbrella held over his head is another royal indicator. He is surrounded by male attendants, although a few women are there too, looking up at him adoringly. One of the grandiose titles conferred on him at his coronation was qaisar-i-zaman, the Caesar of the Age, and this is where the name Qaisarbagh (Caesar’s Garden) originated, together with the conceit that the king was a latter-day Roman emperor. There are hundreds of people in the courtyard, perhaps as many as a thousand, crammed into the pavilions, standing on the Merman Bridge over the small canal (the delightfully named Fountain of Beauty, chasmah-yi husn) and seated under shamiyanahs (open-sided tents). And yet, despite the crowds, everything is orderly. There are distinct groupings: the sweet-sellers in one corner, fruit-sellers in another, a procession with flags near the far gateway, and a small exclusive group seated on a white sheet enjoying a hookah. A few of the king’s many wives are strolling on the terrace of the largest pavilion, the Safed Barahdari, and a small group are climbing the stairs of the Lanka, the bridge that joins four folly-like towers together. Every archway is hung with globular glass lanterns, and these are strung across the terraces too. Flaming torches on slender poles are placed along the flat roofs of the two shorter terraces.

  There is an air of anticipation. Wajid ‘Ali Shah has only just entered the courtyard and is making his way through the crowds and slowly over the Merman Bridge to a large pavilion topped with brass domes that stands in its own courtyard. Visible through the arches of this pavilion is an inviting yellow divan, on which the plump royal figure will shortly be resting as the first part of the evening’s entertainment unfolds. Later he will move to a golden throne under a tall canopy.

  We know tantalisingly little about the entertainments held in Qaisarbagh Palace and other palatial buildings in Lucknow, apart from the fact that they cost a huge amount of money to stage and went on for a very long time. The majority were private events to which only certain people were invited, like courtiers, ministers, relatives and the king’s already numerous wives. British officials were not welcome, even if they had wanted to attend, and as a result there are almost no written descriptions and certainly none in English. Modern Indian writers, trying to piece together what happened during that brief period in the early 1850s, have become bogged down in academic arguments, or so distracted by technical terms as to be almost unreadable to the layperson. But the fact remains, evidenced by the Qaisarbagh painting, that extraordinary performances did take place here, written, orchestrated, choreographed and directed by Wajid ‘Ali Shah himself.

  By the time he came to the throne in 1847, he had already written two long romantic masnavi (narrative poems), entitled ‘The River of Love’ (Darya-yi-Ta’ashshuq) and ‘The Ocean of Affection’ (Bahr-e ‘Ishq), both based on various fictional couples and their amatory adventures. Following literary convention he wrote under a pen name, choosing the appropriate name of Akhtar, which means star. He then had the idea of dramatising ‘The River of Love’ and presentin
g it as a musical play, or rahas. There is a long and still vibrant tradition of folk theatre in India, particularly retelling the story of Lord Krishna, and troupes of travelling players from certain castes would stage these plays in designated areas of towns and villages. Originally a rahas referred to a Krishna play, but by the mid-nineteenth century the word was in general use for a drama with music, and a rahas manzil (performance building) was equivalent to a theatre or opera house. But Wajid ‘Ali Shah’s conception was too grandiose to be confined in a single building. He was to use the newly-built Qaisarbagh Palace and its courtyards as a gigantic open-air stage set, where consecutive scenes were played out in different parts of its gardens, and some even in different parts of the city itself.

  A rare eyewitness account comes from a nobleman, nawab Iqtidar-ud-daulah, who described the performance that took place in February and March 1851.2 It was staged in fourteen sessions, with intervals of a day or more between each session, and took a month and ten days to complete. Not every scene was staged in Qaisarbagh, according to the nawab, who said that other, older palaces were used too. The Daulat Khana Palace, completed in the 1780s, was transformed into a Paristan (Fairyland) for one evening’s act. In addition to this, a number of artificial buildings were constructed, using canvas stretched over bamboo frames. This was an Indian speciality, creating temporary structures that were painted like stage-sets to create certain illusions for spectators. A remnant of this almost lost art can still be seen annually in Kolkata during the festival of Durga Puja, where enormous pandal are constructed to resemble well-known, or fantasy, buildings. One description of a royal wedding in Lucknow, in 1795, recalls that along the processional road ‘were raised artificial sceneries of bamboo work very high, representing bastions, arches, minarets and towers, covered with lights in lamps, which made a grand and sublime display…’3 So Wajid ‘Ali Shah was drawing on a well-established tradition in designing the settings for ‘The River of Love’. A ‘high and huge fort’, with mock cannons set on its bastions, was created, together with ‘the natural phenomena of a desert, a forest and an apple tree laden with fruit’.4

  The performance, wrote the nawab, began with music played on ‘European instruments’, which would have been provided by one of the king’s regimental bands, who had been trained to play marching songs, including ‘The Girl I Left Behind Me’ and ‘God Save the Queen’.5 Then a chorus of 250 women, elaborately dressed in coloured silks embroidered with gold thread, danced to the music of the sarangi (a short-necked stringed instrument) and the drum. This was only the prologue. The play itself followed the rocky path of the lovers Ghazalah and Mahru and other leading characters at an imaginary court, including the king, queen, princes, princesses, courtiers, astrologers, pandits, dervishes, demons, fairies, harem attendants, mace-bearers and others. Indeed it resembled the Lucknow Court so closely that the spectators may have wondered if they themselves were part of the play or if the play mirrored their own lives. Certainly it emphasised the semi-magical qualities of Wajid ‘Ali Shah, a man who had the power to create another kingdom within his own kingdom. There were numerous diversions woven into the play, including jousting and archery competitions, and huge tableaux of marriage processions, with real elephants, and ceremonies carried out after the birth of children. Everyone appeared in new clothes: the soldiers taking part in the mock battles had new uniforms, the ‘fairies’ had embroidered wings fringed with gold and silver stars, and the demons wore fearsome papier mâché masks. Elaborate props were used in each scene, and with hundreds of costumed ‘extras’ we can see how this one-off performance cost £12,000, and why it took a year to prepare.

  No proper evaluation can be made of this extravaganza. After all, there is nothing so ephemeral as a piece of theatre after the stage-set has been dismantled and the players have gone home. But the implications were far-reaching. Wajid ‘Ali Shah had the authority, imagination and financial resources to create something that present-day theatre directors can only dream of: a whole new palace as his stage, and other palatial buildings around the city for specific scenes. Although this performance was not open to the public, stories of its grandeur would have leaked out from those building the stage-sets and from the palace servants. Whatever its artistic merits, ‘The River of Love’ provided work for many, with the promise of more to come. A dramatised poem based on the king’s own life, ‘The Story of Love’, was presented as a musical play in October 1851, and the third poem, ‘The Ocean of Affection’, sometime between 1852 and 1855, all with the same grand staging.

  Wajid ‘Ali Shah’s theatrical talents first emerged when, as a young man of twenty-two, he arranged a private function for his younger brother, Sikandar Hashmat, in 1843. For the event, the heir apparent directed a play about Lord Krishna and his sweetheart, Radha. A group of Brahman actors from Mathura were hired, and four of Wajid ‘Ali Shah’s favourite wives played leading roles in the drama, with Yasmin Pari and Hur Pari as the milkmaids.6 This was an important moment in the history of Indian theatre. For the first time, a Muslim monarch was directing a play about Lord Krishna and his amorous affairs, an event which could only please his many Hindu subjects. The king became fascinated by the story of Krishna, the great lover, no doubt identifying himself with the romantic hero and a magnet for women, to the extent that he was sometimes referred to as Kanhaiya, one of Krishna’s many names. On 18 July 1853 the Qaisarbagh courtyard was thrown open to the public for a mela, or fête. There are more accounts of this, simply because it was a public event, although eyewitnesses differ on what it was called: the Yogi Mela, Royal Mela, Qaisarbagh Mela, or the Sawan Mela, because it was held in the Hindu month of Sawan, as the monsoon started to break. The date was chosen to mark the anniversary of Wajid ‘Ali Shah’s official recognition as heir apparent, and the mela was held again in 1854 and 1855.

  The king describes the inspiration behind the mela in his autobiography, the Ishqnamah.7 He writes that one day he was seated in the garden of Hazratbagh, under the shade of a banana tree, reading his own love poetry. He became so inspired by the words that he tore off his robes like Majnun, the mythical lover of Arab and Persian literature. Semi-naked apart from a loincloth, Wajid ‘Ali Shah is joined by two female companions, and the trio smear each other with ash, in imitation of a yogi, a Hindu holy man. More women rush out into the garden to participate and a group of musicians join in the frenzy of naked bodies. Even two of his Muslim courtiers are depicted smeared in ash and holding peacock fans in honour of the king, who has become the chief yogi. As evening approaches, Wajid ‘Ali Shah reclines with his female yogis (joginis) by the banks of a stream, watching fireworks, and he is visited by a number of inquisitive men, who cosset him like a bridegroom.

  It is all a strange conceit and has given rise to a number of unsubstantiated stories.8 What we do know is that Wajid ‘Ali Shah enjoyed this ritual so much that it was repeated at the Yogi Mela, with increasing elaboration. The ash-smeared king pretended to hide in an imaginary ‘mountain’, a stage prop of canvas and bamboo, and was eventually ‘found’ by two of his ladies, which led to great rejoicing with more fireworks, music and cannon firing. Meanwhile the public was entertained in the palace gardens by jugglers and acrobats, singers and musicians. It was a party atmosphere with food- and trinket-sellers moving through the crowds. Stalls were set up along the paths, and families picnicked on the lawns. It was not all good clean fun though, because the event attracted hundreds of prostitutes, pimps, ‘licentious men’ and ‘effeminate persons dandily dressed who were singing and dancing’.9 Everyone was asked to appear in saffron clothes to continue the theme of a Hindu gathering of holy men and women.

  A similar event was held to mark the Hindu festival of Basant (Spring), this time on the river Gomti, where everyone was again dressed in yellow. The celebration is shown in a detailed painting now in the Hussainabad Picture Gallery, Lucknow. Wajid ‘Ali Shah sits on the upper deck of a gilded barge, with his male relatives and ministers. Next to him sits a solitary
East India Company officer in red, who has now been identified as the Resident William Sleeman, accompanied by his wife Amélie and another European lady.10 The royal barge, its prow decorated with a Renaissance-style angel blowing a flute, is surrounded by other vessels laden with members of the household, the queens, the courtiers, musicians and dancers. A bear and a camel are perched perilously on a flat-bottomed boat. The river banks are lined with elephants and cavalry, each soldier in smart yellow uniform and yellow shako. It was another acknowledgement by the king towards the majority Hindu population of Awadh, and it bolstered his reputation as a syncretic ruler celebrating popular Hindu festivals. It explains the affection in which Wajid ‘Ali Shah was held by the majority of his subjects. For a few brief years it seemed as if the golden period of nawabi rule, which had flourished under the king’s great-great-uncle, Asaf-ud-daulah, had returned.

  Like many of his predecessors, and like other rulers, Wajid ‘Ali Shah decided to build a new palace to mark the beginning of his reign. In most cases the monarch’s name is as important as the palace. One thinks of Ludwig II of Bavaria and his fairy-tale buildings, particularly the Herrenchiemsee Castle, inspired by Versailles. But Wajid ‘Ali Shah has never received due credit for his extraordinary creation of Qaisarbagh Palace, which lies south of Hazratganj, the main road of nawabi Lucknow. There are several reasons for this. The city’s architecture, as a whole, was not properly evaluated for many years.11 Instead of informed criticism and praise, it was described in general terms as degenerate, debased, full of ‘execrable taste’ and ‘ridiculous absurdities’ and demonstrating only a ‘grotesque grace’.12 Writing specifically about Qaisarbagh, in 1955, the architectural critic John Terry deplored ‘the full horror of the impact of stucco and European Baroque’ and the ‘wild incompetence of the work’.13 An earlier writer commented, ‘Judged from an architectural view-point the result [Qaisarbagh] is a gigantic failure; it could hardly be otherwise considering the indolent and flabby nature of its parent Wajid Ali Shah.’14 The correlation between so-called debased architecture and a decadent ruler was so frequently made, and so often repeated, that it is only now that photographers and writers are starting to look objectively at Lucknow’s last palace complex.15 As well as being vilified in print, Qaisarbagh also had the misfortune to be chosen as the headquarters of those fighting against the East India Company’s rule in 1857–8. For this reason, it was deliberately targeted by the British when they resumed control of the city and partially demolished it, in a spiteful act of architectural vandalism.