LUCKNOW – ‘City of Vice and Roses’ as a British writer described it earlier this year, or ‘the last memento of Mughal culture’ as Maulana Sharar called it in the 1920s. Somewhere between the well-trodden clichés on the tawdry glitter of the Nawabi Court and the cosy view of a Mughal fly trapped in colonial amber lies the real city, greatly changed both by Indians and Britons – lively, carefree and a thousand times more interesting than you would imagine. Let us leave behind the books and films, the scandal and gossip and set out through its streets to meet some of its earlier buildings and their inhabitants.

A visitor to Lucknow in the 1760s would not have found, as is commonly thought, a meagre collection of villages on the banks of the River Gomti, but a large walled medieval town clustered round the Macchi Bhawan fort on the highest land in an otherwise flat, dull plain. The city was already famous for its bidri work, silver inlay in gun metal, its textiles and beautiful calligraphy, as well as its tobacco and sugar which were exported as far away as Afghanistan. Walking through the narrow Chowk, which still exists today, the visitor would have passed the Royal Mint striking coins in the name of the Mughal emperor, and the buildings of the Faranghi Mahal, a Muslim seminary. But he would have searched in vain for the foreigners who gave their name to the palace now inhabited by the learned mullahs.

A hundred years earlier a small community of Britons from the newly formed East India Company had been ordered to export to Bombay the fine cottons made in Lucknow. Houses were built or bought here in the 1640s for the Company officials who complained piteously about their isolation from the great cities of India, but who nevertheless lived in considerable style. The cottons, known as dereabauds were washed and processed on the north bank of the Gomti, but difficulties in transporting the goods across Mughal India proved too great and after thirty years or so, the British factory was shut down as being ‘too remote’ and expensive. The Company houses were later bought by the Emperor Aurangzeb and made over to the clerics, but the name of the foreigners palace still reminds us of Lucknow’s first British connection.

At the end of the Chowk stood the Macchi Bhawan fort, a forbidding, wall-encircled collection of inner courtyards, houses, gardens and gateways, high above the banks of the Gomti. It was here, in the mid-eighteenth century that another group of foreigners settled – the Nawabs of Awadh. Only slightly less exotic than the first Company officials, the Nawabs came from Naishapur in Iran, and they brought their own language, manners, clothes and architecture as well as their Shi’ite ceremonies to the Hindu city of Lucknow. Although the Nawabs lived in Lucknow for less than a century they left an ineradicable mark on the city, and during that time it flourished as few Indian cities have done before, attracting the most talented artists, the wittiest writers, the most beautiful courtesans and the most skilled artisans, all drawn to the magnet of the Nawabi Court.

With the vigour of the new immigrant the Nawabs made Awadh into an independent kingdom, but their success soon attracted envious British eyes and this time the Company was more interested in politics than cotton. Even before Asaf-ud-Daula, the fourth Nawab, made Lucknow his capital in 1775, the Company had decided that the new ‘royal’ family needed a British Resident. His brief was clear: he was to cement ‘the friendship between the Company and the Nawab and to obtain large sums of money said to be due from him’ – a shameless reason for all subsequent interference in the short-lived kingdom by the Company. We shall walk over the deserted Residency site later, but the most interesting Europeans to be met with in the city at this time were the free-booting adventurers also attracted to the glittering court.

They were giants among men, these early travellers, even at a time when India was attracting the most vigorous and imaginative immigrants, with the promise of untold wealth to be got by anyone who survived the meteorological and political climate. Antoire Polier, a Swiss architect was one such man. Working at first as chief engineer for the Company, he was seduced by the charm of Lucknow and became court architect to Asaf-ud-Daula. Polier also found time to serve both in the Nawab’s army and the Company’s force, for in those days no one thought it odd to have two or even three completely different but simultaneous careers.

Specialisation was considered eccentric, and when not fighting or building, Polier was experimenting as a perfumer, makingattar or perfume of roses from his Lucknow gardens and collecting Indian miniatures, then almost totally ignored by Europeans. It is sad that this gifted man, who was killed in a duel in Paris in 1794, left so few traces of his time in the city. He almost certainly worked on the ba’oli, a water palace cunningly cut into the Macchi Bhawan hill. A flight of steps led down to a tank filled from the waters of the Gomti and around three sides of the tank arose a honeycombed structure of cool, airy rooms, lined with marble and red porphyry and pierced by little balconies.

The ba’oli, now stripped of its finery is all that remains of the Macchi Bhawan fort, for everything above ground was dynamited in 1857 by Sir Henry Lawrence, who judged, quite rightly, that the fort would be impregnable if captured by Indians during the uprising. Only the semi-subterranean water palace escaped destruction, and the Lucknow Medical College now stands on the levelled site above.

But even Polier has been overshadowed by the best known European in Lucknow, the Frenchman Claude Martin. The two contemporaries were, not surprisingly, good friends, sharing the same interests, language and to a large extent the same occupations. Martin too, worked for both the Company and the Nawabs, having first come to Awadh as a surveyor. Though now known only for his buildings in the city, he was primarily an entrepreneur, never hesitating to supply exactly what was needed by anyone, at exactly the right time and for the right price. Whether it was mirrors from Europe for the Nawab, houses to rent for the British Residency staff, guns and ammunition for Indian princes, an unsecured loan, hot-air balloons or military advice, Martin was the man. He trod the delicate tightrope between the Court and the Company without ever losing his footing and died in 1800 regretted by all and a millionaire of his time.

Much of his money came from land. He had bought a large area near the Micchi Bhawan that was to become the Residency and he hired out the first houses to the British staff there. He owned gardens and farms, producing roses and indigo, as well as a riverside bazaar on the Gomti.

Martin’s first town house was the Farhad Baksh, east of the Residency which later became part of a Nawabi palace. Our imaginary visitor, now transposed to the 1780s would have found this curious building impossible to enter, except by invitation. Sited on the Gomti it had a deep moat round three sides with a drawbridge facing the city. Cannons which Martin himself had cast were mounted on the roof, providing a strange contrast with the delicate stucco swags and garlands which decorated the upper storeys. Inside, each room could be closed by thick iron doors and anyone besieged there could retreat until they reached the single spiral staircase leading to the roof with its telescope and armoury.

Conversely one could also descend into the lower storeys which were designed to flood each monsoon. As the water level crept down during the spring months, so too did Martin, into his cool underground retreat, the riverside door and windows covered with damp khus ki tattis or fragrant grass blinds. Even today, when the Farhad Baksh has become the Central Drug Research Institute, the basement levels remain flooded, for engineers believe any attempt to pump them dry would lead to the collapse of the building.

La Martiniere, Martin’s palace-tomb to the southeast of Lucknow exhibited the same fascination with defence and hydraulics. This extraordinary building, much described, was extended in the 1840s and became the school immortalized by Rudyard Kipling in Kim as St. Xaviour’s. At Martin’s death only the central portion was complete. One interior iron door remains today, leading down to his simple basement tomb originally guarded by four life size wooden soldiers. Statuary, was another of Martin’s passions. He taught his Indian workforce how to build up figures of brick and plaster round iron skeletons and old photographs of Lucknow show every palace adorned with these most un-Islamic ornaments. Many of the figures which decorate the terraces of La Martiniere today, however, are replacement for those destroyed in the earthquake of 1803 which brought nodding Chinese mandarins and French shepherdesses crashing earthwards in stony confusion.

Martin’s last building, barely designed at his death was Barowen, or Musa Bagh, a country palace four miles west of Lucknow. Because none of Martin’s plans exist today for his buildings, it is impossible to claim Barowen entirely as his conception, though the skilful use of underground rooms cut into the hill to guard against the summer heat recall the Frenchman’s other works. This lovely building, one of the happiest examples of the Indo-European style in Lucknow, rose majestically from the banks of the Gomti.

There were grand reception rooms for the Nawabs and their guests, who approached it by river, and a shady courtyard with underground rooms for the women of the court. The quality of the decoration was so high that even after nearly two hundred years, coloured stucco blinds can still be seen over the doorways, neatly imitating rolled-up tatties. Today Barowen decays quietly, disturbed only by villagers who need building material and see a ready quarry there.

Important as these individual palaces are, it was probably the Nawab Saadat Ali Khan who changed the face of medieval Lucknow more than anyone. Brother and successor to Asaf-ud-Daula, the Nawab was one of the great nineteenth century town planners, though he was seldom given credit for more than dabbling with the new Grecian style of architecture. He carved out the broad street known today as Hazratganj, running from the country house of Dilkusha in the east to the Chattar Manzil palaces near the Residency.

By 1815 our imaginary visitor would not have entered Lucknow through the old Chowk, but along the broad new street where sumptuous processions would pass, the jewelled elephants bearing nawabi guests to the palace past stuccoed European houses shimmering with gold tissues draped over the balconies. Hazratganj itself was barred by a series of gateways spanning the road like bridges, which according to a traveller, were European on one side and Moorish on the other, the term then used for the Lucknow style. It was undoubtedly one of the finest roads in India, leading to the delightful houses of the Nawab, each set in gardens where artificial ponds and canals ran in perfect symmetry and where nightly fireworks and silver trees transformed the scene into an Arabian fairy land.

Yet it was this almost theatrical quality of buildings like the Darshan Bilas and the Chota Chattar Manzil that provoked harsh criticism from European visitors to the city. Architectural writers in particular have never liked Lucknow. Scorn was poured on its hybrid buildings which were condemned for being neither one thing nor the other, neither Indian nor European, and it is tedious to repeat the cries of ‘Fake! Sham! Imposter!’ which sprang from the lips of those who seldom spent more than a few days in the city. Critics ignored the vitality of the Indo-European style and the Indian gift for rapid assimilation and translation of new ideas into something unique.

If we now set down an English man or woman in these same streets in the late 1830s we would, with amusement, watch them scuttling head down towards the enclave of the British Residency, now grown alarmingly from the first thatched bungalows and Martin’s rented houses. Once through the Baillie Gate entrance the visitor could relax in a small corner of Victorian England, safe from the noise and colour of the exotic city outside.

The days of the liberal eighteenth century European were over. The new Nawab, Nasir-ud-din Haider had been forced by the Company to sack most of his English staff, though he still maintained an unrequited passion for the West, even marrying two English women who lived in Lucknow. There were no more self-taught architects like Martin and Polier. The Company now ‘lent’ engineers to the Nawabs to build canals, schools, roads and other sensible buildings. An insularity had fallen over the British community, reflected in the prim Residency houses with their neat lawns, gravelled drives and iron gates.

The Residency itself was a dismal building, adhering to no particular style, and it was only the Banqueting Hall, built by Saadat Ali Khan for the Company which raised the area from the prosaic. Across the lawns sat the small Gothic church, designed deliberately to contrast with the ‘towering mosques and gilded temples’ of the city, but criticized even by its clergyman for its smallness and fake rose window.

It was the uprising of 1857 which immortalized the Lucknow Residency in British mythology. Rightly, the heroism of its British and Indian defenders during the dreadful six month siege has not been forgotten, though the real story of life inside the Residency has never been tackled, except in a fictionalized account by J.G. Farrell: The Siege of Krishnapur. The Residency which had grown up piecemeal since 1775 had never been designed for defence, it was residential. Desperate makeshift barricades were constructed out of anything that came to hand – the Resident’s furniture, books, packing cases and bizarrely, a Welsh harp. The defenders died from gunshot wounds, but illness and malnutrition also filled the new graveyard near the church.

It is still a moving experience to read the litany of the dead in the haunted overgrown cemetery, but the sight that brings real tears to the eyes is the desolation of Qaisarbagh, the last palace of the Nawabs. Built in an amazingly short period between 1848 and 1852 by the last Nawab, Wajid Ali Shah, the buildings, standing off Hazratganj are a rebuke to the British who dynamited the area in 1857 and the Indians who let them decay. Today, it is only from a series of photographs taken in March 1858, that one can form any idea of the grandeur, wit and style of this extraordinary complex. Surrounded by double storeyed terraces and pierced by elaborate gateways, the inner gardens held a series of unique buildings which served no other purposes than to please the eye.

There was the Lanka, an ornamental bridge over dry land, with its four domed towers, the double spiral staircase which led nowhere, decorated with plaster women holding hoops, clearly inspired by Martin’s earlier statuary. There was, most curious of all, the only classical pigeon house in India, probably in the world, a two storey narrow avian Parthenon, as well as the Mermaid gate with its voluptuous fish-tailed women tempting one further into the heart of the palace. To one side of the great garden stood the grandest building of all, the Roshan-ud-daula Kutcheri, with its ‘Ionic columns, balustrades with globe-like finials, Moorish minarets, Hindu umbrellas… all blended in a confusion which the eye may seek vainly to disentangle and surrounded with an unmeaning gilt band’, as a confused visitor wrote.

It was the very exuberance of the architecture which took the breath away, the sheer piling up of elements with a creative joy that resulted in a building which in its prime made England’s Brighton Pavilion look like a country vicarage. Much less is known about the Qaisarbagh palaces than the earlier Nawabi houses. This is not so strange as it seems, for with increased Company interference in the internal affairs of Awadh, the Nawabs, not surprisingly had become more reticent.

Where eighteenth century European travellers had been warmly encouraged to visit the Macchi Bhawan and left vivid descriptions of them, by the 1850s Qaisarbagh was described as a mysterious labyrinth into which Wajid Ali Shah would disappear with his strange retinue of female soldiers, known as the Amazons. Only once a year would the palace be open for the Yoghi ceremony, when everyone was bidden to wear yellow, and the Nawab, dressed as a fakir, would hold court under a mulberry tree near the marble barahderi, which still remains. There were rumours of more elaborate play acting when the Nawab would don female clothing and perform strange ceremonies with the ladies of the court.

The truth will probably never be known about the secret games played in Qaisarbagh, but we do know that Wajid Ali Shah was a gifted poet, writing under the pen name, Akhtar, and a sensitive, compassionate man. When abruptly dethroned by the Company in 1856 and forced into exile in Calcutta, one of his chief concerns was the welfare of thousands of palace servants whom he had to leave behind. There are pathetic letters from the nawab insisting that they should receive the pensions to which they were entitled, as well as instructions for the many animals left in the private zoos of Lucknow. Thousands of pigeons were released to circle frantically round the empty palaces, and elephants, tigers, antelopes and camels were sold to other zoos or destroyed.

Two years later Qaisarbagh was looted by British soldiers who recaptured the city after 1857, and troops raced through the empty rooms in an orgy of destruction, smashing jade bowls, mirrors and crystal chandeliers, burning priceless gold tissues and prising the jewels out of the thrones. It was one of the most shameful episodes of British rule in India.

But let us leave our time traveller in Qaisarbagh in 1855, before the fall. It provokes unnecessary grief to move him further forward to witness the destruction of the city during the last hundred and forty years. Just occasionally, especially at dusk, as the crows fly behind the peeling stucco domes to the palm trees in Qaisarbagh’s remaining garden, one can still catch a little of the lingering vitality of this once splendid city, old Lucknow.

Reproduced from ‘The India Magazine’, April 1984.

Credits : Rosie Llewellyn-Jones. (This article was originally published in ‘The India Magazine’, April 1984). Rosie is a well-known British scholar with an expertise on Lucknow and its culture. Based in London, where she works for the Royal Society for Asian Affairs, Jones is a regular visitor to Lucknow and has authored several books on the city. Her books can be read at The Tornos Studio.

Do you know the tale behind the world famous kebab brand called Tunde Ke Kebab from the ‘City of Nawabs’ ? The aura that surrounds this famous food joint has an interesting story that is little known to the world. Over 100-year old food joint is no less than a food pilgrim to the visitors and locals alike. Thanks to its succulent kebabas. Let us explore the real legend behind this Indian food joint in Lucknow.

Unlike Kundan Qalia and Kakori, Tunde Ke Kebab does not have a royal ancestry. It is name incidentally after the physical characteristic of the kebab maker who was one-armed chef. The brand was established under the reign of Wajid Ali Shah, just a couple of years before the Last Nawab of Awadh was exiled to Kolkata.

The legend of Tunde begins with the origin of Kebabs in India. According to Ibn Batttuta, who was a famous Moroccan traveller kebabs were served to the royal families in 1200 AD, when not only the royal families but commoners too used to enjoy them. It is believed that when Alexander met King Porus he was served with mish-mashes that resembled the kebab of Greece. However, the official entry of the kebabs into India and later to the province of Awadh owed it to the first Nawab of Oudh from Persia.

Till the reign of Suja Ud Daulah, kebabs changed very little. The meat was minced by the royal chefs or Rakabdar and cooked on slow fire so that it became soft and juicy. These were actually the incubation days of ‘Galauti Kebab’. By the reign of Suja Ud Daulah, we are also talking about the days of East India Company, when kebabs changed very little. Yes, by that time instead of meat chunks, the meat was minced by the rakabdar (royal chef) and cooked on slow fire to give it that juicy taste, but for culinary world, it was still in the incubation. Sheek and shami kebab did exist then, but were also somewhat same as in the Moughal courts with no twist in the region of Awadh.

The real work on Kebabs began at the time of Nawab Asad Ud Daula who was the first Nawab to have Lucknow as his capital and was known to be very generous too.. It is believed that this Nawab was very fond of Kebabs and he had appointed rakabdars for creating a new type of kebab each day. Like a real food connoisseur he used to taste those kebabs to find out special ingredients used in it. Rakabdars of that time had to experiment with the newer ways like smoke flavouring, slow cooking and the use of exotic ingredients like rose, red ginseng, juniper berries and sandalwood to innovate the dish every day all through the year. It was somewhat a Food Laboratory of sorts that came up in the royal kitchen of Lucknow.

The first successful plating of Galawati Kebab for the Nawab had all the above mentioned exotic and unheard ingredients along with some aphrodisiacs and gold as well. There are though no records available to endorse the fact that kebab contained 160 spices. It was also the time when choice of the meat got shifted from cow meat to buffalo, goat or lamb. The Galuti Kebab made its debut during this time. Nawab was famous for being a couch potato. He had lost his dentures and was looking for something that does not need chewing yet be tasty and flavorsome.

Haji Mohammad Fakr-e-Alam Saheb was the creator of first Galauti kebab. That was a time when the meat became a playing toy for the rakabdars of Awadh and the successive generations went on perfecting the shahi mixture and finally it turned out silkier and creamier. The consistency of that kebab was perfected by Haji Murad Ali. He was also the person who introduced some fat to the kebabs to make them tastier. He made the ghee roast basting popular with these kebabs. Murad unfortunately did not have one arm. When the delicious kebabs made by him were presented to the Nawab he asked who made them. He was told that those were by ‘Tunde’ (one armed man). The kebabs were so tasty and soft that Ali was made the leading man of the kebabs and he started deploying one armed men. This is how the concept of Tundey ke Kebab came into being and how it drew its name that is no less than a legend today.

Son of Ali was more enterprising and because under the patronage of Wajid Ali Shah he set up a shop in old Lucknow the shop came to be known as Tunde Kebabi. The brand became so popular that recently Supreme Court of India in a litigation had to put an end to its unauthorized usage by unrelated shop owners in India and abroad. These kebabs are known to have drawn its inspiration from its elder cousin ‘Kakori Kebab’ which dates back to 1800.

In the late 1800, when Lucknow was still not the capital of Awadh, a famous local aristocrat called Nawab Syed Mohammad Haider Kazmi threw a party in the mango season which was a tradition for his British friends. One of the British officer made a snide remark regarding the coarse texture of Seekh Kebab (kebabs grilled on skewers) being served. It was damn insulting for the Nawab, hence he ordered his rakabdars to come up with a refined version of this Kebab. It took about ten years of experimenting, but finally the chefs came up with the softest version of Sheekh kebab anywhere called ‘Kakori Kebabs’. A variety of mangoes called ‘Maliabali’ were used to tenderize this meat.

Today people all across the world love to devour these kebabs and almost all gastronomes would know it well, though they may not be able to replicate the same softness and taste as available in Lucknow.

If Delhi was the symbolic centre of the Indian Mutiny, and Cawnpore provided its most horrific episode, it was Lucknow that caught the imagination of the British public and became, perhaps, the most well known action of all Britain’s 19th century wars. It had all the dramatic elements of a siege and even better, a happy ending. It became indeed a paradigm for later British colonial conflicts. There were the initial reverses, the spectacle of the ‘thin red line’ battling against overwhelming odds, heroism in the face of adversity, the stoicism of the ladies living in appalling conditions, the death of a gallant commander, finally the sound of bagpipes on the wind and a relief column marching into the British position with flags flying and kilted highlanders leading the way. It was said the news of the relief was sent in the shape of a Latin sentence that when translated read, “I am in luck, now.”

Lucknow, on the banks of the River Gomti, was the capital of Oudh. The state, annexed the year before in a move, which caused great resentment amongst the Indians, was ready to rise and Lucknow itself was full of the hangers-on of the old regime who were eager to reverse their recent dispossession. Henry Lawrence who, with his brother John, had recently worked wonders in the Punjab governed it. Lawrence knew the dangers of the British position in Lucknow and when mutiny swept through Oudh not long after the events at Meerut, he was reasonably well prepared. He decided to make his stand inside the Residency compound and unlike Wheeler at Cawnpore he fortified it strongly. Into this 33 acre refuge Lawrence gathered the entire European community of Lucknow and a garrison of about 1,700 men. Half the defending force were sepoys who had remained loyal to the British.

The only formed ‘unit of British troops’ were the 32nd (Cornwall) Regiment, under the command of Colonel Inglis. Inside the Residency compound there were nine separate buildings and a high mud-wall strengthened by earthworks formed the perimeter. Lawrence had prepared the position as much as possible. Trenches and gun pits had been dug, wire-entanglements laid out and booby traps set. Unfortunately, the Residency was almost in the centre of the city. On its eastern side stood the old palace of the kings of Oudh. To the north flowed the river. All round, however, were the narrow streets and lanes of the old city sometimes coming up to the very walls of the compound itself.

The defence of Lucknow 1857

When the mutiny broke out in Lucknow toward the end of June, the sepoys did try to storm the walls but were always beaten back. Twice they breached the perimeter and British sallies to regain lost ground or eliminate strong points near the walls became necessary and commonplace. As at Cawnpore, the main problem was the constant barrage of artillery and musket fire that the mutineers were able to pour into the compound. One of the first shells killed Lawrence when it crashed into the billiard room in which he was staying. On being asked if he was hurt, he replied, “I am killed.” He wasn’t just then, but he died two days later. His death was a great blow to the British and a creeping fatalism began to spread through the Residency. Command passed to Colonel Inglis.

A further misery was soon added to the sniping, the shelling and the direct assaults on the perimeter – the sepoys began tunnelling. Trying to undermine the walls, the charges the sepoys detonated sometimes exploded well inside the compound. The 32nd were forced to counter-mine and some of the fiercest battles of the siege were fought deep in the hot clammy earth with pistols, shovels and fists. Many of the Cornishmen were former tin miners, who were used to working underground. Their experience overcame resulted in the failure of the mutineers to enter the Garrison. Sorties were mounted by volunteers to destroy the threat of the guns, the most famous of which was by Captain Bernand McCabe.

Captain Bernard McCabe’s sortie at Lucknow

Food started to run short, the casualties started to mount, rats swarmed everywhere and the July sun burned down on the now filthy, hungry and dispirited defenders. In the middle of August, a message reached Lucknow that told of a relief force beginning its march. Four days, the note promised, would see an end to their troubles. Welcome news indeed as the garrison had been reduced to 350 British soldiers and 300 loyal sepoys, with over 550 women, children, sick and wounded to look after. The four days came and went with no sign of any assistance. The days became weeks and still no-one came.

Finally, 90 days after the siege began, gunfire was heard on the outskirts of the city. Two days later, on September 25th, a mob rather than an army burst into the residency. The lead troops were highlanders and in their furious push into the Residency they bayoneted a few loyal sepoys by mistake. The highlanders’ uniforms were ragged and patched and their bearded faces were grimy with the smoke of powder. They were under the joint command of Sir Henry Havelock and Sir James Outram and had fought a gruelling campaign up from Cawnpore. Unfortunately, there were only a thousand of them and no sooner had the Residency gates closed behind them than the siege continued. Now at least the fear of the mutineers exploiting a breach in the wall had been considerably reduced, but the extra mouths to feed placed an almost intolerable burden on the already over-stretched commissary department. The bombardments and the mining continued and everything started to run out. Doctors had no more medicines to give the sick and wounded. The rations became smaller every day and it seemed as if Havelock and Outram’s gallant march might have been in vain after all. Once again eyes and ears were strained for signs of relief. Throughout it all, the Union Jack, which flew from the Residency roof, was never taken down, as custom dictated it should each evening. Day and night it hung limply from the flagpole – a symbol of British defiance.

The Residency in Lucknow

And then in October word came that another force was on the way. It was led by Sir Colin Campbell, a Crimean War veteran whose Highland Brigade had broken the Russian left flank at the Battle of the Alma and seen off their cavalry at Balaclava. A talented soldier of great courage, he was probably the only senior commander to have survived the Crimean war with his reputation intact. The arrival of the force was imminent. A tall Irish post office worker by the name of Henry Kavanagh came forward and volunteered to slip out of the Residency, make contact with the relief column and guide it back through the city. Kavanagh had gained a reputation for courage in the underground battles of the mines and countermines and his offer was avidly accepted. Wearing Indian clothes and with his face blackened with oil, Kavanagh made his way past sepoy checkpoints, swam the River Gomti and found a British picket. Eight days later he returned and led Havelock and Outram through the streets to a meeting with their rescuer. When the three generals met, surrounded by the cheers of the soldiery, Havelock announced in a singularly un-embellished sentence, “Soldiers, I am glad to see you.”

The Relief of Lucknow – November 1857

The relief force, which included the 53rd (Shropshire) Regiment (later to form part of the KSLI) made no attempt to enter the Residency for its numbers were small. Instead it pacified the city long enough for the inhabitants of the Residency to be withdrawn. On November 18th the withdrawal began with, of course, the women and children leaving first. The city was not completely quiet and much of the withdrawal was made under fire. When the non-combatants were safe, the garrison left. It was no proud march past and the soldiers broke step to disguise their leaving. Finally the rearguard slipped out and the Residency and city of Lucknow were given up to the mutineers. The British remembered to take down the Residency flag before they left.

The whole force now made its way back to Cawnpore and safety. With their going the mutiny sputtered out into a sordid series of punitive hunts and guerrilla engagements. Lucknow was retaken the following year and though sporadic fighting continued into 1859, with the relief of the Residency the mutiny was effectively over and it was only a matter of time before the British re-established themselves as rules of the north of India.

In recognition of the gallantry of the 32nd at Lucknow, the following statement was issued from Buckingham Palace on 14th May 1858: “Her Majesty Queen Victoria, in consideration of the enduring gallantry displayed in the defence of Lucknow, has been pleased to direct the 32nd be clothed, equipped and trained as a Light Infantry regiment”.  Although there had been ‘light troops’ in the British Army in the 1740s, such as the Highlanders at Fontenoy (1745), it was the colonial war between France and England in North America which established the concept of ‘Light Infantry’ in the British Army.

In the North American Wars of the 1750s, the heavy equipment, conspicuous red and white uniforms and close formation fighting of the British Army proved to be wholly unsuitable when operating in close country against Indians and French colonists, who had highly developed field-craft and marksmanship skills.

From the formation of the Earl of Huntingdon’s Regiment, in 1685, through to present day operations, the Light Infantry and its antecedent Regiments have distinguished themselves in often untold honour.

Lucknow Mutiny Tour

Kanpur Mutiny Tour

It was 137 years ago that the last of the kings of Avadh walked on the sarzameen (land) of their beloved Lucknow. While these monarchs sat on the throne of Avadh, there was nothing that they left untouched, thankfully, for their touch was like the proverbial magic wand. It could raise the most mundane of activities into the realm of art and to unattained heights of excellence. Little wonder that even bawarchis became master-creators of culinary delights. Powerful courts all over India vyed with each other to wean away a cook who had either worked or was trained in Lucknow. To belong to Lucknow was the highest qualification a cook could hold.

The rulers of Avadh engaged in peaceful pursuits since the battle of Buxar, and laid the foundation of a culture which dazzled the world. Under their patronage developed a cuisine which did not remain the prerogative of royalty alone. Recipes travelled from the royal kitchen to the kitchens of the nobility and from there, to the kitchens of ordinary people. Soon the Lucknowi learnt not only to eat well but to spend more than he should on his bawarchi khana.

All the while, research and innovation proceeded unabated in the bawarchi khanas of the royalty and aristocracy where money was no constraint, neither was time. In the mid-l8th century, in the personal bawarchi khana of Nawab Shuja-ud-daula, Rs. 60,000 was spent per month or Rs. 7.2 lakhs per year on the preparation of dishes. The dishes which adorned his dastarkhwan did not come from that kitchen alone but from five other bawarchikhanas, including that of his mother Nawab Begum and his wife Bahu Begum. These ladies separately spent Rs. 9000 every month on the preparation of food. The staggering salaries of the hierarchy of cooks and other kitchen staff came from a separate budget. However, high salaries were not the only reason for the excellent performance of the cooks. They were given total freedom to pursue their work their own way. Examples of cooks laying down conditions of employment before crowned heads, and the latter meekly accepting them, would only be found in Lucknow. And in Lucknow alone would you find cooks strutting off in a huff if the king did not sit down for a meal when told to do so by the cook because the food was hot. A tale is told of a cook employed only to prepare mash ki dal (arhar ki dal) on a monthly salary of Rs. 500. The dal was not cooked daily but once in a while, and the king was condition-bound to sit down at the dastarkhwan when the cook announced that the dal was ready. The king once delayed, so the cook left. Before leaving, he emptied the contents of the dish at a place where stood a stalk of a dead tree. In a few days, leaves started sprouting from the stalk and before long; the tree turned a healthy green colour (source: Abdul Sharar’s `The Last Phase of an Oriental Culture’). The story may appear like an exaggeration but the fact remains that the ingredients that went into the preparation of the royal dishes were very nutritious.

It was an unwritten law that the master would sanction whatever quantity of ingredients the cook demanded. No questions were asked, nor doubts expressed. Another popular story goes that king Ghazi-ud-din Haidar slapped his vazir Agha Meer for reducing the quantity of ghee used by the cook in preparing parathas. The king was no fool. He said that even if the cook pilfered some ghee, so what? The parathas he made were excellent, while “you rob the whole monarchy and think nothing of it !”

It was not royalty alone who pampered their cooks. The nobility, aristocracy and people of lesser means too maintained well stocked and well staffed kitchens from where were turned out the most exotic of dishes. Begums and ordinary housewives too persevered in their kitchens and acquired an excellence that could match the skills of a professional bawarchi.

Broadly, there are three categories of cooks in Lucknow. The bawarchis cook food in large quantities. The rakabdars cook in small gourmet quantities. Rakabdars also specialize in the garnishing and presentation of dishes. The nanfus make a variety of rotis, chapatis naans sheermals, kulchas and taftans. Normally, one cook does not prepare the entire meal. There are specialists for different dishes and also a variety of helpers like the degshos who wash the utensils, the masalchis who grind the masala and the mehris who carry the khwan (tray) to be spread on the dastarkhwan. The wealthy always had their kitchens supervised by an officer called daroga-e-bawarchi khana or mohtamim. It was this officer’s seal on the khwan that guaranteed quality control.

The Lucknow dastarkhwan would not be complete unless it had the following dishes: qorma (braised meat in thick gravy), salan (a gravy dish of meat or vegetables), qeema (minced meat), kababs (pounded meat fried or roasted over a charcoal fire), bhujia (cooked vegetables), dal, pasinda (fried slivers of very tender meat, usually kid, in gravy). Rice is cooked with meat in the form of a pulao, chulao (fried rice) or served plain. There would also be a variety of rotis. Desserts comprise gullati (rice pudding), kheer (milk sweetened and boiled with whole rice to a thick consistency), sheer brunj, (a rich, sweet rice dish boiled in milk), muzaffar (vermicelli fried in ghee and garnished with almonds and saffron) and halwas garnished with balai (cream). The varieties of dishes would increase with one’s status.

Lucknow is known for its large varieties of pulaos. Seventy types of pulaos were cooked at a wedding banquet thrown by Prince Azimushan (son of Muhammad Ali Shah) and attended by king Wajid Ali Shah. There was a nobleman in Lucknow who belonged to the family of Shuja-ud-daula’s Begum, Nawab Salar Jung, whose passion for pulaos earned for him the title of Chawal Wale. Even the king looked forward to his banquet of pulaos.

There are two broad methods of cooking pulaos that are followed in Lucknow. For the yakhni pulao, a thick meat broth (yakhni) is prepared in which the whole spices like pepper, cloves, cardamoms, aniseed, cummin, ginger, garlic and onions are not added directly into the broth but wrapped and tied in a muslin cloth and then dropped into the broth. After the dish is cooked, the spices are taken out and thrown away. This way the aroma of the spices is absorbed by the meat and the broth gradually. The rice is then cooked in this broth over a slow fire. This process of cooking is called dum. Burning coal is also put on the lid of the vessel for even heat. During the process of dum, a wet muslin cloth is sealed with flour paste along the mouth of the vessel before covering it with the lid, to contain the flavours. In keeping with the Lucknowi’s disdain for masala, chillies are never put in pulao. This pulao is light and easy to digest.

The other variety is called qorma pulao. Here, the qorma and the rice are cooked separately. The water in which the rice is boiled is poured out so that there is no starch in the rice. For the qorma, finely cut onions are fried over a very slow fire with the spices and ghee till the ghee separates – this very slow shallow frying is called bhunoing. The meat is then added and allowed to cook in water. Then alternate layers of rice and qorma are spread in another vessel and the latter put on a slow fire.

In Lucknow, the yakhni pulao is preferred. The yakhni should be made of meat which has some fat (not lean meat). The quantity of meat should be at least twice the weight of rice used. There are instances of one seer of rice cooked in a yakhni of 34 seers of meat. Abdul Sharar has recorded that a couple of morsels of this pulao could satisfy one’s hunger. The rice would almost melt in one’s mouth.

Lucknowis believe in quality and not quantity. It is considered uncultured to eat large quantities. They believe that the food eaten should be rich and nutritious. An interesting incident is told about a well-known wrestler who was invited to lunch by Hakeem Banday Mehndi, a connoisseur of good food, and was offered just a small plate of pulao. The wrestler whose daily diet included about 12 kilos of meat, an equal quantity of milk and three kilos of dried fruits, was taken aback and felt insulted. He quietly ate the small quantity. A little later, an elaborate dastarkhwan was spread before him and other guests. But the wrestler could not eat another morsel. The little plate of pulao had satisfied him completely. The following day, he came to his host and reported that he never felt so fit before!

The Lucknow aristocracy derived great pleasure in extending invitations to friends to elaborate meals where a couple of items on the menu would be camouflaged. The discomfiture of the guests at not recognizing the dish would give great satisfaction to the host. It was taken as a proclamation of the host’s culinary expertise.

At a dawat (banquet) given by Wajid Ali Shah for Mirza Asman Qadar, a Mughal prince from Delhi, a dish was served which looked like a morabha (a spicy conserve of vegetables) but was a qorma. Even the prince who was a discerning gourmet was fooled. The king was very pleased, but not for long. Very soon Prince Asman Qadar invited His Majesty for a meal. The king was extremely cautious, there were bound to be camouflaged dishes. His expert eyes surveyed the dastarkhwan, but only found a magnificent spread of qormas, pulaos, kababs, sheermals, a variety of salans and kheers. He suspected no danger! But lo and behold! every item on the dastarkhwan, qormas, pulaos, katoras (little bowls) and spoons included, were made of caramelised sugar!

A similar dawat, where the food and containers were made of sugar, was given by the Raja of Mahmudabad in the early part of this century. These dawats were a common feature in Lucknow. The scale of grandeur varied with the status of the host.

The Lucknowi’s menu changes with the seasons and with the festivals which mark the month. The severity of winters is fought with rich food. Paye (trotters) are cooked overnight over a slow fire and the shorba (thick gravy) eaten with naans. Turnips are also cooked overnight with meat koftas and kidneys and had for lunch. This dish is called shab degh and is very popular in Lucknow. The former Taluqdar of Jehangirabad would serve it to his friends on several occasions during winter.

Birds like partridge and quail are had from the advent of winter since they are heat-giving meats. Fish is relished from the advent of winter till spring. It is avoided in the rainy season. Lucknowis prefer river fish particularly rahu (carp), for fish bones are the last thing they would like to struggle with! For this reason, fish kababs (cooked in mustard oil) are preferred.

Peas are the most sought after vegetable in Lucknow. People never tire of eating peas. One can spot peas in salan, qeema, pulao or just fried plain.

Sawan (spring) is celebrated with pakwan (crisp snacks ), phulkis (besan pakoras in salan), puri-kababs and birahis (parathas stuffed with mashed dal). Khandoi (steamed balls of dal in a salan), laute paute (gram flour pancakes, rolled and sliced and served in a salan) and colocasia-leaf cutlets served with salan add variety. Raw mangoes cooked in semolina and jaggery or sugar, makes a delicious dessert called curamba, in summer. These dishes come from the rural Hindu population of Lucknow.

Activity in the kitchen increases with the approach of festivals. During Ramzan, the month of fasting, the cooks and ladies of the house are busy throughout the day preparing the iftari (the meal eaten at the end of the day’s fast), not only for the family but for friends and the poor. Id is celebrated with varieties of siwaiyan (vermicelli) – muzaffar is a favourite in Lucknow. Shab-e-barat is looked forward to for its halwas, particularly of semolina and gram flour. Khichra or haleem, a delicious mixture of dals, wheat and meat, cooked together, is had during Muharram, since it signifies a sad state of mind.

There are dishes which appear and disappear from the Lucknow dastarkhwan with the seasons and there are those which are a permanent feature, like the qorma, the chapati and the rumali roti. The test of a good chapati is that you should be able to see the sky through it. The dough should be very loose and is left in a lagan (deep, broad vessel) filled with water for half an hour before the chapatis are made.

Sheermals were invented by Mamdoo Bawarchi more than one and a half centuries ago. They are saffron covered parathas made from a dough of flour mixed with milk and ghee and baked in iron tandoors. No other city produces sheermals like Lucknow does and the festive dastarkhwan is not complete without it. Saffron is used to flavour sweets too.

Utensils are made either of iron or copper. Meat kababs are cooked in a mahi tava (large, round shallow pan), using a kafgir which is a flat, long handled ladle for turning kababs and parathas. Bone China plates and dishes were used in Lucknow since the time of the Nawabs. Water was normally sipped from copper or silver katoras and not glasses. The seating arrangement, while eating, was always on the floor where beautifully embroidered dastarkhwans were spread on darees and chandnis (white sheets). Sometimes this arrangement was made on a takht or low, wide wooden table.

As recently as October 1991, a grandson of the Raja of Mahmudabad organised a food festival with varieties of Avadhi delicacies. Inspite of the best efforts to recreate the original taste, it was not possible to put in the ingredients which were originally used. For, how many of us can today feed chickens and goats with saffron tablets to create a pleasant aroma in their flesh as was done during the time of the Nawabs?

Credits : Parveen Talha / The Taj Magazine

Mangoes, green and yellow ones, luscious red-topped golden ones, shapes as subtly varied as the many hues, would arrive in Lucknow piled onto horse-drawn carts as if on a flood-tide. Suddenly they would be all over the city, seductive splashes of colour in the scorching heat of early June. Mangoes made me long for summer when I was growing up in Lucknow. There was a divine quality to the anticipation of succulence in the rasping dryness of the pre-monsoon heat.

Each new summer now seems to come with a bit less “loo” and a lot more sweat-wrenching heaviness. The “Dussehri-Langda” green is becoming the only colour of the mountains of mangoes that pour into Lucknow every day. Yet a festival happens daily in Lucknow’s mango bazaars, people swarming over mango-sellers like bees over honey. Mangoes are still eaten heartily and with gusto, in and around Lucknow. “Go to Malihabad”, said Shamim Altaf ecstatically, “and you’ll find people sitting on ‘khaats’, gorging themselves on mangoes until the mounds of peel reach their chins.”

The Dussehri is certainly a lovely mango, “but there is more to mangoes than Dussehris and Langdas.” Dr. Mehra laughed and continued excitedly, “Just this morning I received a call informing me, ‘Doctor Sahib, the glass is ripe, heavy. Nawab sahib would like you over.’ A mango named ‘glass’! You can see the juice flowing inside its exquisitely fine skin.”

Awadhi mango names ignite fantasies: Gulabkhas, Lab-e-mashuk, Khas-ul-khas. “Let me tell you a story or two.” Dr. Mehra was unstoppable, “I used to go into the Qaisarbagh market to buy mangoes in my old green Austin 555. Next to my fruit-seller sat an old woman whom I’d want to buy from the she’d never have what I wanted. One afternoon my man was not there. I paused and drove on slowly. Behind me ran the old woman, flailing her arms, a mango in each hand, shouting, ‘Doctor Sahib, stop, husnara, husnara.’ For one funny, embarrassing moment I felt the entire bazaar stopped still. I don’t think most people knew that husnara ( beauty of beauties) referred to the mangoes in her hands.

“Two years ago, Kalimullah sahib invited me to his orchard in Malihabad. He wanted me to taste a special mango, his late father’s favourite, the Abdullah-pasand, and to christen a new delight. The flavour lingering in my mouth I named it ehwar-ul-asmar [star among fruits], there already being the shams-ul-asmar [moon among fruits], and of course, the hugely popular samara bahisht [fruit of paradise] or chausa.”

Each mango name in Awadh strikes a musical chord. String them together and you have a composition. When I skin the aslul-muqarrar or the muffarril-e-qulub and bite into the flesh I wonder what I’m enjoying more-the name or the fruit in my mouth!

Lucknow is home and I go there once every six or seven weeks. I make pilgrimages to places I’m particularly fond of, such as the Bara and the Chota Imambaras, or the Dargah of Syed Kasim Shah inside the Residency. I wander through old bazaars like Nakkhas, Chowk, and Aminabad eating galawat ke kabab here, a little balai there, watching kites duel in the sky, all among enjoying listening to people speak. I find the sound of Lakhnawi as pleasing to the ear as the touch of the early morning namash is to the tongue. There is always work to be done, friends and relatives to be met, and my uncle Ram Advani’s very special bookshop to be visited. When time is too short for all the things that I want to (or have to) do, I make do with imagined meanderings.

The last days of June ’99 were tormentingly humid in Lucknow. One evening the clouds came in, the rain came down and a breeze blew that seemed to take the summer away. Later that evening I sat with Dr. Mehra in his green rainwashed garden and listened to him talk about mangoes. It was late by the time I got up to leave, well past Dr. Mehra’s regular Tuesday chaat outing hour. A stickler for time and incredibly set in his habits, I thought it said a lot for his passion for mangoes that he didn’t seem to mind missing his gol gappas and aalu ki tikkiyan at Shukla’s chaat redhi outside the Post Master General’s Office in Hazratganj, especially on that singularly beautiful evening.

Lucknow–wallahs love their chaat sold on thelas like Shukla’s, or at kiosks such as the green King of Chaat stand on the road between the Stadium and the State Bank of India, or of course at modest restaurants like Sharma’s, a favourite middle-class hangout at Lalbagh, renowned across the city for tea as much as chaat. The best tikkis Dr. Mehra had ever had in Luckow were during his intermediate days, way back in the 1940s, at a street-corner joint near the present-day Anand Cinema roundabout. He couldn’t remember the chaatwala’s name but he reminisced about the man refusing to hurry his measured pace of work for the crowds milling around him at all times, almost as if he were saying, “something as good as the tikkis I make takes time; if you’re in a rush, please leave.”

Chowk is among the oldest continuously inhabited areas of Lucknow. Significant settlement and commercial activity date back to around the late 16th or early 17th century, when Jaunpur under its Sharqui rulers, rather than either Faizabad or Lucknow, was Awadh’s major urban center. But Chowk really came into its own as the hub of a very dense web of fine artisanal work and intense commercial dealings towards the end of the 18th century when Lucknow became the capital of Awadh. From Chowk and Nakkhas to Aminabad and Hazratganj, the eighty-odd years preceding 1857 saw the emergence of early modern Lucknow. Rulership, of course, was the monopoly of nawabs and taluqdars, neither entirely modern nor democratic; but economic activity in town and country was in the throes of a near revolution, throwing up new social groups and classes with new desires and aspirations. Most fascinatingly, every element that made up the complex of everyday life in Lucknow, from language and dress to music and cuisine, seemed in this period to have been touched by the Muse, “everything so exquisite, in every word such rhyme and elegance…..”

Akbari Gate is where Chowk and Nakkhas come together. From the Chowk end of the Gate come sounds of quick and regular hammer blows, of something being beaten into shape; and very fine, dispersing clouds of aromatic blue smoke. Little workshops line both sides of Chowk’s main street. Two or three men sit in each, pounding little pieces of silver into gossamer thin foil to be used in decorating murg-mussallam or zarda pulao, a chandi qalia or the malai paan, and a variety of other sweets and desserts.

On the same street, a stone’s throw away from the Akbari Gate, opposite a small halwai’s shop known for its early morning jalebis and samosas, is one of Chowk’s most popular eateries-the tunde ke kabab shop. It is an unpretentious place, with an open front and a fairy large, rather dark and austere interior. Two stoves up front, facing the main street, and open to the gaze of passers-by, constitute the heart of the eatery. Daily, a little after mid-day, and then again around 7.30 pm, work gets into full swing. Two young men, normally wearing lungis and vests, and sweating profusely, stand over a large pan, frying and flattening small, unevenly rounded, fairly ordinary looking kababs. A slightly older man sits over a convex pan on the other stove turning out fresh waraqui parathas. The entire operation, labour-intensive and unhurriedly performed, appears to be rather run-of-the-mill, but the aroma is arresting, and the number of people going in and coming out, just standing on the street, chatting and eating, lend this place a special feel. Tunde ke shahi galawat ke kabab come four on a metal plate with one paratha for ten rupees. Tunde kababi turns out, in a most unselfconscious manner, one of Lucknow’s most delectable kabab preparations for a primarily working and lower middle-class clientele, both Hindus and Muslims.

I met Haji Rais on a sultry morning in June. Well into his seventies he is the keeper of the secrets of the shahi galawat handed down to him by Haji Murad Ali Saheb. Haji Murad Ali, it is said, fell off the roof of a house and had to lose an arm as a result. He continued being a bawarchi (cook), perfecting the mixture for the shahi galawat and working expertly with only one hand. It was during his time that the kabab and the eatery became popular. Instead of being called the shahi galawat the kababs came to be known as “tunde ke kabab”, or kababs made by the one-handed man. One of the few people who clearly remembered Haji Murad Ali at work, apart, of course, from Haji Rais, was Hakim Safdar Nawab Saheb of Shifa Manzil, at Ghasiyari Mandi. Haji Murad Ali represented a generation of cooks who were negotiating a transition from being highly esteemed and privileged bawarchis and rakabdars employed by kings and the nobility, to becoming shopowners, forced to market their professional skills in the bazaars of the post-nawabi new colonial age. The story seems to have been similar in the case of Haji Abdur Rahim Saheb who set up the Rahim Hotel diagonally across the street from tunde kababi sometime during the second half of the 19th Century. His recipe for the gilafi kulche and the nehari khaas still used by Haji Zubair, eldest among Haji Rahim’s five male descendants, continues to be an unmatched popular favourite. Ali Husain Saheb, another turn-of-the-century figure is remembered as the father of the sheermal in Lucknow, at least in and around the Chawalwali Gali, more popularly known as the Sheermal Gali, where his shop still survives. In fact, Muhammadan, a master baker to the nawabi court, was the real creator of the sheermal in Lucknow, but in popular memory it is Ali Husain Saheb, perhaps because with the death of patronage, it was he who brought the sheermal on to the streets and made it into a popular food.

Haji Wahid Ali Saheb was cook to Justice J.N. Mulla. He would cook for the judge alone, on a monthly salary of 4-6 annas. In 1922, Justice Mulla helped get him a job as a cook at the Lucknow Gymkhana Club where he worked until 1960, all the while training his son Haji Sakhawat on the Job. In 1960, when his father died, Haji Sakhawat moved out of the Gymkhana Club and set up his own little eatery a couple of hundred yards away inside a garage in a lane behind the Club. Today, the Haji himself is no more, but his son, Mushtaq continues to practice the secret rituals and details of inimitable Awadhi cooking at Sakhawat’s.

Haji Rais looked tired already at 8.30 am when I met him, but I was struck by his effort to retain a gravity and dignity of bearing as also a charming old worldly Lakhnawi politeness while he spoke with me. He was modest to the core about the quality of his work, and almost matter-of-fact about the amount of labour that he still must have to put in, to keep afloat in today’s new world of high-power advertising creating new tastes in food. Haji Saheb’s son Osman looks after a new restaurant that the family has opened in Aminabad very close to Prakash’s Kulfi, and his son-in-law, Abu-Bakr, has taken over the reins at the Chowk eatery, but I could see that Haji Saheb refused to rest.

Early every morning, he goes to the Tarkari Mandi, the vegetable market. He personally controls and supervises the secrets of the galawat and spices for the kaccha keema. The rest of the day he spends flitting from one shop to the other, with visits to the doctor in between, battling the contradiction between keeping the money rolling in and preserving the sanctity of the original recipe of the shahi galawat.

Tunde ke kabab and Rahim’s Kulche nehari have exploded out of the confines of the narrow lanes of Chowk and Nakkhas into the world of five-star cuisine and the occasional food festival. Yet a regular market continues to be crucial to the survival of men like Haji Rais, Osman, Haji Zubair, and Mushtaq, and the wonderful mysteries of their cooking styles. Lucknow’s labouring poor, and sections of the middle and lower-middle classes are the ones that have saved the good old tunde, the nehari and gilafi kulche, and the sheermal from slipping into obscurity.

While most of India’s new middle classes move inexorably towards junk foods, junk ideas, junk values, and nuclear visions, and tend increasingly to talk about rigidly compartmentalized, not-to-be shared Muslim and Hindu foods, it is the plebians who have developed noble palates; and they couldn’t care less, at least for the moment, whether the meat they’re eating is beef or mutton, the kababs and the nehari Muslim or Hindu food. Should they be either, so be it. They’ll eat on regardless, happily.

Mushtaq, like Haji Rais, Haji Zubair, and the two Mobeen brothers who run a kulche nehari, kabab, and korma eatery next to Haji Zubair’s, is crucial to the special zaiqa of the different foods sold everyday from his outlet. He agreed that this meant a lot of work, personal attention, care, and very critically, control over labour. In fact, the Mobeen brothers recruited labour from the Gonda Bahraich region on a short-term daily-wage basis precisely because they felt this gave them, as proprietors, greater bargaining power. But all this, Mushtaq would take in his stride “if only the people who come to eat know and really enjoy what they are eating. The younger, prosperous crowd which is beginning to come to my place to eat, simply want ‘meat’. They cannot even discern whether they are eating lamb, mutton, or beef, forget the finer details of how best which portion of which meat is to be prepared and eaten. I feel like a musician who is putting in a lot of effort to be true to his art and play the best he can, as he always has done, but for some reason now, the audience simply doesn’t respond as before. To them one sound is as good as another, there’s nothing special to each piece of music. This is what saddens me, worries me the most about my work in the present.”

Sakhawat’s clientele continues to be predominantly non-Muslim “and the better-off people among the non-Muslims. In fact, I remain closed on Tuesdays and on festivals like Janamashtami when most of my clients simply don’t come.” Mushtaq, like most of the others I spoke with, refused to admit to the possibility of a communalization of food habits impacting negatively on his work in the near future; but while his sons were going to cope with the inability of more and more people to appreciate what they were eating, for people like Hajis Rais and Zubair, and the Mobeen brothers, catering to a poorer, mixed Hindu and Muslim clientele, the problem was that their clients didn’t have the money to pay for all the goodness that needed to go into the kababs and the neharis if they were to be true to the original recipes. The Mobeen brothers stated quite frankly, that their nehari would never taste as good as the one from Delhi or Lahori nehari because they had to compromise on the ingredient mix. They were open not just in the morning but through the day and selling portions worth sometimes only a rupee! Nearby, in Sheermal Gali, the sheermals come out orange in colour, but the orange comes from chemical colouring because saffron is unaffordable.

Yet, everyone eating at Haji Zubair’s swore that the nehari khaas and kulche were the best you could get anywhere in Lucknow, while on a quiet afternoon in the Sheermal Gali, a young man, his mouth reddened with paan waiting outside Syed Ali Akhtar’s little bakery for the sheermals he had ordered, declaimed, “I grew up in these very galis but now work in Bombay where it is possible to get the sheermal, but the sheermal in this Lucknow gali is something else. Generally, it’s eaten with kabab, but eat it with korma. It will melt so in the mouth you’ll simply love it.”

There is no doubt that the streets and galis of Lucknow still offer some wonderful old fare but it is clear that the going is tough for the practitioners of this art and the road ahead is likely to get rougher, not least because of communalist attempts to tear asunder composite traditions of the making and eating of some of the most divinely imaginative food in the world. If Urdu could come to be looked upon as the language only of muslims, to be therefore shunned by all non- muslims there is every reason to belive that the kabab, nehari and pulao may also come to be seen as foods exclusive to muslims.

One of the reasons why Urdu had survived against really heavy odds has been the sheer power of the beauty of the language. The same power, the secret art of transforming meat and bones or vegetables into a sensual culinary experience, may be the ultimate weapon in the armoury of people like Hajis Rais and Zubair, of cooks living in bawarchi tolas like the one near Agha Mir Ki Deorhi in Lucknow, and begums, such as the Begum of Kurki and Shamim Sahiba, sequestered in kothis and havelis in the city and outside.

Hakim Safdar Nawab Saheb is old and charming. I was captivated seeing him enter the room I’d been welcomed into by his son Hakim Khawar Nawab at their residence at Shifa Manzil. He spoke endearingly, in chaste Urdu about Allah-bande, an old cook, long dead, of his hands permanently reddened with saffron and the expert gaze and grunts with which he directed his cooking, never tasting knowing from the looks and the aromas alone, when what needed to be done, be it in the shab degh or the mutanjan, both very rare, now almost forgotten delicacies from Awadhi cusine.

Allah-bande was once informed by Raja Saheb Mahmudabad that one of the noble guests invited to a dinner to be hosted by the Raja wished to eat something that looked like and tasted of mutton without actually being meat at all. Allah-bande created a real kundan qalia and a simulated one. The royal guest simply couldn’t believe that what he was eating was in fact vegetarian!

Haji Mohammad Fakr-e-Alam Saheb used to be renowned among other things, for his moti (“pearl”) pulao, while the Begum of Kurki still makes the very unusual and incredibly delicate patili kababs. One rakabdar specialized only in making arvi ka salan. His major condition for working with anyone, even post-1857, was that he be allowed to serve a different kind of arvi ka salan twice every day the whole year round! Stories abound, of cooks, their eccentricities and their unsurpassable, often “veiled” creations. An old nawab recalled an occasion when on removing the lid form a dish that had been ceremoniously sent to him, he discovered a single puffed puri. Peeved and puzzled, he punctured the puri with his finger. To his immense surprise, a small bird flew out of it. This was the parind puri.

During the 100-odd years between the mid – 18th and mid – 19th centuries, Awadhi cooks vied with each other to please their patrons with the best, most unusual foods they could create while patrons duelled amongst themselves to host ever better, more exotic “daawats”. Sensuality ruled and food became a very powerful statement of class and social position. Cooking turned into an art, the site for a grand mingling of the material sciences with sensibilities and heritages both indigenous and European, especially French, with sensibilities and heritages both indigenous and European, especially French. It spawned bawarchis and rakabdars, degshos, masalchis, and aabdaars; specialized utensils came into being and hakims, vaids, and perfumers got drawn into preparing recipes. But precisely because cooking was a site, simultaneously for symbiosis and contestation, secrecy became equally necessary and came to constitute the other core of bawarchi gharanas. Hakim Saheb was convinced that “no-one today could make a pista-badam ki khichri a la allah-bande”, just as Haji Zubair felt that he has “never known a kababi like Asghar Mian who belonged to my locality, Nakkhas”, but almost everyone I spoke with including Altaf Saheb and his wife Shamim Sahiba, Shaama Saheb and my old friends Munnu Rizvi and Sunny Tikkoo, as also my own wanderings in the city, convinced me that good old Awadhi food lives on in Lucknow.

The making of colonial Lucknow went hand in hand with an all-out effort to destroy as much as possible of the old, to reinvent among other things, even the tastes of the city. Hazratganj saw the emergence of new kinds of eateries purveying new kinds of cuisine in a new kind of ambience.

Valerio’s, a pastry shop with a dance floor was unlike anything that Lucknow had ever seen. It was gone before the British, but only after it had lent Hazratganj, together with a number of other coffee and tea shops, “a cosmopolitan café-market resort of Egypt or Morocco kind of air…. The cosmopolitan character of Hazratganj underwent a change after the departure of the British. Many beautiful shops belonging to Muslim families suddenly had new bewildered Panjabi owners; but this was also a time of great discovery for youngsters. A great weight had been lifted off their shoulders and cinema, the dance floor, and the China Bar were theirs for the picking. Here, the swing and the jive could be improvised without the fear of the white daddy or the stern British college principal and a glass of beer could be gulped down just after having fun with the suave tongewala or tongewali.” [Amaresh Misra, Lucknow : Fire of Grace, New Delhi, 1998, pp. 257-58]

The casually elegant Benbows and the Royal Café served tea and cream-buns, while Kwality’s in the Mayfair building, with its Grill-room on the first floor, Swiss pastries, chicken patties, and liveried waiters, became for Lucknow’s new haute society, by the mid-1960s, the restaurant to meet, eat, and be seen at. The ‘60s also witnessed Jone Hing, the Chinese shoe-maker’s shop in Hazratganj, beginning to cook and sell chowmein and chopsuey. It was cheap, dark and romantic and beer could be smuggled in and drunk on the sly. It became such a great hit with the young that by the late ‘70s Jone Hing became more a restaurant than a shoe business. Today it feels much as it did many years ago, though, like all other restaurants in Hazratganj no longer the craze it used to be.

Lucknow’s fin de siecle young seem to want to remain out in the open. The street and the promenade, rather than the quiet seclusion of the restaurant, have become the site and time-pass of the rendezvous. People flock to Chhedilal, while through the day, crowds throng the Ranjan Café kiosk eating burgers and drinking coffee. Very few probably remember that Ranjan’s started in ‘60s as the quiet Roadside Rover’s where Altaf Saheb sold Lakhnawi biryani and shami kabab. Now, of course, with even Kwality’s gone, it would be difficult to find old Awadhi cuisine anywhere in Hazratganj.

Valerio’s went and the coffee house came in. Professor D.D. Sharma, like many teachers, writers and journalists, poets like Majaz, and women like Ila Chandra Joshi before him, is a coffee house “adde-baaz”. On his way to or from the coffee house, he slips into nearby Narahi with its halwais. Like many Lucknow-wallahs he too is a great one for the rabri and balai from Saligram’s 120-year-old shop.

I’ve been to Saligram’s as well as to the balaiwala who sits by Gate no. 2 Ghalla Bazaar, near the Chota Imambara, his balai a favourite with Hakim Saheb. But the best balai I’ve ever eaten was at Altaf Saheb’s house. Shamim Sahiba laid out shami kababs and seviyon ka muzaffar with balai. I ate like I’d never get to eat again. Altaf Saheb reminisced fondly about Mithaniya, the woman who’d come home daily when he was a boy with smooth, thick very mildly sweetened balai; and as for shops, the balai and Kashmiri tea at Samad’s on Chowk’s Victoria Street, were inimitable’ the Kahwa like the shabdeg and saffron, came into Lucknow with Kashmiri families and the Kabuliwallah during the 18th century, and remains popular with Lucknowites especially in winter when the old Samad shop suddenly comes alive.

The Gol Darwazza end of Chowk is a round-about of chaos. There is no meat here or the light aromatic smoke of Akbari Gate. Yet in the manner of the “maghrebi azaan”, soaring above the screech of brakes and the screams of horns, Radheylal’s lassi and Raja’s thandai, attract irresistibly. A little further away, less than tem minutes down the oasis-like quietness of the narrow Banwali Gali is Ram Asrey’s, making and selling sweets since 1805.

I went to Ram Asrey’s that same rainy breezy evening that I visited Dr. Mehra. The younger of the two brothers sat peaceably behind the counter greeting passers-by with a Ram-Ram or an aadaab, selling dalmoth for as little as a rupee, lal peda for ten.

I asked for “malai paan” and tasted it tentatively. It was divine, as finely crafted for the palate as Lucknow’s anonymously, nimbly-worked “chikankari” is on cloth. I wished I would come here more often instead of conveniently hopping across to Chowdhury’s or Ram Asrey’s in Hazratganj.

Chowdhury’s is a post-Partition business and the Hazratganj Ram Asrey’s was set up a few years ago by the older of the two brothers. Chowdhury’s became famous for “boondi laddoos” and “milk pudding” but today, the Ganj Ram Asrey’s and Chwodhury’s became famous for “boondi laddoos” and “milk pudding” but today, the Ganj Ram Asrey’s and Chowdhury’s, Chhappan Bhog and Mini Mahal have become Lucknow’s happening mithai places. For a taste of the old Lucknow, however, you need to bite into Prakash’s kulfi, the Raja Bazaar “dudhiya barfi”, the kabravali dukaan ki kachhori and the mithais from the old Ram Asrey’s. Craftsmen like Abdullah Halwai of Aminabad are of course no longer alive, but the secret recipes of earlier halwais live on in at least some of the sweets coming out from the heart of the old city.

I have tasted nothing anywhere in India that has been as good as the namash from old Lucknow. Unlike the shahi galawat form the Akbari Gate end of Chowk, which surprises by melting wondrously in the mouth, the namash, sold by vendors at the Gol Darwaza, early every winter morning, stuns by its lightness on the tongue. Its colour is the most delicate shade of lemon, and its taste as subtle as a blend of the clearest, the lightness, won from loads of milk by hours of night-time labour, left out in the open for the pre-dawn winter dew to play upon. It is “shabnam’s” child, Lucknow’s “o ski rani”!

June is hardly the time for namash; nor was it possible for me to get my teeth into the halwa sohan especially the dark variety, another winter-time Lakhnawi delicacy from the main Chowk bazaar. But after many years, thanks to Professor Sharma, I did eat paan in Lucknow. Lucknow-wallahs, like Banarsis, love their paan, and they all have their own favourite paan sellers. Some, at least amongst the middle-classes, go only to Badri, others to the man near the State Bank of India, and yet others to the Gol Darwaza. But Lakhnawis seem to be quieter, less flamboyant about their paan and how it is to be eaten, than Banarsis, I find this mystifying because the desi desavari and the Mahoba pattas, the two most commonly eaten betel leaves in Lucknow, are inimitable in their own ways. For some unfathomable reason, Lucknow fails to give to its paans the mystical melt that the Banarsi paan possesses. But then, the peacock would be sickeningly proud if its voice too had been beautiful!

Glossary of terms used

aalu ki tikkiyan: potato cutlets
adde-baaz: regular
arvi ka salan: colocasia curry
balai : thick layer of fresh cream
bawarchi : cook
bawarchi tola : cooks’ quarters (in a town)
biryani : highly seasoned rice cooked with meat, fish, egg, or vegetables.
chaat : spicy vegetarian snack
chaatwala : chaat seller
chandi qalia : mutton curry in gravy mixed / topped with crushed edible silver leaves
daawat : feast
dalmoth : savoury mixture
desi desavari : a particular betel leaf
dudhiya barfi : white, wet and firm milk sweet
galawat ke kabab : kababs made from very finely ground, tenderized meat
gilafi kulcha ; very soft leavened bread
gol gappa : puffed wafer, eaten with a spicy filling, in one mouthful
halwa sohan : special sweet made with cereals, ghee, sugar, garnished with dried fruit
halwai : sweet-maker, seller
imarti : deep-fried ring of urad dal with a little wheat flour added, dipped in sugar syrup; more regular and elaborately shaped than a jalebi
jalebi : syrup – filled deep-fried ring of flour
kabravali kacchori : deep-fried bread with filling make and sold at a shop by a grave in Aminabad
kaccha keema : uncooked mince
khaat : divan / stringed bed
korma : mildly spiced dish of meat marinated in yogurt
kulcha : leavened bread
kulfi : mild thickened, mixed with saffron, pistachios, etc and frozen into ice-cream
kundan qalia : mutton curry in gravy mixed / topped with crushed edible gold leaves
lakhnawi : language spoken in Lucknow / of Lucknow
lal peda : mild thickened into chewy, flat, round sweets
lassi : chilled frothed yoghurt drink
mahoba paan patta : tender / crisp betel leaves form the Mahoba district of Uttar Pradesh.
malai paan : triangular leaves of cream (paan-shaped) with a sweet filling
murg-mussallam: whole chicken carefully spiced and slowly cooked
mutanjan : sweetish mutton biryani
namash : soufflé-like mildly sweet and fluffy creamy delight
nehari : beef / lamb trotters braised and then stewed overnight, further prepared in the morning and eaten with kulchas for breakfast.
nehari khaas : special nehari
os ki rani : “queen of dews”
paan : betel leaf with areca nut / other fillings / spices, chewed as a delicacy
patili kabab : mincemeat kabab made in deep copper / brass vessel
puri : deep-fried puffy bread
parind puri : puri stuffed with a small live bird
pista-badam ki khichri : pistachio-almond rice preparation
rabri : semi-liquid thickened milk sweet preparation
redhi : hand-drawn cart
samosa : deep-fried potato / peas / meat-filled triangles of flour
seviyon ka muzaffar : sweet vermicelli, fried and soaked in sugar syrup, with milk added; scatters when thrown on a plate.
shab degh : a beautiful blend of whole turnips, mutton balls (koftas), and spices cooked in a deep pan overnight.
shabnam : morning dew
shahi galawat : “royal” papaya paste to tenderize meat
shami kabab : spherical mincemeat kabab
sheermal : invented in Lucknow, a rich flat bread made of flour, milk, fat, and saffron
thandai : cooling spiced milk beverage
thela : cart
tikki : cutlet
tunde ke kabab / tunde ke shahi galawat ke kabab : kababs, made from very finely ground, delicately marinated, tenderized meat.
waraqui paratha : “layered” unleavened fried bread
zaiqa : taste / flavour
zarda pulao : sweet yellow rice coloured and flavoured with saffron.

Credits : Mukul Manglik is a senior professor of History in Delhi University, He is from Lucknow and belongs to an illustrious family of Lucknow. His love for Lucknow can be seen oozing out in this article, in spite of the fact that he is now settled in Delhi and works there. His mother lives in Lucknow and can not even think of leaving this city, while his maternal uncle Ram Advani needs absolutely no introduction.

When one talks about the refinement in style Lucknow figures as a superlative – A center de art, where even alien art forms flourished with high degree of refinement and amalgamated with the lifestyle of Lucknow as if these originated and belonged here.’Chikan’ – style of embroidery, is one such art that came from Persia but now is known with a prefix of Lucknow, ‘Lucknow Chikan’. Chikan originated primarily from Persia but there are two theories about its origin. We find this one amusing and interesting, Nawab Wajid Ali Shah a great patron of art in all its form had 365 concubines one for each day (one day celibacy in the leap year though !), these so called royal wives lived in the Kaiserbagh and Chowk, as each lady got only a day to spend with the Nawab they had to do something extra-ordinary to attract the attention of the king. So from them, one of the lady wives in the harem, made a cap for the king and decorated it with simple but delicate white thread embroidery, this cap was later presented to the Nawab to impress him and the trick worked. Nawab started giving more attention to this queen and other queens followed the suit creating a creative pool of Chikankari in Lucknow.

The other theory goes on to state, Ustad Mohammad Sher Khan who was a poor peasant and tilled the ground near Lucknow, learned this art from a traveller as a parting gift. A traveller while passing through the village on a hot summer afternoon asked for water from Ustad Mohammad Sher Khan. Ustad on seeing the plight of the traveller, invited him to rest for a while inside his home, before resuming his journey. The traveller was so pleased with the hospitality that he taught him an art that would never allow him to go hungry. This art was Chikan embroidery, which was later passed on to others by Sher Khan. It is said that once Sher Khan perfected this art the traveller disappeared. It is believed that God himself taught this art to Sher Khan of embroidering.

Chikankaari is a delicate art of embroidery that has become a major commercial activity in the city of Lucknow and its environs. Though the origin of Chikan work has not been affirmed, perhaps it is the corrupt form of the Persian word ‘chikin’ / ‘chikeen’ or ‘sequin’ which means a kind of cloth wrought with needlework. Amongst the many theories regarding the origin of this magnificent art, the most believable is that it was brought by the Mughals from Persia.

Chikan embroidery today is synonymous to the lifestyle of Lucknow. No wardrobe is complete without this in Lucknow. The art has survived the ravages of time to stands tough till date. Some artisans achieved perfection to the level that even a needle could not pass through the fine jaali (net) woven by way of Chikan embroidery. The grace that the Chikan garment promises is incomparable to any other dressing style. Its simplicity and comfort is its beauty.

CHIKAN AT A GLANCE
Although there are 32 kinds of stitches in Chikan work, broadly it can be grouped into six types, Taipchi, Bakhia, Khatao, Phanda & Murri and finally Jaali.

Bakhia : It is the most beautiful stitch in Chikankaari. In this the thread appears only below the surface and small stitches are seen on the right side for outlining the motif being delineated. Below the right side of the cloth, the thread crisscrosses making the covered surface opaque and creating a delicate effect of light and shade.

Khatao : This gives the same type of effect as Bakhia, but is more delicate. This stitch is a type of applique work prepared on calico material by placing calico over the surface and working out floral patterns on the cloth. The details were later worked out by simple stem stitch. This was so delicately handled that only by close scrutiny was it possible to say that the piece had not been embroidered with bakhia stitched but actually appliqued.

Phanda and Murri : These are the most characteristic forms of Chikan and are used mostly to work out the centre of the flowers or to evolve the patterns, such as angoori bale. ‘Murri’ means rice shape and ‘phanda’ millet shape. Though the stitch is essentially the French knot, but it is worked out so finely that the two can hardly be compared.

Jaali : In Jaali work, the thread is never drawn. The Jaali is normally worked by teasing the warp and waft threads of the cloth apart and by preparing minute buttonhole stitches to make a hole of 3/16th of an inch. There are different jaalies, to name a few, Sidhuri, Madrasi, Calcutta Jaali.

The source of most design motifs in Chikankaari is Mughal. These motifs can also be seen in the ornamentation of Mughal buildings like the Taj Mahal and Fatehpur Sikri. Now days the best work is found on the finest of Muslin. Though this art form has also been transformed on artificial fabrics like rayon and cambric. The beauty of the work lies in the simplicity of the colours used and the soothing effect it has. Mostly, pastel shades are preferred for the base and the thread used for the embroidery is white. The finished dress is best suited for the north Indian summers.

The embroidery itself is so fine and intricate that it takes nearly fifteen days to six months to complete, depending on the design, dress and the expertise of the worker. It has a certain grace and elegance, which ensures it should never go out of style.

The beginning of the 18th century was the golden era for Chikan and it lasted till the war of 1857. This was incidentally, the golden era for the ruling Nawabs as well. Nawabs of Avadh encouraged this art and patronised people who were good at their work and did something unique and innovative. Sometimes the artisans who produced extraordinary pieces of craft or showed exemplary skill in their fields were awarded with a jagirs (estates). The two main patrons of the arts were Nawab Asif-ud-Daula (1775-1789) and Nawab Wajid Ali Shah (1851-1856). It was due to these extravagant gifts bestowed on artisans, that they innovated and refined the art to perfection in Lucknow. Some of the finest artisans of those days were, Amir Hasan, Haji Mian, Dulba Sahab, Usman Ali, Puttan, Sadiq and Shamshad.

Another unique style that deserves special mention is `Anookhi Booti’ which was developed by Miyan Hasan Mirza. This type of Chikankari is so fine that the embroidery can only be seen and felt on one side of the malmal (silk) cloth.

The Chikan embroidery is so intricate and requires a lot of concentration as well that at times good artisan loose their eyesight by the time they reach old age, not being able to see and appreciate the intricate work of their future generations whom they have passed on this art. We personally appreciate the secular character of this art form, where in all artisans are Muslims while the shopkeepers who sell Chikan are Hindus. Chikan is one reason that has kept both the communities together live with utmost harmony and brotherhood.

When in Lucknow, temptations are many and each irresistible in its own way, but buying Chikan embroidered clothes is a ‘must do’ on the shopper’s list. Every nook and corner of Lucknow houses Chikan shops, but the best place to buy is Chowk Bazaar or the Gol Darwaza lane at Chowk Crossing. You can try your bargaining skills to the brim. It is very difficult to get a best quote unless you are with a local or are a penny smart traveller. Chikan embroidery is not only popular on clothes, but also on table linen, bed cover, napkins etc. Why not Chikan to deck up your bedroom, living room, kitchen, and bathroom too ?

Credits : Prateek Hira / Tornos – Be it a hands-on session of Chikan and Zari embroidery, or appreciating the intricate craft at a workshop, we at Tornos have crafted this experience well. A visit to Kotwara House  reveals a lot from this craft, provides an opportunity to interact with the craftsmen, while a visit to SEWA will help one understand how Chikan empowered women. A session at Almasood’s on the other hand is a great learning experience in the environs of a Zari and Chikan workshop. Do contact us to plan a programme focused around Embroidery in Lucknow as apart of larger textile or a craft tour.

A discotheque in Lucknow was recently witness to a dramatic scene that best reflects the changing contours of Avadh’s once-proud capital. A woman stormed onto the dance floor, slapped a teenaged girl, her language replete with references to tahzeeb (etiquette) and tameez (manners), even as she dragged the hapless girl out. The girl, along with a friend, had earlier sneaked into the disco wearing a decorous salwar-kameez but had changed into a red micro-mini and was all set to hit the floor when her mother appeared from nowhere. City bookshop owner Chander Prakash of Universal Books is less vocal but as enraged as he points out the decline of a civilisation, specifically the degeneration in zubaan (language) from the polite “aap” to “tum” and now “tu”. “I was speechless when the other day a young customer called me tu,” he says. “What can I do except watch the rot?”

While the oldtimers vouch for the decay of old Lucknow, redolent of a rich and refined culture, the lobbyists for change say the city is only coming out of a time warp. Nawab Jafar Mir Abdullah, a direct descendent of Nawab Asaf-ud-Daula, the benevolent ruler who built some of Lucknow’s best known architectural structures like the Bara Imambara and Rumi Darwaza, sadly shakes his head as he talks of the invasion of the neo-Lucknowis. “The younger lot, the children of bureaucrats, criminalised politicians, traders and contractors, have ruined the city with their wealth,” Abdullah claims. “Talim to hai, tarbiat nahi. Tarbiat nahi to tahzeeb nahi (They are educated but not groomed well. When there is no grooming, there can be no etiquette).”

S.S. Bindra, director of Wave, the city’s new multiplex that houses four movie halls and an array of flashy showrooms, begs to differ. “If you don’t change you will be left out. In the process of change a clash of cultures is bound to happen,” he reasons.

So as more and more boys and girls gather at roadside bars and liquor joints for “bhaloo nach”, the code word for beer sessions, veterans like Ram Advani, who runs the eponymous bookshop in Hazratganj since 1948, says there seems to be no method in the madness. “A dying culture always gives birth to a new sub-culture that has its own rules and language, and this has hit Lucknow.” The city, he says, is showing signs of aggression that would ultimately destroy its unique identity.

For girls like Nadira, who belongs to a conservative, middle-class Muslim family, it is peer pressure that often dictates their lives. Nadira admits that when she goes to birthday parties of friends, she wears the burqa, but promptly removes it once inside the friend’s house and lets her hair down, literally. “Some of my friends spike the drinks and when I refuse it they pointedly ask, ‘Tu backward hi rahegi kya (You want to remain a backward)?’”

Local beauty pageants are quickly gaining acceptability as girls from rich and influential families have started participating in them. Wamiq Khan, who runs an event management company, says that when he first launched the ramp culture in the city in 1996 he faced a lot of resistance, not only from the administration but from the models themselves who refused to wear skirts or pants. No such inhibitions exist now, he says, saying the models today are ready to give the likes of Mallika Sherawat and Bipasha Basu a run for their money when it comes to the dare-to-bare act.

The dichotomy of cultures is not something new, says Ibn-e Hassan, an advocate and prominent social figure of the city. Lucknow has been in constant conflict with change, first during the Raj and later since Independence. Partition transported a large number of refugees from West Punjab and Sindh to the city, who resettled here and swamped the Lucknavi culture with their own, says Hassan. Abdullah points out that the post-independence period saw the alienation of noblemen from the political mainstream. In their place came the politicians from outside with their armies of lumpen lackeys. The 1990s saw the emergence of a more insidious political culture that used the tools of casteism and communalism to capture power-and threatened to destroy the composite culture of the city. Also, like several other Indian cities, Lucknow succumbed to the vicissitudes wrought by the New Economy boom, a change further catalysed by its proximity to Delhi.

The contradiction of cultures is reflected in the two parts of the city itself-old Lucknow, where the aroma of the kakori kebabs wafts happily with the undulating strains of Hindustani music, and the new trans-Gomti zone of high rises, commercial complexes and fast-paced living. The Sahara India group has already come up with the sprawling Sahara Shahar and an ultra-modern supermarket complex, Ganj. The government too, enthused by the transforming landscape, has drawn up a plan for a futuristic township known as the Gomti Nagar Extension project. Besides, several resorts, water parks and fun clubs have mushroomed giving new meaning to fun and entertainment.

For the younger generation, eager to break free from the shackles of Lucknavi culture, the city offers jazzy fast food joints such as McDonalds, Pizza Hut, Dominos, cafes like Barista and Cafe Coffee Day and nightspots like eX’s Club which also has a bowling alley. Nidhi Sharma, a young school teacher, who is a regular at X’s, explains away the changing attitudes of the youth. “You come out of old Lucknow that still protects its old tahzeeb and you feel you have stepped into an entirely new world full of excitement and action,” she says. “It is a kind of free zone where youngsters don’t want to clothe their inner selves.”

The contradictions do exist but there is also an attempt to marry them, for Lucknow’s glorious past still remains a good marketing proposition. So if five-star hotels in the city set in motion the night life in the city, the cuisine that dominates the spread from Clarks Avadh to the Taj Residency is ubiquitously Avadh.

So even if Advani warns that the brand new world is standing on the ruins of Lucknavi tahzeeb, others like Urdu poet Rais Ansari who lives in old Lucknow, argue that the change is natural and welcome. Says Ansari: “Old people always look at the shafaq, the golden rays spread on the horizon by the sinking sun, while the youth get inspiration from ufaq, the red rays of the rising sun that bathes the morning.” And in the city of eternal dualities, the sun has not yet set on the Lucknavi tahzeeb.

Credits : Farzand Ahmed / India Today

Indian independence and partition destroyed the city of Lucknow and its Hindu-Muslim culture. William Dalrymple mourns the passing of a civilisation…..

On the eve of the great mutiny of 1857, Lucknow, the capital of the kingdom of Avadh, was indisputably the largest, most prosperous and most civilised pre-colonial city in India. Its spectacular skyline- with its domes and towers and gilded cupolas, palaces and pleasure gardens, ceremonial avenues and wide maidans – reminded travellers of Constantinople, Paris or even Venice.

“But look at it now,” said Mushtaq, gesturing sadly over the rooftops. “See how little is left…”
A friend in Delhi had given me Mushtaq Naqvi’s name when he heard I was planning to visit Lucknow. Mushtaq, he told me, was a teacher and writer who knew Lucknow intimately and had chosen never to leave the city of his birth, despite all that had happened to Lucknow since partition. Now we were standing on the roof of Mushtaq’s school in Aminabad, the oldest quarter of the city and the heart of old Lucknow. It was a cold winter’s morning and around us, through the ground mist, rose the great swelling, gilded domes of the city’s remaining mosques and imambaras. It was a spectacular panorama, but even from our vantage point the signs of decay were unmistakable.

“In 30 years all sense of aesthetics has gone from this town,” said Mushtaq. “Once, Lucknow was known as the garden of India. There were palms and gardens and greenery everywhere. Now so much of it is eaten up by concrete, and the rest has become a slum. But the worst of it is that the external decay of the city is really just a symbol of what is happening inside us: the inner rot.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Under the nawabs Lucknow experienced a renaissance that represented the last great flowering of Indo-Islamic genius. The nawabs were such liberal and civilised figures: men like Wajd Ali Shah, the author of one hundred books, a great poet and dancer. But the culture of Lucknow was not just limited to the elite: even the prostitutes could quote the great Persian poets; even the tonga drivers and the tradesmen in the bazaars were famous across India for their exquisite manners…”

“But today?”
“Today what is left of the culture he represented seems hopelessly vulnerable. After partition nothing could be the same.”
It was partition in 1947 that finally tore the city apart, he explained. The city’s composite Hindu-Muslim culture had been irretrievably shattered in the unparalleled orgy of bloodletting that everywhere marked the division of India and Pakistan. By the end of that year, the city’s cultured Muslim elite had emigrated en masse to Pakistan and the city found itself swamped instead with refugees from the Punjab. These regarded the remaining Muslims with the greatest suspicion and brought with them their own very different, aggressively commercial culture. What was left of the old Lucknow, with its courtly graces and refinement, quickly went into headlong decline. The roads stopped being sprinkled at sunset, the buildings ceased to receive their annual whitewash, the gardens decayed, and litter and dirt began to pile up unswept on the pavements.
“Those Muslims who were left were the second rung,” he continued. “They simply don’t have the skills or education to compete with the Punjabis, with their money and business instincts and garish, brightly lit shops. If you saw the old begums today you would barely recognise them. They are shorn of their glory. They were never brought up to work – they simply don’t know how to do it. As they never planned for the future, many are now in real poverty. In some cases their daughters have been forced into prostitution.”

“Literally?”
“Literally. I’ll tell you one incident that will bring tears to your eyes. A young girl I know – 18 years old, from one of the royal families – was forced to take up this work. A rickshaw driver took her in chador to Clarkes Hotel for a rich Punjabi businessman to enjoy for 500 rupees. This man had been drinking whisky but when the girl unveiled herself, he was so struck by her beauty that he could not touch her. He paid her the money and told her to go.”

Mushtaq shook his head sadly: “So you see, it’s not just the buildings: the human beings of this city are crumbling, too. Look at the children roaming the streets, turning to crime. Greatgrandchildren of the nawabs are pulling rickshaws.”
Mushtaq pointed at the flat roof of a half-ruined building: “See that house over there?” he said. “When I was a student there was a poet who lived there. He was from a minor nawabi family. He lived alone, but every day he would come to a chaikhana [teahouse] and gossip. He was a very proud man and he always wore an old-fashioned angurka [long Muslim frock coat]. But his properties were burnt down at partition. He didn’t have a job and no one knew how he survived.

“Then one day he didn’t turn up at the chaikhana. The next day and the day after there was no sign of him, either. Finally on the fourth day the neighbours began to notice a bad smell coming from his house. So they broke down the door and found him lying dead on a cot. There was no covering, no other furniture, nothing. He had sold everything he had, except his clothes, but he was too proud to beg, or even to tell anyone of his problem. When they did a post-mortem on him in the medical college they found he had died of starvation.”

“So is there nothing left?” I asked. “Is there no one who remembers the old stories?”

“Well, there is one man,” said Mushtaq. “You should talk to Suleiman, the Rajah of Mahmudabad. He is a remarkable man.”
The longer I lingered in Lucknow, the more I heard about Suleiman Mahmudabad. Whenever I raised the subject of survivors from the old world of courtly Lucknow, his name always cropped up. People in Lucknow were clearly proud of him and regarded him as a sort of repository of whatever wisdom and culture had been salvaged from the wreck of their city.
I finally met the man a week later at the house of a Lucknavi friend. Farid Faridi’s guests were gathered around a small sitting room sipping imported whisky and worrying about the latest enormities committed by Lucknow’s politicians. A month before, State Assembly politicians had attacked each other in the debating chamber with desks and broken bottles. This led to heavy casualties, particularly among the high-caste politicians of the Bharatiya Janata Party who had come to the Assembly building marginally less well armed than their low-caste rivals: around 30 had ended up in
hospital with severe injuries. There was talk of possible revenge attacks.

“Power has passed to the illiterate,” said one guest. “Our last chief minister was a village wrestling champion. Can you imagine it?”

“All our politicians are thugs and criminals now,” said my neighbour. “The police are so supine and spineless they do nothing to stop them taking over the state.”

Mahmudabad arrived late. He was a slight man, but was beautifully turned out in traditional Avadhi evening dress of a long silk sherwani over a pair of tight white cotton pyjamas. I had already been told much about him – how he was supposedly as fluent in Urdu, Arabic and Persian as he was in French and English, how he had done postgraduate study in astrophysics at Cambridge, how he had been a successful member of the Legislative Assembly for the Congress party under Rajiv Gandhi – but nothing prepared me for the anxious, fidgety polymath who dominated the conversation from the moment he stepped into the room.

Towards midnight, as he was leaving, Mahmudabad asked whether I was busy the following day. If not, he said, I was welcome to accompany him to the qila, his fort in the country outside Lucknow.

Mahmudabad lay only 40 miles outside Lucknow but so bad were the roads that the journey took well over two hours. Eventually a pair of minarets reared out of the trees and beyond them, looking on to a small lake, towered the walls of the fort of Mahmudabad.
It was a vast structure, whose outer wall was broken by a ceremonial gateway on which was emblazoned the fish symbol of the kingdom of Avadh. Beyond rose the ramparts of a medieval fort, on to which had been tucked an 18th-century classical bow front; above, a series of balconies were surmounted by a ripple of Mogul chattris and cupolas.

It was magnificent, yet the same neglect which had embraced so many of the buildings of Lucknow had also gripped the Mahmudabad fort. The grass had died on the lawn in front of the gateway and bushes sprouted from the fort’s roof. In previous generations the chamber at the top of the naqqar khana would have been full of musicians; it was empty now, but there was certainly no shortage of servants to fill it. As we drove into the courtyard we saw a crowd of between 20 and 30 retainers massing to greet the rajah, all frantically salaaming.

I followed the rajah inside and up through the dark halls and narrow staircases of the fort; the servants followed. Dust lay thick underfoot. We passed through a splintered door into an old ballroom, empty, echoing and spacious. Once its floor had been sprung, but now many of the planks were missing and littered with pieces of plaster fallen from the ceiling.

A servant padded in and Suleiman ordered some cold drinks, asking when lunch would be ready. The servant looked flustered.
It became apparent that the message had not reached them from Lucknow that we would be expecting lunch; probably the telephone lines were not working that day.

“It wasn’t always like this,” said Suleiman, slumping down in one of the chintzless armchairs. “When the 1965 Indo-Pakistani war broke out, the fort was seized by the government as enemy property. My father had finally made the decision to take Pakistani citizenship in 1957, and although he had never really lived there, it was enough. Everything was locked up and the gates were sealed. My mother, who had never taken Pakistani citizenship, lived on the verandah for three or four months before the government agreed to allow her to have a room to sleep in. Even then it was two years before she was allowed access to a bathroom. She endured it all with great dignity. Until her death she carried on as if nothing had happened.”
At this point the bearer reappeared and announced that no cold drinks were available. Suleiman frowned and dismissed him, asking him to bring some water and to hurry up with the lunch.

“The armed constabulary lived here for two years. It wasn’t just neglect: the place was looted. There were two major thefts of silver – they said ten tons in all…”

“Ten tons? Of silver?”

“That’s what they say,” replied Suleiman dreamily. He looked at his watch. It was nearly three o’clock and his absent lunch was clearly on his mind.

“Everything valuable was taken: even the chairs were stripped of their silver backing.”

“Were the guards in league with the robbers?”

“The case is still going on. It’s directed against some poor character who got caught: no doubt one of the minnows who had no one to protect him.”
Suleiman walked over to the window and shouted some instructions in Urdu down to the servants in the courtyard below.

“I’ve asked them to bring some bottled water. I can’t drink the water here.”
Shortly afterwards the bearer reappeared. There was no bottled water, he said. And no, rajah sahib, the khana was not yet ready. He shuffled out backwards, mumbling apologies.

“What are these servants doing?” asked Suleiman. “They can’t treat us like this.”
The rajah began to pace backwards and forwards through the ruination of his palace, stepping over the chunks of plaster on the floor.

“I get terrible bouts of gloom whenever I come here,” he said. “It makes me feel so tired – exhausted internally.”
He paused, trying to find the right words: “There is… so much that is about to collapse; it’s like trying to keep a dyke from bursting.” Then, “come,” he said, suddenly taking my arm. “I can’t breathe. There’s no air in this room…”

The rajah led me up flight after flight of dark, narrow staircases until we reached the flat roof on the top of the fort. From beyond the moat, out over the plains, smoke and mist were rising from the early evening cooking fires, forming a flat layer at the level of the tree tops. To me it was a beautiful, peaceful Indian winter evening of the sort I had grown to love, but Suleiman seemed to see in it a vision of impending disaster. He was still tense and agitated, and the view did nothing to calm him down.

“You see,” he explained, “it’s not just the qila that depresses me. It’s what is happening to the people. There was so much that could have been done after independence when they abolished the holdings of the zamindars [the big absentee landlords] who were strangling the countryside. But all that happened was the rise of these criminal politicians: they filled the vacuum and they are the role models today. The world I knew has been completely destroyed. Even out here the rot has set in. Look at that monstrosity!”
Suleiman pointed to a thick spire of smoke rising from a sugar factory some distance away across the fields. “Soft powder falls on the village all day from the pollution from that factory. It was erected illegally and in no other country would such a pollutant be tolerated. I spoke to the manager and he assured me action was imminent, but of course nothing ever happens.”

“Perhaps if you went back into politics you could have it closed down?” I suggested.

“Never again,” said Suleiman. “After two terms in the Legislative Assembly I said I would leave the Congress if it continued to patronise criminals. The new breed of Indian politician has no ideas and no principles. In most cases they are just common criminals, in it for what they can plunder. Before he died I went and told Rajiv what was happening. He was interested but he didn’t do anything. He was a good man, but weak…

“There has been a decline in education, in health, in sanitation. There is a general air of misery and suffering. Last week, a few miles outside Lucknow, robbers stopped the traffic and began robbing passers-by in broad daylight. Later, it turned out that the bandits were policemen.”

“But isn’t that all the more reason for you to stay in politics?” I said. “If all the people with integrity resign, then of course the criminals will take over.”

“Today it is impossible to have integrity or honesty and to stay in politics in India,” replied Suleiman. “The process you have to go through is so ugly, so awful, it cannot leave you untouched. Its nature is such that it corrodes, that it eats up all that is most precious and vital in the spirit. You find yourself doing something totally immoral and you ask yourself: what next?”

We fell silent for a few minutes, watching the sun setting over the sugar mill. Behind us, the bearer reappeared to announce that the rajah’s dal and rice was finally ready. It was now nearly five o’clock.

“In some places in India perhaps you can still achieve some good through politics,” said Suleiman. “But in Lucknow it’s like a black hole. One has an awful feeling that the forces of darkness are going to win here. It gets worse by the year, the month, the week. Everything is beginning to disintegrate,” he said, looking down over the parapet. “Everything.”

He gestured out towards the darkening fields. Night was drawing in and a cold wind was blowing from the plains: “The entire economic and social structure of this area is collapsing,” he said. “It’s like the end of the Mogul empire. We’re regressing into a dark age.”

Credits : William Dalrymple’s book, “The Age of Kali: Indian travels and encounters”, is published by Harper Collins

This article is full of technical words and phrases in relation to Indian music. Should any term interest you but are unable to understand, please contact us and we will mail back more details on it.

The history of an exotic and highly cultured Lucknow with all its pomp and splendour and its romantic Shan-e-Avadh associations actually dates from 1775A.D. when Nawab Asaf-ud-Daula shifted the capital of Avadh from Faizabad to Lucknow. As if with a magic wand, he changed the contours of the growing township and converted it into a beautiful city with parks, palaces, gardens and imposing architectural monuments. The glorious era of Lucknow lasted till 1856 when the last Nawab, Wajid Ali Shah was deposed by the East India Company and banished to Matiyaburj near Calcutta. During these eventful years, Lucknow became one of the most celebrated centers of Oriental opulence, music, dance, drama , poetry and scholarship. The Nawab Wazirs brought with them their Persian music, dance, language, costumes and culture which blended beautifully with the already highly-developed arts, language and culture of Hindu India. This synthesis resulted in remarkably enriched forms of music, Kathak dance, poetry, drama, language and the celebrated Indo-Iranian ‘Ganga-Jamuni’ tehzeeb for which Lucknow became famous. The spoken language became a charming blend of Persian, Urdu, Hindi and Avadhi and in music too, brajbhasha had a favoured place. That hauntingly melodious Bhairavi Thumri composed by Wajid Ali Shah in his movement of intense grief while being forcibly parted from his beloved Lucknow for ever, is a fine example of such synthesis:-

“Babul mora naihar chhuto jaay
chaar kahaar mil doliyan uthhave…..

to which he added poignancy through the Urdu verse:

“Doston shad raho, thumko khuda ko saumpa,
Hamme apne dil-e-nazuk ko jafa ko saumpa,
Kaisarbagh jo hai, usko subko saumpa,
Daro deewar par hazarat se nazar karte hain,
Rukhsat hai ai vatan, ham to safar karte hain…..“

When Ustad Faiyaz Khan sang these lines in his vibrantly rich voice with great depth of feeling, he brought tears into thousands of eyes, in Wajid Ali Shah’s Chandiwali baradari in Kaisarbagh, which used to be the most popular venue for rabas, jashans and all India music conferences and festivals until the Nineteen-fifties. Into its historic pillars have been frozen the grand musical renderings, the tinklings of thousands of ghunghroos, the thunder of pakhawajs, the boons of baayaans and the resonant tones of sitars, sarods, shahnais and sarangis of the great maestros of the past. If only these pillars could have recorded all those events for posterity! Today, we have many acoustically superior and comfortable auditoria all over the city, but the mehfils of the past had a certain intimate atmosphere which is missing in these halls and shamianas.

Another example of Indo-Persian synthesis was Wajid Ali Shah’s rabas, a Persianised version of the Hindu Rasleela of Brajbhoomi. These rabas were perhaps the first experiments in kathak ballets. In Wajid Ali Shah,s books Bani and Najo, (recently published in Hindi by the U.P. Sangeet Natak academy) the Nawab has given details of numerous gats for kathak with line-drawings. Similarly, his books Diwan-e-Akbar and Husn-e-Akbar contain his prolific compositions covering Thumris, daadras, ghazals and others.

The enriching influence of Indo-Persian blends can best be seen in the Mughul style of Lucknow Kathak. There is a popular saying, jab Dilli ujadi, Lucknow bani. When Delhi’s years of glory ended, and arts like music, dance and poetry were on the verge of decay, it was the cultured and refind nawab Wazirs of Lucknow who offered lavish patronage and fostered them in their opulent darbars. In the history of Hindustani music and dance, Lucknow occupies a very prominent place among other musical centers such as Delhi, Gwalior, Rampur, Baroda, Jaipur, Maihar, Rewa and Alwar. The distinct style of Lucknow Gharana Kathak, Lucknow Tabla, Lucknow (poorab) Ang Thumri-Dadra and Lucknow style of ghazal singing prove the many-sided contributions of Lucknow to music and dance. The royal court was adorned by numerous descendantsof Sangeet Samrat Tansen’s musical lineage and they were essentially dhrupadiyas such as Ustad Pyar Khan, Basat Jaffar, Bahadur, Haidar and Nasir Ahmad Khan Ghulam Hussain, his son Dulbe Khan, Mehndi Hussain, Kalawant Raza Hussain and many others. This city has witnessed the efflorescence, the decline and the renaissance of Hindustani classical music and kathak dance over more than three centuries.

The Birth of Khayal: By the 18th century,people were bored of the rigid and highly disciplined Dhrupad-Dhamar. The khayal was evolved and popularized by Niamat Khan ‘Sadarang’ (1670-1748), a great musician and vainik at the court of Mohammad Shah Rangeele. He once defied the imperial orders, and in order to escape wrath, he fled to Lucknow and lived here in peaceful obscurity for some years. It was during his sojourn in Lucknow that he evolved the khayal style and composed hundreds of khayals under his pseudonym ‘Sadarang’, followed by his two sons, ‘Adarang’ (Feroz Khan) and ‘Maharang’ (Bhupat Khan). Today, not a day passes without our hearing some of the profilic khayals composed by them, subsequently thousands of khayals have been composed by musicians and vaagyeyakaars from all over North. Following the example of the creator of the khayals, Sadarang, many of the subsequent composers have assumed pen-names like Ustad Faiyaz Khan (‘Prempiya’) Ustad Bade Ghulam Ali Khan (‘Sabrang’) , Pandit Bhatkhande (‘Chatura’), Ratanjankar (‘Sujan’), C.R.Vyas(‘Gunjan’), Wajid Ali Shah (‘Akhtar’) and Dinkar Kaikini (‘Dinrang’). The composition of many of them have been published, offering us a vast choice of bandishes ranging from dhrupads and dhumars to taranas and thumri–dadras.

The ‘Qawwal Bachcha Gharana of khayal singing’ also flourished in Lucknow because the Lucknow Gharana of exponents began with a famous qawwal named Ghulam Rasool. His descendants became famed exponents of this gharana which had the deep influence of qawwali introduced by Amir Khusrau. The founders of the now famous Gwalior gharana were none other than Bade Mohammad Khan and Nahhan Peerbux descendants of Ghulam Rasool. They created this new gharana after they migrated to Gwalior. It was Shori Miyan, the son of Ghulam Rasool, who invented the tappa which is now at its
best in Gwalior and Varanasi.

Ustad Sadiq Ali Khan, the famed exponant of Lucknow Gharana khayal is also considered the father of thumri, and the prime disciple, Ustad Khurshad Ali Khan was one of the most accomplished exponents of both styles. He was a very popular radio broadcaster and mehfil singer. This grand old man died in Lucknow on April 15, 1950 at the ripe age of 105. However, it was much later that the thumri reached the peak of its popularity in Lucknow.

People welcomed the simple and appealing presentations of mundane, yet sensual and even passionate themes in the spoken dialects of the area (Avadhi, Brajbhasha, Bhojpuri and others) sung in simple ragas, already familiar to them through folk songs of the region. In spite of objections and protests from purists, Wajid Ali Shah took the lead and fostered the new musical bloom in his colourful garden both as a patron and as a profilic composer, and also in other active ways. He recruited many beautiful, talented young girls for his parikhana or ‘Abode of the Fairies’ where he got them trained in singing thumris, dadras and ghazals with bhavabataana by professional gurus. A large number of Akhtar’s thumris, dadras, savans and hories are in mixed dialects and in varieties of talas and ragas. He popularized these through his numerous rabas or dance-dramas performed by his paris. Kathak dance and thumri enriched each other and both reached high peaks of popularity.

Maharaj Bindadin enriched both as he was a superb dancer and profilic composer and his thumris were ideally suited for bhava-abhinaya in Kathak. Besides their richness in ragas and talas, another outstanding quality of his compositions is the highly mystical, literary and often allegorical word-content, surcharged with Krishna-bhakti or devotion to Krishna, even the sringara is on a higher spiritual plane. Bhatkhande’s kramik series contains thumris by many other popular composers like Kadarpiya, Sanadpiya, Daraspiya, Harrang, Achapal and Sabras. (Pseudonyms were acquired by them too) As thumris have vital links with the courtesan culture of Lucknow, it is necessary to understand the courtesan’scontribution to Lucknow’s heritage.

Along with the numerous musicians, poets dancers and scholars who came from Delhi, there was a large scale migration of tawaifs to Lucknow which became a replica of the colourful and corrupt court at Delhi during Mohammad Shah Rangeele’s reign. The courtesans became “a necessary ingredient of the decadent culture of the last days of the Muslim rule in India” (Amir Hasan, “The palace culture of Lucknow”). These accomplished courtesans, like the geishas of Japan, played an important role in the sociocultural life of Lucknow. There are long lists of the names such famed songstresses-cum-dancersin the books of Wajid Ali Shah, in Hakim Karam Imam’s Madnul Mausiqui (1859), and in Sharar’s “The last phase of an Oriental Culture” in which he writes, “It is unlikely that anywhere else were there perfect demonstrations of the art than by the courtesans of Lucknow”. Munsarim WaliGoharjan, Zobrabai, Jaddanbai and Mushtaribai were celebrated singers of that era. However, the musician who gave a distinct stamp of her own to Lucknowi thumri and Ghazal was Begum Akhtar. She was our last and most vital link with Lucknow’s colourful musical past.

Her singing always created visions of the glorious and opulent era when high-class music, Urdu poetry, refined tastes, gracious living, polished manners and polite language in everyday life, had all combined to make Lucknowi culture famous and widely admired. Her training in classical music under renowned ustads, her rich and resonant voice, fecund imagination, romantic temperament and thorough knowledge of Urdu poetry (shared by her husband Ishtiaq Ahmad Abbasi, Bar-At-Law), and her rich repertoire of thumris, dadras and ghazals made her the most outstanding exponent of these styles. The artistic blend of poorab and Punjab ang touches was a distinctive feature of her individualistic style. Her few genuine shagiruds keep alive their deeply loved Ammi’s style. Shobha Gurtu’s renderings also bring back nostalgic memories of Begum’s style. Bhaiya Ganpatrao, the harmonium exponent from the Gwalior royal family, and Moizuddin, the ‘Badshah’ of thumri would often come and stay in Lucknow as they had many disciples and admirers here. Raja Nawab Ali and Babban saheb and their disciples are still spoken of with great admiration. Although Lucknow is regarded as the mother of thumri, later on, Varanasi became the thriving center of semi and light classical music. Varanasi has produced and continues to produce
large numbers of outstanding and popular thumri singers.

An Enriched Tabla gharana: After Modu and Bakshu Khan migrated from Delhi to Lucknow, they drew inspiration from the great pakhavajiyas, Kathak-dancers and light classical musicians who flourished here. Since Lucknow was the ‘Mother of thumri’ and the home of Kathak, the tabla gharana that was evolved here was naturally moulded and enriched by both. Khalifa Abid Hussain (1867-1936) who taught in the Bhatkhande college, his Son-in Law Khalifa Wajid Hussain, the later’s son Khalifa Afaq Hussain (a popular artiste of Lucknow Doordarshan), Padmasri Jahangir Khan from Indore, Biru Misra from Benares, Hirubabu and Sapan Chowdhry from Calcutta are a few out of the long list of Lucknow Gharana tabla exponents.

A Unique Style of Kathak: The seeds of Kathak lay in the ancient Raasdbaari and Kathavaachakes traditions inter-connected with the spread of Vaishnavism and these thrived mostly in the temples. The earliest kathaks to come to Lucknow (from Handia near Allahabad) were Maharaj Iswari Prasad Misra and his brothers and the style that they brought to Lucknow was named Natwari Nritya. Iswari Prasad’s nephews Prakash, Dayal and Harilal became court-dancers to Nawab Asaf-ud-Daula (1775-1797). Among the descendants of these Brahmin Kathaks, Thakur Prasad and Durga Prasad became the respected dance-gurus of Nawab Wajid Ali Shah. In the Moghul court, Persian costumes, romantic themes and Persian names such as aanad, salaami peshkaar and nikaas that were introduced.

Lucknowi Kathak as it exists today is the result of the combined genius and creativity of the Kalka Binda brothers. Their family residence in Lucknow, Kalka-Binda-ki-deorhi is the real birthplace of pilgrimage for kathak lovers, students and scholars, when the two brothers were alive, it was the meeting –place of great artistes from all over North India and the deorhi constantly throbbed with musical sounds, percussion rhythms and the tinkling of hundreds of ghungroos. Reputed songstresses of the time like Gauhar Jan and Zohrajan would come to Lucknow often, not only to give mujras, but also to earn the honour of becoming the disciples of Maharaj Bindadin. Every today there are few who have seen his dancing and tell us how Bindadin could create beautiful poses of Lord Krishna while dancing on multicoloured powders sprinkled over the floor. Sharar wrote, “While dancing, his feet touch the ground so lightly that he used to dance sometimes on the edges of the sword and come to no harm”. Their great art was enriched and popularized by the sons of Kalka (Bindadin had no issues) Achhan Maharaj (father of Birju Maharaj), Lacchu Maharaj and Shambhu Maharaj (father of Krishna Mohan and Ram Mohan). The portrayal of moods (bhavas) through abhinaya, innovation of various chaals and an expressional style based on the nayak-nayikabbedas were some of the valuable contributions through which Binda Maharaj enriched Lucknow Kathak. It is admirable that in a darbar steeped in sensualismand surrounded by hedonists including the ruler himself, the Kalka-Binda brothers could maintain the style in all its purity on a noble, aesthetic and spiritual level. They made the form precise, and at the same time saturated with raas. A gifted composer, Bindadin has left hundreds of lyrical compositions (like dhrupad, jhoola, thumri, hori, dadra and bhajans) in lilting ragas and varied talas, ideally suited for bhava-abhinaya and mostly centred around Radha-Krishna themes.

The family tradition were continued by the “triumvirate”: Achhan Maharaj excelled in chaals and lightning foot-work, Lachhu Maharaj enriched the graceful laasya aspect while Shambhoo Maharaj became famous as the “Abhinaya Samrat” of kathak. Today all these are being enriched and passed on to hundreds of pupils by Achhan Maharaj’s brilliant son Birju Maharaj, the prime legatee of the Kalka Binda traditions. He is also a repository of the family art and of hundreds of Binda’s compositions. A multi talented singer, master of numerous percussion instruments and the most outstanding exponent of Lucknow Kathak, Birju has proved his excellence as a performer, guru and choreographer. As the director of Kathak Kendra, Delhi, he has popularized Kathak all over the world, so that one can find his disciples in Europe, U.S.A. and the South East Asian countries. Among the outstanding dancers groomed under him are Sarswati Sen, Krishna Mohan, Ram Mohan, Bhaswati Misra, Durga Arya, Vijai Shanker (who runs a Kathak school in Tokyo), Pratap Pawar (who runs a school in London), Paris-born Veronique Azan, Arjun Misra (a senior guru in the Kathak Kendra, Lucknow), Madhukar Anand and Kajal Sharma. Birju is a fine combination of tradition and innovation and the numerous ballets by him and his troupe have won wide acclaim. His Kathak Kendra troupe has been praised as “the Bolshoi of India.” The Lucknow Kathak Kendra which has built up a good reputation under its founder director Lachhu Maharaj, had been languishing for many years for want of a devoted guru. Since the last few months, it is once again in the limelight under the dynamic Arjun Misra, a disciple of Birju, who has already attracted a large number of students.

The Uttar Pradesh Sangeet Natak Akademy has had many distinguished past chairmen, but it was under Thakur Jaideva Singh, the great scholar and musicologist, that it launched many new schemes, most important being the publication of a large number of books on art. Under the secretariship of V.V. Srikande during the last nine years, the Akademy has become known as one of the most active ones in the country. What with the weekly Avadh Sandhya concepts (of music, dance and drama) the centenaries of great artistes of the past, Kathak festivals, competitions and drama festivals, this academy offers plenty of musical fairs all the year round.

The Bhatkhande College of Music established in Lucknow in 1926 has played a vital role in training generations of performing artistes, dedicated gurus and gifted composers. The immensity of Bhatkhande’s contributions to music can be fully appreciated in the context of how music and dance had become arts to be shunned by girls and boys from cultured families because these arts had acquired a stigma owing to association with debased forms practiced by prostitutes. The art of music had drifted far away from the theory and there was utter confusion and controversy. It was more than six decades ago that the chatturpandit succeeded in reinstalling the falling image of the muse on a lofty pedestal and also in reconciling theory with practice. It was lucky for Lucknow that he chose this city as his karambhoomi and established the College here, and that this was the venue for two out of five historic All India Music Conferences (in 1924 and 1925). Upto the Fifties, the reputation of the College was so formidable under the principal-ship of Dr. Ratanjankar, that some of the greatest musicians and dancers of the North used to be frequent visitors and performers here. As an alumni, this writer has had the privilege of attending a large number of these unforgettable soirees. Today, the missionary spirit of the past is gone, and the standards have fallen under the prosaic management of the State Government.

The Uttar Dakshin Cultural Organisation was started in 1974 by a group of Hindustani and Karnatic music-lovers as their contribution to national integration through music and dance. Its impressive tenure of 19 years of activity covers numerous musical evenings by musicians and dancers from all parts of India.

Lucknow has contributed music directors, (like Naushad, Madan Mohan, Roshan), actors and actresses (like Kumar, Iftekar, Akhtari Bai, Bina Rai, Yashodhara Katju, Swaranlata), singers (Talat Mahmud, Anup Jalota, Dilraj Kaur, Krishna Kalle), writers (like Amritlal Nagar, Bhagawati Sharan Varma, Achala Nagar), lyricists and dancers. Lachhu Maharaj was a very successful choreographer for many films. Pahadi Sanyal, Leela Desai and Kamlesh Kumari of New Theatres at Calcutta were all trained here.

Though Lucknow’s endearing pahle aap culture is being swept away, there is still a quality of warmth in this city. Amir Hasan writes in his ‘Palace Culture of Lucknow’, ‘No other city can perhaps claim to have won a larger measure of love and loyalty from its citizens than Lucknow’. He has compared Lucknow to “an exquisitely charming courtesan who is highly sophisticated, elegant, well-mannered is a good conversationalist, has a fairly good knowledge of contemporary literature and topics of the day, and is capable of satisfying the diverse tastes and needs of her clients and admirers”.

An often quoted couplet by poet Hazarat Nasikh goes as follows: Lucknow hum pe fida, hum fida-e-Lucknow, kya hai taakat-e-aasman ki jo hamse churdaye Lucknow! (Lucknow is in love with me, and I am in love with Lucknow, No force on earth can separate me from Lucknow!).

Credits : Susheela Mishra / This article was originally published in Taj Magazine

On the eve of the event, known variously as the Revolt of 1857, the First war of independence or the Indian Mutiny of 1857, Lucknow, the capital of the kingdom of Avadh was one of the largest and most prosperous pre-colonial cities in India. Under the Nawabs, Lucknow experienced a virtual Renaissance. Much of the surviving architecture of the city reflects a unique moment of Indo-European intermingling.

One landmark of architectural achievements of this period is the grand building of La Martiniere. Major General Claude Martin, who arrived in India from France in 1751, as a common soldier, built it at the end of 18th century. However, his fortunes multiplied by the time he came to Awadh. La Martiniere was originally named ‘Constantia,’ after the motto Claude Martin adopted, “Labore et Constantia,” which means ‘work and fidelity’.

Claude Martin who died in 1800 was, according to his will, buried at Constantia. Thus, it became his palace-mausoleum. As per William Dalrymple it was “the East India Company’s answer to the Taj Mahal”. Martin also willed that his palace tomb should become a school for boys (he left money to open schools in Calcutta and Lyon, his hometown in France, as well.) La Martiniere, as he desired the school to be named, was started in 1845.

La Martiniere was a miniature fortress, with ditches, stockades, secret passages and cannons. It had Georgian colonnades with the loopholes and turrets of a medieval castle; Palladian arcades rise to Mughal copulas. Many of the statues which adorn the turrets and ramparts, depict classical figures of the Gods and Goddesses of the heathen mythology. Inside of the building was decorated with brightly coloured Nawabi plasterwork, especially in the college Chapel. It also has stain glass windows, one depicting “Jesus in the carpenter’s shop at Nazareth subject to his parents,” and in other “Jesus in the temple in the midst of the doctors, hearing them and asking them questions.”

In the lake, facing Constantia, is the ‘Lat’. It is said to be the grave of Claude martin’s horse, or perhaps a lighthouse.

Impressed by its beauty Rosie Llewellyn Jones describes it in following words: “It is both the finest, and largest, example of European Funerary monument in the subcontinent… a wedding cake in brick, a gothic castle.”

La Martiniere was only 12 years old and still struggling to find its feet when the first spark was struck at Meerut on 10th May 1857 and as far as La Martiniere was concerned 1857 was perceived of and responded to the challenge as the mutiny.

Troops were stationed in many houses at Awadh, including La Martiniere, as per the orders of the Chief Commissioner Henry Lawrence. College principal George Schilling showed similar percipience and immediately after receiving the news about Meerut, he moved the establishment into the main building of Constantia, which was suitable for defence. The older boys were armed and assigned sentry duty on top of the building during the day while night duty was assigned to the masters.

By now, Lucknow was openly mutinous. People commenced moving to the Residency for protection in the third week of May but schilling remained in Constantia with his boys. Steps were taken to prepare the main building for defence. Classes continued but the boys were warned to make for Constantia, which had been barricaded with sandbags, bricks etc. An immense iron door guarded the stairway and artillery, composed of a few swivel muskets, was mounted on the bastions. The numerous doors in front of the building were barricaded while those behind were built up with mud and brick walls five feet high and five feet thick. All the staircases were built up and all doors leading to the central staircase excepting one filled up with bricks. To do all this only a few coolies could be obtained, but the masters and boys worked hard and the whole exercise was accomplished in 3 or 4 days.

On 17th June the Chief Commissioner issued orders for everyone to move to the Residency and all preparations for the defence of the building were stopped at once. On 18th June the college proceeded to the Residency in procession, the smaller boys on elephants and the senior boys armed with muskets, forming the rear-guard. The house of a banker was made over to the college and Posterity knows it as ‘the Martiniere Post’. It was a hot, closed house, located in an extremely exposed and vulnerable position on the southern perimeter of the Residency defences.

The gates of the Residency were shut on 30th June 1857, locking out both the Martiniere’s flock of sheep and the washer man, who had a large stock of the boys’ clothing. Consequently, the clothes became an even greater problem than food as the siege went on and on. The hard military, domestic and hospital duty that the boys had to do soon wore out what they were dressed in.

The siege of Lucknow began on 30th June and continued till 19th November. This period of one hundred and forty-two days bestowed on the boys of La Martiniere College an education no other school children had ever received. Between the ages of six and sixteen according to their capabilities, the boys stood to arms, served as hospital attendants, carried messages, ground wheat and corn until reduced rations weakened them and made this difficult task impossible. Quite apart from this, the boys showed remarkable ingenuity in erecting a semaphore on the Residency Tower, from instructions contained in a number of the Penny encyclopedia. This proved to be of immense value for it enabled contact to be established with the besieged and Colonel Campbell’s relieving force.

For the first time in her long history Britain had called upon her school boys to fight for her and the Martiniere boys responded magnificently. As an inevitable consequence, the Martiniere is unique among the schools of the world in having engaged, as a school in serious warfare when staff and students defended the Martiniere Post.

Schilling, the school principal, led a party of 6 masters, the estate Superintendent and 67 boys into the Residency. All but two came out alive, in spite of the extremely exposed position of their temporary quarters, constantly subject to danger from bullets, cannon balls, mines and assaults. Schilling was accorded the singular honour of commanding the Post even after regular troops were stationed alongside the boys.

Fourteen “Senior” boys, ages between 9 and a half to 15 years, along with most of the masters, bore arms in defence of the Post. The close proximity of the houses full of rebels, especially Johannis’ house (barely 20 feet away from the Post) meant constant threat from assaults and even more ominously, mines. [The worst nearly happened on 10th August when during the general assault a mine entirely carried away the outer room of the Post, blew open the doors of the inner room and destroyed a fifty foot stretch of palisades while the boys were away at prayers. However before the dust cleared the doors were barricaded with school tables. The boys also helped in digging a mine from an inner room, a marble tablet still marks the spot in the Post from where the mine, which blew up Johannis’ house, was started. The threatening assaults of the rebels were most harassing as they made the duty of guarding the Post an extremely one, especially at night when most of the attacks, both real and feigned, took place. For over a month this duty was left entirely to the college.

Military duty was only a part of the sterling work done by the boys right through the siege. Since all servants had absconded, the boys were required to carry out domestic work and for the first time, regular schoolwork was stopped. Some boys were deputed upon to attend upon the sick and wounded, some to sweep the compounds every morning and some to draw water, some to grind corn and some to cook. Keeping watch until the Masters came on duty at night and digging pits for the filth of the establishment was the duty of the senior boys. Washing their own clothes was a daily duty for all but the smallest. At Brigadier Inglis’ request, thirty-six boys, in twelve-hour shifts of twelve boys at a time, were assigned to pull fans over the sick and the wounded, but it became impossible to keep up this number especially in September when the health of the boys generally declined.

Right at the commencement of the siege, Henry Lawrence was mortally wounded on 2nd July. Three Martiniere boys attended him.

In such an extraordinary state of affairs, the boys did remarkably well. It is incredible that only two boys died, both due to dysentery. Two boys were wounded, one when stooping to fire at the rebels and other while carrying messages.

During the entire period in the Residency, the usual discipline of the college was maintained and, with very few exceptions, regularity observed in meals, prayers and daily inspection of the boys to see that personal cleanliness was being maintained to the extent circumstances permitted.

On 17th November, immediately after Colonel Campbell’s arrival at the Residency, the decision was taken to abandon the Residency; which was largely completed by 19th November. But on the next day those boys who had defended the Post went back to the Residency at dusk to continue the defence until the Residency was finally abandoned on 22nd November. A large number of rebels were killed before the Martiniere Post in the grand assault on the Residency on the 22nd when the boys were compelled to withdraw to the basement just before the portico collapsed under the heavy cannonade. (After the assault 24 cannon balls were recovered from the Post.)

After leaving the Residency, everyone was shifted to Allahabad. Shortly after Christmas all connected to the college left for Benares. On 15th January 1858, the college was temporarily shifted in two large bungalows at Benares, and continued to be there till March 1859. It was shifted back to Lucknow, once Constantia became habitable.

At Constantia, after the mutiny, nothing remained but the bare bullet and shot ridden walls. Doors and windows had vanished, marble pavements dug up, the library destroyed, the ornamented ceilings and interiors riddled with musket ball, the ironwork removed. The Founder’s tomb had been broken open and his bones scattered, apparently in the mistaken belief of finding a treasure.

Staff and boys of the college who served during the Mutiny received the Mutiny medal. The awards were notified to the principal on 5th February 1861 by a letter from the chief commissioner of Oudh. In April 1933, the Viceroy gave permission to La Martiniere to carry a “Flag” distinct from “colours” on ceremonial occasion. The flag was first ceremonially paraded on the Eighty-First Anniversary of Colonel Campbell’s relief of the Lucknow Residency. Whether it is a battle Honour, as generations of Martinians think it to be, or a flag as the then Viceroy decided it was, it is still unique.

Ever since the Mutiny of 1857, La Martiniere always had a volunteer unit. Its students also participated in the two World Wars and wars of Independent India.

Today after 175 years of the Mutiny, La Martiniere is a monument still alive. It is a flourishing educational institution, which is proud of its glorious past.

Credits : Prachi Pratap

It seems a historical snub to the river Gomti to call Avadhi culture a Ganga-Yamuni tehzeeb. For neither of these holy rivers flows through Lucknow at all or even through Faizabad, one time headquarters of Avadh. It is the Gomti, a loop of the Ganges and one of the rivers that does not carry the burden of being “holy”, that fertilised the Baghs that sent medieval travellers into paroxysms of ecstasy. Nowhere else but on the southern banks of the Gomti could a unique interaction between a Persian dynasty, Indian natives, European adventurers and the East-India Company have led to a tumultuous phase of history between 1732 and 1947, of which the siege of the Residency was the bloody climax.

The second map of Lucknow has changed so dramatically after independence that modern day citizens would be surprised to know that the flow of the river dictated the site of the architectural extravaganza like the Asfi Imambara, Sheesh Mahal, Dilkusha Palace and La Martiniere. Europeans built their houses besides what was then a “broad and rapid stream”, as a sharp contrast to today’s middle class for whom fear of floods dictates housing decisions.

The Gomti provides continuity to the flow of overarching ambitions and caprices that seem to be Luckhnawi lot. The Nawabs were led on by the European “advisers” to get into bizarre, ill-conceived projects like the linking of the Ganga and Gomti by a canal. Or the building of an iron bridge by importing the metal superstructure all the way from Britain, whereupon it lay on the banks for 30 years before the work began.

Following unwittingly in the footsteps, the poor man’s neo-Begum. Mayawati – drafted during her tenure as Chief Minister the services of Satish Gujral to design Ambedkar Park. The park has so much marble paving and structure that it will look more like a concrete jungle if it is ever completed. Further downstream, the Sahara group is trying desperately to complete a super luxury apartment complex which has few takers but which has its fair share of controversies. Their efforts seem as doomed as those undertaken in 1803 to build a palace called Musa Bagh, which was accessible on from the river, the other roads being considered “almost impossible”.

The river perversely changed it’s course to almost a mile away, ensuing the ruin of a Nawabi dream that the British instead of moving too chose to comfort into the Residency, could be persuaded to stay at a safer distance in the Musa Bagh.

But the British just don’t stay away. In 1996, the British Government’s foreign aid agency, the ODA (now DFID), started an ambitious 25 year project to provide a sewage system for slums lining the Gomti’s nullahs. This was supposed to be preliminary to installing sewage treatment plants that could control pollution of the river once and for all. However, due to the change of the government in London and more importantly, the unsatisfactory progress of the project, the project was summarily abandoned last year.

The only “builders” who seem to have escaped the tint of folly are the Tatas, who have built the prettiest Taj Hotel this side of the Vindhyas a stones throw from the embankment. A kilometer from this five star, lavishly landscaped dome languishes the Butler Palace, for which the Rajahs of Mahmudabad and Sir Harcourt Butler. They were quickly abandoned when the Gomti menacingly overflowed during the monsoons.

Architectural experimentation was a feature of all constructions in the Nawabi era. The use of the Gomti as an integral part of Farhat Baksh attracts attention in this context. This was the first building constructed in Lucknow in 1781 by Claude Martin of La Martiniere fame. During the lifetime of the French soldier of fortune, one would have to enter Farhat Baksh by a draw bridge, because three sides of the building was surrounded by a moat, the fourth side being built into the river. Martin lived in these cool chambers during the summer months. When the river rose he moved up one storey, then the second and finally during the monsoons he was on the third floor, which also overlooked the river and supported by arches, in thus resting on piers sunk in the river at a point about one fifth across its width. In the book ‘Fatal Friendship’, historian Rosie Lewellyn-Jones says that within the basement apartment of Farhat Baksh were baths and fountains which sprayed water against the windows. In springtime when hot winds blew, the windows were covered by frames filled with “green bramble”. When the waters receded at the end of the monsoons, the mud that would accumulate in the basement rooms was removed and the rooms were annually repainted and decorated. Can the river ever be such an integral part of the Lucknawi’s life style again? The answer has to be a regrettable “No”. Scientists of the CDRI, who now occupy Farhat Baksh, as well as Chhattar Manzil, once an impressive palace, have literally turned their backs on the river, as the building is approached from the other side. Lewellyn-Jones reports that the arches of the basement storey are still submerged in water. A CSIR survey in the seventies found that any attempt to pump out the water from the two basement storey’s of the Farhat Baksh would de-stabilise the entire structure, the water level is therefore maintained by pumps. In fact, a bund (earth wall) now separates the building from the river.

Subterranean rooms were built at the La Martiniere too though critics have wondered how these summer-quarters would have been viable for living in after the lighting lamps in dark chambers and passages. Another innovative feature of this building are four circular walls sunk to a depth of 20 feet below the water bed and going right to the depth of the building. These walls have cooling ducts that allow cool air to be drawn up the walls. They also provided drainage when the Gomti overflowed its banks.

The dryness around the La Martiniere, now converted into plying fields for schoolboys, is a stark reminder that the continuity with the past won’t last long. The river has been tamed, and it is neither a friendly air-conditioning device nor a watery deterrent to marauders. It is merely a sluggish stream, and when your thoughts turn romantic, you do not take a stroll around any of the banks but head towards the forlorn monuments of the city such as Dilkusha – and of course, you need to beware the ANTI-LOVER cops who are on the prowl.

Back in the hay days of the Gomti, Nawab Nasir-ud-din Haider owned a steam vehicle for pleasure rides. Platforms were also built on the north bank for staging giant animal fights, such as, Tigers versus Rhinoceros, Panthers versus Elephants, etc. that were viewed safely from the other side of the river. Today, once again, families in search for a weekend outing head for boating at the Water Sports Club, Shaheed Smarak or the Kudiya Ghat.

They think wistfully of the floating restaurant, which sometimes offered Lucknowites an opportunity to mimic Nawabi hedonism. The venture however, sunk, as it was never commercially viable, nothing unusual with the State Tourism department. One can scarcely expect a return to the days of Wajid-Ali Shah who organised festivals on the banks of the Gomti. The Chhattar Manzil would be lit up and dancing and music on board various boats would go in well into the night.

It was a different century when Belgian chandeliers, artifacts and gizmos such as, clocks and cucumber slicers were transported up the Ganga from Calcutta to Kanpur for the Nawabs. From Kanpur they came by road in covered carriages. One shopkeeper found this method expensive and inconvenient and sought permission to bring the goods in boats up the Gomti. Today, the items are more likely to descend from the heavens: with direct flights from Lucknow to Sharjah a flood of electronic goods keep coming to Lucknow by air. In the next century, the city will even cannibalise the Gomti even worse: building more colonies on it’s shrinking riverbed, discharging more sewage, plastic bags and dead bodies into its waters, building more bridges to facilitate the movement of the growing population and vehicular movement. Reduced to a bubbly brook, there is little chance that the Gomti will have the guts to do what it did in 1962, flooding it to the extent of converting it into the Venice of Avadh.

A Luckhnawi’s passion for the river and its banks is not new but as old as Lucknow itself. Today too the banks of the river have special place in the hearts of the people. My fascination for this river is neither new nor unique- but as a true Luckhnawi, what I consider myself to be, I feel deeply hurt by the deteriorating condition of our Gomti.

Article By: Prateek Hira

The above article laments the plight of Lucknow’s very own river, Gomti. The writer has always loved this river for its unique shape and nature. He has very keenly observed the river since his childhood days—be it the flooded river or the tranquil sunset, he also bunked his classes at La Martiniere to get to the banks of the river Gomti. The aimless wandering on the banks of river Gomti made him learn so much about the river in his early days. Tornos was the first tour company to introduce the river tour on Lucknow followed by the U.P Tourism Department. The tour made the tourist realise the fact that the city was built on the banks of river Gomti, and how the river fascinated the Nawabs, British and the French alike. It is worth noting that still we are continuing with the tradition of building all the important places of recreation on or by the side of the banks of the river Gomti. The Anti – Pollution drive is on and TORNOS FOUNDATION (a social body of TORNOS) in all ways is supporting this. Though hardly can Gomti now swallow Lucknow but this article is a testimony how we the lovers of this river swallowed it in our own ways. “Man Kills The Things He Loves”, says Bacon.

The Djinns you loved to watch in popular TV serial, ‘I dream of Jeannie’ was comic, comely, visible female-and susceptible to human emotions like love and jealousy for her undeniable handsome master. The Djinns who float in and out of the masjids of Lucknow are however not quite so easy to describe. For one, nobody claims to have ever seen them: they make their presence felt to believers. Fortunately, they are as obliging and benevolent as Jeannie is.

A couple of Mosques in Lucknow have been named after them. You have ‘Jinnon wali Masjid’ in Aminabad and ‘Jinnat Ki Masjid’ is behind the King George Medical College hostel. People who have never visited these places will tell you special prayers to appease to these djinns.

The caretakers of these ‘Masjids’, however, deny any such canard. This kind of practice would infact go against the basic ideology of djinndom. The genie that came out of Aladdin’s lamp was after all at his beck and call, a slave to his whims. Similarly, the djimms who hover over the domes of Lucknow mosques consider gravely, your appeals for mercy, prosperity, progeny, deliverance, and cure of mysterious diseases or fixing of your enemies. If you are pure and sincere, they solve your problems. No quid pro quo, no kickbacks. If you want to express your gratitude, you contribute some materials for renovation of the Masjid. You can also light an agarbatti or contribute something placed in the masjid collection box.

Since non-muslims are not allowed in the main building of ‘Jinnat Ki Masjid’, a little later has been set up on the rear wall of the building where any body can tie a garland of flowers and make a wish.

As you stand in the little courtyard with traffic whizzing by on both sides, you find it difficult to

Evoke the awe that such a place should command. The mosque must have been in the midst of a jungle when the Nawabs ruled, but now it is virtually perched on a traffic island, a relic of another age where medicos come for their ‘cuppa chai’ rather than a tryst with the supernatural.

Not every believer- and they come from all faiths- has the high level of spirituality needed to communicate with the invisible. So, one may heed and Aamil, the muslim equivalent of a tantrik. One of the aamils in the mosque is ‘Asif Ali Baba’; his pock marked face, red hair and a beard, eyes, which are bordered lined on the hypnotic, and eight rings, which are studded with various stones on his fingers. Both visit the ‘Jinnat ki masjid’ regularly to sweep the floors and do other odd jobs. They are Shias, but claim that those who come to them are generally from other sects and religions, as their co-religionists tend not to believe in any intermediary between themselves and God. Qayyum, about 38 years old, points out that to know all about djinns, one should read the chapter in the Quran called Surra-e-Djinn. In essence, while humans a predominantly made of mud – the other elements being fire, air and wind – the djinns have a predominance of fire. Like human beings they are created for His glory. Nothing more specific than that can be said, for whom can fathom the ways of the divine one?

Qayyum’s life was dedicated to God at birth. His mother was desperate as all of five or six children she bore before him had died. She then appealed to the Maulvi, who said that a son would be born to her, and if she wanted the boy to live he should be given to his care at he age of five. The maulvi, it is said lived to be 135. He taught children about djinns: these were all tangible children, who appeared out of nowhere. On day while Qayyum was watching, the maulvi asked a child to give him a cup of tea lying at a distance. The child’s arm stretched all the way up to the cup. Qayyum learned a lesson that day that he would never forget that djinns have great powers. They are like the only. Among the services they render, the two Aamils perform different rituals to solve the problems of those who come to them, on the principle that when things go wrong you need dua, or prayer, or dava, or medicine.

‘Asif Ali Baba’ looks for line in he scriptures relevant to the problem utters it into his fist, and blows it towards the patient. The problems soon disappear. He learned this technique when his wife was admitted to the hospital with labour pains. A fakir who happened to be their asked him to chant “ya ali, ad rakhni” into his palm and blow it towards his wife. He did so, and within half an hour, his wife safely delivered the baby. One day after that, when he was sweeping the masjid floor, one Mr. Srivastava approached him seeking his help in the matters of job transfer. That night, Asif Ali Baba had a dream: that he should write the number 786/110 along with the wish he wanted fulfilled, on a piece of paper, seal it with wax and ask the official to wear it as a pendant. This was one, and the Supreme Transferring Authority obliged. Srivastava got his transfer.

Another time a couple sought his help to cure their daughter, who had been suffering from fits for seven years. He used the same technology to cure her. Correct diagnosis of the problem, of course, is the key. Very often women brought to Asif Baba show signs of madness. The common symptoms are tearing of clothes, fits of anger and hysteria. The baba diagnoses them by touching them with tip of a lit agarbatti. If the woman is truly possessed, she will not flinch. He then gives her the relevant pendant to wear, and she is freed of the evil influence.

Asif baba gets four six patients everyday. “God cures them and I get the credit,” he says, forgetting to acknowledge the role of the djinns who act as forwarding agents. Qayyum’s method of diagnosis is different. He measures the person fro head to foot with a thread seen ties and blows on it. The thread apparently shrinks or stretches and by measuring it on the person again, Qayyum is able to gauge the cause of the suffering. He then gives them a charm to wear. There are lots of dos and don‘ts to be observed during this period. The patient has to abstain from alcohol, chewing a special form of roasted gram whenever the urge to drink strikes. So, the tortured and the damned of Lucknow and far-flung areas like Mumbai, Calcutta and Bangalore come to the Aamils with their problems. They appeal to the djinns to bail them out.

The problems follow a pattern: loss in business, the grip of a vice, inability to conceive, a court case gone wrong, problems over a daughter’s marriage or an enemy making one’s life a hell. If the aamils find it difficult to relate to the abstract, they seek the help of one of the eight or ten aamils who use charms and prayers to set things right.

Djinns may not come out of the mythical bottle in the mosque of Lucknow. Men may come and men may go, but djinns go on forever.

Article by: Manjula Lal

Some vernacular terms and phrases have been used in this article, should you have any problem in understanding or would like to have a translation of it, please feel free to mail us…

The writer Manjula Lal is a well-known journalist and a leisure writer who usually writes in a research style on diverse topic such as the above. The above article has been written after an extensive research and field visits. We do not expect the readers to subscribe to the views and ideas expressed above, as the views and ideas are of the writer and those contacted for the survey during the compilation of this article. This article is purely meant for leisure purpose and in no manner aims to guide or misguide you.

On the eve of the Indian Mutiny of 1857, Lucknow, the capital of the Kingdom of Avadh, was indisputably the largest, most prosperous and most civilised pre-colonial city in India. Its spectacular skyline – with its domes and towers and gilded cupolas, palaces and pleasure gardens, ceremonial avenues and wide maidans – reminded travellers of Constantinople, Paris or even Venice. The city’s courtly Urdu diction and elaborate codes of etiquette were renowned as the most subtle and refined in the subcontinent; its dancers admired as the most accomplished; its cuisine famous as the most flamboyantly baroque. Moreover, at the heart of the city, lay Lucknow’s decadent and Bacchanalian court. Stories of its seven-hundred women harems and numberless nautch girls came to epitomise the fevered fantasies of whole generations of Orientalists; yet for once the fantasy seems to have been not far removed from the clearly swaggeringly sybaritic reality.

“But look at it now”, said Mushtaq gesturing sadly over the rooftops. “See how little is left…..”

We were standing on the roof of Mushtaq’s school in Aminabad, the oldest quarter of the city and the heart of old Lucknow. It was a cold, misty winter’s morning and around us, through the ground mist, rose the great swelling, gilded domes of the city’s remaining mosques and Imambaras. A flight of pigeons wheeled over the domes and came to rest in a grove of tamarind trees to one side; nearby a little boy flew a kite from the top of a small domed Mughal pavilion. It was a spectacular panorama, still one of the greatest skylines in all Islam; but even from our vantage point the signs of decay were unmistakable.

“See the grass growing on the domes?” said Mushtaq, pointing at the great triple dome of the magnificent Jama Masjid. “It hasn’t been whitewashed for thirty years. And at the base: look at the cracks! Today the skills are no longer there to mend these things: the expertise has gone. The Nawabs would import craftsmen from all over India and beyond: artisans from Tashkent and Samarkand, masons from Isfahan and Bukhara. They were paid fantastic sums, but now no one ever thinks to repair these buildings. They are just left to rot. This has all happened in my lifetime.”

A friend in Delhi had given me Mushtaq Naqvi’s name when he heard I was planning to visit Lucknow. Mushtaq, he said, was one of the last remnants of old Lucknow: a poet, teacher and writer who knew Lucknow intimately yet who – slightly to everyone’s surprise – had chosen never to leave the city of his birth, despite all that had happened to Lucknow since Independence. Talking with my friends, I soon learned that this qualification -“despite all that has happened to Lucknow ” – seemed to be suffixed to any statement about the place, as if it was a universally accepted fact that Lucknow’s period of greatness lay long in the past.

The city’s apogee, everyone agreed, was during the eighteenth century under the flamboyant Nawabs of Avadh (or Oudh) – a time when, according to one authority, the city resembled an Indian version of [pre-Revolutionary] “Teheran, Monte Carlo and Las Vegas, with just a touch of Glyndebourne for good measure”. Even after the catastrophe of the Mutiny, Lucknow had been reborn as one the great cities of the Raj.

It was Partition in 1947 that finally tore the city apart, its composite Hindu-Muslim culture irretrievably shattered in the unparalleled orgy of bloodletting that everywhere marked the division of India and Pakistan. By the end of the year, the city’s cultured Muslim aristocracy had emigrated en masse to Pakistan and the city found itself swamped instead with non-Muslim refugees from the Punjab. These regarded the remaining Muslims with the greatest suspicion- as dangerous fanatics and Pakistani fifth columnists- and they brought with them their own very different, aggressively commercial culture. What was left of the old Lucknow, with its courtly graces and refinement, quickly went into headlong decline. The roads stopped being sprinkled at sunset, the buildings ceased to receive their annual whitewash, the gardens decayed, and litter and dirt began to pile up unswept on the pavements.

Fifty years later, the city is today renowned not so much for its refinement as for the coarseness and corruption of its politicians, and the crass ineptitude of its officials. What had once been regarded as the most civilised city in India – a city whose manners and speech made other Indians feel like oafish rustics – is rapidly becoming notorious as one of the most hopelessly backward and violent, with a burgeoning mafia and a notoriously thuggish and corrupt police force.

“You must have seen some sad changes in that skyline,” I said to Mushtaq, as we turned to look eastwards over the monsoon-stained tower blocks which dwarfed and blotted out the eighteenth century panorama in the very centre of the city.

“In thirty years all sense of aesthetics have gone from this town,” he replied. “Once Lucknow was known as the Garden of India. There were palms and gardens and greenery everywhere. Now so much of it is eaten up by concrete, and the rest has become a slum. See that collapsing building over there?”

Mushtaq pointed to a ruin a short distance away. A few cusped arches and some broken pillars were all that was left of what had clearly once been a rather magnificent structure. But now shanty huts hemmed it in on three sides while on the fourth stood a fetid pool. At its side you could see a cow munching on a pile of chaff.

“It is difficult to imagine now,” said Mushtaq, “but when I was a boy that was one of the most beautiful havelis [courtyard houses] in Lucknow. At its centre was a magnificent shish mahal [mirror chamber]. The haveli covered that whole area where the huts are now and that pool was the tank in its middle: begums [aristocratic ladies] from all over Aminabad and Hussainabad would go there to swim. There were gardens all around. See that tangle of barbed wire? That used to be an orchard of sweet-smelling orange trees. Can you imagine?”

I looked at the scene again, trying to picture its former glory. It was very difficult.

“But the worst of it- how to put it in English?- is that the external decay of the city is really just a symbol of what is happening inside us: the inner rot.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Under the Nawabs Lucknow experienced a Renaissance that represented the last great flowering of Indo-Islamic genius. The Nawabs were such liberal and civilised figures: men like Wajd Ali Shah- author of one hundred books, a great poet and dancer. But the culture of Lucknow was not just limited to the elite: even the prostitutes could quote the great Persian poets; even the tonga drivers and the tradesmen in the bazaars spoke the most chaste Urdu and were famous across India for their exquisite manners…”

“But today?”

“Today the grave of our greatest poet, Mir, lies under a railway track. What is left of the culture he represented seems hopelessly vulnerable. After Partition nothing could ever be the same again. Those Muslims who were left were the second rung. They simply don’t have the skills or education to compete with the Punjabis, with their money and business instincts and garish, brightly-lit shops. Everything they have has crumbled so quickly: the owners of palaces and havelis have become the chowkidars [gate keepers]. If you saw any of the old begums today you would barely recognise them. They are shorn of all their glory, and their havelis are in a state of neglect. They were never brought up to work- they simply don’t know how to do it. As they never planned for the future, many are now in real poverty. In some cases their daughters have been forced into prostitution.”

“Literally?”

“Literally. I’ll tell you one incident that will bring tears to your eyes. A young girl I know- eighteen years old, from one of the royal families- was forced to take up this work. A rickshaw driver took her in chador to Clarkes Hotel for a rich Punjabi businessman to enjoy for 500 rupees. This man had been drinking whisky but when the girl unveiled herself, he was so struck by her beauty – by the majesty of her bearing – that he could not touch her. He paid her the money and told her to go.”

Mushtaq shook his head sadly: “So you see it’s not just the buildings: the human beings of this city are crumbling too. The history of the decline of this city is written on the bodies of its people. Look at the children roaming the streets, turning to crime. Great grandchildren of the Nawabs are pulling rickshaws. If you go deeply into this matter you would write a book with your tears.”

Mushtaq pointed at the flat roof of a half-ruined haveli: “See that house over there?” he said. “When I was a student there was a nobleman who lived there. He was from a minor Nawabi family. He lived alone, but everyday he would come to a chaikhana [teahouse] and gupshup [gossip]. He was a very proud man, very conscious of his noble birth, and he always wore an old fashioned angurka [long Muslim frockcoat]. But his properties were all burned down at Partition. He didn’t have a job and no one knew how he survived.

“Then one day he didn’t turn up at the chaikhana. The next day and the day after there was no sign of him either. Finally on the fourth day the neighbours began to smell a bad smell coming from his house. So they broke down the door and found him lying dead on a charpoy [cot]. There was no covering, no other furniture, no books, nothing. He had sold everything he had, except his one pair of clothes, but he was too proud to beg, or even to tell anyone of his problem. When they did a post mortem on him in the medical college they found he had died of starvation.

“Come,” said Mushtaq. “Let us go to the chowk: there I will tell you about this city, and what it once was.”

At the height of the Moghul Empire, said Mushtaq, Shah Jehan, the builder of the Taj Mahal, had ruled over a mighty Empire that stretched from the Hindu Kush in the North to great diamond mines of Golconda in the South. But during the eighteenth century, as the Moghul Empire fell apart, undermined by civil war and sacked by a succession of invaders from Persia and Afghanistan, India’s focus moved inexorably eastwards from Delhi to Lucknow. There the Nawabs maintained the fiction that they were merely the provincial governors of the Moghuls, while actually holding a degree of real power and wealth immeasurably greater than the succession of feeble late Moghul monarchs who came and went on the throne of Delhi.

Gradually, as the Moghul’s power of patronage waned ever smaller, there was a haemorrhage of poets and writers, architects and miniature painters away from Delhi to Lucknow, as the Nawabs collected around them the greatest minds of the day. They were men such as Mir, probably the greatest of all the Urdu poets, who at the age of 66 was forced to flee from his beloved Delhi in an effort to escape the now insupportable violence and instability of the Moghul capital.

The Nawabs were great builders, and in less than 50 years they succeeded in transforming the narrow lanes of a small mediaeval city to one of the great capitals of the Muslim world: “Not Rome, not Athens, not Constantinople, not any city I have ever seen appears to me so striking and beautiful as this,” wrote the British war correspondent William Russell in the middle of the Indian Mutiny. “The sun playing on the gilt domes and spires, the exceeding richness of the vegetation and forests and gardens remind one somewhat of the view of the Bois de Boulogne from the hill over St. Cloud… but for the thunder of the guns and the noise of the balls cleaving the air, how peaceful the scene would be!”

After 600 years of Islamic rule in India, what the Nawabs achieved at Lucknow represented the last great swansong of Indo-Islamic civilisation, a last burst of energy and inspiration before the onset of a twentieth century holding little for Indian Muslims except division, despair and decline.

Since I had arrived in the city I had spent a couple of bright, chilly winter days jolting around the old city on a rickshaw visiting a little of what was left. The architecture of the Nawabs has sometimes been seen as a decadent departure from the pure lines of the Great Moghul Golden Age, and there is some truth in this: there is nothing in Lucknow, for example, to compare to the chaste perfection of the Taj. Moreover, in the years leading up to the Mutiny, some of the buildings erected in Lucknow did indeed sink into a kind of florid, camp voluptuousness which seem to have accurately reflected the mores of a Lucknow whoring and dancing its way to extinction. To this day a curtain covers the entrance to the picture gallery in Lucknow after a prim British memsahib fainted on seeing the flirtatiously bared nipple of the last Nawab, Wajd Ali Shah, prominently displayed in a portrait of the period. The same feeling of over-ripe decadence is conveyed in Late Nawabi poetry, which is some of the most unblushingly fleshy and sensual ever written by Muslim poets:

I am a lover of breasts
Like pomegranates;
Plant then no other trees
On my grave but these.(Nasikh)

Confronted with such verses, Mir expressed his view that most Lucknavi poets could not write verse and would be better advised to “stick to kissing and slavering”. He may well have thought the same of Late Nawabi architecture with its similarly unrestrained piling on of effects. For by the end Lucknow’s builders had developed a uniquely blowsy Avadhi rococo whose forms and decorative strategies seem to have borrowed more frequently from the ballrooms and fairgrounds of Europe than from the shrines and fortresses of Babur and Tamburlaine. There was no question of sobriety or restraint: even in monuments built to house the dead, every inch of the interior was covered with a jungle of brightly coloured plaster work intertwining promiscuously with gaudy curlicues of feathery stucco.

Nevertheless the best of the buildings in Lucknow- those that date from the late eighteenth century- are evidence of a remarkable Silver Age which in sheer exuberance has no equal in India. The Great Imambara complex was built by Asaf ud-Daula for Shi’ite religious discourses in 1784. One of the largest vaulted halls in the world, it was built to create employment during a famine. Here there is none of the camp doodling that would be seen on later monuments. Instead the imambara is a vast and thoroughly monumental building: long, echoing arcades of cusped arches give way to great gilded onion-domes and rippling lines of pepperpot semi-domes; at the corners soaring minarets rise to solid well-designed chattris. The whole composition exudes a bold, reckless and extravagant self-confidence. Lucknow was consciously aiming to surpass the glories of Late Moghul Delhi and the Great Imambara shows it could do so with dashing panache.

Driving today through the melancholic streets of modern Lucknow, these massive buildings dating from the days of the Nawabs rear out of the surrounding anarchy like monuments from some lost civilisation, seemingly as disconnected from the present as the pyramids are to modern Egypt. At times it seems almost impossible to believe that they date from less than two hundred years ago, and that at that period Lucknow was famed as one of the richest kingdoms in Asia. For today the city is as shabby and impoverished as anywhere in India. Waves of squabbling cycle-rickshaw drivers pass down the potholed roads, bumping in and out of the puddles. Rubbish lies uncollected by the roadside, with dogs competing with rats to snuffle in the piles of street-side garbage. Beside them, lines of impoverished street vendors squat on dirty rush mats, displaying their tawdry collections of cheap plastic keyrings and fake Rolex watches. There is no grass in the parks and no flowers in the beds; barbed wire hangs limply around what were once beautiful Moghul gardens alive with the sound of parakeets and peacocks. Above the crumbling ruins of the old city of the Nawabs rise the charmless Monsoon-stained, smoke-blackened concrete blocks erected since Independence, and now, like the ruins, showing signs of imminent collapse, with deep fissures running up their sides.

The contrast between the magnificent follies of the Nawabs and the decayed, impoverished post-colonial intrusions which stand among them is almost unbearably painful: everywhere, it seems, there has been a universal drop in standards and expectations.

Yet even at the time the great buildings of Nawabi Lucknow were being erected, the Kingdom of Avadh was acutely conscious that it was living on borrowed time. For before the Nawabs had even established their capital at Lucknow, their armies had already been defeated in battle by the East India Company, and over the course of the early nineteenth century the Company ate like a cancer into the territories of Avadh: in less than 50 years the British annexed more than half the Kingdom. But the Nawabs remained surprisingly well disposed towards Europeans, and delighted in the trinkets and amusements Europeans could provide for their court: jugglers, portrait painters, watch menders, piano tuners and even fashionable London barbers were all welcomed to Lucknow and well paid for their services.

If the Nawab sometimes amazed foreign visitors by appearing dressed as a British admiral or even as a clergyman of the Church of England, then the Europeans of Lucknow often returned the compliment. Miniature after miniature from late eighteenth century Lucknow show Europeans of the period dressed in long white Avadhi gowns, lying back on carpets, hubble-bubbles in their mouths, as they watch their nautch girls dance before them. Even those who never gave up European dress seem to have taken on the mores of Nawabi society: Major General Claude Martin, for example, kept a harem which included his favourite wife Boulone as well as her three sisters. Nor was this sexual curiosity just one way: at least two British memsahibs were recruited to join the Avadi harem, and a mosque survives which was built by the Nawab for one of them, a Miss Walters.

Intellectually too, there seems to have been a surprising degree of intercourse between Europeans and the people of Lucknow. The greatest collection of Oriental Manuscripts in Britain – now the core of the India Office Collection – was formed by Richard Johnson while he was the Deputy to the British Resident in Lucknow. During his years in Avadh he mixed on equal terms with the poets, scholars and calligraphers of Lucknow, discussing Sanskrit and Persian literature, and forming long lasting friendships with many of them. One of these scholars, Mir Qamar ud-Din Minnat, dedicated his diwan to Johnson, later following his friend to Calcutta where Warren Hastings bestowed on him the title ‘King of Poets’.

Much of the surviving architecture of the city reflects this unique moment of Indo-European intermingling. Constantia, Claude Martin’s great palace-mausoleum, now the La Martiniere school, is perhaps the most gloriously hybrid building in India, part Nawabi fantasy and part Gothic colonial barracks. Just as Martin himself combined the lifestyle of a Muslim prince with the interests of a renaissance man- writing Persian couplets and maintaining an observatory, experimenting with map making and botany, hot air balloons and even bladder surgery – so his mausoleum mixes Georgian colonnades with the loopholes and turrets of a mediaeval castle; Palladian arcades rise to Mughal copulas; inside brightly coloured Nawabi plasterwork enclose Wedgwood plaques of classical European Gods and Goddesses.

Yet while Martin designed Constantia to be the most magnificent European funerary monument in India, the East India Company’s answer to the Taj Mahal, it was also intended to be defensible. The eighteenth century was an anarchic and violent time in India, and during an uprising in the 1770’s, Martin once had to defend his residence with a pair of cannon filled with grape shot. It was a lesson he never forgot, and he built Constantia to be his last redoubt in case of danger. Lines of cannon crowned the facade, and thick iron doors sealed off the narrow spiral staircases which connected the different ‘bomb-proof’ floors. Moreover on the facade Martin erected two colossal East India Company lions which were designed to hold flaming torches in their mouths. The sight of these illuminated beasts, belching out fire and smoke on a dark night was intended to terrify would-be intruders.

In its wilful extravagance and sheer strangeness, Constantia embodies like no other building the opulence, restlessness, and open mindedness of a city which lay on the faultline between East and West, the old world of the Nawabs and the new world of the Raj. To this day the whole extraordinary creation stands quite intact, still enclosed in acres of its own parkland. As you approach on your rickshaw you pass along a superb avenue of poplar and tamarind, eucalyptus and casuarina, at the end of which you pass the perfect domed Mughal tomb which Martin built for his beloved Boulone. As he rather touchingly wrote in his will: “she choosed never to quit me. She persisted that she would live with me, and since we lived together we never had a word of bad humour one against another.”

Nearby Constantia, a short rickshaw ride over the railway crossing, I stumbled across another smaller but equally remarkable building from the same period. It turned out to be the ruins of one of the Nawabs most lovely pleasure palaces, named Dilkusha or Heart’s Delight. Yet despite this very Persian name, Dilkusha was in fact closely modelled on one of the great English country houses, Seaton Delavel – but with four gloriously ornate octagonal minarets added to the otherwise austere Palladian design. The whole episode was an extraordinary moment of Indo-European fusion- a moment pregnant with unfulfilled possibilities, and one which is often forgotten in the light of Lucknow’s subsequent history.

For this process of mutual enrichening did not last. As the nineteenth century progressed, the British became more and more demanding in their exactions on the Nawabs, and more and more assured of their own superiority; they learned to scoff at the buildings and traditions of Lucknow, and became increasingly convinced that they had nothing to learn from ‘native’ culture. Relations between the Nawabs and the British gradually became chilly: it was as if the high-spirited tolerance of courtly Lucknow was a direct challenge to the increasingly self-righteous spirit of evangelical Calcutta. In 1857, a year after the British forcibly deposed the last Nawab, Lucknow struck back, besieging the British in their fortified residency.

In the event, after nearly two years of siege and desperate hand to hand fighting in the streets of Lucknow, the British defeated the Mutineers and wreaked their revenge on the conquered city. Vast areas of the city of the Nawabs were bulldozed, and for half a century the administration moved to Allahabad. Every site connected to the Mutiny was lovingly preserved by the British- the pockmarked ruins of the besieged Residency, the tombs of the British leaders who fell in the seige, every point in the town where the relieving forces were ambushed or driven back- turning much of the city into a vast open air Imperial War Memorial, thickly littered with a carapace of cemeteries and spiked canons, obelisks and Rolls of Honour. But shorn of its court and administrative status, preserved only for the curiosity of British visitors, Lucknow gradually became the melancholic backwater it is today.

“Yet even in my childhood something of Lucknow’s old graces survived,” said Mushtaq. “I’ll show you what I mean.”

We walked together through the chowk, the narrow, latticed bazaar-labyrinth which was once the centre of Lucknow’s cultural life. Above us, elaborately carved wooden balconies backed onto latticed windows. Figures flitted behind the wooden grilles. Every so often we would pass the arched and pedimented gateway of a grand haveli: the gateway still stood magnificently, but as often as not the old mansion to which it led had been turned into a godown or warehouse. A bird’s nest of electricity wires were strung down the side of the chowk, many of which had been brutally punched through the walls and arcades of the old mansions.

Below the latticed living quarters were a wonderful collection of tiny box-like shops, all arranged in groups by trade: a line of shops selling home-made fireworks would be followed by another line piled high with mountains of guavas or marigold garlands; a group of ear cleaners- whose life revolved around the patient removal of pieces of wax from the inner ear- would be followed by a confraternity of silver beaters who made their living from hammering silver into sheets so fine they could be applied to sticky Lucknavi sweets.

“When I was a boy, before Partition, I came here with my brother,” said Mushtaq. “In those days the chowk was still full of perfume from the scent shops. They had different scents for different seasons: khas for the hot season, bhela for the monsoon and henna for the cold. Everywhere there were stalls full of flowers: people brought them in from gardens and the countryside roundabout. The bazaar was famous for having the best food, the best kebabs and the best women in North India.”

“The best women?” Looking around all I could see now was the occasional black beehive flitting past in full chador.

“Ah,” said Mushtaq, “you see in those days the last courtesans were still here.”

“Prostitutes?”

“Not prostitutes in the western sense, although they could fulfil that function.”

“So what was it that distinguished them from prostitutes?” I asked.

“In many ways the courtesans were the guardians of the culture,” replied Mushtaq. “Apart from anything else they preserved Indian classical music from corruption for centuries. They were known as tawwaif, and they were the incarnation of good manners. The young men would be sent to them to learn how to behave and deport themselves: how to roll or accept a paan, how to say thank you, how to salaam, how to stand up, how to leave a room – as well as the facts of life.

“On the terraces of upper-storey chambers of the tawwaif, the young men would come to recite their verses and ghazals. Water would be sprinkled on the ground to cool it, then carpets would be laid out and covered with white sheets. Hookahs and candles would be arranged around the guests, along with surahis, fresh from the potters, exuding the monsoon scent of rain falling on parched earth. Only then would the recitations begin. In those days anyone who even remotely aspired to being called cultured had to take a teacher and to learn how to compose poetry.”

We pulled ourselves onto the steps of a kebab shop to make way for a herd of water buffaloes which were being driven down the narrow alley to the market at the far end. From inside came the delicious smell of grilled meat and spices.

“Most of all the tawwaifs would teach young men how to speak perfect Urdu. You see in Lucknow language was not just a tool of communication: it was a projection of the culture- very florid and subtle. But now the language has changed. Compared to Urdu, Punjabi is a very coarse language: when you listen to two Punjabis talking it sounds as if they are fighting. But because of the number of Punjabis who have come to live here the old refined Urdu of Lucknow is now hardly spoken. Few are left who can understand it- fewer still who speak it.”

“Did you ever meet one of these tawwaif?”

“Yes,” said Mushtaq. “My brother used to keep a mistress here in the chowk and on one occasion he brought me along too. I’ll never forget her: although she was a poor woman, she was very beautiful- full of grace and good manners. She was wearing her full make-up and was covered in jewellery which sparked in the light of the oil lamps. She looked like a princess to me- but I was hardly twelve, and by the time I was old enough to possess a tawwaif, they had gone. That whole culture with its the poetic mehfils and mushairas (levees and poetic symposia) went with them.”

“So is there nothing left?” I asked. “Is there no one who can still recite the great poets of Lucknow? Who remembers the old stories?”

“Well there is one man,” said Mushtaq. “You should talk to Suleiman, the Rajah of Mahmudabad. He is a remarkable man.”

The longer I lingered in Lucknow, the more I heard about Suleiman Mahmudabad. Whenever I raised the subject of survivors from the old world of courtly Lucknow, his name always cropped up sooner or later in the conversation. People in Lucknow were clearly proud of him and regarded him as a sort of repository of whatever wisdom and culture had been salvaged from the wreck of their city.

I finally met the man a week later at the house of a Lucknavi friend. Farid Faridi’s guests were gathered around a small sitting room sipping imported whisky and worrying about the latest enormities committed by Lucknow’s politicians. A month before, in front of Doordashan television cameras, the M.L.A’s in State Assembly had attacked each other in the debating chamber with microphone stands, desks and broken bottles. This led to heavy casualties, particularly among the high caste B.J.P politicians who had come to the Assembly building marginally less well armed than their low-caste rivals: around thirty had ended up in hospital with severe injuries, and there was now much talk about possible revenge attacks.

“Power has passed from the educated to the illiterate,” said one guest. “Our last chief minister was a village wrestling champion. Can you imagine?”

“All our politicians are thugs and criminals now,” said my neighbour. “The police are so supine and spineless they do nothing to stop them taking over the state.”

“We feel so helpless in this situation,” said Faridi. “The world we knew is collapsing and there is nothing we can do.”

“All we can do is to sit in our drawing rooms and watch these criminals plunder our country,” said my neighbour.

“The police used to chase them,” agreed the first guest. “But now they spend their time guarding them.”

Mahmudabad arrived late but was greeted with great deference by our host who addressed him throughout as ‘Rajah Sahib’. He was a slight man, but was beautifully turned out in traditional Avadhi evening dress of a long silk sherwani over a pair of tight white cotton pyjamas. I had already been told much about his achievements – how he was as fluent in Urdu, Arabic and Persian as he was in French and English, how he had studied post-graduate astrophysics at Cambridge, how he had been a successful Congress M.L.A under Rajiv Gandhi – but nothing prepared me for the anxious, fidgety polymath who effortlessly dominated the conversation from the moment he stepped into the room.

Towards midnight, as he was leaving, Mahmudabad asked whether I was busy the following day. If not, he said, I was welcome to accompany him to the qila, his ancestral fort in the country outside Lucknow. He would be leaving at 11am; if I could get to him by then I could come along and keep him company on the journey.

Suleiman’s Lucknow pied a terre, I discovered the following morning, turned out be the one surviving wing of the Kaiserbagh, the last great palace of the Nawabs. Before its partial destruction during the Mutiny, the Kaiserbagh had been larger than the Tuileries and the Louvre combined; but what remained more closely resembled some crumbling Sicilian palazzo, all flaking yellow plasterwork and benign baroque neglect. An ancient wheel-less Austin 8 rusted in the palace’s porte cochere, beside which squatted a group of elderly retainers all dressed in matching white homespun.

Suleiman was in his study, attending to a group of petitioners who had come to ask favours. It was an hour before he could free himself and call for the driver to come around with the car. Soon we had left the straggling outskirts of Lucknow behind us and were heading on a raised embankment through long straight avenues of poplars. On either side spread yellow fields of mustard, broken only by clumps of palm and the occasional pool full of leathery water buffaloes. As we drove Suleiman talked about his childhood, much of which, it emerged, had been spent in exile in the Middle East.

“My father,” he said, “was a great friend of Jinnah and an early supporter of his Muslim League. In fact he provided so much of the finance that he was made treasurer. But despite his admiration for Jinnah he never really seemed to understand what Partition would entail. The day before the formal split, in the midst of the bloodshed, he quietly left the country and set off via Iran for Kerbala [the Shia’s holiest shrine]. From there we went to Beirut. It was ten years before he took up Pakistani citizenship, and even then he spent most of his time in London.”

“So did he regret helping Jinnah?”

“He was too proud to admit it,” said Suleiman, “but I think yes. Certainly he was profoundly saddened by the bitterness of Partition and the part he had played in bringing it about. After that he never settled down or returned home. I think he realised how many people he had caused to lose their homes, and he chose to wander the face of the earth as a kind of self-imposed penance.”

Mahmudabad lay only thirty miles outside Lucknow but so bad were the roads that the journey took well over two hours. Eventually a pair of minarets reared out of the trees- a replica of the mosque at Kerbala built by Suleiman’s father- and beyond them, looking onto a small lake, towered the walls of the qila [fort] of Mahmudabad.

It was a vast structure, built in the same Lucknavi Indo-Palladian style I had seen at La Martiniere and Dilkusha. The outer wall was broken by a ceremonial gateway or naqqar khana [drum house] on which was emblazoned the fish symbol of the Kingdom of Avadh. Beyond rose the ramparts of a medieval fort onto which had been tucked an eighteenth century classical bow front; above, a series of balconies were surmounted by a ripple of Mughal chattris and copulas.

It was magnificent, yet the same neglect which had embraced so many of the buildings of Lucknow had also gripped the Mahmudabad qila. The grass had died on the lawn in front of the gateway, and the remaining flowers in the beds were twisted and desiccated; bushes sprouted from the fort’s roof. In previous generations the chamber at the top of the naqqar khana would have been full of musicians announcing the arrival of the Rajah with kettle drums and shehnai. It was empty now, of course, but there was certainly no shortage of servants to fill it. As we drove into the qila’s courtyard we saw a crowd of between twenty and 30 retainers massing to greet the rajah, all frantically bowing and salaaming; as Suleiman got out of the car the foremost ones dived to touch his feet.

I followed the rajah into the qila and up through the dark halls and narrow staircases of the fort; the troop of servants followed behind me. Dust lay thick underfoot, as if the qila was some lost castle in a child’s fairy tale. We passed through a splintered door into an old ballroom, empty, echoing and spacious. Once its floor had been sprung, but now many of the planks were missing and littered with pieces of plaster fallen from the ceiling. A torn family portrait of some bejewelled raja hung half in, half out of its frame. It looked as if no one had entered the room for at least a decade.

Finally, Suleiman threw back a door and led the way into what had once been the library. Cobwebs hung like sheets from the walls; the chintz was literally peeling off the arm chairs. Books were everywhere, great piles of 1920’s hardbacks, but you had to wipe the book with a handkerchief to read the spines and to uncover lines of classics – The Annals of Tacitus, The Works of Aristotle – nestling next to such long-forgotten titles as The Competition Wallah and The Races of the North West Provinces of India.

“This library was my ancestor’s window on the world,” said Suleiman, “but, like everything, it’s fast decaying, as you can see.”

I looked around. There were no carpets on the floors which, uncovered, had become stained and dirty. Above there were holes in the ceiling, with the wooden beams showing through the broken plaster like bones sticking out of wounded flesh. Suleiman was at the window now, pressing the shutters to try and open them; pushing too hard, he nearly succeeded in dislodging the whole window frame. Eventually the shutter gave way and hung open, precariously attached to the frame by its one remaining hinge.

A servant padded in and Suleiman ordered some cold drinks, asking when lunch would be ready. The servant looked flustered. It became apparent that the message had not reached them from Lucknow that we would be expecting lunch; probably the telephone lines were not working that day.

“It wasn’t always like this,” said Suleiman, slumping down in one of the chintzless armchairs underneath a single naked light bulb. “When the 1965 Indo-Pakistani war broke out, the qila was seized by the government as enemy property. My father had finally made the decision to take Pakistani citizenship in 1957, and although he had never really lived there, it was enough. Everything was locked up and the gates were sealed. My mother – who had never taken Pakistani citizenship – lived on the verandah for three or four months before the government agreed to allow her to have a room to sleep in. Even then it was two years before she was allowed access to a bathroom. She endured it all with great dignity. Until her death she carried on as if nothing had happened.”

At this point the bearer reappeared and announced that no cold drinks were available. Suleiman frowned and dismissed him, asking him to bring some water and to hurry up with the lunch.

“What was I saying?” he asked, distracted by the domestic chaos.

“About the sealing of the palace.”

“Ah yes. The Indian armed Constabulary lived here for two years. It wasn’t just neglect: the place was looted. There were two major thefts of silver- they said ten tons in all…”

“Tens tons? Of silver?”

“That’s what they say,” replied Suleiman dreamily. He looked at his watch. It was nearly three o’clock and his absent lunch was clearly on his mind. “Ten tons… though it’s probably exaggerated. Certainly everything valuable was taken: even the chairs were stripped of their silver backing.”

“Were the guards in league with the robbers?”

“The case is still going on. It’s directed against some poor character who got caught: no doubt one of the minnows who had no one to protect him.”

Suleiman walked over to the window and shouted some instructions in Urdu down to the servants in the courtyard below.

“I’ve asked them to bring some bottled water. I can’t drink the water here. My stomach- you’ve no idea the hell I’ve been through with it, the pain. I have to keep taking these terrible antibiotics. I’ve been to specialists, but they can’t do anything.”

Shortly afterwards the bearer reappeared. There was no bottled water, he said. And no, rajah sahib, the khana was not yet ready. He shuffled out backwards, mumbling apologies.

“What are these servants doing?” said Suleiman. “They can’t treat us like this.”

The rajah began to pace backwards and forwards through the ruination of his palace, stepping over the chunks of plaster on the floor.

“I get terrible bouts of gloom whenever I come here,” he said. “It makes me feel so tired – exhausted internally.”

He paused, trying to find the right words: “There is… so much that is about to collapse: its like trying to keep a dyke from bursting. Partly its because I don’t live here enough… But it preys on my mind wherever I am. I feel overwhelmed at even the thought of this place.

He paused again, raising his hands in a gesture of helplessness: “I simply can’t see any light at the end of any of the various tunnels. Each year I feel that it is less and less worth struggling for. Sometimes the urge just to escape becomes insupportable- just to leave it all behind, to take a donkey and some books and disappear.

“Come,” he said, suddenly taking my arm. “I can’t breathe. There’s no air in this room…”

The rajah led me up flight after flight of dark, narrow staircases until we reached the flat roof on the top of the fort. From beyond the moat, out over the plains, smoke and mist were rising from the early evening cooking fires, forming a flat layer at the level of the tree tops. To me it was a beautiful, peaceful Indian winter evening of the sort I had grown to love, but Suleiman seemed to see in it a vision of impending disaster. He was still tense and agitated, and the view did nothing to calm him down.

“You see,” he explained. “It’s not just the qila that depresses me. It’s what is happening to the people. There was so much that could have been done after Independence when they abolished the holdings of the zamindars [the big absentee landlords] who were strangling the countryside. But all that happened was the rise of these criminal politicians: they filled the vacuum and they are the role models today. Worse still theirs are the values – if you can call them values – to which people look up: corruption, deception, duplicity, crude, crass materialism. These are seen to be the avenues to success.

“The world that I knew has been completely corrupted and destroyed. I go into fits of depression when I see the filth and dirt of modern Lucknow and remember the flowers and trees of my youth. Even out here the rot has set in. Look at that monstrosity!”

Suleiman pointed to a thick spire of smoke rising from a sugar factory some distance away across the fields.

“Soft powder falls on the village all day from the pollution from that factory. It was erected illegally and in no other country would such a pollutant be tolerated. I spoke to the manager and he assured me action was imminent, but of course nothing ever happens.”

“Perhaps if you went back into politics you could have it closed down?” I suggested.

“Never again, ” said Suleiman. “After two terms in the Legislative Assembly I came on record saying I would leave the Congress Party if it continued to patronise criminals. The new breed of Indian politician has no ideas and no principles. In most cases they are just common criminals in it for what they can plunder. Before he died I went and saw Rajiv and told him what was happening. He was interested but he didn’t do anything. He was a good man, but weak: unsure of himself. He did nothing to stop the rot.”

“Do you really think things are that bad?” I asked

“There has been a decline in education, in health, in sanitation. There is a general air of misery and suffering in the air. It’s got much, much worse in the last fifteen years. Last week a few miles outside Lucknow robbers stopped the traffic and began robbing passers-by in broad daylight. Later, it turned out that the bandits were policemen.

“When I first joined the Legislative Assembly I was elected with an unprecedented majority. Perhaps you are right: perhaps I should have stayed in politics. But what I saw just horrified me. These people… In their desire to get a majority, the rules are bent, the laws broken, institutions are destroyed. The effects are there for anyone to see. You saw the roads: they’re intolerable. Twenty years ago the journey here used to take an hour; now it takes twice that. Electricity is now virtually non-existent, or at best very erratic. There is no healthcare, no education, nothing. Fifty years after independence there are still villages around here which have no drinking water. And now there are these hold-ups on the road. Because they are up to their neck in it, the police and the politicians turn a blind eye.”

“But isn’t that all the more reason for you to stay in politics?” I said. “If all the people with integrity were to resign, then of course the criminals will take over.”

“Today it is impossible to have integrity or honesty and to stay in politics in India,” replied Suleiman. “The process you have to go through is so ugly, so awful, it cannot leave you untouched. Its nature is such that it corrodes, that it eats up all that is most precious and vital in the spirit. It acts like acid on one’s integrity and sincerity. You quickly find yourself doing something totally immoral and you ask yourself: what next?

We fell silent for a few minutes, watching the sun setting over the sugar mill. Behind us, the bearer reappeared to announce that the rajah’s dal and rice was finally ready. It was now nearly five o’clock.

“In some places in India perhaps you can still achieve some good through politics,” said Suleiman. “But in Lucknow it’s like a black hole. One has an awful feeling that the forces of darkness are going to win here. It gets worse by the year, the month, the week. The criminals feel they can act with impunity: if they’re not actually members of the Legislative Assembly themselves, they’ll certainly have political connections. As long as they split 10% of their takings between the local M.L.A and the police they can get on and plunder the country without trouble.

“Everything is beginning to disintegrate,” said Suleiman, still looking down over the parapet. “Everything.”

He gestured out towards the darkening fields below. Night was drawing in now, and a cold wind was blowing in from the plains: “The entire economic and social structure of this area is collapsing,” he said. “Its like the end of the Moghul Empire. We’re regressing into a Dark Age.”

Credits : William Dalrymple

On the eve of the Indian Mutiny of 1857, Lucknow, the capital of the Kingdom of Avadh, was indisputably the largest, most prosperous and most civilised pre-colonial city in India. Stories that have come to epitomise the fevered fantasies of whole generations of Orientalists seem for once not to have been too far. Many books and articles have been dedicated to this muse in disguise called `Avadh’. Here William Dalrymple writes about the refinement that Awadh was all about. Should you need more readings on Lucknow or the kingdom of Avadh do mail us for recommendations.

METIYABRUZ is a warren of single-storied houses, squalid yards, open drains and bustling bazaars. Beyond, there are scrubby fields and hyacinth-choked ponds. Dominating the scene are innumerable factory sheds ant the huge Garden Reach shipyard. its gigantic steel machinery looming against the skyline. Today this Calcutta locality has little claim to distinction.

But just a little more than a hundred years ago, when Wajid Ali Shah, the King of Oudh, decided to settle in Calcutta in 1856, after his deposition, he created in Matiaburj, known as Mochikhola then and “earthy paradise”. Lucknow was lost to the British but a second Lucknow came up here. The King set up a whole township where the people observed the same ceremonies, enjoyed the same pastimes and even spoke the same language as they did in the capital of Oudh.

The King built many sumptuous houses, each in a different setting, pleasances, formally laid out parks with quicksilver fountains, an open-air zoo stocked with rare fauna, an enclosure for snakes, an aviary, Imambaras and a market. The King’s entourage, which followed him from Lucknow, likewise built houses here and the area was encircled by a high wall.

But in 1887 the King died. The British sold his property at throwaway prices and the returns were distributed among his heirs. Everything went to rack and ruin. Industry, and in some cases nature, encroached on whatever survived.

Today, factories and rows of houses have come up where once stood Shahinshah Manzil or Tafrih Baksh; overcrowded bazaars, slushy lanes meander in place of emerald parks and noble gateways; harsh accents and the clang of machinery have replaced courtly speech and the stains of music.

Only Sibtainabad Imambara, Begum Masjid, Shahi Masjid, Baitun Nijat and Quasrul Buka have escaped destruction. Some of the houses, including the magnificent palace in which the King resided, were acquired by South Eastern Railway, but no one is sure which particular ones.

The story of these relics is history embroidered with legends and hearsay, the authenticity is impossible to determine. According to Prince Anjum Quder – grandson of Birjis Qadr, Wajid Ali Shah’s eldest son – who still lives here, says Sibtainabad Imambara stood on sprawling grounds adorned with flowering plants and fountains drawing water from the nearby Hooghly.

Mourning

Here Wajid Ali used to meditate for hours during the Mohurram mourning period and take part in congregations every morning. One morning, on second day of Mohurrum, when the King returned to his palace, Sultan Khana he breathed his last. He was laid to rest here.

Prince Anjum Quder, who is President of the All-India Shia Conference and his two brothers, Dr. Kaukab Mirza and Prince Nayyer Quder, are honorary trustees of the Sibtainabad Trust.

The Imambara, built in 1864, stands sparklingly whitewashed on Garden Reach Road untouched by Bangla Bazar spread around it. Its imposing arched portal is surmounted by the naubatkhana. An electronic clock attached to it strikes the only jarring note.

The gateway emblazoned with the double mermaids, insignia of the Royal Family and Trust, gives on to a marble courtyard facing the porticoed prayer hall. Throughout the day the Imambara is alive with the chatter of children who have come to study groups, holding discourses or employees scrubbing the floor. The prayer hall resounds with incantations.

Innumerable lampshades of coloured glass hang from the ceiling of the portico. On its wall are the portraits of Hazrat Mahal and her son, Birjis Qadr. During the sepoy uprising in Lucknow, she became his regent. After Lucknow fell to the British, she fled with her infant son to Nepal where she died. Later Birjis returned to India and died of food poisoning in Metiyaburz.

Wajid Ali, his son, Birjis, and daughter-in-law, Mahtab Ara, a Moghul princess, and several other members of his family were interred here. Wajid Ali Shah’s grave is adorned with a silver zari, replica of a Muslim shrine, banner, exquisitely embroidered with gold and silver thread dusty and crumbling with age, candlebras and a priceless pair of jade vases.

A rare portrait by an unknown artist of the King in his last days can be seen here (reproduced above). The King, stern and portly, is attired in an elegant white angarkha, so unlike the overdressed beau he was in his salad days.

On a platform in this hall, Wajid Ali used to meditate. It is surrounded by an open-work railing of brass. Beside it is a silver pulpit of that period. The Imambara has two wings that enclose the courtyard. The first floor houses the quarters of its employees, the office and a library which has a fine collection of rare books and illuminated manuscripts, some embellished by the King himself.

Some ground floor rooms are crammed with the sets of Shatranj Ke Kilari, a gift from the director, and valuable mementos such as shawls, crockery (supposedly the Kings) and heavy silver alams. The alams and embroidered banners lead the Imambara’s famous Mohurrum procession. Mention must be made of Manindra Nath Ghosh’s Jao-ka Tazia, which also takes part in the procession. This tazia of wheat sprouts grown on a bamboo frame is a tradition that has come down through the years.

The King had enlisted in his service talented artists, musicians, dancers and calligraphists, as well as renowned hakims and theologians. Even today, one can meet their descendants at Metiyabruz. Manindra Nath Ghosh and Motilal Srimali for instance.

Motilal Srimali is a scion of the Shahi Paanwalas, traditional betel suppliers to the Royal Family. He claims that he can trace his line from the days of Raja Dasaratha of Ayodhya. His forefathers had mastered the art of serving paan which he has inherited. By varying the spices and ingredients he prepares paan, wrapped in gold and silver foil, that can set a man’s blood aflame or soothe strained nerves. His shop exhibits portraits of the King, his famous wrestler, Ghulam Pehlwan, and Birjis Qadr alongside pictures of Hindu gods and goddesses.

Recollections

Old and wasted Manindra Ghosh whose great grandfather was a guard makes no tall claims. He has muddled recollections of a zoo and a king’s, bequest. He laments that the plot of land gifted by Wajid Ali has been usurped. His tazia he constructs on the platform ten days before the procession is taken out.

The Imambara Qasrul buka and Baitun Nijaat are in various stages of disrepair. Qasrul Buka was the first Imambara to be built in Metiyabruz. Its entrance is wedged between the remains of a distressed rampart and a factory that occupies its hallowed grounds.

As one steps into the grimy courtyard, women in burqas scurry into the dark rooms that surround it. A funeral gloom hangs inside the prayer hall pervaded by the miasma of decay and mildew. A layer of dust carpets its floor. Surprisingly beautiful lampshades still hang from the ceiling.

No effort has been made to reclaim weather-beaten Baitun Nijaat now rising from amidst a tangle of shrubs. The King’s personal Imambara stands on a huge plot, part of which is occupied by a sawmill and a workshop. It is decayed and abandoned. Yet the stucco pineapples on its parapet and moss grown scaly monsters in its garden have survived. The weeds running riot in the garden and courtyard are slowly approaching the portico, which is strewn with junk.

Wajid Ali Shah was a devout Muslim. He never missed his prayers or the Ramazan fast. Legend says that the King, before constructing the first mosque of his new settlement, made a proclamation inviting anyone who had not missed even one of the five daily namaz since he became an adult to lay its foundation. When no one claimed the distinction even after a month, the King laid the foundation himself. This is the Shahi Masjid of Iron Gate Road, near Sibtainabad Imambara.

Fountains

The Mosque, overshadowed by a godown, is entered through lane lined with canna. It is small and beautifully proportioned. Stucco ornaments. on the roof trace patterns on the sky. Jalousied doors open on to what once was a row of fountains. Wrought Iron flowers bloom along this conduit of fetid water.

But even here Nature is gaining the upper hand. The mosque is surrounded by an overgrown garden. Weeds and parasite plants grown apace. The ground is thick with rotting leaves.

In contrast, Begum Masjid, adjoining Sibtainabad Imambara is well groomed. Its yard is well scrubbed. The fresh coat of white-wash disguises its age but there is telltale mildew on its doors. One of Wajid Ali Shah’s mutai wives was buried here – hence its name. Besides its dowdy neighbour this mosque has a light and feminine appearance. An elegant structure, arched doorways, and slender cupolas create this effect.

In paanwala’s shop near what was perhaps the King’s palace, there is a picture of the Hooghly of yore. Wajid Ali poses on a brown steed against a palace. The sky is canopy of turquoise. In the background a peacock boat sails on the glinting river. On the other side, the Botanical Gardens is a haze of green. Even today this view is unspoilt. But the palaces and beautiful boats have sunk without trace.

All that remains is a huge and picturesque pile of bricks on a mound rising from the river. This wild ruin has come straight out of the pages of some Arabian romance. Any moment a houri could glance through its gaping windows or the surroundings become fragrant with her attar. Gleeful urchins splash into the river and work-a-day reality trundles back again.

Credits : SOUMITRA DAS / THE STATESMAN / Calcutta

En route to Kanpur, besides the remains of the Alambagh Fort lie the remains of Sir Henry Havelock. Until recently this dilapidated grave was left un-cared for until Mark Havelock Allen (descendent of Havelock’s) read about the condition of the grave in a local newspaper in England. His immediate reaction was to approach the Indian government and Archeological Survey of India to look into the matter. He personally flew out to Lucknow to inspect the site and, today, Havelock’s grave stands in a small green garden, surrounded by a fence and a caretaker has been appointed to look after its upkeep. A few yards to the right of the grave lie the ruins of the Alambagh Fort. Neglected and in an utter state of disrepair. On one hand we have an English Martyr being cared for by his people and on the other, a legacy of India’s first struggle for independence fading into history.

He was born at Bishops Wearmouth, County Durham, England in 1795 and joined the British army in 1815. He came to India in 1823 and never turned back. After serving in Burma, Afghanistan, the Maratha Campaign and the Sutlej he was saved from a shipwreck in the Ceylon and later nominated to lead the garrison that was to attempt the first relief of the Residency at Lucknow.

Sir Henry Havelock, along with James Outram led the first relief column into the Residency on the 25th of September, 1857. After a long and sustained attack on the sepoys they were trapped under a renewed siege. They held out till November 19, when Sir Colin Campbell arrived with reinforcements and rescued the remaining residents of the Residency. They moved out to the Dilkusha on the 22nd, by which time Henry Havelock had developed symptoms of dysentery. He died on the 24th. His soldiers refused to leave his body behind and carried it with them to the Alambagh fort where they were to put up until reinforcements arrived to enable them for another attack on Lucknow. Havelock was buried just outside the fort walls with full military honours. A monument was erected by his wife and family on the spot. At Trafalgar Square in London stands his statue that was erected by a government grateful for his services. Today, in the din and bustle of city traffic people walk past in their hurried and busy lives, oblivious to his contribution to his country.

The following is the epitaph on his grave:

Here rest the mortal remains of SIR HENRY HAVELOCK, BART

Major General in the British Army, and Knight Commander of the Bath,
Who died at Dilkhoosha, Lucknow of Dysentery produced by the hardships
of a campaign in which he achieved immortal fame on the 24th November 1857.
He was born on the 5th April, 1795, at Bishops Wearmouth, County Durham, England.
Entered the Army in 1815, came to India in 1823.
And served there with little interruption till his death.
He bore an Honorable part in the Wars of Burmah, Afghanistan,
the Mahratta Campaign of 1843, and the Sutlej of 1845-46.
Retained by adverse circumstances during many years in a subordinate
position, it was the aim of his life to prove that the profession
of a Christian is consistent with the fullest discharge of the duties of a soldier.
He commanded a division in the Persian Expedition of 1857.
In the terrible convulsion of that year
his genius and character were at length fully developed and known to the world.
Saved from shipwreck on the Ceylon coast by that providence which deigned him
for yet greater things, he was nominated to the command of the column
destined to relieve the brave garrison of Lucknow. This object after almost
superhuman exertions, he, by the blessing of God accomplished.
But he was not spared to receive on earth the rewards so dearly earned.
The divine master whom he served, saw fit to remove him from the sphere
of his labours, in the moment of his greatest triumphs.
He departed to his rest in humble but confident expectation of far greater rewards
and honours than those which a grateful country was anxious to bestow.
In him the skill of a commander, the courage and devotion of a soldier, the learning of
a scholar the grace of a highly bred gentleman, and all the social and domestic virtues
of a husband, father, and friend were blended together, and strengthened, harmonised, and adored by the spirit of a true Christian.
The result of the influence of the Holy Spirit on his heart and of a humble reliance on the merits of a crucified Saviour.

“I have fought a good fight, I have finished my course, I have kept my faith.
Henceforth there is laid up for me a crown of righteousness, which the Lord
the Righteous Judge, shall give me in that day: and not to me only, but to all those
that love his appearing.”
TIM 4 Chap 7 and 8 v??

“His ashes in a peaceful urn shall rest.”
“His name a great example stands to show”
“How strangely high endeavours may be blessed,”
“Where piety and valour jointly go.”

This monument is erected by his sorrowing widow and family.

‘Lucknow’, this name is synonymous with architectural beauties of ‘Lakhauri’ bricks, the fragrance of ‘itra’, musical notes, the sound of dancers’ trinklets, the sweetness of ‘dussheri’ mangoes, ‘malai’ and ‘gulab revadis’, and of course its ‘Mehman Nawazi’. Known for its refinement in speech, entertainment, dresses and manners, Lucknow is also called the ‘City of Adab’. Infact, it is here that one can experience hospitality in the true sense of the term. Various cultural ingredients have contributed to the richness of this unique city. Mention must be made of the Urdu language. Gazals, Shairi, expressive dance forms, colourful festivals, buzzing chowks and various exciting games like Patangbazi, Baterbazi & Kabutarbazi

Lucknow became the focal point of a cultural renaissance with theshifting of capital from Faizabad to Lucknow in 1776. Under royal patronage Kathak, Thumri, Khayal, Dadra, Gazals, Qawalies and Sher-o-Shairi reached their zenith point. As a centre of Islamic learning Lucknow witnessed the formation of Lucknow school of poetry under renowned poets like Anes, Dabeer, Imam-Buksh ‘Nasika’, Mirza Mohd. Raza Khan Burq, Atish, Mirza Shauq Asar, Josh and others. Apart from Gazals, another form of long narrative poem for which Lucknow is famous is Masnavi. Elegy writing in Urdu also reached a new height through the three forms-‘marsiyas’*. ‘salams’* and ‘nauhas’*. Urdu as a language attained a rare degree of perfection in Lucknow and slowly Lucknow emerged as a cradle of unforgettable gazals, masnavi, elegy, hazal* and dramas.

Nawab Wajid Ali Shah, himself composed a number of songs and dramas under the pen name of , ‘Akhtari Pia’. Of the famous Indian dance styles kathak is closely associated with Lucknow.

This devotional dance stvle of pre-Mughal days was transformed into a highly eclectic dance form under the patronage of the Nawabs of Awadh. Pandit Iswari Prasad Mishra of Handia is said to be the founder of the Lucknow gharana of Kathak.

The Kathak school founded by him was perfected by his sons Thakur Prasad, Durga Parsad. Bindadin. Kalka Prasad and the three sons of Kalka -Achchhan Maharaj, Lachchu Maharaj and Shambhu Maharaj. Today Pandit Birju Maharaj is the living doyen of this glorious house of Lucknow

Turning to the festivals that make, Lucknow one-of-a-kind, mention must be made to the Moharrum festival.

Commemorating the death of Imam Hussain, Moharrum witnesses emotional processions of tazias (models of Imam Hussain’s mausoleum at Karbala, Iraq) & Alam’s.

Not only festivals, the people of this beautiful city ‘indulge in various exciting contests that have come down from the time of the Nawabs. Kite flying is one such sport. Kites of different shapes, sizes, colours take to the skies leading to all round excitement and enjoyment The art of training pigeons which was perfected by the nobility of yesteryears is prevalent even today. The pigeon flying event is yet another exciting game that is eagerly awaited. No account of Lucknowi culture is complete without a mention of the famous ‘Chowk’ of Lucknow.

The term ‘Chowk’ has become synonymous with Lucknow. ‘Chowk’ has played a vital role in the development of the Lucknowi culture. It is the pivotal point around which the traders, engravers, painters. artisans, weavers,singers and nautch girls flourished and grew. This main bazar of yester years has not changed much. but transformation is there. Its humming and lively characteristics represent Lucknowi culture in its modern day context.

From the date of the Sepoy victory (July 30, 1857) at Chinhut near Lucknow till the last phase of the rebellion of 1857-58, the revolutionary history of Oudh was overshadowed by a woman who was in no respect less illustrious than the Rani Lakshmi Bai of Jhansi. She was Hazrat Mahal, a Begam of the deposed King Wazid Ali Shah. After the victory at Chinhut, when the revolutionary forces captured the city of Lucknow, leaving only the Residency, terror and oppression was let loose. The leaders felt the necessity to try out a royal symbol to take control, under whose banner diverse interests could be united. In that troubled hour the royal insignia was borne with amazing courage by the Begam, by crowning her minor son, Birjis Kadar, as King, herself acting as Regent.

Hazrat Mahal’s rise to position of power was from a rather ill-favoured beginning. Little is still known about her enigmatic career and origin. She probably hailed from Faizabad, born of a very poor family.

Unlike Rani Lakshmi Bai of Jhansi, the Begam had a different beginning to her career. She was born at a time and brought up in a manner suitable only for a life of gay abandon. Her obvious place was in the royal harem of an extraordinary King, essentially a poet par excellence and a connoisseur of beauty. William Howard Russell in his My Indian Mutiny Diary writes: “the Sepoys, during the siege of the Residency, never came on as boldly as the zamindari levies and nujeebs (irregulars), This Begam exhibits great energy and ability. She has excited all Oudh to take up the interests of her son, and the chiefs have sworn to be faithful to him. Will the Government treat these men as rebels or as honourable enemies? The Begum declares undying war against us. It appears, from the energetic character of these Ranis and Begums, that they zenanas and harems a considerable amount of actual mental power and, at all events, become able intriguantes. Their contests for ascendancy over the minds of the men give vigour and acuteness to their intellect.”

A BOY KING

Russell’s statement provides a clue to Begum Hazrat Mahal’s phenomenal career. Before enthroning Birjis Qadar the victorious Sepoys had approached other begams of Wazid Ali Shah (who was then a captive at Calcutta) and their sons to provide their King. But none of them ventured to come forward, and even objected to such a dangerous proposal. Ultimately Begum Hazrat Mahal was approached and she readily consented to crown her ten-year-old son, Birjis Qadar, as the King, herself to act as a Regent. It is believed by some that the Begam had already had such a design in her mind, and successfully negotiated with the Sepoy army, through one Mammu Khan, to attain her ambition.

The Begam headed a Government, with top revolutionary leaders in key positions, under whose banner the different sections of the soldiery assembled to form a united front. For about six months the revolutionary Government held the city of Lucknow under its control and invested the Residency continuously for twelve and half weeks. During all these operations the Begam was obviously the supreme commander. Under the seal of King Birjis Qadar she issued proclamations to the people in general, and to the zamindars and taluqdars of Oudh in particular, to unite under the banner of the new Government to fight the English. It is understood she even toured the province to stir up feeling against foreign rule. She was indirect correspondence with Nana Saheb and with some of the noble and time-honoured taluqdar and zamindar families, who actively participated in the investiture of the Residency and later in the battles of Lucknow. Among her important associates were Rana Beni Madho Baksh of Baiswara, Raja Drig Bijai Singh of Mahona, Khan Ali Khan of Shahjehanpur, Maulvi Ahmad Ullah Shah of Faizabad, Raja Man Singh and Raja Jayelal Singh, to name only a few.

COUNTER-OFFER

The scrappy information available about the Begam’s career as a sovereign reveals the statesman in her. To fortify the city of Lucknow against advancing relief forces of the English she sanctioned five lakhs of rupees to “have a wall built round the city.” Then, when she was informed that the English had purchased the friendship of Rana Jang Bahadur of Nepal with the promise of Gorakhpur and a share of Oudh, she immediately made the Rana a counter-offer of “Gorackpur, Azimgurh, Arrah, Chupra and the provinces of Benaras, if he would unite with her.” Her battle tactics too bear the stamp of an expert schemer. Through efficient agents she contacted the officers of the Indian regiments serving the English at Cawnpore and settled with them that when they were to face the the Begam’s forces “the regiments should fire blank ammunition” and afterwards “turn upon the Europeans.” She even personally appeared in the field (on February 25, 1858) on elephant back, along with other officers to supervise defence operations.

After the capture of Lucknow the Begam was listed by the English as No.1 of the enemies still at large. From Lucknow she retired with a large following across the River Ghagra and posted herself in the fort of Baundi, in Bahraich district. She fortified the stronghold with heavy guns and armed men. A correspondent of the Government reported: “….a force is encamped on all sides of the fort, numbering about 15,000 or 16,000 including followers. Among these there are 1,500 cavalry and 500 mutineer sepoys, the rest are nujeebs and followers.”

HARD FIGHTING

While the English were busy in re-establishing their authority in Lucknow, the Begam once again succeeded in stirring the rest of Oudh to rebellion. In fact, 1858 saw a series of sporadic outbursts in different areas of Oudh, and the English experienced some of the toughest encounters of the whole history of the rebellion. The heroes were, mainly and obviously the taluqdars and zamindars of Oudh, and there is enough evidence on record to show their attachment to the Begam.

After the Queen’s Proclamation, the English wanted to win her over by offers of royal clemency and even of a pension. The spirited lady replied with a counter-proclamation under the seal of King Birjis Qadar, warning the people of Oudh not to be misled by false promises. The Begam’s Proclamation, as it is called, stated: “At this time certain weak-minded, foolish people, have spread a report that the English have forgiven the faults and crimes of the people of Hindoostan. This appears very astonishing, for it is the unvarying custom of the English never to forgive a fault, be it great or small so much so, that if a small offence be committed through ignorance or negligence, they never forgive it….. therefore we, the ever-abiding government, parents of the people of Oude, with great consideration, put forth the present proclamation, in order that the real object of the chief points may be exposed, and our subjects placed on their guard.”

Vanquished though she was, the Begam remained faithful to her cause to the last and maintained a never-failing resolution of purpose. She was determined not to fall into the hands of the English; and leaving the fort of Baundi in December, 1858, she wandered in the dense jungle of the sub-Himalayan terai with a handful of faithful soldiers, “half-armed, half-fed and without artillery.” Eluding the English. She ultimately crossed over to Nepal (some time in the last quarter of 1859), where she was given refuge by the King despite English protests.

The Begam is stated to have died in 1874 at Kathmandu, where she lived with her son as a commoner.

Credits : Samarendra Nath Chanda / THE SUNDAY STATESMAN

The profound hypocrisy and inherent barbarism of bourgeois civilization lies unveiled before our eyes, turning from its home, where it assumes respectable forms, to the colonies, where it goes naked. Did they not, in India, to borrow an expression of that great robber, Lord Clive himself, resort to atrocious extortion, when simple corruption could not keep pace with their rapacity? While they prated in Europe about the inviolable sanctity of the national debt, did they not confiscate in India the dividends of the rajahs, who had invested their private savings in the Company’s own funds? While they combated the French revolution under the pretext of defending “our holy religion,” did they not forbid, at the same time, Christianity to be propagated in India, and did they not, in order to make money out of the pilgrims streaming to the temples of Orissa and Bengal, take up the trade in the murder and prostitution perpetrated in the temple of the Juggernaut? These are the men of “Property, Order, Family, and Religion.”

The story of the Sepoy (sepáhí) War of 1857, (an attempt at a compromise between two more controversial titles, ‘the Sepoy Mutiny of 1857’ and ‘the Sepoy Rebellion of 1857,’ though “insurgency” might also fit) began long before March of 1857. The history of the war delves deep into the colonization and conquest of India and the cultural and religious oppression imposed on Indians by British rule. Furthermore, the telling of the history of the war is, to this day, an ongoing battle between two competing narratives, the history belonging to the British that won the war, and the history claimed by the Indians who were defeated. In a time when the history of India is being retold everyday, this web page is an attempt to present a history of the Sepoy War that is derived from various points of view, accounting for the context of the histories related, and the points of view of the historians relating them.

The East India Company was a massive export company that was the force behind much of the colonization of India. The power of the East India Company took nearly 150 years to build. As early as 1693, the annual expenditure in political “gifts” to men in power reached nearly 90,000 pounds (Marx 23). In bribing the Government, the East India Company was allowed to operate in overseas markets despite the fact that the cheap imports of South Asian silk, cotton, and other products hurt domestic business. By 1767, the Company was forced into an agreement that is should pay 400,000 pounds into the National Exchequer annually.

By 1848, however, the East India Company’s financial difficulties had reached a point where expanding revenue required expanding British territories in South Asia massively. The Government began to set aside adoption rights of native princes and began the process of annexation of more than a dozen independent Rajes between 1848 and 1854 (Marx 51; Kaye 30). In an article published in The New York Daily Tribune on July 28, 1857, Karl Marx notes that “… in 1854 the Raj of Berar, which comprise 80,000 square miles of land, a population from four to five million, and enormous treasures, was forcibly seized” (Marx 51).

In order to consolidate and control these new holdings, a well-established army of 200,000 South Asians officered by 40,000 British soldiers dominated India by 1857. The last vestiges of independent Indian states had disappeared and the East India Company exported tons of gold, silk, cotton, and a host of other precious materials back to England every year.

Religion

Historians like J.A.B. Palmer and John Kaye trace the origins of the soldiers’ rebellion at Meerut, in which South Asian soldiers rose up against their colonial officers, to the Lee-Enfield Rifle. It was developed at the Enfield arsenal by James P. Lee and fired a .303 caliber ammunition that had to manually loaded before firing. Loading involved biting the end of the cartridge, which was greased in pig fat and beef tallow. This presented a problem for native soldiers, as pig fat is a haraam, or forbidden, substance to Muslims, and beef fat is, likewise, deemed inauspicious for certain Hindus. Thus, the revolt occurred as a reaction to this particular intrusion into Hindu and Muslim culture, and then caught on as a national rebellion. Palmer dramatically relates this discovery, according to Captain Wright, commanding the Rifle Instruction Depot: Somewhere about the end of the third week in January 1857, a khalasi, that is to say a labourer, accosted a high Brahmin sepoy and asked for a drink of water from his lotah (water-pot). The Brahmin refused on the score of caste. The khalasi then said, “You will soon lose your caste, as ere long you will have to bite catridges covered with the fat of pigs and cows,” or, it is added, “words to that effect.” (Palmer 15)

Furthermore, historians taking similar positions argue that British legislation that interfered with traditional Hindu or Muslim religious practices were a source of antagonism. Palmer and Kaye also argue throughout their respective work that the prohibition practices such as saathi (often transliterated “sati”), or the ritual suicide of widows on their husbands’ funeral pyres, became a source of outrage. In other words, the growing intrusion of western culture became the impetus for rebellious soldiers, fearful that their culture was being annihilated.

The long-belabored significance of the Lee-Enfield cartridge is challenged by the work of historians like Marx, Collier, Majumdar, Chaudhuri, and Malleson. These historians argue that the actions of soldiers at Meerut was the “last straw” for South Asians who had been victims of British cultural and class based oppression and antagonism, and discard the notion that religion played an overwhelmingly vital role in fomenting revolt. For them, the root causes of the insurgency cannot be traced to a single, well-defined set of events and causes, but rather stemmed from an on-going set of conflicts.

Divide and Conquer

Col. G.B. Malleson argues that forcing Western ideas on an Eastern people fundamentally backfired, and the “divide and conquer” tactics employed by the British in India ultimately sowed the seeds of the rebellion. He notes, “action of a different character … so dear to the un-travelled Englishman, or forcing the ideas in which he has been nurtured upon the foreign people with whom he has brought into contact, assisted … to loosen the bonds of discipline, which, up to that period, had bound the [Sepoy] to his officer” (Malleson 8). In other words, the Sepoy soldiers found themselves constantly pit against their countrymen in an army governed by what common soldiers came to feel were outside influences. In a colonial setting, this is the prime breeding ground for a coup, (or in this case, a revolt) because any soldier’s allegiance is governed by competition with other soldiers in currying favor and accumulating power, not by discipline or obedience to the orders of superior officers, and he begins to affiliate himself with his own people rather than the military ethics forced on him.

Expansionism

Greater still was the influence of British expansionism on the Sepoy Rebellion. Richard Collier explains how rapidly increasing territorial conquest also intensified Indian unrest: … these annexations were a source of discontent and anxiety to many people besides the sepoys. In eight years, Canning’s predecessor, the despotic Lord Dalhousie, at 35 the youngest Governor-General India had ever known, had annexed over 250,000 square miles– an area three times the size of England and Ireland. The Punjab, Sattara, Nagpur– Dalhousie’s hands had stretched out to embrace them all. ‘An Indian Governor General,’ stormed The Hindu Patriot, ‘is chartered to destroy dynasties with a scratch of his quill.’ Indignities were heaped upon crowned heads: the jewels of the Royal Family of Nagpur were publicly auctioned in Calcutta. (Collier 19)

Partcipating in the military conquest of local authorities, then, and having first-hand knowledge of the effects of British expansionism would have fomented resistance in the Sepoys.

Torture and Oppression

On August 28, 1857, Marx published an article in The New York Daily Tribune in order to “[show] that the British rulers of India are by no means such mild and spotless benefactors of the Indian people as they would have the world believe” (Marx 72). Marx cites the official Blue Books — entitled “East India (Torture) 1855-57”– that were laid before the House of Commons during the sessions of 1856 and 1857. The reports revealed that British officers were allowed an extended series of appeals if convicted or accused of brutality or crimes against Indians. Concerning matters of extortion in collecting public revenue, the report indicates that officers had free reign of any methods at their disposal (Marx 73).

Torture became a financial institution in colonial India, and was challenged by a petition from the Madras Native Association presented in January of 1856. The petition was dismissed on the basis of a lack of evidence, despite the fact that, according to the Marx, “there was scarcely any investigation at all, the Commission sitting only in the city of Madras, and for but three months, while it was impossible, except in very few cases, for the natives who had complaints to make to leave their homes” (Marx 74). Marx also refers to Lord Dalhousie’s statements in the Blue Books that there was “irrefutable proof” that various officers had committed “gross injustice, to arbitrary imprisonment and cruel torture” (76).

In addition to torture, the Company levied extremely large taxes on the Indian people. Collier describes taxes as “a cynical outrage. A man could not travel twenty miles without paying toll at a river ferry, farmed out by the Company to private speculators. Land Tax, often demanded before the crop was raised, was made in quarterly installments … the annual rent for an acre of land was 3s[hillings]., yet the produce of that acre rarely averaged 8s[hillings]. in value.” (Collier 20)

Marx’s position, as illustrated by the introductory quote to this page, is that the Indians were victims of both physical and economic forms of class oppression by the British. In Marx’s analysis, the clash between the soldiers and their officers is the inevitable conflict that is the result of capitalism and imperialism.

The Rebellion

The military history of the rebellion is straightforward. Prior to the “mutiny” at Meerut on May 9th, 1857, fires broke out on January 22nd near Caclutta. An incident occurred on February 25th of that year when the 19th regiment mutinied at Berhampore, and the 34th Regiment rebelled at Barrackpore on the 31st of March. At Berhampore, the regiment allowed one of it’s men to advance with a loaded musket upon the parade-ground in front of a line and open fire on his superior officer; a battle ensued. April saw fires at Allahabad, Agra, an Ambala, but the spark that lit the powder keg went off on May 9th in Meerut.

Members of the 3rd regiment of light cavalry were awaiting sentencing and imprisonment for refusal to obey orders and put the Lee-Enfield .303 caliber cartridge into their mouths. Once imprisoned, the 11th and 20th cavalry assembled and broke rank and turned on their commanding officers. After liberating the 3rd regiment, chaos ensued in Meerut, and the rebels engaged the remaining British Troops. Meerut was the single-most evenly balanced station in India in terms of the numbers of British and Indian soldiers. Troops and rebels were on near-even terms with 2,028 European Troops versus 2,357 sepoys, which certainly made the British side’s capacity to defend its interest and defeat the Sepoys that much more likely. Furthermore, the British had 12 field guns and the sepoys had no artillery. Both Collier and Marx indicate that the rebellion would have ended there had Major-General William Hewitt cut off the rebel army at the bridge between Meerut and Delhi, some 40 miles away, with added weapons. (Collier 40)

As the 38th, 54th, and 74th regiments of infantry and native artillery under Bahkt Khan (c.1797- c.1859) joined the rebel army at Delhi in May. June 1857 marked the battle of Kanpur (Cawnpore). The last Maratha prince, Baji Rao II, decreed his title and 80,000 pound annual pension to his son Nana Sahib (c.1820- c.1859) and was refused twice. Despite Sahib’s attempts to push his claim, Lord Dalhousie refused the Hindu nobleman. Thus, in June 1857, Nana Sahib led the sepoy battalions at Crawnpore against the British. Nana Sahib sent word to Sir Hugh Wheeler, commander of the British forces at Cawnpore warning of the attack, guaranteeing him safe passage. On June 27, Nana Sahib broke the pact and trapped Wheeler in his palace. The events leading up to Wheeler’s surrender and death have been recorded as the Cawnpore Massacre.

The Cawnpore Massacres

In the words of Sir Colin Campbell, leader of the British forces during the war: never was devised a blacker scheme than that which Nena Sahib had planned. Our miserable countrymen were conducted faithfully enough to the boats- officers, men, women, and children. The men and officers were allowed to take their arms and ammunition with them, and were escorted by nearly the whole of the rebel army. It was about eight o’clock a.m. when all reached the riverside- a distance of a mile and a half. Those who embarked first pushed off from the shore; but others found it difficult to get their boats off the banks, as the rebels had placed them as high as possible. At this moment the report of three guns was heard from the Nana’s camp. The mutineers suddenly leveled their muskets, guns opened from the banks, and the massacre commenced. Some of the boats were set on fire, volley upon volley was fired upon the poor fugitives, numbers of whom were killed on the spot … A few boats crossed over to the opposite bank, but there a regiment of native infantry (the 17th), just arrived from Azimghur, was waiting for them; and in their eagerness to slay the “Kaffirs,” rode their horses belly deep into the river to meet the boats, and hack our unhappy country men and women to pieces. (Campbell 112)

Andrew Ward’s historical narrative, Our Bones Are Scattered, also relates an account of the terrible and bloody massacre that followed the rebellion at Cawnpore, as well as Delhi and Meerut. By July, when Nana Sahib had captured Gwalior, he was reinstated as prince.

The Siege of Delhi

The siege of Lucknow lasted roughly from July 1st to August 31st. The commanding British officer, Sir Henry Lawrence, died early on during the siege. By July 25th two-thirds of the British forces had retreated across the river and Delhi had been taken by early September. Bahadur Shah, the last surviving Mogul ruler was installed as ruler and the devastating battle between rebel and British forces for control Delhi ensued. Soldiers faced down the horrific sight of the impregnable walls of Delhi and “more than fifty guns and mortars belching fire at Delhi’s northern walls from the water bastion on the east to the Mori bastion on the west.” (Collier 246)

As the siege wore on the Punjabi forces fighting for the British began to weary and there was talk of a retreat. Under General John Nicholas, Delhi had toppled by September 20th, at the cost of 3,835 soldiers, British and Indian, and 378 horses (Collier 264). Rebel forces retreated to Lucknow where the siege was approaching three months in length. There the war lasted until late November, until the rebels were driven to defeat in the Ganges Valley in December and January by Hugh Rose and Colin Campbell. By July 8, 1858, a peace treaty was signed and the war ended. By 1859, Rebel leaders Bahkt Khan and Nana Sahib had been slain in battle.

Conclusion

Though the Sepoy War has been dismissed as a chaotic, disorganized peasant uprising, several facts go undisputed that offer a counter-argument. The “unorganized peasants” of India fought one of the most powerful empires in the world to near defeat with limited resources and even more limited training. Nevertheless, the lesson of the Sepoy War is not one of victory or justice, but failure. Though the exact cause of the Sepoy War has yet to be agreed upon, and it is likely that there were many complex causes rather than one, it is clear that British interference governments and the oppression of the Indian people, religious and economic, created a bloody revolution. If there is a lesson to be learned from any of this, it is that a people, once pushed into a corner, will fight for nothing more than the freedom to fight, and live, if not for religion then for their basic right to live in freedom. Furthermore, in the desperate vengeance of a people reduced to pure indignity, lives a coldness that rivals that of their oppressors.

Lucknow Mutiny Tour

Kanpur Mutiny Tour

During the eighty years of the Nawabi rule in Lucknow three new palace complexes were built and the old fort of the Sheikhzadas modified. Initially, after coming to power, Macchi Bhawan, the fortified palace of the Sheikhs was rented by Nawab Burhan-ul-Mulk. By 1766 it was largely improved and extended by the later Nawabs. The next palace complex, Daulat Khana, was built by Nawab Asaf-uddaula in around 1780 to the north of Macchi Bhawan. Nawab Saadat Ali Khan made Chattar Manzil palace to the south of the Macchi Bhawan in 1803. Finally Nawab Wajid Ali Shah built the Kaiserbagh palace, the most elaborate and grand complex of Nawabi Lucknow.

Wajid Ali Shah started the construction of the Kaiserbagh as soon as he ascended the throne in 1847. It was located in the southeast corner of the Chattar Manzil palace. Wajid Ali Shah was a great patron of poetry and music. He was himself an accomplished poet and has written several poems. It is said that he named his cavalry in the most poetic manner such as ‘banka’ (Dandy), ‘ghanghur’ (Dark), and ‘akhtari’ (Lucky). In the Kaiserbagh he dreamed of a palace complex that would be a paradise on earth with large gardens that would be an ideal place for his very many dance dramas and general poetic temperament.

The concept of Paradise promised in the Holy Koran consists of several terraces of garden, each more beautiful than the last. The recreation of Paradise as a garden is a tradition passed onto the Nawabs by the Mughals. In Lucknow not only were the courtyards within the earlier palaces designed like gardens with fruit trees, flowing water fountains, and fragrant flowers, there were many more walled gardens in the suburbs of the city especially developed for animal fights, as orchards, or with small villas for hunting. Wajid Ali Shah visualized a palace complex, which amalgamated all the intricacies of a paradise garden. Paintings and photographs taken before 1857 show Kaiserbagh to have a manicured garden at the heart of the palace. As compared to the other palace complexes, Kaiserbagh is probably the only one that was designed before execution. An important aspect of the palace complex was it’s planning with intentional hierarchy of spaces. A visitor was made to move from one court to another and the visitor a sense of awe for the royal court. In a way it was a showcase of the riches of’ the kings. The indirect and zigzag movement through the courts confused the visitors. The path felt longer and more complicated than it often was. This lack of clarity, with guards posted at the numerous gates also helped maintain a strict security within the palace.

Cloth Painting of Kaiserbagh, Lucknow. This painting is made when the this palace was at its bloom before being destroyed in 1857-1858.

There were three principal parts of the complexes. Firstly, the public areas where the king met his officials and subjects and where large melas and functions like coronation took place. These areas were open to the public and subjects of the king. These courts also had religious buildings like the Friday mosque and temples. The second important part of the palace complex was the residential quarters of the king along with his offices, library, the treasury, hammams, private mosque etc. And finally there were the residential quarters of the queens. Since each Muslim ruler had a large number of queens, the zenana formed a bulky part of the whole palace complex. This was located in the innermost part of the complex and was strictly guarded by female attendants and eunuchs. Only the king and selected guests were allowed to enter these spaces. Kaiserbagh fulfils all the necessary aspects of planning and hierarchy with a distinct movement pattern within the complex

The palace was approached from the Hazratganj Street and entered from an open space in front of the Tarawali kothi (SBI guesthouse). The Entrance Street was lined on one side by stables. Referring the maps made during the 1850s it may be assumed that this was the gate where the Press club is located today. The king used to give audience to the public from this gate. It was high enough to allow the royal procession on elephants to pass through. Some accounts of travelers note that from the Jilaun Khana the prisoners were conducted to the prison towards the end of the passage.

Turning to the right after entering from the Jilaun Khana the visitor came to the China Bazaar so named because it probably sold or was decorated with material bought from China. At the end of the China Bazaar was the Mermaid gate or the China Bazaar gate. Nawab Wajid Ali’s Prime Minister, Nawab Ali Naqvi Khan, used to stay on top of this gate so architecture can be made from old photographs. The gates had a pediment on top and two green coloured mermaids are stuccoed above the arched gateway hence the name of ‘Mermaid gate’.

The Mermaid gate led to a garden called Hazrat Bagh or Chowk. This garden supposedly had a large tree under which Wajid Ali Shah use to sit during ‘Jogia nieta’. He would dress up in saffron clothes and enact out musical dance dramas like Krishna Leela, Inder Sabha, and Raas Leela with female attendants. The Hazrat Bagh was enclosed on the left by the Chaulakhi Kothi and to the right by Badshah Bagh and Huzoor Bagh which were the residential quarters of the king. Moving straight ahead the visitor would pass through the Lakhi gate to the main walled garden, which is called Kaiserbagh today. A lakh of rupees were spent on making the Lakhi gate thus the name.

In appearance the palace complex was a series of courtyards, both large and small, usually enclosed by walls of different heights. Within these walled enclosures, large independent structures were integrated either within the courtyards or along the walled enclosures to form an integral whole. No one building assumed undue prominence over another. Another with the help of link ways and passageways making it difficult to ascertain where one structure started joined one building and another ended. Kaiserbagh had such large buildings like Kaiser Pasand, Chaulakhi, Lanka, and the tombs, all enclosed by walled structures. The Chaulakhi Kothi was made by Wajid Ali Shah’s barber Azim-ullah Khan. While making the palace complex, the Nawab confiscated the building and made it a part of his palace. During the First War of Independence it was supposedly the residence of Begum Hazrat Mahal.

The Huzoor Bagh was the royal garden with the king’s apartments on three sides and a Baradari in the centre, probably the Chandiwali Baradari. Facing the south for the winter sun was the Shahenshan manzil. The other two sides had Makan-e-Khas and Falak Sair occupied by the king during rainy and summer seasons. The British demolished all these buildings in 1858.

What remains today is part of the main Kaiserbagh quadrangle known as the ‘Paree khana’ where the queens of the King lived. The quadrangle was an enclosed garden with the Sufaid Baradari in the Centre, a small mosque, many small marble pavilions and kiosks, and a large tent like structure called Lanka. Lanka was demolished and in it’s place stands the Aminu- ud-daula library. It was an elevated platform supported by eight pillars with water flowing through it. Wajid Ali Shah used it during the monsoons. Some people believe that it was not one building but collectively the Kaiserbagh palace complex was called lanka due to its impregnable position.

The residential quarters of the ladies, surrounding the main quadrangle, were houses with large courtyards, two storeys high, and no windows on the exterior. The residential quarters were later partitioned and allotted to the Rajas and Taluqdars of Awadh and are till date in their possession. Within the Kaiserbagh were two markets, Meena Bazaar and Kaptan Bazaar, exclusively for the use of the royal women.

The palace complexes of the Nawabs like Kaiserbagh were similar to those of the Mughals and other Indian rulers. They were a city within a city. Each palace accommodated the residential quarters of the king, his queens, the court officials, the Diwan-e-am and the Diwan-e-khas, mosques, baradaris, enclosed gardens for entertainment, kitchens, servant quarters, the treasury, hammams, stables, markets, etc. Baradaris have been a regular feature being used in simply articulating a garden space for housing libraries and holding coronations. The kings also held court in these structures. The Sufaid Baradari is one such structure continues till date to be a cultural centre within the Kaiserbagh.

The Kaiserbagh quadrangle is entered and exited through two identical gates known as out of the complex towards the Kaiser Pasand located at the southwest corner of the Kaiserbagh palace. This building was made by Roshan-ud-daula but like Wajid Ali Shah confiscated Chaulakhi Kothi when he made the palace complex and renamed it Kaiser Pasand. One of his favourite ladies, Begum Mashuq Mahal, used to reside there. Interestingly the elevation of the Lakhi Gate and Kaisar Pasand mirror the elevation of Constantia, built in 1800 by Claude Martin, which had two crossed arches imaging a dome as the pinnacle of the building. The architecture of the buildings, like other Nawabi structures, is a fusion of both Mughal and European classical examples.

Turning to the right one would pass through the Sher Darwaza to the Chattar Manzil complex. Between the Chattar Manzil palace and the Kaiserbagh was another court, which housed the tombs of Nawab Sadat Ali Khan and his Begum Khrushidzadi. The tombs still exist but are devoid of their elaborate enclosures and gates. The graves of the family members of the Nawab are housed within the tombs.

Thus, the Kaiserbagh sprawled between the Chattar Manzil to the Tarawati kothi in the north to the Roshan-ud-daulti kothi and Chaulaki kothi in the south. It was joined to the Chattar Manzil by a series of courtyards. Even though the palace complex accommodate a multitude of people and offices, they were not self-sufficient and did not have the kind of resources that would allow them to exist independently from their surrounding towns. These palace complexes never threatened the traditional functions of the town and city. On the contrary, because these complexes were not self sufficient, the outer periphery of the palace became thickly populated to provide luxuries and necessities to the royal court.

Although the palace was not fortified, it was not easily penetrable because of its concentric enclosures made it difficult for the enemy to the palace was fortified by the dense city with narrow and labyrinthine streets. Therefore it is easy to understand why Kaiserbagh was called Lanka. During the First war of Independence it became the fort of the Nawabi army. It put up a tough resistance and had to be demolished enclosure by enclosure before it fell to the British. The demolition and destruction of Kaiserbagh is as important a part of its history as it’s making.

With the annexation of Awadh on 13th February 1856, and Nawab Wajid Ali Shah exiled to Calcutta soon after, the Nawabi court passed in the hands of his son Prince Brijis Qadar with Begum Hazrat Mahal as the guardian. It was she who fortified Kaiserbagh and bravely fought the British from May 1857 to March 1858 when Lucknow and Kaiserbagh fell in the hands of the British. W.H. Russell’s graphic description of the capture of Kaiserbagh shows that British Soldiers ran amok, smashing doors and breaking into rooms in search of portable loot. The things that they could not carry like marble statues, furniture, heavy draperies and massive jade bowls, they striated in a frenzy of destruction. But it was not the loot, which damaged the palace as much as the British attitude to demolish Kaiserbagh and the city of Lucknow.

After the siege it had become clear to the British military that large palace complexes such as Kaiserbagh, mosques, and big kothis must be seized and demolished since they provided convenient shelter to the enemy Indian forces. A letter from the Secretary of the Chief Commission to the Commissioner of Oudh clearly stated that, ” It is not by an indiscriminate massacre of the wretched sepoys that we should avenge our kindred.” Instead, it read, they should totally destroy the city of Lucknow so that the “mutineers were taught a lesson”. The letter further stated that only those buildings should be preserved, “as may be requisite for our own military or other purposes. No mosque- no temple should be spared.” Another- letter stated that, “As to Buildings in Lucknow, the only one that I think it might be well to level to the Ground is the Kaiserbagh as that is the palace where our chief’ energies have resided during the rebellion.” The death sentence was thus passed over Kaiserbagh. The work of reshaping the unhealthy and indefensible city of Lucknow was given to Colonel Robert Napier of the Bengal Engineers. He produced a document known as the Memorandum on the Military Occupation of the City of Lucknow,’ dated 26 March 1858. Therein he proposed to open broad streets through the city and to demolish any enclosures not required for military purposes. Anything that came in the path of the proposed road was demolished. As a result, Kaiserbagh was slowly demolished and had wide streets passing through its main courtyards.

The whole of the southern wall was demolished together with the Chaulakhi Kothi. Gradually the freestanding buildings inside the Kaiserbagh were demolished. Slowly the northern walls of the Kaiserbagh also vanished. Some enclosures became weak and collapsed as a result of structural instability. The passageways between Kaiserbagh and Chattar Manzil disappeared with the exception of Sher Darwaza. This gate had an emotive significance for the British because one of the relieving officers died under the gate and it was renamed Neil’s gate after him. The tombs were stripped off their enclosures and they stood starkly by themselves. Kaiser Pasand was denuded of its upper storeys.

No other building of Lucknow was as glorious as Kaiserbagh and none other was mutilated as badly. Today it requires great effort and imagination to recreate the vision of the palace complex as only a few structures of the Kaiserbagh palace remain. The important among these are Sufaid Baradari, some parts of Paree Khana, and the Lakhi gates. Sher Darwaza and the two tombs. The two tombs are protected monuments and well looked after by the Archeological Survey of India. The Baradari is used as a community hall and the Lakhi gates are in dilapidated condition whereas the Sher darwaza looks much diminished in size in most of it plinth has been silt. The Paree Khana has been modified beyond recognition. The presences of Lakhori bricks in these structures confirm their association with the palace complex. Two new buildings the Amin-ud-daula library and Bhatkhande College of music are part of the main Kaiserbagh quadrangle. As the whole with the streets piercing in through the main quadrangular and heavy traffic plying through them, the essence of the garden palace is difficult to recreate.

Wajid Ali Shah Walk

While the 7th Oudh Irregular was at Lucknow a large section of the regiment Mutinied. This was repeated in many regiments throughout the Bengal army. On 30th April 1857 the men started complaining about using the new cartridge which involved biting greased paper. Rumours had spread about it’s being unclean. Lieutenant Mecham remonstrated with them and initially they were placated. But on the 1st May the sergeant-major reported that the recruits were refusing to bite the cartridges or even handle them. The whole squad of 30 men were confined to the quarter-guard. The remaining soldiers were dismissed but hung around in groups. The native officers were reluctant to get involved but the Havildar-Major was loyal and reported that the older sepoys had taunted the recruits about loss of caste.

By 3rd May the men were threatening to shoot officers who forced them to use the cartridge. Brigadier Gray tried talking to the men but the situation was still bad. At one point, Mecham was threatened by mutineers but kept a cool head, “It is true that you may kill me but what good will my death do to you? You will not ultimately prevail. Another adjutant will take my place and you will be subjected to the same treatment you receive from me.” He remained unhurt.

Eventually Sir Henry Lawrence intervened with a British force of 32nd Foot and a battery of guns, also 3 native regiments and 2 native cavalry regiments. The 7th Oudh were paraded and ordered to lay down their arms. Some tried to run away but were caught. They arrested 57 ringleaders and the native officers were dismissed. There were 200 men allowed to remain armed. Of these men, a company was sent to quieten disturbances at Malhiabad fourteen miles away. They were under the command of Mecham and Captain Weston. They also had 40 men, with native officers, of a loyal Irregular cavalry unit.

On the march to Malhiabad they were surrounded by about 3,000 angry Muslim men and had to make a run for it. When they arrived the place was in uproar and they had to use Weston’s skills as a linguist to calm the situation. He also knew many of their leaders and was able to reason with them. They could not trust the men of their own regiment but were reliant on the cavalry to keep order. One of the Risalders of the cavalry had gone into the town to find out how things stood but came galloping back with a warning that an attack was imminent. They took up defensive positions in a mosque and waited while a huge force of men surrounded the place, beating drums and shouting. But then, after a few hours they dispersed.

All was quiet for a few days until news came from Sir Henry Lawrence that mutiny had broken out in various other cantonments and that they were to return as fast as possible to Lucknow. At the same time news of another attack came in so they struck camp and took a circuitous route to avoid the approaching enemy. They were fired on from every village they passed and had to remain in a skirmishing formation most of the way. They did not rest until they reached Lucknow at 4am on 31st May, unable to believe that they were still alive. Their men had stayed loyal, although they said that if, on their return they found that the regiment had mutinied, they would follow.

One of the focal points of the Indian Mutiny was the siege of the Residency at Lucknow. Lieutenant Mecham was one of the besieged British officers who survived. He wrote of his experiences in his book published in 1858. One particularly memorable incident occurred on 18th August when a mine blew up throwing him into the air and killing 7 members of a corps of drums.

It happened at dawn while Mecham and Captain Orr were with the sentries. They were on top of an out-house on the south-west corner of Sikh Square when one of the sentries called “Mine, sir!” They were blown into the air. Mecham described it thus: ‘I can assure my readers that an involuntary ascent of some twenty or thirty feet in the form of a spread eagle is by no means an agreeable sensation.’

One of the drummers, Band-Sergeant Curtain of the 41st NI was blown outside the defences and decapitated by the rebels. Six other drummers were buried in rubble and remained there. A breach was made in the wall by the explosion but the enemy failed to get through. Although Mecham was badly bruised he suffered no serious injury.

Sunday, the 10th of May, dawned in peace and happiness. The early morning service, at the Cantoment Church, saw many assembled together, some never to meet on earth again. The day passed in quiet happiness; no thought of danger disturbed the serenity of that happy home. Alas! how differently closed the Sabbath which dawned so tranquilly. We were on the point of going to the evening service, when the disturbance commenced on the Native Parade ground. Shots and volumes of smoke told of what was going on: our servants begged us not to show ourselves, and urged the necessity of closing our doors, as the mob were approaching. Mr. Greathed [her husband], after loading his arms, took me to the terrace on the top of the house; two of our countrywomen also took refuge with us to escape from the bullets of the rebels. Just at this moment, Mr. Gough, of the 3rd Cavalry, galloped full speed up to the house. He had dashed through the mutinous troops, fired at on all sides, to come and give us notice of the danger. The nephew of the Afghan Chieftain, Jan Fishan, also came for the same purpose, and was, I regret to say, wounded by a Sepoy.

The increasing tumult, thickening smoke, and fires all around, convinced us of the necessity of making our position as safe as we could; our guard were drawn up below. After dark, a party of insurgents rushed into the grounds, drove off the guard, and broke into the house, and set it on fire. On all sides we could hear them smashing and plundering, and calling loudly for us; it seemed once or twice as though footsteps were on the staircase, but no one came up. We owed much to the fidelity of our servants: had but one proved treacherous, our lives must have been sacrificed.

After some time, the flames got the ascendant, and the smoke became intolerable. Just as the fire threatened our destruction, we heard the voice of one of our servants calling to us to come down. At all risks, we descended. Our faithful servant, Golab Khan, seeing our perilous situation amidst the increasing flames, and that every moment was precious, with his characteristic presence of mind and quickness, had suddenly thought of a plan by which to draw away the mob, who, after having satisfied themselves with all the plunder they could get, were every moment becoming more eager in their search for us. He boldly went up to them, won their confidence by declaring himself of their faith, and willing to give us up into their hands. He assured them it was useless to continue their search in the house; but if they would all follow him, he would lead them to a haystack, where we had been concealed.

The plan succeeded; and so convinced were they that what he had told them was the truth, that not a man remained behind. In this interval we got safely down. Not a human being was to be seen near the house; but we had only just time to escape into the garden when the mutinous crowd returned, madder than ever at the deception that had been practised on them. Golab Khan’s life was now almost as much at risk as our own; but he happily escaped. In a very few minutes after our descent, the house fell in with a crash, and we thanked God for His merciful preservation of us.

The remaining hours till dawn were not without anxiety. We were sitting quietly in the bright moonlight, on a “charpoy” which one of the servants had brought out, when an alarm was given that they threatened to search the garden for us. The gardener concealed me under a tree; my husband stood near, with his revolver in his hand. The alarm proved false, and I was glad to be released from my hiding-place.

Never was dawn more welcome to us than on the 11th of May; the daylight showed how complete the work of destruction had been. All was turned into ruin and desolation, and our once bright happy home was now a blackened pile. Sad was the scene; but thankfulness for life left no place for other regrets. With the morning light the mob had all dispersed, and we had no difficulty in making our way to the dragoon lines, where we were most cordially welcomed by our friends, Captain and Mrs. Cookson. They had felt the greatest apprehension as to our fate, knowing that as we were out of cantonments no help could have been given us. We had been utterly cut off from all communication through the night, and sad was the tale of murder and bloodshed we now heard, and terrible the anxiety for those at Delhi, when it was found that the telegraph wires had been destroyed by the Sepoys, before any knowledge of what was occurring had transpired. The mutineers got away during the night, and pursuit was useless. The morrow confirmed our worst fears; but of that hideous massacre all has been made known.

The artillery depot, with its large enclosure, was converted into a fort, and became a home for every one; many families occupied the rooms in the long range of barracks, and the space between was filled with tents. Here we found shelter, and with the aid of “tatties” and thermantidotes, felt little inconvenience from the scorching sun and hot blasts. strength and spirits seemed to rise with the exigencies of our position; no complaints were heard; heat and comparative discomfort were alike disregarded; all were cheerful and ready to help others, and those who had lost all, had their wants generously supplied by those who had been less unfortunate. Our position was perfectly secure and well guarded, and became every day more strongly entrenched. Active preparations at the same time went on in organising a field force. At length all was in readiness, and the order for the march was hailed with delight; sanguine were our hopes that a fortnight, or at the most three weeks, would see our gallant little army on its victorious return. With many and oft-repeated good wishes and prayers, we saw them depart. On the night of the 27th May they marched away.

The Siege of Cawnpore was a key episode in the Indian rebellion of 1857. In the 19th century, Kanpur was an important British garrison with barracks for 7,000 soldiers. During the First War of Independence 1857, 900 British were besieged in the fortifications for 22 days by rebels under Nana Sahib

The besieged British in Cawnpore (now Kanpur) were unprepared for an extended siege and surrendered to rebel Indian forces under Nana Sahib, in return for a safe passage to Allahabad. However, under ambiguous circumstances, their evacuation from Cawnpore turned into a massacre, and most of them were killed. Those captured were later executed, as an East India Company rescue force from Allahabad approached Cawnpore; in what came to be known as the Bibighar Massacre, 120 British women and children captured by the Sepoy forces were hacked to death and dismembered with meat cleavers (a butcher’s knife having a large square blade), with the remains being thrown down a nearby well in an attempt to hide the evidence.

Background

Cawnpore was an important garrison town (Garrison town is a common expression for any town that has a military base nearby.) for the East India Company forces. Located on the Grand Trunk Road, it lay on the approaches to Sindh (Sind), Punjab and Awadh (Oudh).

By June 1857, the Indian rebellion had spread to several areas near Cawnpore, namely Meerut, Agra, Mathura, and Lucknow. However, the Indian sepoys at Cawnpore initially remained loyal. The British General at Cawnpore, Hugh Wheeler, knew the local language, had adopted local customs, and was married to an Indian woman. He was confident that the sepoys at Cawnpore would remain loyal to him, and sent two of British companies (one each of the 84th and 32nd Regiments) to besieged Lucknow.

The British contingent in Cawnpore consisted of around nine hundred people, including around three hundred military men, around three hundred women and children, and about one hundred and fifty merchants, business owners, drummers, engineers and others. The rest were the native servants, who left soon away after the commencement of the siege.

Maj Gen Hugh Wheeler

In the case of a rebellion by the sepoys in Cawnpore, the most suitable defensive location for the British was the magazine located in the north of the city. It had thick walls, ample ammunition and stores, and also hosted the local treasury. However, General Wheeler decided to take refuge in the south of the city, in an entrenchment composed of two barracks surrounded by a mud wall. There was a military building site to the south of Cawnpore, where nine barracks were being constructed at the dragoon barracks. The British soldiers found it difficult to dig deep trenches, as it was hot summer season. The area also lacked good sanitary facilities, and there was only one well and that would be exposed to enemy fire in case of an attack. Also, there were several buildings overlooking the entrenchment that would provide cover for the attackers, allowing them to easily shoot down on the defenders.

General Wheeler’s choice of this location to make a stand remains controversial, given the availability of relatively safer and more defensible places in Cawnpore.It is believed that General Wheeler was expecting reinforcements to come from the southern part of the city. He also assumed that in case of a rebellion, the Indian troops would probably collect their arms, the ammunition and money, and would head to Delhi and therefore, he did not expect a long siege. There is also another theory that Wheeler had simply chosen this location because it was closer to his personal residence at the time.

Outbreak of rebellion at Cawnpore

There were four Indian regiments in Cawnpore: the 1st, 53rd and 56th Native Infantry, and the 2nd Bengal Cavalry. Although the sepoys in Cawnpore had not rebelled, the European families began to drift into the entrenchment as the news of rebellion in the nearby areas reached them. The entrenchment was fortified, and the Indian sepoys were asked to collect their pay one by one, so as to avoid an armed mob. The Indian soldiers considered the fortification, and the artillery guns being primed and aimed at them, as insulting as well as threatening. On the night of June 2, 1857, a British officer named Lieutenant Cox fired on his Indian guard while drunk. Cox missed his target, and was thrown into the jail for a night. The very next day, a hastily convened court acquitted him, which led to discontent among the Indian soldiers. There were also rumors that the Indian troops were to be summoned to a parade, where they were to be massacred. All these factors instigated them to rebel against the East India Company rule.

The rebellion began at 1:30 AM on June 5, 1857, with three pistol shots from the rebel soldiers of the 2nd Bengal Cavalry. Elderly Risaldar-Major Bhowani Singh, who loyally refused to hand over the regimental colours and join the rebel sepoys, was subsequently cut down by his younger subordinates. The 53rd and 56th Native Infantry, which were the most loyal units in the area, were awoken by the shootings. Some soldiers of the 56th panicked and started to run off into the city. The European artillery assumed that they were rebels too, and opened fire on them. The soldiers of the 53rd were also caught in the crossfire.

The 1st N.I. rebelled and left in early morning on June 6, 1857. On the same day, the 53rd N.I. also went off, taking with them the regimental treasure and as much ammunition as they could carry. Around 150 sepoys remained loyal to General Wheeler.

After obtaining arms, ammunition and money, the rebel troops started marching towards Delhi to seek further orders from Bahadur Shah II, who had been proclaimed the Padshah-e-Hind (“Emperor of India”). The British officers were relieved that they would not face a long siege.

Attack on Wheeler’s entrenchment

Wheeler’s Entrenchment (after 1857)

On June 5, 1857, Nana Sahib sent a polite note to General Wheeler, informing him that he intended to attack the following morning, at 10 AM. On June 6, Nana Sahib’s forces (including the rebel soldiers) attacked the British entrenchment at 10:30 AM. The British were not adequately prepared for the attack, but managed to defend themselves for a long time, as the attacking forces were reluctant to enter the entrenchment. Nana Sahib’s forces had been led to falsely believe that the entrenchment had gunpowder-filled trenches that would explode if they got closer.

As the news of Nana Sahib’s advances over the British garrison spread, several of the rebel sepoys joined him. By June 10, he was believed to be leading around twelve thousand to fifteen thousand Indian soldiers.

The British held out in their makeshift fort for three weeks with little water and food supplies. Many died as a result of sunstroke and lack of water. As the ground was too hard to dig graves, the British would pile the dead bodies of their killed outside the buildings, and drag and dump them inside a dried well during the night. The lack of sanitation facilities led to spread of diseases such as dysentery and cholera, further weakening the defenders. There was also a small outbreak of smallpox, although this was relatively confined.

During the first week of the siege, Nana Sahib’s forces encircled the entrenchment, created loopholes and established firing positions from the surrounding buildings. Captain John Moore of the 32nd (Cornwall) Light Infantry countered this by launching night-time sorties. Nana Sahib retreated his headquarter to Savada House (or Savada Kothi), which was situated about two miles away. In response to Moore’s sorties, Nana Sahib decided to attempt a direct assault on the British entrenchment, but the rebel soldiers displayed a lack of enthusiasm.

On June 11, Nana Sahib’s forces changed their tactics. They started concentrated firing on specific buildings, firing endless salvos of round shot into the entrenchment. They successfully damaged some of the smaller barrack buildings, and also tried to set fire to the buildings.

The first major assault from the Nana Sahib’s side took place on the evening of June 12. However, the attacking soldiers were still convinced that the British had laid out gunpowder-filled trenches, and did not enter the area. On June 13, the British lost their hospital building to a fire, which destroyed most of their medical supplies and caused the deaths of a number of wounded and sick artillerymen who burned alive in the inferno. The loss of the hospital to fire on the 13 June was a major blow to the defenders. Nana Sahib’s forces gathered for an attack, but were repulsed by the canister shots from artillery under the command of Lieutenant George Ashe. By June 21, the British had lost around a third of their numbers.

Wheeler’s repeated messages to Henry Lawrence, the commanding officer in Lucknow, could not be answered as that garrison was itself under siege.

Assault on June 23

The sniper (a marksman who shoots at people from a concealed place) fire and te bombardment continued until June 23, 1857, the 100th anniversary of the Battle of Plassey. The Battle of Plassey, which took place on June 23, 1757, was one of the pivotal battles leading to the expansion of the British rule in India. One of the driving forces of the rebellion by sepoys, was a prophecy that predicted the downfall of East India Company rule in India exactly one hundred years after the Battle of Plassey. This prompted the rebel soldiers under Nana Sahib to launch a major attack on the British entrenchment on June 23, 1857.

The rebel soldiers of the 2nd Bengal Cavalry led the charge, but were repulsed with canister shot when they approached within 50 yards of the British entrenchment. After the cavalry assault, the soldiers of the 1st Native Infantry launched an attack on the British, advancing behind cotton bales and parapets. They lost their commanding officer, Radhay Singh, to the opening volley by the British. They had hoped to get protection from cotton bales; however, the bales caught light from the canister fire, and became a hazard to them. On the other side of the entrenchment, some of the rebel soldiers engaged in a hand combat against 17 British men led by Lieutenant Mowbray Thomson. By the end of the day, the attackers were unable to gain an entry into the entrenchment. The attack left over 25 rebel soldiers dead, with very few casualties on the British side.

Surrender of the British forces

The British garrison had taken heavy losses as a result of successive bombardments, sniper fire, and assaults. It was also suffering from disease and low supplies of food, water and medicine. General Wheeler’s personal morale had been low, after his son Lieutenant Gordon Wheeler was decapitated (cut the head of) by a roundshot. With approval of General Wheeler, a Eurasian civil servant called Jonah Shepherd slipped out of the entrenchment in disguise to ascertain the condition of Nana Sahib’s forces. He was quickly imprisoned by the rebel soldiers.

At the same time, Nana Sahib’s forces were wary of entering the entrenchment, as they believed that it had gunpowder-filled trenches. Nana Sahib and his advisers came up with a plan to end the deadlock (a situation in which no progress can be made or no advancement is possible). On June 24, they sent a female European prisoner, Mrs Rose Greenway, to the entrenchment and conveyed their message. In return for a surrender, Nana Sahib had promised the safe passage of the British to the Satichaura Ghat, a dock on the Ganges from which they could depart for Allahabad. General Wheeler rejected the offer, because it had not been signed, and there was no guarantee that the offer was made by Nana Sahib himself.

Next day, on June 25, Nana Sahib sent a second note, signed by himself, through another elderly female prisoner, Mrs. Jacobi. The British camp divided into two groups with different opinions – one group was in favor of continuing the defence, while the second group was willing to trust Nana Sahib. During the next 24 hours, there was no bombardment from Nana Sahib’s forces. Finally, General Wheeler decided to surrender, in return for a safe passage to Allahabad. After a day of preparation, and burying their dead, the British decided to leave for Allahabad on the morning of June 27, 1857.

Satichaura Ghat Massacre

1858 picture of Sati Chaura Ghat on the banks of the Ganges River, where on 27 June 1857 many British men lost their lives and the surviving women and children were taken prisoner by the rebels.

On the morning of the June 27, a large British column led by General Wheeler emerged out of the entrenchment. Nana Sahib sent a number of carts, dolis and elephants to enable the women, the children and the sick to proceed to the river banks. The British officers and military men were allowed to take their arms and ammunition with them, and were escorted by nearly the whole of the rebel army. The British reached the Satichaura (or Sati Chowra) Ghat by 8 AM. Nana Sahib had arranged around 40 boats, belonging to a boatman called Hardev Mallah, for their departure to Allahabad.

The Ganges river was unusually dry at the Satichaura Ghat, and the British found it difficult to drift the boats away. General Wheeler and his party were the first aboard and the first to manage to set their boat adrift. There was some confusion, as the Indian boatmen jumped overboard after hearing bugles from the banks, and started swimming toward the banks. As they jumped, some fires on the boats were knocked off, setting a few of the boats ablaze.

Though controversy surrounds what exactly happened next at the Satichaura Ghat, and who fired the first shot, it is known that soon afterwards, the departing British were attacked by the rebel sepoys, and were either killed or captured.

Some of the British officers later claimed that the rebels had placed the boats as high in the mud as possible, on purpose to cause delay. They also claimed that Nana Sahib’s camp had previously arranged for the rebels to fire upon and kill all the English. Although the East India Company later accused Nana Sahib of betrayal and murder of innocent people, no evidence has ever been found to prove that Nana Sahib had pre-planned or ordered the massacre. Some historians believe that the Satichaura Ghat massacre was the result of confusion, and not of any plan implemented by Nana Sahib and his associates. Lieutenant Mowbray Thomson, one of the four male survivors of the massacre, believed that the rank-and-file sepoys who spoke to him did not know of the killing to come.

After the conflict began, Nana Sahib’s general Tatya Tope allegedly ordered the 2nd Bengal Cavalry unit and some artillery units to open fire on the British. The rebel cavalry sowars moved into the water, to kill the remaining British soldiers with swords and pistols. The surviving men were killed, while women and children were taken into captivity, as Nana Sahib did not approve of their killing. Around 120 women and children were taken prisoner and escorted to Savada House, Nana Sahib’s headquarters during the siege.

By this time, two of the boats had been able to drift away: General Wheeler’s boat, and a second boat which was holed beneath the waterline with a round shot fired from the bank. The British people in the second boat panicked and attempted to make it to General Wheeler’s boat, which was slowly drifting to safer waters.

General Wheeler’s boat had around 60 people aboard, and was being pursued down the riverbanks by the rebel soldiers. The boat frequently grounded on the sandbanks. On one such sandbank, Lieutenant Thomson led a charge against the rebel soldiers, and was able to capture some ammunition. Next morning, the boat again stuck at a sandbank, resulting in another charge by Thomson and 11 British soldiers. After a fierce fighting on the ground, Thomson and his men decided to return to the boat, but didn’t find the boat where they expected to find it.

Meanwhile, the rebels had launched an attack on the boat from the opposite bank. After some firing, the British men on the boat decided to fly the white flag. They were escorted off the boat and taken back to Savada house. The surviving British men were seated on the ground, as Nana Sahib’s soldiers got ready to fire on them. The women insisted that they would die with their husbands, but were pulled away. Nana Sahib granted the British chaplain Moncrieff’s request to read prayers before they died. The British were initially wounded with the guns, and then killed with the swords. The women and children were confined to Savada House, to be reunited later with their remaining colleagues, who had been captured earlier, at Bibighar.

After being unable to find the boat, Thomson’s party decided to run barefoot to evade the rebel soldiers. The party took refuge in a small shrine, where Thomson led a last charge. At the end, six of the British soldiers were killed, while the rest managed to escape to the riverbank. They tried to escape by jumping into the river and swimming to safety. However, a group of rebels from the village started clubbing them as they reached the bank. One of the soldiers was killed, while the other four, including Thomson, swam back to the center of the river. After swimming downstream for a few hours, they reached ashore, where they were discovered by some Rajput match lockmen, who worked for Raja Dirigibijah Singh, a British loyalist. They carried the British soldiers to Raja’s palace. These four British soldiers were the only male survivors from the British side, apart from Jonah Shepherd (who had been captured by Nana Sahib before the surrender). The four men included two privates named Murphey and Sullivan, Lieutenant Delafosse, and Lieutenant (later Captain) Mowbray Thomson. The men spent several weeks recuperating, eventually making their way back to Cawnpore which was, by that time, back under British control. Murphey and Sullivan both died shortly after from cholera, Delafosse ironically went on to join the defending garrison during the Siege of Lucknow, and Thomson took part in rebuilding and defending the entrenchment a second time under General Windham, eventually writing a firsthand account of his experiences entitled The Story of Cawnpore (London, 1859).

Another survivor of the Satichaura Ghat massacre was Amy Horne, a 17-year-old Eurasian girl. She had fallen from her boat and had been swept downstream during the riverside massacre. Soon after scrambling ashore she met up with Wheeler’s youngest daughter, Margaret. The two girls hid in the undergrowth for a number of hours until they were discovered by a group of rebels. Margaret was taken away on horseback, never to be seen again, and Amy was led to a nearby village where she was taken under the protection of a Muslim rebel leader in exchange for converting to Islam. Just over six months later, she was rescued by Highlanders from Sir Colin Campbell’s column on their way to relieve Lucknow. It is rumoured that the youngest daughter of General Wheeler survived the massacre and married a Muslim soldier. On her deathbed, she confided to a Christian priest that she was the daughter of General Wheeler.

Bibighar Massacre

Bibigurh house where European women and children were killed and the well where their bodies were found, 1858.

The Bibigurh Well site where a memorial had been built by 1859. Samuel Bourne, 1860.

The surviving British women and children were moved from the Savada House to Bibighar (“the House of the Ladies”), a villa-type house in Cawnpore. Initially, around 120 women and children were confined to Bibighar. They were later joined by some other women and children, the survivors from General Wheeler’s boat. Another group of British women and children from Fatehgarh, and some other captive European women were also confined to Bibighar. In total, there were around 200 women and children in Bibighar.

Nana Sahib placed the care of these survivors under a prostitute called Hussaini Khanum (also known as Hussaini Begum). She put the captives to grinding corn for chapatis. Poor sanitary conditions at Bibighar led to deaths from cholera and dysentery.

Nana Sahib decided to use these prisoners for bargaining with the East India Company. The Company forces, consisting of around 1000 British, 150 Sikh soldiers and 30 irregular cavalry, had set out from Allahabad, under the command of General Henry Havelock, to retake Cawnpore and Lucknow. The first relief force assembled under Havelock included 64th Regiment of Foot and 78th Highlanders (brought back from the Anglo-Persian War), the first arrivals of the diverted China expedition, 5th Fusiliers, part of the 90th Light Infantry (seven companies), the 84th (York and Lancaster) from Burma, and EIC Madras European Fusiliers, brought up to Calcutta from Madras. Havelock’s initial forces were later joined by the forces under the command of Major Renaud and Colonel James Neill, which had arrived from Calcutta to Allahabad on June 11. Nana Sahib demanded that the East India Company forces under General Havelock and Colonel Neill retreat to Allahabad. However, the Company forces advanced relentlessly towards Cawnpore. Nana Sahib sent an army to check their advance. The two armies met at Fatehpur on July 12, where General Havelock’s forces emerged victorious and captured the town.

Nana Sahib then sent another force under the command of his brother, Bala Rao. On July 15, the British forces under General Havelock defeated Bala Rao’s army in the Battle of Aong, just outside the Aong village. On July 16, Havelock’s forces started advancing to Cawnpore. During the Battle of Aong, Havelock was able to capture some of the rebel soldiers, who informed him that there was an army of 5,000 rebel soldiers with 8 artillery pieces further up the road. Havelock decided to launch a flank attack on this army, but the rebel soldiers spotted the flanking maneuver and opened fire. The battle resulted in heavy casualties on both sides, but cleared the road to Cawnpore for the British.

By this time, it became clear that the Company forces were approaching Cawnpore, and Nana Sahib’s bargaining attempts had failed. Nana Sahib was informed that the British troops led by Havelock and Neill were indulging in violence against the Indian villagers. Some historians, such as Pramod Nayar, believe that the forthcoming Bibighar massacre was a reaction to the news of violence being perpetrated by the advancing British troops.

Nana Sahib, and his associates, including Tatya Tope and Azimullah Khan, debated about what to do with the captives at Bibighar. Some of Nana Sahib’s advisors had already decided to kill the captives at Bibighar, as revenge for the murders of Indians by the advancing British forces. The women of Nana Sahib’s household opposed the decision and went on a hunger strike, but their efforts went in vain.

Finally, on July 15, an order was given to murder the women and children imprisoned at Bibighar. The details of the incident, such as who ordered the massacre, are not clear. According to some sources, Azimullah Khan ordered the murder of women and children at Bibighar.

The rebel sepoys executed the four surviving male hostages from Fatehghar, one of them a 14 year old boy. But they simply refused to obey the order to kill women and the other children. Some of the sepoys agreed to remove the women and children from the courtyard, when Tatya Tope threatened to execute them for dereliction of duty. Nana Sahib left the building because he didn’t want to be a witness to the unfolding massacre.

The British women and children were ordered to come out of the assembly rooms, but they refused to do so and clung to each other. They barricaded themselves, tying the door handles with clothing. At first, around twenty rebel soldiers opened fire on the outside of the Bibi-Ghar, firing through holes in the boarded windows. The soldiers of the squad that was supposed to fire the next round were disturbed by the scene, and discharged their shots into the air. Soon after, upon hearing the screams and groans inside, the rebel soldiers declared that they were not going to kill any women and children.

An angry Begum Hussaini Khanum termed the sepoys’ act as cowardice, and asked her lover Sarvur Khan to finish the job of killing the captives. Sarvur Khan hired some butchers, who murdered the surviving women and children with cleavers. The butchers left, when it seemed that all the captives had been killed. However, a few women and children had managed to survive by hiding under the other dead bodies. It was agreed that the bodies of the victims would be thrown down a dry well by some sweepers. The next morning, when the rebels arrived to dispose off the bodies, they found that three women and three children aged between four and seven years old were still alive. The surviving women were cast into the well by the sweepers who had also been told to strip the bodies of the murder victims. The sweepers then threw the three little boys into the well one at a time, the youngest first. Some victims, among them small children, were therefore buried alive in a heap of dead corpses.

Recapture and violence by the British soldiers

The Company forces reached Cawnpore on July 16, and captured the city. A group of British officers and soldiers set out to the Bibighar, to rescue the captives, assuming that they were still alive. However, when they reached the site, they found only dead bodies of the British women and children.

Brigadier General Neill, who took the command at Cawnpore, decided to sentence the arrested rebels immediately, unless they could prove a defence. They were forced to clean the blood from the floor of the Bibighar compound. Then, they were forced to eat beef (if Hindu) or pork (if Muslim) — something they considered unholy. Some of the Muslim sepoys were sewn into pig skins before being hung, and sweepers were employed to execute the high-caste Brahmin rebels. The idea was to humiliate the religious victims and prevent any reward they might have expected in the afterlife. After that, the rebels would be hanged and then buried in a ditch at the roadside. A set of nooses was set up next to the well at the Bibighar, so that they could die within sight of the massacre. Some rebels were tied across the mouths of cannon that were then fired; an execution method initially used by the rebels, and the earlier Indian powers, such as the Marathas and the Mughals.

The British soldiers, angry after learning of the massacre, indulged in indiscriminate violence, including looting and burning of houses. They were angry even at the neutral locals for not doing anything to stop the Bibighar massacre. Remember Cawnpore! became a war cry for the British soldiers for the rest of the conflict In one of the villages, the Highlanders caught around 140 men, women and children. Ten men were hanged without any evidence or trial. Another sixty men were forced to build the gallows of wooden logs, while others were flogged and beaten. In another village, when around 2,000 villagers came out in protest with lathis, the British troops surrounded them and set the village on fire. The villagers trying to escape were shot to death.

Aftermath

On July 19, General Havelock resumed operations at Bithoor. Nana Sahib’s palace at Bithur was occupied without resistance. The British troops seized guns, elephants and camels, and set Nana Sahib’s palace to fire.

In November 1857, Tantya Tope gathered a large army, mainly consisting of the rebel soldiers from the Gwalior contingent, to recapture Cawnpore. By November 19, Tantya Tope’s advance guard of 6,000 dominated all the routes west and north-west of Cawnpore. However, Tantya Tope’s forces were defeated by the Company forces under Colin Campbell in the Second Battle of Cawnpore, marking the end of the rebellion in the Cawnpore area. Tantya Tope then joined Rani Lakshmibai.

Nana Sahib disappeared and by 1859, he had fled to Nepal. His ultimate fate was never determined. Up until 1888, there were rumours and reports that he had been captured and a number of individuals turned themselves in to the British claiming to be the aged Nana. As the majority of these reports turned out to be untrue further attempts at apprehending him were abandoned.

British civil servant Jonah Shepherd, who had been rescued by Havelock’s army, spent the next few years after the rebellion attempting to put together a list of those killed in the entrenchment. He had lost his entire family during the siege. He eventually retired to a small estate north of Cawnpore in the late 1860s

Memorials

A memorial erected (circa 1860) by the British after the Mutiny was crushed at the Bibi Ghar Well. After India’s independence the statue was moved to the Memorial Church, Cawnpore. Albumen silver print by Samuel Bourne, 1860.

After the revolt was suppressed, the British dismantled Bibighar. They raised a memorial railing and a cross at the site of the well in which the bodies of the British women and children had been dumped. The inhabitants of Cawnpore were forced to pay £30,000 for the creation of the memorial; this was partially their punishment for not coming to the aid of the women and children in Bibighar.

The remains of a circular ridge of the well can still be seen at the Nana Rao Park, which was built after India achieved independence. The British also erected the All Souls Memorial Church, in the memory of their deceased. An enclosed pavement outside the church marks the graves of over 70 British men captured and executed on July 1 1857, four days after the Satichaura ghat massacre. The marble gothic screen with “mournful seraph” was transferred to the churchyard of the All Souls Church after the Indian independence in 1947, and a bust of Tantya Tope was installed in its place.

Kanpur Mutiny Tour

Lucknow Mutiny Tour

In Lucknow, what do Rahman the Butcher at Chowk and Jimmy the Raja of Jahangirabad have in common? What does Raffo Apa, 53, of La Place in Lucknow have in common with Times FM deejay Roshan Abbas of Lalbagh? What indeed is the shared passion of the Shias and the Saxenas, the Rastogis and the Rahmans, the Usmans and the Umajis of the cuisine capital of the country? Tundey Ke Kabab!

No mean feat that. One that current proprietor of the grubby Tundey Ke Kabab shop at Chowk, the patriarchal Haji Raees Ahmed’s father, the late Haji Murad Ali Saheb alias Tundey Miyan accomplished a half century ago. Why ‘Tundey’? Murad Sahib, a legendary Luck-now kababchi (Lucknowspeak for kabab maker) fell off the roof while flying kites and fractured and lost an arm. Became a tunda (physically handicapped person). Albeit, one who turned his adversity into an advantage. Tundey and his kababs soon became the very stuff of Lucknow’s culinary folklore.

Recounting that tale, boasting about a bloodline that he claims connects him to the fabled Nawab Wajid Ali Shah’s 19th century kitchen, Raees, 63, puffs with justifiable pride. His origins like his winning recipes remain shrouded in mystery. But it’s not so much for his pedigree as for his product that the man is revered today. A product whose ingredients he guards fiercely and refuses to pass on to anyone other than family. “So what masalas do you use Haji Sahib?” “Nothing but the best,” is his cryptic reply. “Best of which, Haji Sahib?” you persist. “Of everything,” he says scowling before putting paid to any efforts to elicit masala on his masalas. “Apni betiyon ko nahin batate hain to aapko kaise bataa dein hum?”; (I don’t reveal recipes to my daughters, how can I reveal it to you?) Makes sense: daughters, like us journalists, may spill the beans to “outsiders”. Out goes the recipe, kaput goes the family business.

A business that’s booming. Lucknow wagers are about how many tundeys you can eat at one go. Come evening and begums and bandits, darzees and diplomats, mazdoors and memsahibs alike queue up in front of the tiny Chowk shop and lately also at the Nazeerabad branch to eat four, six, twelve or even more tundeys. All priced at a ridiculously low Rs 4 for a plate of four. So cheap? “Badey ka gosht hota hai na (its beef meat, you see),”; Raees explains delicately.

That notwithstanding, people eat it like beef’s going out of style. “It’s fresh, it’s fragrant, it’s delicious, it’s cheap. Poor man’s redemption, rich man’s passion. The most democratic food we know in Lucknow! Where else can one eat a galvat ka kabab and a paran-tha for Rs 4?” asks renowned gourmet, Begum Raffia Hussain, 53, of Chowk. “My earliest memory is of going to Tundey and gorging on kababs with my Dad. Old General Umrao Singh of Rajast-han, an old family friend, would get off the train, first visit Tundey, next he’d come visiting us.” Faisal Khan, self-employed businessman, fourth-generation Luckn-owi explains how to best savour the Tunda Taste: “Eat them fresh. They are tender because of the papaya he puts in the meat, delicious because he’s a master blender of masalas. They’re fragrant because of the kewra, rich because of the tallow he uses.” The kabab masala is a family secret incorporating 160 ingredients and costs over Rs 2,000 per kilo to make. Says an oldtimer: “Freshness is the essence. ”

Also change as Tunda’s descendants have realised. A new branch at Nazeerabad has twin floors, sit-down tables and a menu variation. “We serve chicken tikkas and mutton biryani too.Kya karein, waqt ke saath chalna padta hai (have to move with the times),” sighs Raees. His sons have already learnt to do that. The elder one, Usman is a chef at the Delhi Oberoi, the younger son Rizwan helps run the two Lucknow outlets. Raees recently had his moment in the arclights when Jiggs Kalra and Hotel Oberoi persuaded him to come to Delhi to teach a trick or two to their chefs before their Avadh Festival held recently. More plans in the offing: Tunda Kabab Corners at Bombay’s Juhu and Delhi’s West End that Raees plans to open in partnership with Kalra. “He’ll be our very own McDonald’s,” grins Kalra.

In time Tunda will become a food fashion. To everyone else. Not to the Luck-nowi though. “It’s tough for outsiders to understand,” says Faisal. “To you Tun-dey is just kabab. To us he is culture!”

Credits : OUTLOOK INDIA. BY :SUNIL MEHRA ON HAJI RAEES AHMED KHAN (THIS ARTICLE WAS ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED IN OUTLOOK INDIA IN OCT 1996 ISSUE)

In the mid-twenties my parents, along with two other Sindhi families from Karachi, came to Lucknow in search of a new world. I was very young and recall living in Hazratganj. I went to St. Joseph’s school. My father opened the Lucknow Book Shop where the current Kashmir Emporium is, as well as bookshops in Cawnpore and Nainital. My mother died in 1934 and my father decided to return with his young family to Karachi. The two families that had come with him insisted that he stays.

The other two families were those of Seth Gyanchand Thadani and Mr. H. Mansukhani. Mr. Mansukhani was trading in silk from the shop where the current Choudhary Sweet House now stands. His daughter, Shanti Hiranand, later became the first student of Begum Akhtar and continues to perform till today. Mr.Thandani was running four regimental cinemas in the Dilkusha Cantonment and also managing the Prince of Wales Cinema and my father helped him there. Sometimes as children we stood at the gate as ushers and let the British soldiers in and were rewarded with peanuts and chocolates. As children we also got to see every film that was screened at the Prince of Wales cinema. I remember when sound came to the movie in 1934, I saw Rio Rita and what I remember clearly are the signs, lit in red, all around the dark hall, asking for SILENCE. Sometimes I went back again and again to see a particular sequence that I liked. Mr. Thandani wanted to open his own cinema house in civil lines and asked my father to stay on in Lucknow and help him.

After watching films, very often the late show, we used to walk back to our first home in Lucknow, which was close to Wingfield Park. After the Allahabad Bank on Park Road were the Kasmanda House and the residence of the City Magistrate. Beyond Park Lane and up to the crossing of Narhi there was wooded, forest area. Wingfield Park itself stretched right up to Park Road and current Civil Hospital and Information Department buildings were a part of the deer enclosure and you could see deer and rhinos as you walked along Park Road. Across the road from Wingfield Park was just one house, Jackson House. Later it became Thapar House. A road ran through Wingfield Park connecting Jopling Road to Loreto Convent and this was open to vehicular traffic up to the fifties.

My memories of Hazratganj become sharper from 1933 onwards. Perhaps this was because I learnt how to ride a bicycle and began to roam around Hazratganj on it. The roads were cleaner and seemed much wider than now. I clearly remember that between the St. Joseph’s Church and the Post Master General’s office there was just one bungalow. The other prominent buildings that I remember were the District Magistrate’s bungalow, the Jehangirabad Palace, the Allahabad Bank, the Central Bank and the East Indian Railway Building. Halwasiya Court, Halwasiya Market, and the stadium were not there then. Neither were the buildings opposite Halwasiya market on either side of the Maqbara gate. There was open ground with trees there. Mayfair and Basant Cinema were built later, on open ground where people sat around and vendors sold peanuts. Hazratganj was very green with large trees on the pavements on both sides of the road and in the open areas.

I remember the time when there were no electric lights on the street of Hazratganj. Yet it was well lit (by gas) during the night. A man came around in the evening, carrying a ladder on his bicycle, to light the street lamps, and early in the morning to put them out. At some places in Hazratganj there were notices indicating the lighting time. After this designated time, it was mandatory for all bicycles, tongas and other vehicles to carry lights on them. I also recall that there was no street food available in Hazratganj. Ice cream or Ice Sodas were only available in restaurants. There were no carts selling anything. There were hawker selling peanuts and seasonal fruit but they sold these items from baskets, which they carried around on their heads.

There were distractions in Hazratganj apart from the three cinema halls. There were the billiard rooms in the Prince of Wales, the Capitol and in the Lawrie Building (where the Capoor’s Hotel is today), where I went to watch friends play. Or I went skating in the rink opposite Whorras. I still have the roller skates I bought then. I knew the shops well, though I never shopped in Hazratganj, people paid extra for the privilege of shopping in well-managed shops where service standards were European. The floor staff in these shops were Indian while the European managers and owners stayed in the background.

Of the Europeans, I particularly remember Robert Anderson of Anderson Brothers who had a lucrative tailoring business. His shop was where Woodland is today with a portico at the eastern end of the Ganj. His wife ran a tailoring business for women called Nortons, close by. The Andersons were very nice to us because my father had worked with him. Then there was German Jeweller called Rufener in the Lawrie Building. I remember him because he was European and spoke with an accent that was not British. When the war broke out, he was detained as a German national and sent to Dehradun, and the shop was closed. There was also Mr. Lancaster who was associated with the Oriental Motor Company. Mr. Lancaster was from the same family as Percy Lancaster, the author of the well-known book ‘Gardening in India’.

There was Valerio’s tea room where Gandhi Ashram is today but I never went in there except once to buy some cream rolls because they had superb confectionary, but they were very expensive. It had a dance floor too. Benbows opened later. Where Burma bakery is today there used to be very popular Chinese restaurant with cubicles, across which you could draw curtains. Close to it was Mangolia. I loved eating fish and chips and I ate these often at Chinese restaurants all of which served European cuisine. All restaurants used to have liquor licenses.

For a haircut I went to Aktor & Co. run by Akhtar Jan who later opened a successful haircutting salon A.N.John & Sons. He was not only one who changed his name. The owner of Mayfair had also changed his name to Mr. Thad and it was only after independence that he reverted to Thadani.

In 1937 Mr. Thadani decided to lease the vacant land opposite St. Joseph’s Church, from raja sir Mohd. Ejaz Rasul Khan Sahib of Jehangirabad for a paltry amount and decided to build a cinema hall. There were many ups and downs and finally the cinema opened in 1939. Mr. Thadani had decided to name it Matropole but for some reason, when he went to register it, he changed his mind and decided to call it Mayfair. There was also Mayfair Ballroom and a Mayfair Restaurant attached. My father managed all these establishments for Mr. Thadani.

The outbreak of the war and the influx of soldiers invigorated Hazratganj. The cinema halls had two shows a day: at six thirty and nine thirty. The popular notion of having fun was to come to Hazratganj: have a drink, eat at a Chinese restaurant and see a movie or go to one of the ballrooms. Mayfair was the first commercial ballroom but the Ambassador Skating Rink next door was converted in to another ballroom too. There was also the Lucknow Club at Lawrence Terrace for those who found the other two very expensive.

The Mayfair ballroom was on the first floor and would open at 8 PM. It was managed by Bob Lawson and one of its attractions was a crooner named Miss Fanthome. There used to be a live orchestra on Saturday and Sunday and it stayed open till five in the morning on weekends. The entrance charge was too high but the ballrooms made enormous profits from the sale of liquor. Anyone could enter as long as they were properly dressed. Women were mostly dressed in European style though some come in saris. There were more men than ladies and many of the women who came there used to smoke and drink. This ballroom was a great opportunity for many men to learn dancing and to mix with ladies. I myself learnt to dance the Waltz, Fox Trot and Tango from an American lady who was a great Tango dancer. People would go out on to the terrace from the ballroom and later at night the revelry would sometimes spill over into the streets with drunken soldiers and their lady friends dancing on the street. But, by and large discipline was expected and maintained in areas like these. The Mayfair Ballroom used to have the tambola nights and organize music shows.

During the war years other things changed too. Valerio’s closed down and a coffee house opened in its place. Above it, where Soochna Kendra now is, there was a private guest-house called soldiers’ home. Bush-shirts were seen for the first time with the arrival of American soldiers, and increased traffic in Hazratganj saw the appearance of cycle rickshaws.

After independence things naturally changed again. The change in liquor licensing laws meant that most of the popular restaurants, particularly the Chinese ones, closed down. The Mayfair restaurant too closed and the space was leased out to Kwality. The ballrooms closed. Europeans, unsure of the future, began to leave. The establishments owned by them in Hazratganj either closed down or changed hands. Many of the Anglo-Indians who lived around Hazratganj, and who were crucial to its fabric, also began migrating. With the coming of refugees after partition, Hazratganj grew rapidly. The work culture began to change. The migrants were more active, more aggressive and intent on getting on with their jobs. On the other hands, these newcomers to Lucknow couldn’t help but be influenced by the sophisticated, courteous and stylish culture of Lucknow because there was so much to imbibe.

I also got the opportunity to open a branch of J.Ray & sons. The chain of family book shops belonging to my grandfather which until then had existed in Lahore, Peshwar, Rawalpindi, Murree and Simla. The Indian Coffee House Shifted to Jehangirabad Mansion and its space was allotted to Gandhi Ashram. I happened to meet Acharya Kripalani, President of the Gandhi Ashram, who, aware of my family’s long association with the book trade was kind enough to offer me space within the Gandhi Ashram to open a book shop. A 12 X 40 Ft area, to the left as you entered, was cordoned off and allotted to me.

The Gandhi Ashram was supposed to open on February 1, 1948 and on 30 January of that year, Gandhi Ji, was assassinated. The opening was postponed for a fortnight. The book-shop being situated right there was a very lucky break for me. Khadi was in vogue all over the country and this was the place to buy khadi. All the stalwarts, whether it was Pandit Nehru or the Chief Ministers, visited the shop. I was a newcomer to the book trade in Lucknow but I found a clientele immediately. I was eager to do well and therefore did everything to educate myself about books. I also did not treat books like a commodity.

I did well and by 1950 they began to politely hint that they wanted their space back. In 1951, I got this shop in the Mayfair building. I heard from Mr. Larkins, the manager of Lawrence & Mayo, the opticians who were occupying the premises, that they would be vacating it. Mr. Gulu Thadani naturally agreed to rent it to me provided it was allotted to me. I had built up enough good-will for that not to be a problem.

I decided to change the name of the shop. The Right Reverend George Sinker, Bishop of Nagpur, who had been a godfather to me, came and stayed with me around that time. I told him of my plans that I was thinking of calling my new shop ‘The Strand’ or ‘The Globe Book Stall’, and he said “Don’t be silly. Booksellers all over the world are known by their names and not as strand, Globe or Britannia. Call it Ram Advani Booksellers”. My father laughed at the idea but against the advice of my entire family I followed George Sinker’s advice. On July 1, 1951, I opened this shop-and here I am till today.

Article by: Ram Advani / Credits: Times of India (Publisher) & Dr. Rosie Llewellyn-Jones (Editor for the book on Hazratganj)

Tornos’ Victorian Walk…. All days Except Sunday. Victorian Walkers Assembly starts at 1630 hrs. Book your walk on our toll free: 1800-102-28-82. We take only a maximum of 8 walkers at a time.

There are a very few places that have the distinction of rising to an utmost glory, falling and rising again. Hazratganj is one of those places, that was and is looked at with awestruck eyes for its rich history, architecture and so very Victorian style, that till date is considered as the most happening place to be and to be seen at. Often compared to the High Street at Oxford. This place has a charm that is hard to resist and define.

We have re-produce an article by the legendary Ram Advani, that was published in The Times of India’s book Hazrtaganj, edited by Dr. Rosie Llewellyn-Jones. This book is available at Ram Advani’s Book Shop at the Mayfair Building or can be read at The Tornos Studio. We would be pleased to procure a copy and send this book by post to you.

Of all the buildings of old Lucknow, surely none has a stranger or more romantic history than that of La Martiniere. Kipling described it in Kim as the school where his young hero was a reluctant pupil for a term, although he called it St. Xavier’s. Satyajit Ray filmed part of Shatranj ke Khilari in its grounds. The Indian writer Allan Sealy set his first novel Trotter-nama in the old house, and he renamed it Sans Souci, which means care-free. It has featured in several short stories too. But let us leave aside, for the moment, fantasy and fiction, and learn something of the real building that has inspired so many.

La Martiniere was built at the end of the 18th century by the Frenchman Major General Martin who gave it his name. Martin was an extraordinary man who arrived at Pondicherry in 1751 as a penniless common soldier, and by a mixture of skill, luck and hard work, became a richest European in Lucknow, so rich that he was able to lend $250,000 to the Nawab Asaf-Ud-Daula. La Martiniere was originally known as Constantia. Historians say that this was from Martin’s motto Labore-et-Constantia (Toil and Fidelity), which is engraved over a first floor balcony. But romantic people believe it was named after Constance, who was Martin’s first love, the young girl that he left behind in France when he came to India to seek his fortune. If the story is true, and certainly his family in present day Lyon seem to think so, then a more remarkable monument to a woman in India does exist, apart from the Taj Mahal in Agra.

La Martiniere was a tomb that became a palace. It is both the finest and largest, example of a European funerary monument in the subcontinent. It has been described as a wedding-cake in brick, a Gothic castle and a baroque folly. When Martin decided, in the mid 1790s, that the building should house the living, as well as the dead, he began to furnish it in the most elaborate style. Huge crystal chandeliers from England lit the main rooms, and their flickering candles were reflected in mirrors, ten feet tall, that hung round the walls. There were paintings by Johann Zoffani, the German artist who was a friend of Martin’s, and imported inlaid marble tables stood on fine French carpets, together with many busts and statues. Outside were twelve ‘large street lamps’.

Martin obviously loved marble. He had planned to line some of his rooms with it, and on his death, thousands of slabs from Jaipur, and even China were found. Plaster plaques with Grecian figures decorated the walls and ceilings, so similar to English Wedgwood, that for years people thought they were authentic. Only when orders for tons of imported Plaster of Paris were discovered recently in Martin’s letters, was it proved that all the decorations were, in fact, carried out by skilled Indian craftsmen, working from one or two original models. On the parapets and pavilions outside stood dozens of statues. Martin had taught local people how to build up cement figures over an iron frame. There were French shepherdesses, lions (a visual pun on Martin’s birthplace of Lyon), pairs of lovers, Roman goddesses, Egyptians, sphinx and Chinese mandarins, whose heads nodded in the breeze.

Four great octagonal towers, from basement to roof, from the frame-work of La Martiniere. Many of the rooms are built between these towers, giving them a curious, lopsided appearance from inside. But they remain pleasant even during the hottest months, because the hollow towers draw up cool air from the ground which disperses through vents into the rooms. It was a kind of early air-conditioning, where hot air is expelled, in this case, from the roof.

During the turbulent 18th century, no-one was really safe from surprise, attacks, and no-one was more aware of this than Claude Martin. He designed his buildings like miniature forts, with cannons on the parapets and thick iron doors that sealed off spiral staircases and archways. The hinges on which these great doors hung ca which these great doors hung can still be seen today, and there are ‘secret’ chambers on the first floor where cannon balls could be stored. The whole building was described as ‘bomb proof’ and surrounded by a deep ditch, fortified on the outer side by stockades-sufficiently protected to resist the attacks of the ‘Asiatic power’. The lion statues on the parapet were designed to hold flaming torches inside their open mouths. The sight of these illuminated beasts, belching out fire and smoke on a dark night must have been a terrifying one for would be intruders. The two cannons which stand on the terrace today are also a reminder of less peaceful days.

One was actually cast by Martin in his Lucknow Arsenal, and named Cornwallis after the Governor-General. The other was captured at Seringapatam, when Martin accompanied Cornwallis as his aide-de-camp (The huge bronze bell came from the arsenal too.) Hanging over the mantelpiece in the Blue Room of La Martiniere is a small, gilt framed painting of a young Indian woman and a European boy. Both are dressed in 18th century Indian costume, and the woman is holding a fishing rod. Her name was Boulone and she was Claude Martin’s mistress, although 30 years younger than him. Like James Zulphikar, the little boy in the picture, she had been adopted as a child by Martin. According to him they lived happily enough together, but there must have been bitter arguments when he introduced other, and younger, mistresses into the household. Nevertheless, he made sure that Boulone would be well provided for after his death, and he thoughtfully built a little Muslim tomb for her in the grounds of La Martiniere. It is here that a few rupees are given out once a month to poor people in Lucknow, as Martin had provided in his will.

A stranger request was that his own body should be ‘put into spirits’ (alcohol) after his death, and buried in two coffins, the first of lead and the second of wood. His tomb was, naturally to be made of the finest marble, and is rested in one of the little basement rooms, surrounded by life-size models of four sepoys, their rifles reversed as a sign of mourning. In the octagon room above stands a fine, marble bust of Martin, carved five years or so before his death in 1800. It was thought to be an excellent likeness of the old Frenchman, with his hawk-like nose, broad forehead, and powdered wig. He was always portrayed in regimental uniform, lavishly decorated with gold braid, frogging and epaulettes, for he was immensely proud of the title of Major General which the East India Company had given him (after he had dropped some heavy hints that he deserved it!) all the furnishings and treasures of La Martiniere, as well as those from Martin’s first Lucknow house, the Farhad Buksh, were auctioned on his death, as he had requested. The great chandeliers were bought for the Government House (now Raj Bhawan) in Calcutta, where they still hang, but the majority of his collection was dispersed to private buyers. Martin had willed that his palace-tomb should become a school for boys of any religion, and he also left money to start school in Calcutta and Lyon, all to be called La Martiniere.

The Lucknow school opened in 1840, and was flourishing when the terrible uprising of 1857 swept across northern India. The principal, Mr. George Schilling was advised by Sir Henry Lawrence to evacuate the building, but at first he decided against this, La Martiniere had been constructed, after all, to withstand just such an emergency. Schilling stockpiled provisions and stored massive quantities of water in large chatties which occasionally burst, ‘the resulting midnight shower baths being the first taste the boys below had of the suffering they were to endure during the rigours of the siege’. He armed the bigger boys and installed them as sentries on top of the building during the day. At night the masters took over the watch. ‘Bridges connecting the main building with the wings of the Martiniere were destroyed-the numerous doors in front of the building barricaded – those behind built up with kucha walls five feet high and of the same thickness-all the staircases built up and also the doors leading to the staircase’.

Battle Honours !

While all this is going on, classes were suspended, and the boys must have enjoyed their surprise vacation, surely the strangest reason ever for a school holiday! But on June 18, the order came to abandon La Martiniere and the masters and boys left to seek shelter in the Residency. The school had its own flock of sheep, and these had to be left behind, although for some weeks the boys made perilous journeys back to La Martiniere to collect provisions. Sixty-five boys were, assigned to military and domestic duties as the British-held Residency came under siege. They were housed there in a building belonging to the Lucknow banker Shah Behari Lal, which was renamed ‘La Martiniere Post’. The civil surgeon at the Residency paid tribute to them, writing that ‘no class of individuals has survived the Residency siege in a better state of health or in a more efficient state of discipline than the Martiniere boys’. But what happened to La Martiniere itself ? Shortly after its evacuation, Indian soldiers their supporters who were fighting against the British, took it over and unfortunately vandalized it, destroying many of the fine statues. They even prized open the marble tomb of Claude Martin, in a vain search for hidden treasure. After the British capture of Lucknow in 1858 La Martiniere was extensively renovated and the boys and masters were able to move back again. But there was to be an odd, belated post script. In 1932, nearly a hundred years after the uprising, the British Government decided to present the school with battle Honours . Nowhere else in the world has a school been similarly honoured. Some English schools have Regimental Colours, but La Martiniere, Lucknow stands unique as the only one with Battle Honours.

Today the school is a popular English medium institution, where admission is eagerly sought. Many of its boys have gone on to gain high positions in India and abroad. There are echoes of the past all around you in Lucknow, yet none perhaps more strong than those of the proud La Martiniere.

(With inputs from Dr.Rosie Llewellyn Jones & Other available material)

Australia has long recognised Walter Burley Griffin as the American who designed its federal capital city, Canberra. More recently, it has begun to acknowledge Marion Mahony Griffin as the capital’s co-author. Walter’s wife and professional partner, Marion Griffin was an architect and graphic artist in her own right. Today they are popularly known by their first names and collectively as “the Griffins.” Almost forgotten, if not unknown, is that the duo’s remarkable careers culminated in the 1930s with a flourishing practice in India. Even more surprising for some is to learn that one of Canberra’s designers is buried there. How these former protégés of Frank Lloyd Wright came to practice in India is a saga that, as Rosie Llewellyn-Jones put it, “began in hope, but ended in tragedy”. Today, as India’s ever-burgeoning economy continues to transform the face of the sub-continent’s landscape, it is timely to revisit the couple’s little known Indian swansong—and its imperiled legacy.

Check out: http://www.tornosindia.com/walter-burley-griffin-australias-lucknow-connection

The journey that led the Griffins to India began with their 1912 victory in the international design competition for Canberra. As a point-of-beginning then, an overview of their entry’s symbolic content offers a contextual backdrop against which to consider these Americans’ trans-hemispherical movements, first to Australia and then to India. It also reveals resonance between Canberra and its immediate successor—and to some degree, heir—New Delhi, and illustrates the unevenness of Great Britain’s imperial project.

Canberra’s origins can be traced to 1901, when six of Britain’s antipodean colonies federated to from the Commonwealth of Australia. Unlike India’s then imperial circumstance, Federation was initiated from within, by Australians themselves. Though the new nation’s forces were still serving the British Empire in the South African Anglo-Boer war, ambition to build a national capital quickly arose from this ethos of political reconfiguration. However, on-going rivalry between the Commonwealth’s two largest cities, Sydney and Melbourne, compelled it to construct a capital de novo. Having adopted American precedent, the Australian constitution required the city be positioned within its own federal territory, not a state. Seven contested years later, in 1908 an inland district in the state of New South Wales was selected. Next, the Commonwealth surveyor was instructed to determine the city’s specific site from a “scenic standpoint, with a view to securing picturesqueness, and with the object of beautification.” As these qualifications suggest, the capital building enterprise was as much a landscape design proposition as it was an architectural or engineering concern. In 1909, the surveyor selected a largely pastoral site within the broad valley of the Molongolo River as meeting these criteria. With the future capital’s site now fixed, the new nation was ready to contemplate the design of the city itself.

In April 1911 Australia idealistically launched a competition to secure a city plan. Controversy quickly followed. The government’s decision that a layman—the Minister of Home Affairs—would have final adjudication authority sparked professional outcry and led the Royal Institute of British Architects to censure its members’ participation. Despite the furore, and to the surprise of many, Australia self-confidently proceeded with the contest, a choice that also attracted professional ire. For instance, believing the competition “antagonistic to imperialistic ideals,” Britain’s Town Planning Review (1912) complained

[ . . . ] to ignore the advice of a Royal Society like the Institute of British Architects, which numbers amongst its members not only the more eminent of the Australian architects, but also the best brains of the mother country, was hardly what one would have expected.

By contrast, the decision to commission Herbert Baker and Edwin Lutyens to design New Delhi would be made autocratically.

In December 1911, a world away in the Griffins’ native Chicago, Marion concentrated her creative energies to produce a remarkable ensemble of drawings representing the vision she and her husband shared for Australia’s capital. That same month, further east across the globe, King Emperor George V announced the transfer of India’s seat of government from Calcutta (now Kolkata) to Delhi. For The Chicago Tribune (17 December 1911), the newly-crowned Emperor’s announcement was a “wonderfully sagacious and totally unexpected proclamation”.

Although designed collaboratively with Marion, the plan for Canberra was submitted in Walter’s name and in May 1912 Walter Burley Griffin was selected the winner. The Griffins’ entry was distinguished by its sensitive response to the site’s physical features, especially its rugged land forms and watercourse. This attribute proved paramount to their design’s success. Organised on a cross-axial scheme, the plan fused geometric reason with picturesque naturalism. When negotiating the fit of their geometric template with the actual site, the couple opted to venerate existing landforms. Hills, for instance, were not design impediments to be erased, but “opportunities to be made the most of”. Discerning a linear correspondence between the summits of four local mounts, the couple inscribed and accentuated the alignment with a “Land Axis.” Anchored by Mount Ainslie at one end, the Land Axis extends some twenty-five kilometres to its other terminus, Mount Bimberi. By using its topographical features as axial determinants and visual foci, the Griffins “sacralised” the future city’s site. The Molonglo River valley posed no less a design opportunity for the pair than did the site’s land forms. Accordingly, they delineated a “Water Axis” across its Land counterpart at a right angle, aligning it with the river course; in turn, the Griffins reconfigured the river to form a continuous chain of basins and lakes.

Enlarging their cross-axial geometry, the Griffins composed the city centre as a triangle, aligning its points with local summits. Concentrated within the triangle, public edifices are distributed in accordance with a systematic, topographically articulated political symbolism. Near the triangle’s base, national cultural institutions line the northern margin of the central basin. At the triangle’s north-west point, a hill became the nodal focus of the Municipal Centre. Another summit punctuates the triangle’s north-east point, becoming the city’s Market Centre. Collectively, the two centres and cultural institutions represent the People. Across the ornamental waters at the basin’s southern edge, an area gently rising to the triangle’s apex becomes the Government Centre. The Judiciary, Legislative and other Departmental buildings are positioned at the foot of the hill, near the water’s edge. Ascending towards the triangle’s apex, one next encounters the Houses of Parliament midway up the hill. The summit is symbolically occupied not by the government but by the People. Here, at the highest elevation within the city’s centre, the Griffins positioned a monolithic Capitol. Unlike its American namesake, however, this one was envisaged as a commemorative building to enshrine the achievements of Australian citizens.

Within the capital’s ceremonial centre, a network of avenues radiate from the triangle’s Capitol Hill apex. The hill itself is circumscribed by four concentric boulevards, named respectively Capital Circle and National, State and Australasia Circuits—physically and symbolically accentuating Capitol Hill as the epicenter of the federated nation. From this hub, the Griffins projected radial avenues or “spokes” named for and geographically aligned with the actual locations of each outlying state capital. Two other radials, Commonwealth and Federal Avenues, delineate the triangle’s sides, and Constitution Avenue its base. Through this street configuration the Griffins spatially represented Australia’s Federation. In a symbolism made legible by their names, the radial avenues gather in power from the “sub-centre” state capitals throughout the country and concentrate it within the national capital.

Although it occupied a geologically ancient continent, the new Australian nation lacked the cultural artefacts and other monuments typical of Old World and, by this time, even New World capitals. In compensation, the Griffins fashioned Australia’s new national cultural history from its natural history—as demonstrated by the design significance they awarded the site’s physical features. This approach was born of their American fascination with the natural world, if not wilderness, and the desire to conserve it within urban environments.

In excess of the competition’s requirements, the Griffins also envisaged a notional architecture scheme—a palimpsest of global cultural references—for the city. Most remarkable was their unrealised Capitol. An organic extension of its hilltop setting, the building obscures the boundary between architecture and nature. Instead of the “inevitable dome” the Capitol culminates in a “stepped pinnacle” or ziggurat. For Walter this form expressed “the last word of all the longest lived civilisations” such as “Egypt, Babylonia, Syria, Indo-China, East Indies, Mexico or Peru”. This view reveals the role architecture was awarded within their broader symbolic programme: if the city’s layout monumentalised the local, then its buildings would reference the timeless global. Curiously, the couple excluded Australia’s indigenous culture; the native landscape venerated in their design was a terra nullius. Although this omission was not unusual for the times, the Griffins’ silence is perplexing, given that they had a longstanding interest in indigenous cultures. It is perhaps explained by the fact that, unlike the Meso-Americans, the indigenous Australians did not make enduring monolithic architecture that could be readily adapted for the new capital’s buildings. India, by contrast, would offer Baker and Lutyens indigenous traditions not only in architecture but also in garden design.

In 1913 Australia’s federal capital gained a name, itself the outcome of another competition. Those evocative of Britain, such as new London and Shakespeare and diverse others, were rejected in favour of “Canberra” (on the name competition, see Daley 1976). Apparently derived from an indigenous language, the new name was thought to mean “meeting place.” This early and prominent appropriation was indicative of the new nation’s self-confidence in the success of its imperial conquest. When dedicating Canberra’s foundation stone that March, the Governor-General proudly revealed that the Viceroy of India had requested a reproduction of Canberra’s plan. “It is interesting to note,” he continued, “that those engaged in the building of the capital of one of the oldest of civilised countries are apparently not above accepting ideas from this, one of the youngest countries in the world”.

Taking up the official position “Federal Capital Director of Design and Construction,” Walter, along with Marion, moved to Melbourne (then the temporary national capital) in 1914. He next began implementing the future capital’s design, prioritising street layout and planting with local species. Buildings were to be constructed afterwards, carefully inserted within this template. However, Griffin’s tenure proved short-lived. Political antagonisms and the financial restraints of the World War conspired against the complete realisation of the couple’s design. In 1920, Walter’s Canberra affiliation ended controversially with the abolition of his position. Afterwards, his singular role was usurped by a succession of advisory bodies. Nonetheless, a version of the Griffins’ design was officially gazetted—enshrined in Commonwealth law—in 1925, but this plan reproduced only the street layout and deleted the land-use allocations and symbolic content of the original design: Griffin’s successors literally and metaphorically treated the couple’s design as little more than a street map. Adding insult to injury, even the street names were mostly replaced.

These official acts of erasure, however, are of no less symbolic import than the architect’s original conceptions. In his nomenclature scheme, Griffin projected an imagined Australian republic onto the Government Centre’s street cartography. There, as we have seen, he ascribed thoroughfare appellations such as Federal, State and Australasia. In a dominion still closely tied to the empire, these were tellingly renamed Kings, Dominion and Empire. In another example, Griffin’s Oceanic Circuit became Captain Cook Crescent. According to one government official, the new system redressed concerns that the American’s names were “not in keeping with Australian sentiment”. The government’s alternatives evoked Australia’s colonial past and powerfully asserted its imperial present and imagined future—Australia has yet to become a republic.

Despite the demoralising finish to their Canberra work, the Griffins chose to remain in Australia and by the 1930s had developed an extensive practice that included built works throughout the eastern seaboard. New commissions, however, dwindled as the Great Depression escalated. In remedy, two mutual Australian friends—one then living in India—facilitated new work for the couple on the subcontinent in 1935. As an indirect result, and perhaps owing to his lingering prestige as an author of Australia’s capital, the University of Lucknow solicited Walter Burley Griffin to design its new library. Earlier around 1920, United Provinces Governor Harcourt Butler had commissioned none other than Edwin Lutyens to lay out the then new university’s campus and design its major buildings. For reasons that remain unclear, however, the English architect’s plans were set aside. When later studying his predecessor’s design, Griffin would dismiss Lutyens’ plan as “pure Roman” and his architecture as “edifice[s] de Rome Moderne”.

By September 1935, working remotely from Sydney, Griffin had dispatched a preliminary study for the library. Eschewing Lutyens’ imperial aestheticism, Marion characterised Walter’s scheme as “one which looks and feels quite Indian and yet is the last word in modernism”. Impressed with the American’s solution, the university cabled: “Plans accepted, come on first boat”. Anticipating only a three-month absence, Walter took up the invitation and set sail for India that October, unaware that he would never return.

After briefly visiting Sri Lanka, Walter Burley Griffin arrived at Bombay (now Mumbai) in November 1935. Touring sites of architectural interest en route to Lucknow, he called at New Delhi and recorded his impressions of the new imperial capital in a letter home to Marion:

“New Delhi,” which might better be called X Delhi for it is the tenth new Capital City of India in this same locality in as many centuries, two Hindu, six Muslim, two British, is the newest of the cities such as I have described, with more uniform and Roman character of buildings, and with roadways with great lawn parkways and handsome avenue trees of selected types of considerable variety, mostly unfamiliar to me. It is almost perfectly flat but planned with many monumental terminal vistas and has already attained completeness and finished elegance though there is of course much construction work going on in the business and residential sections. The long wide walk with reflecting canals and many fountains and the governmental terrace with vast stone buildings and several domes and extensive colonnades effectively massed is essentially roman even to the togas of the statues of the viceroys despite the efforts to supply local color in all the details. Except for the luxuriant verdure of the avenues however the pre-European capitals, the ruins of which extend continuously for some thirteen miles in each direction, must have been even more magnificent and certainly more imaginative and romantic, and the more ancient they are the more architecturally satisfying.

Only four circuitous sentences in extent, Griffin’s account is astonishing in its brevity. Given Walter’s awareness that the Viceroy and the Delhi town planning Committee had studied Canberra’s layout, one anticipates a lengthy rumination, if only for his absent partner’s benefit. Envy of New Delhi’s “finished elegance” might explain his virtual silence. Although begun in advance of the Indian capital, Canberra remained more fully developed on paper than in reality and, as Griffin knew all too well, Australia’s political commitment to its embryonic capital was tenuous. Earlier, in 1931, the New York Times had gone so far as to report that the “Dream City” of Canberra might yet be “abandoned” (31). Meanwhile, New Delhi was inaugurated the same year.

In late November 1935, Walter reached Lucknow; then, as now, a destination far removed from the tourist path. Perhaps most notably, the city entered Western ken in 1857 as an epicentre of the First War of Indian Independence or, for the British, the Mutiny. The conflict’s consequences were not exclusively political: the British victors physically and emphatically transformed Lucknow’s urban fabric in the aftermath. Most prominently, the Nawabs’ intricate garden palace complexes and other buildings were obliterated, replaced with deceptively bucolic parklands. Along with this new profusion of sylvan verdure, expansive axial thoroughfares were blasted through the dense, labyrinthine city. In Griffin’s day and in ours, one might be tempted to appreciate Lucknow’s parks and boulevards only aesthetically as benign civic “improvements.” In reality, these vandalic urban interventions were palpable, spatial expressions of colonial power. In the opening decades in the twentieth century, Harcourt Butler and his successors continued to remould Lucknow—faintly echoing the Empire’s project to build New Delhi. By the 1930s, Butler’s “New” Lucknow had attracted provincial capital status and gained a new Legislative Assembly building emblazoned with fish heraldry usurped from the Nawabs. Griffin’s arrival marked the beginning of a new chapter in Lucknow’s urban evolution—albeit his impact would be at a far more diminutive scale.

Walter Burley Griffin grew quickly enchanted with this “city of gardens.” In contrast to his British travel guidebook’s dismissal of the city’s remaining Nawabi architecture as “degraded and barbarous”, the American architect believed the buildings to be “exquisite” and likened Lucknow’s skyline to “a perfect Arabian night’s dream of white domes and minarets”. Ethereally feeling “at home,” anthroposophist Walter mused to Marion, “My physical appearance does not suggest much of the Indian, but I have a hunch that much of my architectural predilections must have come from Indian experience [in a previous life]”. Abandoning his plan for a brief stay, Walter decided instead to launch a new practice and, by June 1936, Marion had joined him to assist. After some twenty years living in the British Empire’s Australian dominion, the pair now immersed themselves in an India on the road to independence.

When Walter was asked if he “was going to follow the Indian style,” Marion recounted, he laughingly answered that he was “going to lead it”. Unlike the historicist stylism favoured by imperial architects, the couple’s architecture featured bold, earth-pressing cubic masses; smooth, planar surfaces punctuated with sculptural ornament abstracted from indigenous sources. For the Griffins, such a “localised” modernism offered a means to distance India from its colonial past. Superficially resembling Art Deco, the couple’s dwellings proved appealing to the emergent Muslim and Hindu elite.

Walter’s work on the University of Lucknow library also led to his first private works; a number of professors commissioned him to design their own homes. Of these, the Bir Bhan Bhatia house (1936) is one of the finest dwellings the couple ever produced, anywhere.

One of the very few architectural firms in Lucknow, the Griffins’ new practice soon burgeoned. Surviving drawings, photographs and textual sources confirm that their “Lucknow office” produced more than 50 projects between November 1935 and February 1937. These ranged from private dwellings, gardens and public edifices to housing projects and suburban communities. Perhaps most spectacularly, the Griffins also designed the layout and an extensive array of pavilions for the United Provinces Industrial and Agricultural Exhibition, hosted by Lucknow in 1937. Other important landscape architecture commissions included a new campus plan for the University of Lucknow and a garden for its library. The latter composition featured more than fifty different tree species. Although their work was concentrated in Lucknow, they also made designs for projects in, for instance, Agra, Varanasi and Kolkata. Significantly, the couple employed and trained local assistants, although their identities and number remain uncertain. Nonetheless, these Indian apprentices may well have extended the Griffins’ influence through their own work.

Ultimately, the Griffins’ new Indian experiences, for them quite exotic, became a catalyst for professional renaissance. Tragedy, however, intervened. In February 1937, Walter succumbed to peritonitis and was buried locally in an unmarked grave. Having lingered only long enough to complete projects at hand, a bereaved Marion was back in Sydney within months, closing this remarkable episode in Lucknow’s history. Soon finding life in Australia too difficult without Walter, she returned home to her family the next year. Once again in Chicago, Marion would lecture on her experiences in India, despite its grief-filled associations.

Today in Lucknow and India more broadly, sadly, local knowledge of the Griffins is scant at best. Only in 1987 did an Australian living in Canberra relocate Walter’s grave and spear-head an initiative to have it permanently marked. More broadly, as though the city’s history ended in 1857, heritage esteem for Lucknow’s architecture apparently does not include the twentieth century within its temporal scope.

To date, most of the scholars who examined the Griffins’ Indian projects did so working from Australia or America, relying primarily upon locally-held records. Collaboration with Indian scholars is the next vital step toward conclusively identifying the full extent of the Griffins’ oeuvre. Local research expertise and on-site surveys, for instance, are required to determine which projects were actually built and what physical artefacts might remain. As well, a thorough investigation of Indian archival repositories may well yield documentation which not only enlarges our appreciation of known commissions but also reveals additional, heretofore unknown projects.

In the twenty-first century, like the nineteenth, Lucknow has again become a site of urban erasure. This time, however, the wounds are self-inflicted. India’s accelerating economy fuels not only new construction but also demolition and clearance of the past. This phenomenon now poses an urgent, immediate threat to documenting and conserving the Griffins’ built and landscape legacy. For instance, a new office and works for the Pioneer Press at Lucknow was the most substantial of the Griffins’ Indian buildings to be constructed. Tragically, the Press was razed in the 1990s and replaced with a multi-storey concrete tower. There is, however, a remarkable exception: astonishingly, the Bhatia house still stands—at least for the moment.

This is from a chapter titled : ‘Almost Forgotten, if Not Unknown : Australian and Indian Capital Connections’ (Chapter-4) by Christopher Vernon from the book : Wanderings in India: Australian Perceptions’ see: http://www.publishing.monash.edu/books/wi-9781921867323.html The writer Christopher Vernon is a researcher of architecture and has had a long interest in Griffin. He has visited India umpteen times and closely admires Griffin’s work and life in India. Christopher Vernon is an Associate Professor with the Faculty of Architecture, Landscape & Visual Arts (M433) at The University of Western Australia. In fact he brought about Lucknow’s interest in Griffin’s work and life, who till date is unknown to most of people in Lucknow.

Credits to and by permission of : Christopher Vernon (This article is protected under copy rights act and should not be used by anyone without the publisher’s or the author’s permission – A chapter from a book, ‘Wanderings in India: Australian Perceptions’ see: http://www.publishing.monash.edu/books/wi-9781921867323.html )

Walter Burley Griffin’s Lucknow

Mention Lucknow to an outsider and their mind conjures up visions of nawabs, ornate palaces, equally rich food and perhaps an even more lavish culture. Sadly, the city’s new nawabs have an incorrigible taste for glass and concrete, but parts of the old city retain their charm. Driving to Chowk past Shah Meena Sahib, a Sufi shrine hidden behind pharmacies offering more worldly cures, you reach a roundabout. Turn left on Victoria Street, towards Nakhaas, and ask to be dropped off at Akbari Gate. Just outside Akbari Gate, on the main road, are a number of tea shops. In winter a cup of pink Kashmiri chai accompanied by baalai (thick cream) and a samosa or light puff pastry provide good fortification for a day of exploring. If you are lucky you might spot a man with a large brass vat selling nimish also called malai makhan. The sweet, creamy foam sprinkled with flecks of emerald green pistachios melts in the mouth and is only made in winter by frothing milk, mixing it with saffron and sugar and then leaving it out to set in theoows, or pre-dawn dew. After filling up, walk into the main arterial market of Akbari Gate. This kilometre-long stretch is only accessible on foot though it is important to watch out for wayward two-wheelers.

Akbari Gate is a shell of its former self, but the intricate exposed lakhori brickwork—a compact style of brick no longer used—leads on to a street bustling with shops, mosques, temples and old houses. Dotted along the entire street are little paan shops, often no bigger than a cupboard, where the betel leaf is laced with various condiments and eaten as a post-prandial digestive by locals. Shops are quite compact and often shopkeepers sit in the street. One of the first shops you pass is where silver is beaten into fine sheets and then used to decorate food items. Lucknow’s famous Chikan embroidery hangs on rods jutting out onto the street, while neighbouring shops sell shoes, colourful brocade cloth, hookahs and itar (oil-based perfumes) as well as modern appliances. After a short walk, on the left you see the Tehsin Ki Masjid, a mosque built by one of the ministers of the Nawabs of Awadh. Legend has it that it was built of rubble that was left over from the building of the Asafi Mosque or Bara Imambara. Just before the main gate of the mosque is the original branch of Tunday Kebabi named after its founder who made kebabs with the stumps of his arms. Try the small, succulent kebabs with a paratha, then carry on past Mohammad Ali’s itar shop, where the owner sits surrounded by hundreds of bottles of perfume, towards Purani Sabzi Mandi. Just before this alley you can try nahari and kulcha, which is available all-day at Raheem’s shop, though Lucknavis prefer to eat it in the morning.

Lucknow’s Chowk area is packed with little shops and vendors peddling a variety of wares from spices to bangles, clothes and paints.

Remember to look up while walking, something that is often forgotten in constricted spaces as it is hard to do. Apart from the chaotic canopy of wires and the colourful advertising banners, it is possible to see the fading stucco work, intricate woodwork, and ornate windows of dignified but dilapidated looking houses. At the Sabzi Vaali Gali take a left and then another left down Koocha-e-Mir-Anees. Although the criss-crossed small alleys can be confusing ask where the Maqbaraof Mir Anees is. On the way you will pass the huge mansion of Digamber Jain with its ornate facade, theAinak vali Masjid with its whitewashed exteriors, and also a number of crumbling old buildings with their lakhori bricks, beautiful even in their decay, and eventually reach Chobdaari Mohalla. On the left, under an exquisite archway, steps lead up to the shrine. Mir Anees was a prolific poet of the 19th century. He mostly composed elegies in memory of the battle of Karbala and these are still recited today in many imambaras. If the entrance is locked ask the neighbours and they will tell you to how get the keys from Anees’ descendants who live in a haveli close by.

After seeing the shrine, retrace your steps to the main street pausing at Naushad’s Haveli. Look out for the pair of fish, the Mahi Maratib, that adorn the entrances to various houses and whose use was an honour bestowed by the king. Take a right on the main street and you reach the Phoolowan vali galli on the left, dedicated to the purveyance of flowers. Walk past the stacks of bright orange marigolds, red roses, and white jasmine garlands and take a left at the end of the alley towardsNepali Kothi. This large red building houses a shop run by Tara Bahadur “Munna” who provides hakims, the ingredients for Yunani Medicine and prides himself on selling high quality saffron. Continue past the Nepali Kothi and loop back past the Krishna Temple, the Nepali Temple, the old havelis of Katari Tola, through Chudiya vali gali, past the old Sambhavnathji Jain Temple and back to the main road.

The Rumi Darwaza was built in 1784 as an ornate entry gate to the city of Lucknow. However, its significance as a gateway waned as the city expanded around it.

Take a right, and continue past the rows of jewellery shops. Just before arriving at the Gol Darwaza, turn right into the dimly-lit passage called Lala Bhola Nath Dharamsala. At the back, parallel to the main street, are the “back-offices” of the jewellery shops with small, brightly-lit spaces where jewellers expertly craft their products under the watchful eyes of little statues of the goddess Laxmi. Head back onto the Main Street and exit the market through the Gol Darwaza, now hidden under thick swathes of banners and posters. Pause to absorb the bustling atmosphere of the area in Radhey Lal’s famous sweetshop, on the left as you exit, and have warm gulab jamuns, somerabri or barfi. Then, if you feel like discovering a little bit more of Lucknow, take a rickshaw and head towards the Chota and Bara Imambaras.

Credits : National Geographic Traveller

‘Guth-ti,’ Suleiman Mahmudabad noted, referring to the first liquid to pass a newborn’s lips, ‘depends on the mother and the father’s humours, and the family’s characteristics.’ We are in conversation in his office, a spare high-ceilinged room except for the enormous desk scattered with books behind which are shelves of more books. Appropriately, his family’s very own apothecary where such tea was brewed, had been situated across the corridor.

‘The proper herbs were pounded, boiled, liquefied, strained and given to the child by the hakim. This was the first thing given, even before mother’s milk; it purged the child.’

‘That,’ he said, ‘is the beginning of cuisine.’

Meaning the cuisine of Lucknow, where food is not just about food, as in taste, but also context. Lucknow is the city of ‘Nawabs and Kebabs’ as it was first coined to me, the city of royal extravagance and vibrant street life; of the aristocrat’s intricate and playful haute cuisine, and the affordable yet equally satisfying street food and how the two intertwine, particularly through the rituals of Shi’ism. The city where food is spiced specific to the person through the hakim, or doctor of Yunani medicine; where food is dependent on the etiquette and manners of serving, with Urdu sweetly on the lips. The city where a tough bit of meat is ridiculed, and nearly every dish made richer with cream, more fragrant with keora water, and more tender through slow ghee-infused cooking. As Abdul Halim Sharar so elegantly puts forth in the 1880s, in his story-brimming catalogue of its ratified culture, or tehzeeb, ‘Lucknow’s diet is the most salient guide to its refinement.’

Historical Nawabi cuisine is found today in traces, through cobbling together sources: 19th century cookery books, travel diaries, and paintings, as well as histories and stories of the personages of the city; the descendants of the Nawabs, or noblemen to the Mughals who governed Lucknow between 1753-1856, and patronized an efflorescence of the arts as the British usurped their sovereignty; descendents to the taluqdars and zamindars, to the large and small rural landholders of Awadh who became the ruling elite at the behest of the British after the Mutiny or the First War of Independence, 1857; caterers found in bawarchitola, or cook’s area; and specialized cooks of one or two kebabs, or breads, or rich meat gravies that abound in the network of gullies in old Lucknow.

It is a matter of cobbling also, because food is never as it was even from yesterday to today. Food is about sustenance, weened it, but it is also the trickiest of arts because it is perishable in nature – it is not recordable, and a recipe does not suffice. Food fluctuates with the ingredients themselves, the climate, the cook, the cook’s mood, the eater, the eater’s mood, the atmosphere.

For instance, I had been wandering in the old city, or Chowk, on the Gol Darwaza side where Raja Thandai is. He offers a milk drink aptly called thandai infused with saffron, khus syrup (the cool grass like scent, syruped), or bhang, which underscores the reason why a blue poison blooded Shiva Shankar sits auspiciously at the back.

Raj Kumar Tripathi of Raja Thandai who I had been talking to about cuisine, turned me around and brought me back through the gate, where men sit curled in the roundels at the top surveying the scene, to turn down a small lane to the jalebi shop, which stands next to a grassy courtyard.

On our way out, laden with syrupy hot sweets and saffron milk, he gestured to the carved balconies above the shops, and then ‘over there’ where ‘chaval gully’ apparently was. ‘This is a place one should not go,’ he warned, ‘but then…’ and he indeed grew misty-eyed, ‘during shaam-i-Awadh’ meaning the twilight of Lucknow, indicating the charming evening hours between sunset and night, when the air cools, and people of all kinds and types wander the streets for food and entertainment.

Chaval gully means lane of rice. Supposedly, the treasure that is pale fragrant rice has no allusion to the women it houses. When I met Mushtaq Naqvi, the Lakhnavi historian later that week, I asked him about this area, and it was he who explained the tawaif’s, or courtesans, and their relationship to food. ‘You have touched upon a very delicate subject,’ he said, with his eyebrows lifted and mouth poised.

‘My brother took me; those were the last of their days (1947-8). I was nine or ten. A woman met us in spotless white dress. I thought she was a fairy. She welcomed me with a deep salaam and asked, ‘May I bring you a cup of tea, or somesherbet, my prince?’ I stammered because I had to beg for such things at home. She presented it in a very beautiful cup with the perfect mix of tea, sugar and milk smelling of flowers. ‘You see,’ he continued, with the reverie still bright on his face, ‘they served this Nawabi food you ask on. It was the same, but when you go to a tawai’fs place whatever they served, as simple as a paan, or a cigarette, they served so nicely, in such a courtly manner that you felt so elevated that you never felt hunger for the food but hunger for the manners.’

Behind the manners, the intimate teaching of the hakim, and the meandering atmosphere of the old city, what were the actual dishes of the Nawabs or later the taluqdars of Awadh? What lay on their das-tarkhwan, a crisp white cloth laden sometimes with seventy pullaos, and numerous small dishes to be filled, taken away and re-introduced, with service timed as invisible, as one nibbled from this or that, choosing one’s fancy? In an haute cuisine that sometimes seems bored of food itself, what regaled its delight?

There were dishes displaying beauty, wealth and subtlety such as the Moti Pullao where the silver and gold leaf are mixed with rawa and stuffed into the neck of the chicken, then wound with string. Before serving they are released as baubles so that the pullao shimmers with ‘pearls’. Or Ananas ki Paratha, each of the twenty-four layers crisply, lightly defined with an ethereal sweetness, a hint of pineapple.

Or of exoticism and uniqueness such as a roghan josh called Aloo ki Bukhara, meaning small dried Bukharan plums, never seen in the dish, just flavouring the sauce, and further beautified by the rare colouring of a flower. Or Uzbeki Gosht, a delicate salan one must step into the Qidwai house to obtain, or Laab-i-Mashooq, Mahmudabad’s, meaning lips of the beloved, a cake so light it disappears as sweetly as a kiss upon the mouth.

Then there were the dishes that showed hunger for trickery and game-playing: the luscious story of the last Nawab crowned King of Awadh, Wajid Ali Shah inviting Prince Mirza Asman Qadar to dine, and delighting when the Delhi connoisseur purposely mistook a savoury quorma for a sweet conserve. And the reciprocal revenge where the poor king tapped into the 51 dishes laid before him to find, one by one, that they were all made of spun sugar.

Or the drama of a puri breaking and not birds flying out, which yes was deemed an ordinary affair by the Lakhnavi Urdu short-story writer, Nainer Masood, but rather a monkey, who satiated by opium, sat dozing in the deflating bread. Or a meal where everything was white – from bread to salads to pullao to dessert; the layout white, the silver plates reflecting white and all on a full moon night.

Desire for riddle dishes: a lookmi, which was in the shape of an egg, the outside made of rawa, and when cut in half, the inside, stuffed with qeema, minced meat that was shaped as a yolk and painted with saffron and baked. The ‘egg’, beautiful in shape and appearance, looked hard but when put into the mouth melted.

With such a rarefied, even excessively baroque cuisine, one has to wonder as to its origins, as well as to its relations to the people, a closer relationship than appears at first in a cuisine that seems defined by money spent (Rs 60,000 a month in the kitchen of Asaf ud Daula, one of six in his household, an enormous sum4), competition, and the unexpected – gastronomy seems to fit perfectly into the culture of Lucknow, and the list of its leisure: animal combats, pigeon flying, kite flying, story telling, music, dance, drama, poetry in forms both weighty and light, headwear, footwear.

As so many scholars write, Awadh as a region and thus Lucknow as its capital, was in a curious position of essential imprisonment as the British slowly took over the Nawab’s armed forces and other ‘sovereign duties’,5 and their energies turned inwards, towards their city, Lucknow, and onto the arts, inherited from the Mughals, but flowering to a degree of sophistication teetering on the edge of a ‘too much’. The saying goes that ‘the elegant manners of Lucknow are such that even rasgullas are peeled before they are eaten’; refining something that it is barely impossible to refine more.6 Luring poets and artists from a declining Delhi, and offering new inspiration, in particular with the addition of acute expressional devotion to Shi’ism, Lakhnavi culture sang its loss into beauty, sometimes grave, sometimes exuberantly flippant.

This expenditure included the arts of gastronomy, inherited from the Mughal court (itself a mix of the Turkish/Central Asian/Persian/North Indo-Pakistan), the declining Safavid Court in Iran, from where the first Nawab of Awadh, Sadat Ali Khan, emigrated from, and the European (French, English, Portuguese), but refining itself further on its own demands.
In a comparison to Mughlai food, its greatest influence, Lakhnavi food has less spice (due to the Persian influence); smoother textures (supposedly Nawab Asaf ud Daula had actually lost his teeth, filling his mouth with a small ball of velvet7 – but there was an equal attitude that considered chewing boorish); multiple strainings (from the French influence); distinct attention paid to aromas and colours (such as keora and rose water; or feeding animals on specific diets, like saffron pills to infuse their flesh, or gaming for Siberian cranes who feast on saffron during migration); a theory of spices that included arrangements with the hakim and ground spices for taste and whole ones, wrapped up in an easily removed bouquet so as not to offend the palate, for aroma; and a predilection towards richness: the generous use of ghee, cream and nuts, besides dish after dish of meat.

The cuisine of Lucknow at the time of the Nawabs is therefore very much a cuisine of fusion, and it becomes even more richly original when the taluqdars move into the city from their landed regional estates. There is another aspect as well, that of Islam and specifically Shi’ism.

For instance, the origin story of dum pukht, the method of cooking made common parlance by the namesake restaurant of the ITC Maurya hotel. Its founding chef, the legendary Imtiaz Qureshi, is from Lucknow’s bawarchitola, or cook’s area of the old city, and his family is historically employed by the Mahmudabad taluqdars.

Though perhaps a meeting of history and marketing brilliance, the menu at Dum Pukht relays the following story: ‘With the dual purpose of providing work (meaning food) and beautification of the city, Nawab Asaf ud Daula commenced the building of the Bara Imambara during the great famine circa 1780. Labourers worked during the day, and those of higher classes during the night, so their shame was shrouded. According to the menu at Dum Pukht: ‘By royal decree, too, arrangements were made to provide food. Enormous containers were filled with rice, meat, vegetables, spices and sealed. Hot charcoal was placed on top and fires lit underneath while slow cooking ensured that food was available day and night. The result was extraordinary, for when the vessels were unsealed, the splendid aromas attracted royal attention and dum pukht as a Nawabi cuisine was born.’

Dum cooking is not native to Lucknow, it is a Persian technique, meaning to slow bake (dum means to breathe and pukhtto cook, dum pukht thus meaning to cut the breath or steam off). The Ain-i-Akbari notes it among the ten types of spiced meat dishes, the third type of cookery basic to the Mughal courts along with food without meat, and meat with rice. However, what is decidedly unique about Lucknow is the intimate connection between the aristocracy, the foods that were ‘gifted’ away under religious auspice known as tabaruk (blessed food, similar to prasad but not a literal transference of blessing) and the foods of the bazaar.

This is the case with the shir mal, also found in the gullies of the old city. Sharar writes: ‘In Lucknow, Mahumdu [a bread cook] made great improvements on the baqar khani [a type of bread] by producing the shir mal which in taste, scent, lightness and delicacy was very much better.’ Mahumdu, at its invention, dashed to the nawab, who tore off a small bite, which is immortalized in the shape of the round shir mal lacking a half-moon bite, signifying Nawabi approval.

Sharar continues, ‘In a very short time the shir mal gained such popularity in Lucknow that any celebration at which it was not served could not be considered perfect… [it] so increased the esteem in which Mahumdu was held that on the occasion of royal majlises and celebrations he sometimes received orders for a hundred thousand shir mals.’

The shir mal, because of its nature as an easily mass-produced bread that keeps, travels well, can be used to roll up kebabs, and is both a luxury item (of the Nawabs) as well as an economically feasible one (because it is bread after all) was handed out as tabaruk specifically during Muhurrum, the mourning period for Shias – in fact we see paintings and references to shir mals being handed out from atop the elephant that ends the procession during Muhurrum.9 This does not mean that either the method of cooking or the bread is religious in nature; simply that certain aspects of Shi’ism in Lucknow allowed for the distribution and popularity of certain items. The shir mal, like dum pukht, also indicates that a food of the street can enter into the kitchen of the palace – that chefs, themselves divided into specific trades or specialists in dishes, cooking for large or small numbers, were richly rewarded for their inventions.

Juan Cole and C.A. Bayly have argued that the massive distribution of food on religious occasions was an integral part of the ‘late Islamic kingship’10 economy. The king’s expenditure on luxury needs created markets and employment; the construction of huge religious buildings, such as Lucknow’s magnificent Imambaras, tombs, mosques and palaces, provided work for grain, and to relieve famines; and festivals, multiplying during the Nawabi period, were occasions for mass public feedings as well as ritual display. Indeed one of the things that makes Lakhnavi cuisine fascinating are the connections between the decadent cuisine of the court and noble families, and the ordinary people and shops of the bazaars. The fact stands that the most famous items from Lucknow, like the Tunday and Kakori kebabs, shir mal, nihari, dum pukht, pullao (more common than biriyani as it is deemed more refined), grace both elite and common tables.

You can, in fact, map the above dishes onto the streets of the old city, much how Francois Bernier describes the bazaar of Delhi in the 1660s: the bakers, the nihari makers, the roasted meat sellers11 etc. For instance, on the Akbari Gate side of the old city there is Rahim’s for nihari, the rich meat broth cooked overnight, strained multiple times and flavoured by a spice bouquet. Labourers traditionally eat this in the morning to sustain them through the day. But the Nawabs equally ate it for breakfast, when they had no visitors, so that no one could bear witness to their indulgence in a common food.

To the left of Rahim’s is shir mal gully, where Mahumdu’s successor’s shop of Ali Hussein still stands. And to the right down a street and to the left is the famous Tunday Kebab, his small meat patties crispy on the outside, smooth and spiced on the inside. The kebab boasts 80 spices, but only 30 for taste, the other 50 are prescribed by the hakim – so it digests well. If you continue down this road that cuts a clean slice through the old city, likely an intervention by the British after 1857 to make the myriad incomprehensible streets and gullies more ‘legible’ for troops and governance, you are back at Raja Thandai.

There is an equally interesting relationship in the post-1857 influence of the taluqdars, who brought the local cuisine of their regional forts, the qasbahs, to meld with the cuisine of Lucknow. For instance, a Kakori kebab is meat tenderized to the feathery lightness of whipped cream, just solid enough not to drop off the skewer. A nobleman of Kakori’s chefs spent weeks toiling on this invention after a British official declared a kebab at his mango party ‘too tough’. Now known as the Kakori kebab, it traces an older lineage to the dargah, or saint’s tomb in Kakori, where visitors are given this kebab plusrotis, as tabaruk or blessed food. The nobleman’s kebab was likely an innovation on this food of more humble origin, but with the move of the taluqdars, the Kakori kebab left the context of blessed food at a saint’s tomb, and entered the haute cuisine of Lucknow.

Many taluqdars trace their regional roots back farther than the Nawabs, and felt greater allegiance to the Mughals, perhaps because the Nawabs did not entertain them in dialogue for political reasons. Thus ‘the landholders made courts of their own, centred on themselves and drawing on both the cultural patterns of the Mughal and Awadh courts and also upon local forms.’13 This is similar to the Kayasths in Lucknow proper, the Hindu scribes and accountants to the Nawabi rulers, who mixed the Nawabi with their own cuisine, which included more vegetables, less meat, and different spicing. Again, their cuisine is a mixture of the court and the local, which yields surprising fresh tastes.

In Barabunki, a series of small townships and landed estates close to Lucknow, meat is not always available, and the produce changes with the seasons, so a speciality in winter might be rakchochi, a chana daal pasted onto leaves, rolled, and fried, which is common in villages throughout the UP. Or saag gosht, which Fatima Rizvi, the bright eyed scholar on Urdu women’s literature, explains ‘would be made only with spinach [the most refined green] in Lucknow, but in Barabunki there are different greens from the garden we just throw in.’ Another differentiation is with ingredients. In Lucknow there are exotic condiments and produce. ‘In Barabunki you will have mashk gosht – mashk kaliya – mashk ka salan… because that is what is available.’ It is frequently this seasonal aspect of food, or regional availability – besan roti with garlic chutney in winters, or numush, the whipped cream with a layer of dew that is celebrated and awaited – whose roots are in the countryside.

Fatima continues on another thought, ‘The whole qasbah might prepare a single dish, though each will be prepared a little differently not just 5-6 miles down the road, but next door.’

There is a dilemma in saying what exactly Lakhnavi cuisine is, even it if is limited to the specific cuisine of the Nawabs. Be it reading numerous glorifying anecdotes in memoirs or novels from the time, perusing recipes or speaking with people who perhaps remember tasting the dish at age eight, or conversing with a chef who is in a lineage going back five or six generations – even then you cannot say that the dish is as it was, because invariably it was different next door. Because of what was there are questions as to whether the Lakhnavi cuisine that was still is, even if there are food festivals, restaurants and shops that sell its name.

Suleiman Mahmudabad, with a drawn forehead, because he is musing on the slippery was, the was that in Lucknow is almost a culture in itself, mentions that, ‘Attempts can be made to preserve skills, tastes, recipes, but people can invent anything from a name. We have to recognize that the time has passed. It will never be the same, it cannot be the same, for there is a context.’

There has been loss. Not only loss of the recipe but loss of the context. The Mutiny, Partition, changes in patronage, time itself – these events have shifted Lucknow so it only resembles Lucknow. No reason to mourn, time changes. But there is something to be prized in the continuation of tradition (if it’s given room to grow), which is still seen in the old city, in the attempts by families to remember ferociously and to make something living again. Still there is an overwhelming sense of was. It makes me wonder whether there ever was an is. Then you come across a memory.

Suleiman continues, evincing the struggle to cobble together the remnants of a culture: ‘There is one thing we are trying to recreate,’ and he pauses, delighted. ‘A whole bitter gourd, an achar or murabba made of that. I had it in my childhood. The wonderful thing was that the bitter gourd is extremely bitter, and in this dish the bitterness could not be tasted. The second amazing thing was it looked as if it were a fresh bitter gourd, completely green, but it was filled with nuts, garlic and chillies, and it was sweet and salty. We have tried, but it has gone.’

By : Rudrangshu Mukherjee

The independent principality of Awadh was established in 1722 by an Iranian adventurer called Saadat Khan who refused the imperial order transferring him to Malwa and made Lucknow the seat of his power. Awadh remained an independent entity till 7 February 1856 when Lord Dalhousie annexed it to the British Empire in India. Earlier, in 1801, Lord Wellesley had truncated the province. Despite the truncation, Awadh when it was annexed held an area of 23,923 square miles with a population of 5,000,000 and yielded to the British government revenue of £1,300,000. But what was more important than these dry-as-dust figures of area, demography and revenue was the fact that from the second half of the 18th century to the time Awadh was annexed, Lucknow, the capital city, had emerged as a great centre of cultural refinement and sophistication. Lucknow set the standards of adaab and taste in matters of music, food, dress and so on.

Culture in Lucknow flourished because of the patronage it received from successive nawabs and kings and from their courts. Big landholders, known in Awadh as taluqdars, replicated the styles of the royal court in their own palaces and forts, albeit on a lower scale than the court. Life in Lucknow became famous for its luxury and its pleasures. It also became synonymous with decadence and debauchery. But critics of this pursuit of pleasure and conspicuous consumption overlooked the historical context that induced this lifestyle.

One of the conditions of the independence of Awadh in an era when the British were expanding their dominions all over India was the acceptance of British indirect control by the rulers of Awadh. Through what the British came to call subsidiary alliance, the British stationed a Resident and troops in Lucknow, and made the nawabs pay for them. The troops were supposed to protect Awadh and the Resident controlled the government, though the responsibility of running the administration remained with the nawab. At frequent intervals, the British escalated the amount needed to maintain the troops, the price for independence. Two important consequences followed. One was the fact that Awadh was drained of resources. The other reason was that the arrangement placed the rulers of Awadh in a bizarre situation: they had responsibility without power. The real power vested with the Resident who curbed any initiative that the nawab showed for governance.

The historian T.R. Metcalf has provided an opposite description of the plight of the Awadh nawabs: ‘With the subsidiary allowance drawn tightly around him, he could not ignore the British and act as before. But he had neither the training nor the military force to act upon the injunction of his European advisers. So the nawabs who succeeded Sadaat Ali Khan, one after the other, increasingly abandoned the attempt to govern and retired into the zenana, where they amused themselves with wine, women and poetry. The sensuous life did not reflect sheer perversity or weakness of character on the part of the nawabs. Indolence was rather the only appropriate response to the situation in which the princes of Awadh were placed.’

This situation was only one aspect of the misgovernment in Awadh. The other point mentioned above was equally important. The British presence in Awadh directly and indirectly drained the region of its resources. The British kept hiking their demands on the Awadh rulers for the upkeep of the troops in Lucknow. There was also the fact of British trade which caused economic drain and dislocation. Since 1765 trade controlled by the English East India Company and by European private merchants had channeled economic resources away from Awadh. This had eroded the very viability of the Awadh administration, leading to misgovernment, which in turn had become the reason first for its truncation in 1801 and then its eventual annexation in 1856.

The historian Peter Reeves has noted that Awadh was important to the British, not for what it could do but for what it had to offer. No wonder that British administrators often saw Awadh as something that could be eaten. Lord Wellesley had promised London, ‘a supper of Oudh’; and Lord Dalhousie had described Awadh as ‘a cherry which will drop into our mouths some day. It has long been ripening.’

The culture and refinement of Lucknow in the late 18th and early 19th centuries should be viewed against this backdrop. One of the greatest achievements of Indo-Islamic culture occurred with the threat of a British takeover looming over it. The great and the good of Lucknow – the raees of the city – went about their business with the full knowledge that the British Resident was peering over their shoulders with suspicious and disapproving eyes.

We are fortunate that there exists a vivid depiction of the culture of Lucknow in its best, and alas its last years. This is available in Abdul Halim Sharar, Lucknow: The Last Phase of an Oriental Culture, a collection of vignettes of Lucknow that were published originally in Urdu from 1913 onwards in the Lucknow journal Dil Gudaz. The series when it first appeared was called Hindustan Men Mashriqi Tamaddun ka Akhri Namuna (literally, the last example of an oriental culture in India).

The life that Sharar described was that of the affluent. It was a life of leisure, gracious and luxurious, enjoyed by a group of people who did not care about their source of wealth. It was a world of patronage that spread downwards from the nawab to the nobility to the landholders. The lifestyle supported an enormous body of retainers: servants, artisans, singers, musicians and so on. A network of dependence held it together.

Sharar’s book provides details of the kind of activities that engaged the upper classes of Lucknow. One of the principal concerns was refinement of etiquette that spread from how one dressed, to how one greeted a peer or an elder or someone higher in status, to how one ate, to how one chewed paan. All aspects of behaviour were guided by a code of rituals. The lack of knowledge of the code or a transgression of the code was enough to make one an outcast. Lucknow was famous for its adab and its graciousness. Leisure centred around activities like kite flying, cock fighting, eating and, of course, poetry and music.

The spirit of this culture can perhaps be illustrated through two incidents. In 1784, there was a severe famine in Awadh. The then nawab, Asaf ud Daula did not want to inflict the indignity of charity on his subjects. So he undertook the project of building the Imam Bara to alleviate the sufferings of the population. The people who worked to build it were given food in return. It was said that the famine was so severe that even the rich were starving. To feed them, the nawab arranged for the construction work to be carried on at night. The gentry came under cover of darkness, worked by torchlight and got their food.

The other incident comes from the reign of Wajid Ali Shah, the last king of Awadh. He was very fond of music and even wrote his own operas. He was so impressed by the rahas relating to the life of Krishna that he composed one himself and then played the role of Krishna in it. Wajid Ali Shah made an attempt to rule. He formed cavalry regiments to which he gave poetic names like Banka, Dandy, Tircha, Fop, Ghangaur, Dark. His infantry regiments bore the names Akhtari, Lucky, Nadiri and Rare. But the Resident stopped his activities and so he retreated completely into his music and a life of leisure.

The people of Lucknow loved the songs he wrote and sang them all the time. When the British asked him to sign a treaty handing over the administration to the English East India Company, he refused to sign. Wajid Ali ordered his subjects not to oppose the British annexation of Awadh when he came to know that many of them were ready to resist. Wajid Ali was exiled to Metia Burz in Calcutta. When he left his beloved Lucknow, the people recited nanha (dirges) and followed him all the way to Kanpur. A song of the period said, ‘Noble and peasant all wept together/ and all the world wept and wailed/Alas! The chief has bidden adieu to/ his country and gone abroad.’

A contemporary noted: ‘The condition of this town [Lucknow] without any exaggeration was such that it appeared that on the departure of Jan-I Alam [as Wajid Ali was fondly known], the life has gone out of the body, and the body of this town had been left lifeless… there was no street or market and house which did not wail out the cry of agony in separation of Jan-I Alam.’

There was no doubt in the minds of the people about who was responsible for the plight of their beloved king. A folk song of the time lamented, ‘Angrez Bahadur ain: mulk lain linho’ – the honourable English came and took the country.

But the annexation was not the end of Lucknow’s ancien regime. The end came through an even more tumultuous event, the revolt of 1857. The revolt in Awadh began with the mutiny of the Lucknow garrison on the evening of 30 May. The mutiny spread swiftly to the cantonments in the districts. In Lucknow, faced with the destruction, plunder and killings that the sepoys perpetrated, the British under Henry Lawrence took refuge in the Residency. Once British authority in the districts of Awadh had collapsed, sepoys from there began to pour into Lucknow. Taluqdars and their retainers joined them. The attitude of the taluqdars is best illustrated by what Hanwant Singh, the Raja of Kalakankar, told Captain Barrow who he had saved from the wrath of the sepoys. He said:

‘Sahib, your countryman came into this country and drove out our king. You sent your officers round the districts to examine the titles to the estates. At one blow you took from me lands which from time immemorial had been in my family. I submitted. Suddenly misfortune fell upon you. The people of the land rose against you. You came to me whom you had despoiled. I have saved you. But now, I march at the head of my retainers to Lakhnao to try and drive you from the country.’

With the arrival of men from the districts, the battle to completely oust the British from Lucknow began. On the one hand, there was fierce fighting around the Residency. On the other hand, there were scenes of great rejoicing in the city. The rebels went around in groups crying Bom Mahadeo and distributed sweets. They declared Birjis Qadr, the young prince, to be the King of Awadh with his mother Begum Hazrat Mahal as the regent. They called Birjis Qadr, embraced him and said, ‘You are Kanhaiya’, harking back perhaps to Wajid Ali playing Krishna in a raha.

British troops under Outram and Havelock entered the Residency on 25 September 1857 but this offered no relief since their supply lines were cut off as rebels surrounded them. Every overture made to the rebel leadership for negotiations were spurned. Around the time when Colin Campbell’s relief force was trying to enter Lucknow, there were more than 50,000 men defending the city. This number increased when Campbell’s forces evacuated the British from Lucknow. The frenzy of the rebels was enhanced by the arrival of Maulavi Ahmadullah Shah who claimed to have received divine orders to throw the British out of India. It was only when Campbell re-entered the city in March 1858 that the revolt in Lucknow was finally quelled and the rebels dispersed into the countryside to carry on their resistance there.

The aftermath of Campbell’s conquest of Lucknow brought the curtain down on the culture and the ambiance of the city. The British troops were given a free rein to sack the city and they went berserk. For a few days, the British army had ceased to be an army at all. William Howard Russell, the correspondent of The Times witnessed the loot and the plunder:

‘The scene of plunder was indescribable. The soldiers had broken up several of the store-rooms, and pitched the contents into the court, which was lumbered with cases, with embroidered clothes, gold and silver brocade, silver vessels, arms, banners, drums, shawls, scarfs, musical instruments, mirrors, pictures, books, accounts, medicine bottles, gorgeous standards, shields, spears, and a heap of things… Through these moved the men, wild with excitement, “drunk with plunder”. I had often hard the phrase, but never saw the thing itself before. They smashed to pieces the fowling-pieces and pistols to get at the gold mountings and the stones set in the stocks. They burned in a fire, which they made in the centre of the court, brocades and embroidered shawls for the sake of the gold and silver. China, glass, and jade they dashed to pieces in pure wantonness; pictures they ripped up, or tossed on the flames; furniture shared the same fate.’

One estimate said that the loot from Lucknow amounted to a million and a quarter sterling. To quote Russell again:

‘There are companies which can boast of privates with thousands of pounds worth in their ranks. One man I heard of who complacently offered to lend an officer “whatever sum he wanted if he wished to buy over the Captain”. Others have remitted large sums to their friends. Ere this letter reaches England, many a diamond, emerald and delicate pearl will have told its tale in a very quiet pleasant way, of the storm and the sack of Kaiserbagh.’

Amidst such scenes, the graciousness of Lucknow passed into history to make way for colonial modernity.

Credits : Rudrangshu Mukherjee. Rudrangshu Mukherjee was educated at the Presidency College, Kolkata, Jawarharlal Nehru University, New Delhi and St. Edmund Hall, Oxford. He was awarded a D.Phil. in Modern History by the University of Oxford in 1981. He is the author of Awadh in Revolt 1857-58: A Study of Popular Resistance and Spectre of Violence: The 1857 Kanpur Massacres.

By : Saleem Kidwai

I left Lucknow in 1968 to go to college in Delhi, believing that I was severing my connection with the city. I used to return regularly for vacations but gradually the visits became briefer and seemed to coincide mostly with weddings or funerals which, given that I was a part of multiple extended families, were many. I saw little of the city and had no friends in it except those who lived in Delhi like me. What struck me on these visits was the rot, not decay.

I returned 35 years later to live here again in the town I was born, but not in my old home, hoping that this address would now never change. Delhi had become home, but an increasingly uncomfortable one. Mercifully, there was another home from which my umbilical cord had never been completely severed.

The year I left, the state of Uttar Pradesh was under President’s rule for the first time in its history. Charan Singh, a former Congressman, had breached the hold of the INC, but lasted as chief minister for only a year. When I returned, Mayawati was midway between her 18 month long third stint as chief minister. The first had lasted four months and the second six.

When I returned to Lucknow towards the end of 2002, her second partnership with the BJP was in increasing trouble. Soon thereafter, she chose to demonstrate her electoral might by calling one of her massive rallies which was organized by the low profile cadre of her party. I had never seen such a large demonstration in Lucknow. It changed the look of the city. Apart from the abundance of posters, wall graffiti, flags and cutouts, there was, floating above the black phallic structure that emerged from the centre of Parivartan Chowk, a large, blue, plastic inflatable elephant hovering proudly in the skyline alongside the marvellous domes of two nawabi tombs.

This Chowk was important to Mayawati. She had casually ignored protest from conservationists and the heritage zone laws to create a gallery of Dalit icons at one of the city’s busiest roundabouts in Hazratganj. Soon the seams of the elephant, like those of her alliance, began to come apart and as the helium leaked, the blue blimp started contorting into bizarre shapes as it descended against the setting sun. By evening the elephant was breathing its last on the ground, a crumpled plastic sheet. The next morning it was up again, gaily floating, plastic blue against the blue of the sky. Politics in UP did appear somewhat like a circus with its trapeze artists, tightrope walkers, musclemen, clowns and, of course, elephants.

Our old home in Lucknow had been a busy and a crowded one. Relatives frequently came to visit and others to live with us in order to go to school or college. These were cousins from the neighbouring district of Barabanki whose parents watched over the inheritance of our extended family — homes, lands and orchards. Male cousins usually headed for Aligarh, but for the female cousins, Lucknow was the obvious and convenient choice. They had a wide selection of options – Karamat Hussain Muslim Girls College, Mahila Vidyalaya, Bharti Balika Vidyalaya, Loreto Convent, St Agnes School or the Isabella Thoburn College. They stayed away from Lucknow University, mostly because it it had co-education.

Today, almost no one is left in the family homes in Barabanki. And none of the younger relatives, male or female, want to stay on in Lucknow to study if they can help it. Aligarh too is no longer considered the only other option, which now includes the US, Canada, Australia and even New Zealand.

We used to live on the edge of Hazratganj. I knew where to get what I needed. I could walk to six of the best movie halls and the other three were an easy rikhshaw or bicycle ride away. The British Council library was less than a ten minute walk. I had gotten membership without sponsors or a deposit by simply filling a form and showing my school identity card. The American Information Centre was a bit further. In the same building as the BCL were two of my favourite haunts – the Mayfair Cinema and Ram Advani’s Booksellers. Also in the same building was a place I would have loved to go more often, the Kwality restaurant famous for its ice creams and pastries, the fanciest restaurant of the time. I distinctly remember my first impressions of the place – regular, discreet tip tap of cutlery hitting china and the discreet hum of genteel conversation.

Across the road was the almost as posh Royal Café. The libraries and the cinema halls were once the only places I spent time in which were air conditioned. Close by was Ranjana Café where I must have had my first hundred odd dosas. Ranjana has been replaced by Barista. Royal Café has moved location but has an elaborate chat stall outside its entrance and serves most of its patrons on the sidewalk. I rarely went to the legendary Indian Coffee House at one end of Hazratganj which also has a chat stall at its entrance. Kwality, Mayfair and the British and American libraries have gone. The only survivor is the bookshop and Ram Advani continues to zealously interact with anyone interested in books.

My family was religious but religion was confined to the home. I never had a close friend who was Muslim. My father had numerous close friends who were not Muslims. I don’t ever recall them discussing their own or the others’ religion. Special care was taken never to be disrespectful to anyone’s sensitivities. The issue of his friends religions seemed to only come up after my father’s return from shikar in the winters when the loot of beautiful dead birds had to be distributed. His bag was usually overflowing, often consisting of over fifty visitors from Siberia. They were sorted out to see which were halal. The birds were shot from a boat which was then rowed out to pick up the prey felled in the sky. Immediately they had to be killed in the Islamic way, which meant running a knife under their gullet while declaring one’s faith. If blood flowed from the artery of the dying bird, it was considered kosher. If the bird was already dead, many non-Muslims would be happy to have it.

This did change though as the size of the bag shrank and there was less and less game to be given away. A friendly maulvi gave the fatwa that if the necessary utterances had been made at the moment of pulling the trigger, the birds were halal. I haven’t eaten duck killed in shikar since I left Lucknow.

We always lived surrounded by non-Muslims. If we referred to neighbours in generic terms, it was as Bengali, Punjabi, Madrasi, Kashmiri and so on and, in the case of Christians, as Angrez (if they were fair) and Anglo-Indians if they were not. I learnt much later that one of my father’s close friends was Jewish. This was a revelation for he was the only Indian Jew that I have known. I asked my mother why she had not told me this. ‘What was there to tell?’ she answered. I try and recall any Hindu-Muslim divide in my world then, but fail to.

Things seemed to change drastically in the middle years of my absence. I remember suddenly feeling afraid of travelling on the Lucknow Mail, boxed in close to belligerent groups of saffron bandana anointed kar sevaks. Their threat was palpable and one tried to become invisible. Some relatives made train reservations using Hindu names and a female relative wore abindi for extra protection. I learnt not to react when referred to as Babar ki Aulad, but despaired at how the heritage of Lucknow was not just being shredded but also mocked, how the idea of Awadh had to be destroyed before a political party could rule India. Today, I can’t help but contrast that feeling of fear with the overt assertion of identity when I see an increasing number of people across the city who can be recognized as being Muslim from the way they dress.

I remembered pilgrims on the Grand Trunk Road between Lucknow and Barabanki that leads to Ayodhya. These pilgrims were doing arduous physical penance – carrying sacred water over long distances or measuring this distance with their bare bodies. There were lots more pilgrims on the route during the anti Babri Masjid agitation but they were in open trucks screaming at the top of their voices. No piety was visible in these new pilgrims, only hate.

If I remember any religious wariness in my initial life in Lucknow, it was between the Sunnis and the Shias. If there was ‘the other’, then the Shias came closest to it. The religious education given at home had a disproportionate amount of history compared to belief, doctrine or ritual. And the history naturally was a partisan one. Suspicions ran deep. I remember the lady who looked after me when I was a child, repeatedly telling me to never eat or drink anything offered by a Shia, ‘for,’ she said, ‘they spit in what they offer you.’ Nearly fifty years later I heard of the reaction of an elderly Shia lady about the marriage of her nephew to a Hindu. ‘He is married and that is all that matters to me. And then, at least he didn’t marry a Sunni.’ Yet I am sure I never heard anyone argue that Shias should stop being Shias or that they needed to change.

I now live in Mahanagar, across the Gomti from Hazratganj. Mahanagar was the first ambitious urban colonization undertaken by the government after independence. As kids when we passed Mahanagar on our frequent trips to our parents’ homes in Barabanki, we believed we were out of Lucknow for soon there were fields and mango orchards on either side of the highway which was an endless tunnel under branches of huge trees. Today, there are buildings and institutions all the way from Lucknow to Barabanki city, 25 kilometres away. The last of the magnificent trees have been recently bulldozed and lie as deadwood waiting to be removed. You never get the feeling you have left the city.

Again, I find myself living in the middle of the city although the city seems a hundred times larger. New Lucknow has mushroomed all around me. Derivative and glitzy, it is not the city I knew. I am often rudely reminded of how it has changed but soon enough I’m reassured that in many ways it hasn’t and that one better be grateful for it. There is the lilt of the language and the polite phrases one begins to hear when one boards the Shatabdi. Lucknow is still a city where people prefer to be polite and courteous and don’t believe that rudeness is the best way to get things done.

When we were searching for a new home, our preference for Mahanagar was often discouraged. The attraction of Mahanagar was that the houses resembled those that Lucknow had when I was growing up. It’s a BJP colony, we were told and that was a brief jolt. Having been shown houses where marble paving in open spaces ensured that not even a blade of grass could grow through the cracks, a split-level living room with a waterfall, a house where the bathroom, with its jacuzzi, was bigger than the living room or any of the bedrooms, and one with a waterbed with a large headboard shaped like a butterfly, I wasn’t going to let a political party decide where I chose to live.

On moving in, it was heartening to discover that the mohalla spirit was still alive and word had already spread in the streets around. First-time visitors who asked for help were usually directed correctly. What was disheartening was that the good samaritans always wanted to know if it was the Muslims who had just moved in that they were looking for.

The local BJP municipal corporator often says the most communal things when invited to the Residents Welfare Association meetings. Complaints to other members engenders awkwardness; they invariably apologise on her behalf and assure us that they don’t agree with her. They also request us not to make a fuss because she would be useful if the colony is ever to get some basic civic facilities like a sewer. Again the dilemma is easy to resolve, for in this city neighbours are more important than political parties.

The city has many claimants for both its past and its future. The Sahara group was clearly the first off the mark in introducing the fruits of globalization to the city. They staked their claim to the city by trying to make Sahara synonymous with Lucknow in their advertising campaigns. If their hoardings were to be believed, one had arrived in Sahara city when one arrived at Amausi airport. Sahara city is actually a ‘fortress like’ city the group has built on the edge of Lucknow, very much in the tradition of medieval military usurpers. Inside it, people are decreed to greet each other with a salute in the name of Sahara.

Across the rest of the city the Sahara group has made its presence felt by altering the skyline. They built their mall, Sahara Ganj, the first in Lucknow, next door to Hazratganj. Sahara Ganj, bathed in mauve light, instantly became a popular tourist site. Forget that the new attraction came at the heavy cost of amputating one of the wings of the charming Carlton Hotel. Page Three projected the Roys as the first family of the city. The new nawabs of Lucknow also gave the city its first internationally noticed celebrity wedding. Its organization and cost would easily have matched any of the nawabi extravaganzas.

Then there are those citizens who see their future in protesting the loss of heritage, of course, conceived of as only nawabi. They market nawabdom as if it was a fragile antique and believe in lament, the time-honoured way to deal with loss. I remember a mock public funeral procession for the death of the culture of Lucknow in which mourners, some theatrically dressed, walked behind a mock bier representing the city’s heritage. It was a photo-op for a starved press, not a political statement. The octogenarian Hamida Habibullah was among the mourners and for those who cared to notice, visibly embarrassed. Later she admitted to having come because she believed it had something to do with conservation. She saw what was going on, but as a true Lakhnavi was far too gracious to leave immediately.

They ranted to the press during the run-up to the release of the new Umrao Jaan, irate that J.P. Dutta had insulted Lucknow with the many misrepresentations in his film, without of course having seeing it. The turbans were all wrong for they were Rajasthani rather than nawabi, as were the costumes. The worst blasphemy was Dutta saying that he had not shot in Lucknow because the city’s monuments were so badly maintained. Dutta would have to apologise for saying this, they threatened, before they would let the film be shown in Lucknow. Not once did it strike them or the journalists, as to why they were protesting at something that they had themselves routinely cried hoarse over. After all, did they too not maintain that the monuments of Lucknow had been allowed to go to seed? Once the film was released the critcism changed. The refrain then became how much better and more authentic the Umrao Jaan made by hamare Muzaffar Ali was.

The hijab wearing Begums of Lucknow (read Awadh) too rose to the defence of ‘our Umrao’. At a press conference they raved about how Umrao had been misrepresented or insulted in the film. This could have been a ground-breaking effort to raise issues around gender representation or indeed of the tawaif. However, it didn’t seem as if any of the spokespersons had even read the novel, and if so, had paid attention while reading. What most upset them were scenes of Umrao in a swimming pool, and a tiled one at that! The delicious irony of the Begums fighting for the reputation of a tawaif was lost on all.

Soon after I returned to Lucknow, I spoke at the opening session of an all India teacher’s conference at the university about same sex love. It was a learning experience for me. Apart from the wide eyes in the audience, the hostility was muted, the positions on the issue politically correct, even if token. After the conference I met nearly a dozen people who wanted to speak to me, one to one. These were research scholars, women and men who had already written but not published on the subject. What blew my mind was that their exclusive interest, intellectual and otherwise, was centred on lesbians. Lucknow is a city which has seen two of the most outrageous police actions against homosexuals in the last six years. Evidently, the earlier notion of Lucknow as the home of nawabi shauq for laundas needs to be revisited.

These five years have been fascinating and enraging. They cover the fall and rise of Mayawati, and the surreal tenure of the Mulayam Singh government. That Mayawati was clearly to be the most influential political figure in the region was apparent.

Living under Mayawati’s ‘rule’, certain things became clear immediately. Ambition was a finely honed instinct. She was strong-willed, self-made and convinced of her destiny. She paid attention to criticism only if it meant a loss of votes. She wanted to rule the state as she did her party, by herself with help of hand-picked aides, not leaders with their own base. She had a ruler’s penchant for monumental architecture in stone, laying gardens surprisingly bereft of trees and for planting large statues of people whose legacy she had decided to tap. She also commissioned her own statue to stand alongside that of Ambedkar and Kanshi Ram. She governed as rulers of yesteryears did.

Senior civil servants who dropped in to buy books at Ram Advani Booksellers often stayed on to chat. Some shook their heads in disbelief as they talked of her irreverent attitude towards bureaucrats, her disdain for complicated administrative rules in an eagerness to find shortcuts around them, her unacceptable hurry to get things done. Others in the Muhammad Bagh Club, their tongues loosened by long stints in the bar, focused on gender and caste to rubbish her. One exceptionally indiscreet remark stands out: ‘Remember what happened to Phoolan Devi? No woman gets away with insulting a thakur.’

The last comment was made after Mayawati had taken on Raja Bhaiyya, the influential politician. By imprisoning him and his father, she sent a message across the caste spectrum that she wasn’t going to be cowed down, thereby outraging many thakurs in the state. Moreover, by welcoming D.P. Yadav (a don) into her party, she made it clear that she was ready to take them on. We too have our own bahubalis she had proclaimed. She even campaigned for Narendra Modi while in alliance with the BJP.

But the lady, a true politician, knows the advantages of makeovers. She dented Mulayam’s Muslim vote bank and the BJP’s upper caste one, the same that her party’s cadre had earlier demanded be publicly thrashed with shoes. Reportedly, she is now ordering a makeover of even her statues.

Many in Lucknow were happy to see her go because they were tired of her shenanigans, her penchant for constantly being in the headlines of the newspapers and TV. There was a lot of talk about Mayawati and her diamonds. She had publicly flashed them for all to see. As for those reportedly gifted to her, a loyal bureaucrat tried to explain after she had resigned: ‘She is innocent, childlike (masoom). She believes that the pieces of glass that people give her are diamonds.’

I must confess that I had welcomed the return of Mulayam the Lohiaite, the most articulate spokesman for secularism in UP. I also welcomed one of his first announcements, that student elections would be allowed again and that they would be held as soon as possible. It, however, didn’t take long to see why they had been banned in the first place. Student leaders appeared to be political goons, totally unconcerned with academic issues because they were not in the university to attend lectures. The only academic matter that concerned Mulayam and over which he was even ready to precipitate a constitutional showdown was the creation of another liberally funded government university, one to be headed by a political crony. This was the university meant to teach Persian and Arabic in Rampur. It was difficult to decide whether to weep or laugh for the Persian department of the Lucknow University no longer had students, and the department survived only because the Maharaja of Kapurthala who had endowed the university with land had made it a condition that the university would always have a Persian department.

Mulayam Singh’s tenure as CM seemed like a farce scripted by a Bollywood hack. The Lohiaite suddenly turned into a CEO of a brand with an non-constitutional MD, a brand ambassador and so on. The slogan chosen was that the state had suddenly become an Uttam Pradesh. The government organized events with glitterati, mostly from Bombay films, and their groupies on the dais, our ‘Sahara’ Roy among them. Anil Ambani was projected as the one leading the state into industrialization and riches. Amitabh Bachchan served as its brand ambassador and his family was willing to appear when asked to tell the people how lucky they were to be living under Samajwadi rule. His wife was appointed to various official bodies and the Rajya Sabha. Films starring the Bachchans were given tax exemption. In his eagerness Mulayam, the vocal critic of dynasty, even insulted his own brand ambassador by giving the little B the highest government honour which only recently had been bestowed first on Harivansh Rai Bachchan and then on the big B.

Soon political scandal went beyond graft and become underground sleaze. As law and order deteriorated, there was nostalgia for Mayawati because she got ‘things done’. ‘She never bothered about hierarchy,’ a police officer recalled. ‘If there was trouble, she herself called the remotest of thanas and gave orders.’

Now that I think of it, a bureaucrat had said that she would come back with an independent majority if only she could manage the Muslim votes. That she clearly did and if she can consolidate her current constituency, she will almost certainly become a political player, and not just in UP. Lucknow will be a good place to watch these developments. Mayawati already seems a changed politician, and in the possibilities of a makeover lies hope.

Credits : Saleem Kidwai. Saleem Kidwai (born 1951), medieval historian, gay studies scholar and translator, taught history at Ramjas College, University of Delhi for many years, and now is an independent scholar. His other academic areas of interest are Mughal politics and culture, the history of tawaifs, and north Indian music. With Ruth Vanita, he is co-editor of Same-Sex Love in India: Readings from Literature and History, a pioneering work documenting and exploring the indigenous roots of same-sex desire in South Asia.

By : Muzaffar Ali

Culture is all about feeling, and it is only poets who have been able to encapsulate feelings that have been able to outlive their times and are true reflections of a culture.

Moinul Hasan Jazbi, a recent poet of Aligarh, puts across this very feeling: Sarv o saman bhi mauj e naseeme sahar bhi hai ; Ai gul tere chaman mein koi chashm tar bhi hai.

A beautiful garden abounds in tall cypress wafting in the morning breeze, birds singing, but the poet ask the flower, ‘Is there anyone who feels this beauty with moist eyes?’

I thought I would give finishing touches to this piece in the garden that is Lucknow. This morning at my house in Qaiserbagh – with no trees, just a lost bulbul making a nest in a rose creeper outside my window – I am confronted by newspapers brimming with concern and misinformation about this city. There is nowhere you can go to seek the truth and knowledge about this dying civilization.

The Lucknow Times stares at you with an article titled, ‘The Fine Art of Neglect’. It talks of Lucknow as a city of nawabs, not realizing that for the last 150 years there has been no nawab in the Awadh and during these years, culture, or whatever was left of it, has been nursed by its taluqdars. Mohammad Ali Shah is wrongly referred to as Mahmud Ali Shah. As one turns the pages one finds Kalbe Sadiq, one of the city’s most important pillars of learning, referred to as Kalbe Siddiqui, and there is mention of Muzaffar Ali’s lesser known film ‘Chilman’, which incidentally he never made.

Today we are a media-fed nation, nursed on misinformation and misplaced concerns. It is therefore all the more important to feel things deeply and reflect internally if one wishes to create a protective warmth around cultures. This can only be done through films, because we from Lucknow belong to a civilization of a dead language, Urdu.

Hai khayal-e-mahfile dostan kisi ajnabi ka hai ye bayan ; Vo jahan na samjhe meri zabaan vahi qismaton se mila vatan – bemoans the Urdu poet Raghupati Sahai Firaq Gorakhpuri. (In a congregation of friends, even the aliens feel, where none understand my language is destined to be my land).

I now feel at a loss as to who can enrich me with this culture. Those who know even a little have either an agenda or are arrogant. The free flowing expression of feelings which I experienced even a decade back, are no more. And it was this very fear of losing footprints of time that made me make the films that I did.

For me film-making is a means to an end, the end being a balance of the human situation with aesthetics. This balance has always been disturbed when any form of exploitation sets in, be it social, cultural or economic.

Being rooted in a continuously evolving human situation is a never ending source of renewal of a creative force. This creative surge inwardly connects all art forms. For me as an artist, Awadh is the centre of my creative chemistry. Even if I work in other cultures or languages, the grace of Awadh stands me in good stead.

Lucknow for me was a vast expanse of Awadhian landscape as you entered and left the city, changing hues in different seasons and times of the day. It was no big city in which I grew up. You could enter from one end and come out at the other within ten or fifteen minutes. This expansive Awadhian landscape opened up through avenues of giant trees, many over two hundred years old. Today, for as much as an hour, there are none as you drive out of the city into the countryside. Trees within the city too have been chopped off, save in a few pockets here and there. Memories of the changing moods of nature have suddenly gone dry, with not even photographs to celebrate the past. These years that went into the making of our minds and feelings – the sense of silence, the spatial experience of the eyes – have all vanished. Ancient cultures invariably placed great emphasis on the importance of space to our well-being – and neglecting it seems to have led to confusion, conflict and general negativity in our modern society. Empty space began to irk uncivilized people, and so did silence.

Today, bodies are strewn all over the footpaths, hanging in awkward positions from rickshaws. Lucknow has lost its relationship with civilization and nature. Possibly the gory sight of bodies of Indians hanging from trees following the siege of Lucknow in 1857 has made people indifferent to these magnificent trees.

And from then on Lucknow was a birthplace of a new kind of poetry – the poetry of separation of Radha from her lover. What Wajid Ali Shah wrote as he was being exiled from his land of dreams remains unparalleled in the history of emotions:

dar o deewar pe hasrat se nazar karte hain
khush raho ahle watan ham to safar karte hain
hamne apne dile nazuk to jafa ko saunpa
Qaisari bagh jo hai usko saba ko saunpa.

Slowly this too was silenced; there were no listeners, no moaners; a new and deadly city was born as the old city was left to die a painful death. To date the beautiful old city of Lucknow with its narrow streets reels in filth and squalor, devoid even of any sewer lines to clean its gutters. The new colonial rulers avoided all contact with people of the old city and the people of the old city kept away from the language of their oppressors, thus leaving this wonderful city and its people way behind in the race for existence.

Over the years the same language that killed a culture has become the global lingua franca. Even as its knowledge helps unearth the many atrocities committed in 1857, it has become a challenge to understand Persian, Arabic and even Urdu. Yet, we are nowhere near the signs of bringing the past back to life. There are complex issues to be addressed. Maybe some grassroot films with a popular base can resuscitate pride, restore our lost dignity and values, which ironically have become a victim to mindless Hindi cinema. Another sad prey of this mindless-ness is the beauty of silence in which you could once hear birds calling to share the beauty of its garden.

Cultures as we would like to feel them will survive when we grow out of magnified visual ugliness and horrific amplified sounds. Cultures speak to the heart and any imposition through amplified sound as in modern India is a sure way of ringing in their death knell. Hindi films, Indian politics and religion are solely responsible for this mindless assault on our sensibility and whatever that remains of our acquired refinement. This is the curse of a free and modern India, an India fragmented into a new economic classification, which has no visible meeting point. How then can we expect any concern or feeling to emerge amongst people in this newly formed social order. Lucknow, like every other city of this country, is a victim of this malaise. Unfortunately, in the case of Lucknow there is a lot more to loose.

Vahshat ne vo bhi loot li dam bhar mein dosto
Jo muddaton mein ayi thi shaistagi hamein.

In a moment all was lost at the hands of insanity, the refinement acquired over centuries of evolution.

Beyond the magnificence of the Awadhian landscape, its unique Indo-Persian, European architecture, its very evolved gastronomic recipes, is the beauty of the language. Despite the external onslaught it remained preserved in the veils of the most exquisite feminine feudal culture the world has ever known, to the extent that even the male poets were drawn to writing in the feminine gender – a poetic form known as rekhti.

For me poetry became a way of feeling people and their times. It was a mother art, of expressing childhood fantasies, adventure and chivalry, valour and romance, sensuality and love, love and surrender. Poetry was a double-edged sword. It also killed the poet with the misplaced values and wrongly intentioned objectives. Fortunately, the poets of Awadh were wounded and passionate, therefore Awadh remained alive. These poets were rooted, earthy, sophisticated and spiritual.

Lucknow has been the city of both the written and spoken word – the language of day to day life, of humour and etiquette, of love and romance, of poetry and eulogy. Even the unlettered wrote poetry and spoke in velvet smooth tones. Today the city is confronted with cinema and television, with the language of politics and modern education. Political bigwigs from outside Awadh have devastated the delicate and vulnerable ethos of this city that has given its identity.

There was a time and place where everything beautiful came without any cost, like the wind and water, where art was created with passion, with an urge to share without commercial compensation, when people created a warmth and excitement for each other with everything within their means. Today people are helpless and alienated.

Taveel hone lagi hain isi liye ratein
Ki log sunte sunate nahin kahin bhi.

The poet Shahryar bemoans the length of endless nights, for no one tells stories any more. Lucknow was a centre of this art form, Daastaan Goi, and modern Aligarh, as I knew it, was a centre for reflecting on concerns for the evolution of a mindless modern India, devoid of any feelings, contributing to the loss of a language which evolved with great sophistication in Lucknow.

The world of story telling in poetic form that engulfs the mind, heart and soul is the Masnavi. Be it in the realm of chivalry and martial arts as in the Shahnameh of Firdausi, or a spiritual unfolding as in the Masnavi of Maulana Jalaluddin Rumi, or Khusrau or Nizami. The first Masnavi in Urdu was written by Mir Hasan – Benazir o Badr e Munir, soon followed by Pandit Daya Shankar Nasim’s Gulzar e Nasim, Mirza Shauq’s Bahar e Ishq and, Zahr e Ishq and Fareb e Ishq. The Masnavi was the equivalent of the world of moving images of today. Contemporary moving images have little to do with creating an active imagination while the Masnavi made people own and posses it, depending on their power to remember and recite or even through feeling with their heart. Zahr e Ishq was prohibited because of the kind of effect it had on young lovers. It is said that many committed suicide consumed by the passion and helplessness of the lovers in the Masnavi.

The marsiya was a form of recreating events with deep feelings that would move the audience to tears. Its poets had reached the pinnacle of their art form in making audiences emotionally charged. The martyrdom of Imam Husain, the grandson of the Prophet of Islam in the battle of Karbala, was the only subject of this sacred art form which prospered in the reign of the Awadh rulers who emanated from Khorasan and belonged to the Shia faith.

Mir Anis and Mirza Dabir took this art form to heights which cut across all boundaries of faith and religion, and as fate may have it, divided the city into followers or lovers of either Mir Anis or Mirza Dabir. Anis made recitation into an art form, known as marsiya khwani. With change of expression, with an underlining of a gesture, using the highs and lows of a human voice he could touch and rip the heart apart.

David Mathew in translating the marsiyas of Mir Anis says of the Urdu language, ‘Urdu is an Indian language which while readily absorbing grammatical structures and vocabulary from Arabic and Persian, possesses a vast number of synonyms. For words like “horse”, “sword”, “battle”, “desert”, etc. which naturally frequent the marsiya, more than half a dozen Urdu words might be found for each, and of course, they will be used by the poet wishing to display his linguistic virtuosity. English though a rich language, is in comparison often found wanting. This presents a great problem to the translator, who must make the best of what he has at his disposal.’

Enough, Anis! Your very limbs are quaking.
This monument you built with glory rings.
Such verses written while your hands were shaking / will fire the world and please the hearts of kings.
Their harvest is this gathering of mourning
the spring-like pleasure of autumn’s dawning.

It is only from a deep realization you find something you have lost. This is the only ray of hope on the firmament of the twilight of Awadh.

Cultures take centuries to evolve, but fade away faster than we think. Lucknow has been sighing for over a century and a half, but somehow it is only recently that modern communication and tourism has begun to question its sad state, through which nostalgia has begun to emerge larger than life, as a saviour of this fabled region.

The first war of independence in 1857, termed as a mutiny by the colonial rulers, and then independence designed to be coupled with the partition, subsequently leading to a communal resurgence followed by sharp caste division in politics, has left Lucknow bruised and battered.

But Lucknow has not left the gaze of those who think with the heart. Commentaries on its plight have found expression in words of modern poets though they may not belong to Lucknow. Shahryar wrote these words in the aftermath of the breaking of the Babri Mosque in 1993:

Har khawab ke makan ko mismaar kar diya hai ; behtar dinon ka aana dushwaar kar diya hai.
Every abode of dreams has been shattered

The coming of better days made increasingly difficult.

The biggest loss came from the partition – a deep and silent loss which still echoes in the large vaulted roof of the Bara Imambara, in the slum-like but once grand palace of Qaiserbagh, the largest quadrangle in Asia. The big question that haunted my father, and I have inherited this concern, is how prominent Muslim taluqdars could ever dream of an integrated Awadh in a nation divided along communal lines. Did they think they would slice off their heritage and transplant it across the border? And whatever happened is the saddest moment in the history of civilization of the subcontinent.

Ever since, the cancer of communalism has continued to spread on this sacred soil of legends, masnavis, marsiyas andghazals. The very basis of the existence of our culture has been hacked off; the language – Urdu, the language of the heart, the language of love, the language of the soul, of imagination, humour and wit. This innocent language began to be associated with the cause of the partition, of a community and those taluqdars who became its icons and flag bearers. When we will emerge out this darkness is hard to say.

A modern poet of Aligarh, Rahi Masoom Raza, comes to our rescue and exhorts us:

Kisi shokh shola ru koi intekhab lao
Shab e gham guzarni hai koi aftab lao
kisi chehre kitabi ka sunao koi kissa
vahi lahjae tammana vahi aab o taab lao
ye chiragh jaise lamhe yuhin raegaan ne jaen
koi khaab dekh daalo koi inquilab lao.

Bring a match for that coquettish flaming face
bring the sun to the dark nights of despair.
Tell a story of a beauty found in books
bring the same endearing tone and lustre fair.
Don’t let these flickering moments go
Dream, and bring a change in the air.

As a film maker and as an artist I have begun to explore the process of reality and realization, history and reflection, current affairs and inferences. Lucknow is one such situation which needs reading between lines and motivating people to take certain positions which can retrieve the damage. It can only happen if one aims at the heart and focuses on grassroot grievances and their causes.

Poets, soldiers, saints and kings, Awadh has seen them take birth on its sacred soil, surviving vested interests and political upheavals, surfacing over and over again, and remaining alive in the hearts of their people. The Sufi way is the way of becoming invisible; of not knowing and being ignorant; of receiving and giving – the way of a woman; the way of Umrao Jaan, the way of saying and feeling and not being a burden.

The beauty of Awadh is that it expanded its arms to take everything heart-rending into its fold. The exploits and adventures of Lord Krishna were expressed in an operatic art form of the Rahas. Faiths were bridged when the king, Wajid Ali Shah, wrote and danced as Lord Krishna or a lovelorn yogi. He opened the gates of his Qaiserbagh palace with fairs and festivals and sabhas. Mian Amanat, a contemporary of Wajid Ali Shah, wrote the Indar Sabha.

Poets are the mirrors of society. They are dreamers of an ideal world, the romantics that bring about change. Unfortunately, the poets of Lucknow have been more subtle and laid back. As Mohammad Iqbal says, ‘Nations are born in the hearts of poets and die in the hands of politicians.’ There was no Faiz or Makhdoom or Iqbal to stir the passion for revolt, but the silent marsiya of the city has acquired the power of a huge emotional upsurge which can change the world.

awwal shab vo bazm ki raunaq shamma bhi thi parwana bhi ; raat aakhir hote hote hote khatm tha yeh afsana bhi
daur e massarat Aarzoo apna itna zalzala aageen tha ; hath se muhn tak aate aate choot chala paimana bhi.
– Aarzoo Lakhnavi

Thus Lucknow continues to live on in two ways; one through its past, and the other through a sensitive and creative reflection of what it has been through. Artists have expressed and continue to express all that Lucknow has been through in the past, the recent and not so recent. On the other hand, scholars who attempt to place Awadh in its right dialectical predicament, can only identify areas of exploitation and point out the imbalance in the human situation and take stock of ugliness – some reversible some irreversible, like the ancient chopped trees and communalized brains.

The biggest and most silent power that empowers Awadh today and creates a softness of the heart is none other than Haji Waris Ali Shah, the Sufi saint of the Chishti order who passed away in 1905. His inspiration has kept alive the poetry of the soul through poets like Bedam Shah Warsi and the entire genre of qawwali singing in Awadh. Who has as many Hindu disciples as Muslims. It is truly through this spiritual connection that the Ganga Jamuni tehzeeb (culture) is kept alive.

Credits : Muzaffar Ali. (Muzaffar Ali is a noted film maker, a painter, poet, designer and many feathers in one cap. Born in an aristocratic family of Kotwara, he has contributed a lot to the well-being of Lucknow and our company. He is looked upon with great respect by the people of Lucknow and the state of Uttar Pradesh as a whole).

By : Nasima Aziz

Going home to Lucknow between Foreign Service assignments with my husband was always hurried and rushed. Post retirement, I have plenty of time at last. I have a deep need to reconnect with my childhood, my place, and to come to terms with the loss of people who are gone forever.

I spent six wonderful months in Lucknow meeting Lakhnavis from every walk of life, letting them talk to me about how life was lived – all those memories, myths and legends – a nostalgia binge that soothes my restless memory genes…

I have recorded these stories just as people recalled them, and just as they were told to me. In this selection of interviews connecting threads link seven amazing women: Mahé Talat, Betty, Manju, Hamida, Sakina, Shamim and Rana. My deepest thanks for their time and for photos provided.

I am heading towards Nakkhaas, a wide avenue in Old Lucknow, once famous for its elegant town houses. By the time I was growing up, Nakkhaas was better known for the weekly bazaar where quixotic junk and exotic birds were sold. On one occasion we met a gentleman from Arizona who was looking for ‘fighting cocks’ to take back to improve his breeds. While cock fights are now banned, the antiques bazaar still continues.

I locate a tall doorway, painted red, with the name Afzal Mahal above it in Urdu and enter a courtyard with a guava tree and a water tap. The deep arches of a baradari enclose one side; a steep, curving staircase leads to the roof top. Fresh whitewash gives a well kept look, with touches of soft green on doors, windows and trellises. I sit on a charpai, string bed, and wait for Mahé Talat, the lady I have come to meet. She is visible through the open arches of the baradari, teaching a group of young girls how to read and write. Their clothes are faded and shapeless, but their faces, beyond the weariness, are eager.

Mahé Talat’s story: ‘I retired recently from the post of Librarian in Karamat Hussain Girls College. Now I tutor these poor girls. Literacy may give them a way out of their hopeless lives.

I was born in 1939 in this very house – Afzal Mahal. My mother was extremely ill during childbirth and there was gossip that she was poisoned. The English lady-doctor, Dr. Marchant, thought differently, and said she could save either me or my mother and although eventually both of us survived, I was taken away and given to Rani Shehenshah Begum, who brought me up. She was a close relation of my father and I considered her my par-dadi (great-grandmother).

She was the greatest influence in my life. She told me wonderful stories, including stories from Shakespeare.

Shehenshah Begum was the daughter of a Turk, Ramzan Ali Khan, whose mansion stood on the banks of the Gomti not far from the Residency, an area now occupied by the Haathi Park. Ramzan’s sister, a Turkish princess, Sangi Khanum, was the wife of Nawab Saadat Ali Khan who ruled Awadh from 1798 to 1814. Ramzan Ali Khan was his prime minister.

In 1857, when Shahenshah Begum was barely five years old, the British cannons brought their mansion tumbling down. Ramzan Ali Khan died, though the circumstances are not clear. All that remains in that locality is a small mosque known as the Jinnaat wali Masjid, the mosque where djinns pray.

The family escaped in bullock carts to Malihabad. In time Shahenshah Begum and her sisters went on pilgrimage to the Shia holy places in Iraq and, like many others, they stayed on. This is where Shahenshah Begum grew up to become an elegant and highly educated woman, with arresting, bright blue eyes. She was exceptionally tall and wore size nine shoes.

In time a young Nawab came to Iraq on pilgrimage. He was Raja Nawab Fazle Ali Khan of the Akbarpur Riyasat in Awadh. He took Shahenshah Begum back to India as his bride.

In 1945/46, elections were held in our mohalla, and the polling booth was right outside Afzal Mahal. I was about six or seven years old but I remember that Lady Wazir Hasan came to our home and asked the women to come out and vote, assuring them that they would be safe in their purdah. My par-dadi stepped out of the house, looked around the street, staggered and fainted. As you can imagine there was such a commotion! She was brought back inside and I sat beside her, fanning anxiously. When she recovered she told me that it was the sight of the Angrez tommies on duty that gave her a shock. It reminded her of the time when she was a child, in 1857, and Angrez tommies stormed her father’s house.

One day I remember asking my par-dadi why she was signing her name from left to right on some documents presented to her by emissaries from Akbarpur. She explained that it was the Devanagri script which she had learnt in the Akbarpur Riyasat. She knew six languages including Hindi, Urdu, Persian, Turkish, Arabic and English.

She died in 1952 at the age of 100 and needed a man-sized shroud for her burial.’

The next evening I am back in Afzal Mahal. Mahé Talat shows me around the baradari, a hall supported by pillared arches. It is now used as the living quarters with a dormitory-like arrangement of beds, except during Mohurrum, the month of mourning in the Shia calendar, when it serves its original purpose of holding majlises, religious meetings. The far wall has large, deep alcoves where tazias, religious symbols, are meant to be placed. We go back to sit in the courtyard, comfortably drinking tea. I lead Mahé Talat gently to talk about her childhood.

‘You want to know about my early life? What can I tell you – it was a wonderful childhood, growing up in this house, in this mohalla.

Afzal Mahal was originally owned by Husaini Khanum who during the Mutiny had also fled to Malihabad but was killed before she got there. I remember seeing her daughter whom we called Chunni Begum. She had by then gone mad, though she was still regal in her bearing. In 1901, the head of our family went to see a play by Agha Hasher Kashmiri, in the baradari of Afzal Mahal which was in a very broken-down condition and had been pawned to a Rastogi mahajan. Our family bought this Mahal, renovated it, and used the baradari for majlises again.

When the roof of the baradari was repaired they found multiple layers of clay pots, which kept the place cool. The present ceiling is not original – it is lower than the old one. The fish motifs that we have painted gold used to be in different shaded colours, in a degree of detail that is impossible to reproduce now. The beams appeared to be supported by porcelain parees, angels, with lifted arms. Lower down there were smaller parees set here and there supporting cornices. As a child I used to play with a slightly damaged one that had fallen off. It was my doll.

During Diwali there used to be a mela, fair, from Akbari Gate to Gol Darwaza. Particularly popular were clay toys which were models of the men and women of different professions – an idea that Wajid Ali Shah had suggested to the makers of the toys.

I remember the Basant ki nau chandi celebrations at the shrine of Shah Meena, which both Hindus and Muslims attended. Ain Ali was a famous eunuch with a long beautiful plait. From ’50 to ’54 I saw him dance in a procession, which included horses and elephants, on its way to the shrine.

No male servants were allowed inside our house. When the gardener came in to water the plants, he put a cloth on his head, an andheri. He was the one in purdah! Purdah was so strict that doctors and hakims had to pass the stethoscope or feel the pulse of the female patient across a curtain. I remember a very beautiful lady in her 70s, Shahida Jan, who observed purdah from people in any passing aeroplane up in the sky! My par-dadi was persuaded to sit for a portrait only after being assured that the photographer was in purdah since he had his face covered with a black cloth while he took her picture!’

I sit in the quiet courtyard, listening to Mahé Talat as the evening deepens to dusk, oblivious of the hum of traffic outside, carried away by the rhythm of a born storyteller who keeps her tone neutral, even as she describes some of the chilling and tragic circumstances of her life.

‘So how did I end up working as a librarian in a college? Let me tell you how that happened.

I studied till Class III in Christ Church School. We used the King Reader, which was like the Radiant Reader that came later. One day I made the sign of the cross during a lightening storm. Alarmed, my parents withdrew me from that school and applied for admission in Talimgah-e-Niswan, a school for Muslim girls established by Begum Inam Habibullah. My mother and I went to call on her at her residence, 11 Mall Road, and for the occasion my mother wore a sari. The interview went off well and I joined the new school.

I used to spend hours in the library in our house. I read the translation of the Tohra and many other marvellous books. The books were of a very large size and a wide ribbon was needed to turn the pages. They were embellished with gold both outside and inside. I regularly read journals like Khatoon and we were encouraged to read the novels of Rashid-ul-Khairi. However, we were forbidden to read romantic novels like Zakhme Ishq.

My father, Nawab Sultan Ali Khan, related to the Akbarpur family, had habits which needed money and more money. Over the years he sold all our treasures, all our possessions: books, paintings, furniture, even the bars of silver and gold that were kept for my dowry. He sold a walnut-wood screen to the Lucknow Museum – you can go and see it there!

Once when we were very young my father took my sister and me to visit his favourite tawaif, courtesan. I remember a very pretty lady, sitting on a high stool. The peacock embroidered on her duputta covered the side of her head. Musicians were gathered around. We were given paan folded with silver and gold warq, and innocently, I ate mine, but my sister became suspicious that it may contain poison and refused to eat hers. When we told our mother where we had been she was very angry and did not allow her husband into the house for many months.

The tawaifs had to keep their doors closed on Diwali and on Basant, when melas, fairs, were held in that area. Two well known tawaifs were Alla Rakhi who lived near Prakash Cinema and Naseem Jan of Calcutta who was related to Jaddan Bai, the mother of the film star Nargis. The film star Rehana lived near by in one of the lanes. She used to return to Lucknow for Mohurrum and organize a tazia procession, walking behind the tazia in her burqa.

When I was 14 years old my marriage was arranged to a 35 year old man – he was a Maulvi, so a trousseau was not expected. After I married him I found out that he had T.B. so whatever little money I did have was spent on his medicines. I had to nurse him and clean his slop bowls. It was a desperate life, lived in one single room, in which I had to cook as well. My husband died and I came back home. I was cleaned and disinfected and sent to bed. In those dark days I used to lock myself in my room with books as my only companions. I remember I read Fasana-e-Ajaib and Fasana-e-Azad during that time.

In the build up to Independence, we heard that in Lucknow University there were agitations which involved the poets Majaz, Ali Sardar Jaffrey, Shehenshah Saheb and others. We heard that students danced as they recited Majaz’s poem: Bol rey dharti bol. Urdu newspapers such as Sarfaraz painted an alarming picture of what might happen to Muslims after independence. But there were no riots in Lucknow. It was due to the efforts made from the time of Wajid Ali Shah who created an atmosphere of friendship between Hindus and Muslims.

All my uncles left for Pakistan in 1947. In 1953 the Zamindari Abolition Act made people bankrupt overnight and many died of shock. My mother sent away the servants as we could not afford them. The rents from the shops (along the outer boundary wall of the house) were Rs 5 or Rs 10 per month.

Under these circumstances you can imagine how hard it was for me to find the money to take up my studies again. I did not want to go back to my old school so I chose to go to Karamat Hussain College which was called Muslim College in those days (1958). It was far away from my house. I arranged a rickshaw, wore my burqa and set out through fields and barren land to the other end of town. Miss Yusufzai and Miss Roshan Ara were my teachers. We wore uniforms, shalwar kameez, with dupattas made of a mulmul-like fabric called jungle bari, or a cheaper fabric called mata phulan. There must have been about 500 girls in my time.

I got my Bachelors degree in Library Science from Isabella Thoburn College. With my Bachelors degree in hand I felt I was someone of worth.

Sometimes I think I am glad that my father sold all that we owned – or I would have had to sell it myself. Instead, I was forced to find something of more lasting value – an education – by which I could support myself for the rest of my life.’

Betty and her husband Iqbal Ahmed Khan live in the Sadar area, near the Cantonment. The construction of roads, flyover and shops, and encroachment by the lawalas makes the approach to the house complicated. The original grounds of the house have been sold off in parcels over the years and a Nursing Home occupies one portion near the mosque. The front garden still remains, with attractive nooks and corners. Inside, the two exquisite antique carpets hanging on the walls of this huge, high-ceilinged living room do not succeed in reducing the barn-like proportions.

Betty’s story: ‘My father was Raja Nawab Yusuf Ali Khan of the Riyasat of Akbarpur in eastern U.P. One of his ancestors, a thakur, had wanted to marry a Muslim girl, so he converted to Islam and after that the family title became Thakur Nawab or Raja Nawab.

My father, Yusuf, enjoyed the luxurious life of a rich taluqdar’s son. He went to Colvin Taluqdar College where, in those days, students had their own apartments with servants, a horse and a syce.

In Paris in the 1930s he met and almost married Amrita Sher Gill. The portrait that she painted of him hangs in the National Gallery of Modern Art in Delhi today.

I have a group photo taken in an elegantly furnished living room – the people in the photo are Amrita, her Sardar father and Hungarian mother, Yusuf, and the Hungarian man Amrita eventually married.

In 1937 Yusuf married my mother who was from a Mirza family from Bombay. I lost both my parents when I was quite young and being the sole heir of Akbarpur, was made a Ward of the Court and placed in the care of Justice Thomas and Lady Thomas. My real name is Ismat, and my pet name is Betty. I was sent to school in Woodstock in Mussoorie and later to I. T. College Lucknow (1952-55). To this day I try to attend the meetings of the Awadh Taluqdar’s Association, because I have a right to be there. Akbarpur is the parliamentary constituency of the BSP leader Mayawati.

My father’s father was Raja Nawab Ali Khan. He was a serious scholar of Indian classical music and was one of the founders of the Marris Music College, now called the Bhatkande College of Music. He had several Muslim wives, but then he fell in love with Isabella Thomas, sister of Justice Thomas, and married her. She had two daughters, Roshanara and Husnara, and a son, Yusuf, the only son of the Raja. Their home in Qaiserbagh, Akbarpur House, is now a bus depot.

Isabella had converted to Islam but after her husband died she and her two daughters became practicing Christians again. One married into a family in Lucknow called Mayadas, and another married an Englishman. But since Isabella’s son Yusuf was the one and only heir, he remained a Muslim. Isabella died in 1948 or ’49. My father’s sisters have passed away but one of their children came to attend my son’s wedding recently.

My father’s grandfather was Raja Nawab Fazle Ali Khan. He was married to Rani Shehenshah Begum. She was a very regal and aristocratic-looking lady, very tall and fair, with blue eyes. She looked like the actress Veena who plays the role of Wajid Ali Shah’s mother in the film Shatranj ke Khilari. She lived till the age of over 100 and died in 1952. In her lifetime she lost her husband, her only son and her only grandson (my father).

She lived by herself in a house called Afzal Mahal in Nakhkhas. Being alone, she called one of her relations from Akbarpur to come and live in her home with his wife and children. One of his daughters, Mahé Talat, still lives in that house.’

I am looking for a locality called Raja Bazar where the Rastogi Biradiri has been traditionally located. I take the road to Rakabgunj, up to the thana of Agha Mir and from there enter Batashey Wali Gali, a narrow winding street bordered by grim, high walls inset with heavy doors. At the first crossing is the house called Bharat Ashram. I ring the bell. A servant opens the creaking, heavy bolts. I climb a few steep steps – and then a breathtaking surprise. An acre of greenery laid out in the style of a classic garden with a fountain in the middle. I cross the garden to reach Manju’s part of the house. She welcomes me warmly and introduces me to various family members.
Manju’s story: ‘My husband’s grandfather was Lala Mohandas Rastogi. He was a moneylender, and his clients were the nawabs and taluqdars of Lucknow. He was a very wealthy man but also a philanthropist and gave gupt-daan to many charities.

My father-in-law was Babu Balabhdas Rastogi (1901-1970). He was one of the first graduates of Lucknow University, called Canning College in those days. He became a Gandhian – one day he collected all his fine clothes, pashminas and silks, and gave them away. He made one wing of this house into a library, open to all. It was well stocked with books, magazines and newspapers and in the evenings you could see people sitting on the benches in the garden, reading.

In our families we always used ‘aap’ even while addressing servants. The driver was called ‘Driver Saheb’. When my own daughter went to study design in Ahmedabad, being a well brought up Lakhnavi she used ‘hum’ instead of ‘main’. Her colleagues used to tease her – how many of you? To say ‘main’ was considered aggressive and bad mannered. Wherever we go, people can tell from the way we speak that we are from Lucknow – from the politeness of our speech, as well as our manners. For example, I would never dream of giving someone something with my left hand – not only that, but we are taught that the left hand must support the right elbow while offering anything to a guest or elder.

My mother-in-law was very fond of using itr, perfume, when she got dressed for the evening. We used to greet guests by offering them small cotton balls soaked in itr which they placed behind their ears, or we sprinkled refreshing rose water on them from an elegant silver sprinkler.

There were a lot of cooking taboos in this Vaishnav family. The kitchen area consisted of several rooms having their own courtyard. Desserts changed with the seasons – Andarsey ki goli in the monsoon, and Lowki ka lachcha in summer. In summer we also served sharbat made of khus, gulab or kewra essence whipped into cold, sweetened milk. I remember the labels on the itr and essence bottles from the famous Asghar Ali Mohammed Ali perfume factory in Hina Building in Chowk.

My mother was also from the Rastogi biradari. Her father was a wealthy zamindar from Farrukhabad. Her family had land but they also lent money to the nawabs and rajas of U.P. and Rajasthan. They did not count money – they weighed it.’

The house on 11 Mall Road is more than 150 years old. I used to visit it as a child – I remember the semi-circular driveway bordered with sculpted trees of Chinese orange; a conservatory with swaying shadows and mysterious filtered light where a child could imagine a tropical adventure… today there is no driveway and no conservatory, only the encroachment of new construction. But the drawing room, with enormously high ceilings, takes you back to another time – and Hamida Habibullah enters, greeting me with her usual affection and charm.

Hamida’s story: ‘It was a girl in a mirror who started a chain of events. Shahid Hosain of Rudoli had seen, by chance, the reflection of a stunningly beautiful girl in a decorative wall mirror in a house he was visiting, and was desperate to marry her. But her parents imposed one condition: a suitable match had to be found for the younger (not so pretty) sister. Shahid Hosain talked to his good friend, Mohammed Sheikh Abdullah, who was a forty-year-old widower, and persuaded him to marry the younger sister.

This is how the two sisters Nissar Fatima and Inam Fatima of Kakori got married and came to Lucknow. Shahid and Nissar Fatima lived on 2 Mall Road, across the street from this house where Inam Fatima lived with her husband who was Taluqdar of Saidanpur which is in Barabanki district. Shahid’s famous daughter, Attia Hosain has described both families and both houses in her novel, Sunlight on a Broken Column.

Inam Fatima belonged to a very traditional family from a small provincial town where they observed strict purdah. Her husband encouraged her to leave purdah gradually – her relations were very critical of this. She started wearing saris instead of ghararas, and accompanied her husband to parties at Government House.

A series of English ladies came to live in the house to teach Inam Fatima English, and English manners and lifestyle. There was an English mania in those days and anyone with a white skin was treated as a superior person. I remember a Mrs Hyde, a good looking woman from a good family, who insisted on being served tea in her own room by the ayah. Most of these ladies went home before the climate got to them, selling their personal effects to add to the nest-egg of their savings.

Inam Fatima led an active and productive life till her death in 1975. This woman who had been brought up in purdah, went on to be a Member of the Legislative Assembly for 14 years – ’34 to ’47. She founded the school for Muslim girls, Talimgah-e-Niswah which now has 4000 students.

Inam Fatima had a daughter and three sons. When her sons were aged six, eight and nine they were sent to study at Clifton College in Brighton, England, and they did not come home for almost ten years, till the end of their schooling. Their mother saw them just once when she visited England with her husband in 1924. All the taluqdars were told by the Governor, Sir Harcourt Butler – who had become a family friend – to follow the good example set by Sheikh Abdullah and send their sons to England. It was supposed to make them pro-British – but when they saw freedom in England they wanted freedom in India.

Their youngest son Inayat, called Bubbles, had gone on to Sandhurst, and when he returned to India our mothers began matchmaking for us. He and I were allowed to become pen-friends and wrote to each other for almost a year. We got married in 1938 and led a typical army life, getting transferred from place to place, but always coming to Lucknow on visits. During the war days we used to have dinner at Kwality’s and then go dancing at the Mayfair, on the roof terrace.

I entered this house 69 years ago and ever since then 11 Mall Road, or Gyara Number as we call it, has been my home.’

Sakina’s story: ‘My grandfather was Sir Wazir Hasan. He was the first Indian Chief Justice of the Awadh Chief Court and the title went with the job. His family was landed gentry from the Jaunpur district and he was expected to look after the estate. But he saw the opportunities that an English education would bring, quarrelled with his father and left for Aligarh University to study law.

His successful career proved him right and getting a good education became the rule in our family. His daughters (my aunts) Fatima Zehra and Noor Zehra were among the first students to get enrolled in the newly established Muslim School for Girls, later known as Karamat Hussain College. I myself have a doctorate in English Literature and taught in the same college for ten years.
My grandmother, Lady Wazir Hasan, gave up purdah in 1930, during the non-cooperation movement of Gandhiji. She gifted away all her French chiffon saris and started wearing khadi and weaving on a charkha. My mother was from Bhopal, the first girl to do a ‘Middle’ Exam, Class VI or Middle School. The story is that Sarojini Naidu had visited the school and mentioned my mother’s looks and accomplishments to her friend Lady Wazir Hasan and that is how a proposal of marriage was put in motion.

My two brothers were enrolled as boarders in Colvin Taluqdar College and each of them had a horse and a syce. On one of their visits home they talked about the hours they spent playing shatranj, chess, a decadent pastime according to my mother. They were promptly transferred to Jubilee College. The daughters of lawyers, doctors, and other professionals were sent to the Girls La Martinere School, which is where I had my schooling.

My father Syyed Ali Zaheer had a law practice and a good friend of his was Justice Thomas whose sister Isabella married the Nawab of Akbarpur. They had a son who we called Tutu Nawab though his real name was Yusuf. Other contemporaries of my father’s were Tej Bahadur Sapru, Gokaran Nath Misra, Bisheshwar Nath Srivastava, and Pragat Narain Mulla, father of Anand Narain Mulla. Today you will find streets in the Golagunj area, where many lawyers lived, named after all these people.

This was part of the circle of Indian friends cultivated by the Governor, Sir Harcourt Butler. He enjoyed socializing with them, wearing an Indian dress, the angarkha, and smoking his pechdar (twisted) hookah in their company.

The sons of wealthy families were sent to the kothas, salons of courtesans, to learn the art of civilized social behaviour from experienced tawaifs – it was the done thing. There was a category called dereydar tawaif, who were at the top of the hierarchy – a woman who was kept by one man and was not available to anyone else during the contracted period.

It is rumoured that a liaison between one of the family members and a tawaif called Mushtari Bai in Faizabad produced the beautiful Akhtari Bai, better known as Begum Akhtar whose unique style of singing and magnetic personality created a huge fan following.

At one point in time, Begum Akhtar’s generous patron gave her a house which was right next to ours. He also gave her a huge Packard car, a gold paandan, beetlenut box, and a large diamond nose stud. This was some time in the early ’40s.

The kotha tradition began to die out after the Zamindari Abolition Act of 1953 brought to an end the last phase of a dying culture.’

‘Nadiya Kinare’ was built by Kasim Khan in the 1960s and was the only house in Lucknow with a billiard table in the basement. I relax in the large living room staring back at stuffed tiger heads. There are marvellous photographs on the wall, including one of the young Kasim Khan dressed as Lord Krishna, complete with flute. A closer inspection reveals that he is dancing on roller skates. I am welcomed by his daughter-in-law, Shamim.

Shamim’s story: ‘My in-laws owned the perfume factory for the manufacture of oriental perfumes which was established in 1839 by two brothers from Kannauj: Asghar Ali and Mohammed Ali. It was located in Hina Building in Chowk, which was pulled down in 2003.

The family owned a distillation plant in Gunjan in Orissa, where the keora plant grows. Roses came from Barwana near Aligarh, motia, bela, chameli and khus from Kannauj. When the first monsoon rain fell on clay soil, this clay was boiled in huge pots and its perfume distilled to make the aroma of rain on dry earth – itr gil.

When Partition happened my husband’s grandfather, Haji Istifa, and some of his children decided to go to Pakistan, so 75 per cent of the family property was taken over by the Custodian. The Government allowed the children who stayed behind to keep the factory since it was their source of livelihood.

My father-in-law, Kasim Khan, was an extraordinary man, with an eagerness to live life to the full. He was always immaculately groomed and carried himself like a dancer – in his younger days he was an expert at the tango, samba, rumba, foxtrot, whatever was the rage of the moment, with whichever Anglo-Indian girl who was ready to partner him. He was a billiard player and an award-winning skater who created a sensation in the club in Mussoorie with his daring jumps and twists and other manoeuvres on roller skates. Like others of his generation, he loved shikar and he drove a Plymouth convertible – that was his lifestyle.’

We have just finished a typically Lucknow dinner party – everyone arriving late, spinning in from other parties. The spread on the table would be called a banquet in any other town, but here it is just an intimate dinner for 20-odd close friends, with the additional piquancy of Rampur specialities in competition with Lucknow’s best cuisine. Before I leave our hostess agrees to talk to me about her memories.

I arrive at her flat the next morning. The bungalows on this lovely old road near the Lucknow Gymkhana Club have been turned into elegant apartments, just two stories high. The original ambience has not changed much.

Rana’s story: ‘I got married in 1964 and came from Rampur to my in-law’s house which was in an old part of Lucknow, in Nakkhaas.

My husband Sarwar’s ancestor was Syed Hamid Ali Khan who had the title Jalees-ud-Dowlah Bahadur. He left Shiraz in Iran and came to Lucknow where he was appointed tutor to the young Wajid Ali Shah. He continued to serve him for the rest of his life, first as tutor, then as his minister, and then as loyal follower of the nawab in exile in Matia Burj near Calcutta.

I have a document written in Persian on parchment, signed by Syed Hamid Ali Khan in the Imambara Jalees-ud-Dowlah, Matia Burj, dated 16 March 1881, declaring that the money he had spent on behalf of Nawab Wajid Ali Shah should not be reclaimed by any of his descendants.

Sometime at the end of the 19th century, one of the direct descendents came back from Matia Burj to Lucknow, even though he no longer had any close relatives here. My husband Sarwar is his grandson.

Sarwar studied in Jubilee College, as did his father before him. The men folk got employment in the colonial bureaucracy and although they gradually became westernised in their lifestyle, a breakfast of cornflakes and ovaltine rusks was accompanied by the famous Lucknow balai.

My mother-in-law used to observe strict purdah. Cooking was her hobby and she used to get coal angeethis brought into the daalaan, courtyard, where she lovingly prepared special dishes herself. She was fond of eating paan, and enjoyed reading Urdu novels.

I remember one woman who used to visit my mother-in-law quite frequently. She was tall and thin and her conversation was always lively and amusing. We enjoyed her company. Although she was very poor, she was treated with respect and as an equal. My mother-in-law would discretely give her gifts of clothing and money.

She was married to someone called Sanju so we called her Sanju Chachee. Sanju used to hang around the courts, pursuing various cases. He would go and collect the money for the wazifa that his wife was entitled to and this seemed to be their only source of income.

Sanju Chachee used to tell us fascinating stories about the time when she was married to her first husband, a nawab, and lived in a grand Mahal, with every luxury at her command: fabulous farshi ghararas, jewellery, a horde of servants. She herself belonged to Kanpur – during the uprising of 1857 many nawabi families of Lucknow fled to Kanpur and the area where they lived, Gwaltoli, still exists.

One day when I happened to be with her on an errand in Kashmiri Mohalla, she pointed out to me the place that had been her husband the Nawab’s grand mahal. I asked her, “But why did you leave the Nawab, Chachee?”

At first she would not reply, but when I persisted she broke down and wept and told me this story.

Sanju Chachee’s story: “At first I was very happy with my husband. His mother was good to me. I had every comfort. I had four sons in quick succession. Then he started to keep bad company. He used to drink and womanize all night, and return to the house at dawn. But what was worse – he got addicted to gambling. One by one he wagered and lost all our wealth, my jewellery, even parts of the house.

Early one morning the servant told me that the Rastogi jeweller wanted to see me. This was the time my husband usually returned home – I wondered what news I would get about the reason for his delay. I spoke to the jeweller from behind the curtain. Suddenly the man pulled aside the curtain and grabbed my arm. ‘I won you from your husband in a betting game,’ he informed me.

I screamed and ran to my mother-in-law. To this day I think the advice she gave me was the best under the circumstances. ‘Put on your shoes and your burqa,’ she said. ‘Leave the house by the back door and never come back.’

This is what I did. I ran to the house of a relative, and from there I went to my family in Kanpur where I stayed for many years. Not once did my husband come to look for me. It was only after I heard that he had died that I came back to Lucknow. My sons were all grown up and living their own lives – they had forgotten me.”

Sanju Chachee used to visit me in my home after Sarwar and I moved to our own apartment. She used to love my children and entertained them with marvellous stories. The “house” in which she lived with Sanju was nothing more than a sloping, patchwork roof erected on the side of a small yard.

In Lucknow I found that the singing of marsiyas, songs of mourning, during Mohurrum was the best I had ever heard. The Anjumans prepared and practiced and composed their own tunes. Naushad, the music director from Bollywood, used to come to his home town Lucknow during Mohurrum to listen to marsiyas and you can pick out these haunting melodies in some of his compositions.

My mother-in-law used to visit Afzal Mahal which was two doors away from our house and often talked about the owner, Rani Shehenshah Begum of Akbarpur, a lonely woman whose husband, only son and only grandson died in her lifetime. She herself lived till the age of a hundred, I am told. But I never saw her.’

Credits : Nasima Aziz. Nasima considers herself to be a poet, a playwright, a writer, and a cook. Originally from Lucknow, she seems to have incorporated traditional recipes into her cook books. She is authored two books titled Mughal Flavours and Indian Vegetarian Cuisine. She has also edited a cookbook titled The Original Organic Cookbook: Recipes for Healthy Living.

By : Veena Talwar Oldenburg

In the days when I was tramping around in the alleys of Lucknow trying to capture the ineffable essence of this multi-layered city, I was led to a small group of old and young courtesans in Gulbadan’s kotha near the Akbari Darwaza in Chowk. Over a decade (1976-1986), in more than a score of meetings, I came to appreciate these powerful, alluring, independent, bold, even wild women. In conversations that were as hilarious as they were informative, they dismantled the clichés and prejudices that informed my view of them. They managed to stand my conventional opinions of courtesans and wives, of ‘wicked’ and ‘normal’ woman in the ‘normal’ world, slowly but surely on their head. These extraordinary women unveiled the secrets of the kotha, sharing with me their clandestine, devious, and intimate ploys for survival and economic independence, challenging the very ‘respectability’ of society’s central pillar – marriage.

I pursued my fascination with the courtesans of Lucknow from their heyday at the Lucknow court, through the colonial period where they adapted and survived, to the virtual extinction of their profession for a lack of patronage in the seventies and eighties and competition from the song-filled creations of Bombay cinema.

Before I actually walked up the narrow stairs to the kotha, I came across the city’s famous courtesans in the civic tax ledgers of 1858-77 and in the related official correspondence preserved in the Municipal Corporation record room in Lucknow. Listed as ‘dancing and singing girls’, it was astounding to discover that they were in the highest tax bracket, with the largest individual incomes of any in the city! Their names were also on lists of property – houses, orchards, manufacturing and retail establishments for food and luxury items – confiscated by British officials for their proven involvement in the siege of Lucknow and the rising against colonial rule in 1857. These women, though patently non-combatants, were penalized for their clandestine instigation of and pecuniary assistance to the rebels.

On yet another list, some twenty pages long and simply titled ‘Loot’, were recorded the spoils of war seized from one set of ‘female apartments’ in Kaisar Bagh Palace, where some of the deposed king Wajid Ali Shah’s innumerable (the number varies from 80 to upwards of three hundred in various sources) consorts resided when the complex was seized by the British. It is a remarkable list and eloquently evocative of a very privileged existence: gold and silver ornaments studded with precious stones, embroidered cashmere wool and brocade shawls, bejewelled caps and shoes, silver, gold, jade and amber-handled fly whisks, silver cutlery, jade goblets, plates, spittoons, hookahs, and silver utensils for serving and storing food and drink, and valuable furnishings. The value of this extraordinary plunder was conservatively estimated at nearly four crore rupees (four million pounds sterling in 1857).

Courtesans dotted other colonial records as well. They appeared in frequent official memoranda written in connection with a grave medical crisis – that of rampant venereal diseases – that engulfed the military establishment in Lucknow, and all the 110 cantonments of British India. When European casualties during the mutiny and rebellion of 1857 were reckoned, it was discovered that more soldiers had died of disease than in combat. Compounding the shock of this discovery was the unspeakable horror of the fact that one in every four European soldiers was afflicted with a venereal disease. It quickly became clear that the battle to reduce European mortality rates would now be joined on the hygienic (read sexual) front, to ensure a healthy European army for the strategic needs of the Empire.

Ironically, it was the British soldiers who exposed these women (in their quarters in the Lal Bazaars of the cantonments) to venereal infections, like syphilis, that were previously unknown in India. Even more tragic, the medical establishment of British Raj never permitted a proper investigation into the cause of the venereal epidemic among European soldiers for fear of exposing the skeletons in their own closet. The doctors in-charge totally denied or hushed up homosexuality among the European soldiery. The brunt of this new war would be borne by the courtesans and prostitutes of Lucknow, along with those in the other cantonments in India. An omnibus law, enacted in 1864, made sure the profession was regulated and the women’s bodies (mind you, not the bodies of the soldiers who were their clients) were regularly inspected and controlled.

British political propaganda in the aftermath of revolt, however, did the greatest harm to the reputation of the kothas and its ‘nautch girls’ as they called them. The older tawa’ifs, who spoke keenly about contemporary politics, the law, and had connections among the local power elite, were equally well informed about the history of their city. In their view, the British had deliberately muddied the truth about their kothas in order to denigrate nawabi culture, and to gobble up Awadh. In a campaign waged against them to reduce their influence, the new government resumed control over much of the prime real estate given to them by the nawabs and other patrons. Yet, when it came to matters such as using these women as prostitutes for the European garrison, or collecting income tax, the eminently pragmatic Victorians set aside their high moral dudgeon, and decreed rules to enforce both.

It became official policy to select the healthy, light skinned and beautiful ‘specimens’ from among the kotha women, and arbitrarily relocate them in the cantonment for the convenience and health of the European soldiers. This not only dehumanized the profession, stripping it of its cultural function, but made sex cheap and exposed the women to venereal infection from soldiers, and passing it on in turn. The collective impact of the new legislation, the loss of court patronage, the confiscation of their lands and orchards and the fines extracted from the tawa’if for their role in the rebellion, was a severe blow to the courtesans and signalled the gradual debasement of a vital cultural institution into common prostitution.

These new challenges provoked these women to mount a sly counter-offensive to keep out a meddlesome civic authority that taxed their incomes and inspected their bodies. With characteristic audacity they responded by keeping two sets of books on their incomes, to pay less tax; they bribed the local dai, or nurse, to avoid bodily inspections. They kept the local police-men ‘happy’ with sex and money to avoid arrest for selling liquor to the soldiers, or publicly refused to pay taxes even when threatened with imprisonment. These tactics were new but the spirit behind them was veteran.

Back in the archives my accidental discovery of a stash of documents led me to a group of courtesans living in Lucknow in 1976. These documents were the intercepted letters written by Wajid Ali Shah in exile. I engaged a young Persian scholar, Chhote Mian, (a pseudonym) to help me decipher these Persian letters. He not only provided the entree required to visit this group of courtesans, but also, quite fortuitously, the key to comprehending their world. They were the proud, albeit less affluent, descendants of those who had survived first the pressures of a century of systematic harassment by the colonial authorities, and then the abolition of zamindari in 1952 that tightened the fists of their best patrons, and finally the total ban placed on their profession by the puritanical, if not outright hypocritical, government of independent India in 1957.

Chhote Mian explained why he had only been given a pet name instead of a serious Muslim family name. He was the son of a courtesan and she had never revealed to him who his father was. Ironically, his sad life-story had all the elements of the upbringing accorded to a girl in a ‘normal’ household:

‘While I love and respect my mother and all my “aunts” [other courtesans] and my grandmother [a chaudhurayan], my misfortune is that I was born a son and not a daughter in their house. When a boy is born in the kotha, the day is without moment, even one of quiet sadness. When my sister was born there was a joyous celebration that was unforgettable. Everyone received new clothes, there was singing, dancing, and feasting. My aunts went from door to door distributing laddoos [a sweet traditionally distributed to mark an auspicious event]. The musicians were drunk and received expensive gifts.

‘My sister is today a beautiful, educated, propertied woman. She will also inherit what my mother and grandmother own. She will have a large income from rents; she doesn’t even have to work as a courtesan, if she so chooses. I am educated, but I have no money or property. Jobs are very hard to come by, so I live in a room and live on a small allowance that my mother gives in exchange for running errands for her and helping her deal with her lawyers. [She was trying to evict a tenant from a house she owned.] She paid for my education but a college degree is pretty worthless these days. My only hope is that I may marry a good woman who has money and who gives me sons so they can look after me in my old age, or find a way of getting a job in Dubai, as my cousin did. Otherwise my chances in life are pretty dim. Funny isn’t it, how these women have made life so topsy-turvy?’

This inversion in a society that blatantly favours sons over daughters left me bewildered, although the tawa’ifs had the answers.

The courtesans had established themselves as an influential group of women under the lavish patronage of the chief noblemen, merchants, and the official elite. Abdul Halim Sharar, a novelist and journalist who chronicled the history of the Nawabs of Awadh and their cultural innovations, writes that in Lucknow, association with the courtesans started with the reign of Shuja ud Daula (reigned: 1753-74). It became fashionable for the noblemen to associate with some bazaar beauty, either for pleasure or for social distinction. A cultivated man like Hakim Mahdi, who later became Vazir (prime minister of Awadh), owed his initial success to a courtesan named Piyaro, who advanced her own money to enable him to make an offering to the ruler on his first appointment as Governor of a Province of Awadh. These absurdities went so far that it is said that until a person had association with courtesans he was not a polished man. At the present time (circa 1920) there are still some courtesans with whom it is not reprehensible to associate, and whose houses one can enter openly and unabashed. Although these practices may have a deteriorating effect on the morals, at the same time manners and social finesse improved.

Ensconced in sumptuous apartments in the bazaars of Chowk, and in the Kaisar Bagh, they commanded great respect in the court and in society, were frequent performers at the palaces of the nawabs and the nobility, and association with them bestowed prestige on those who were invited to their salons for cultural soirees. It was not uncommon for the young sons of the nobility to be sent to the best-known salons for instruction in etiquette, the art of conversation, appreciation of Urdu poetry, and even the finer points of love-making. They were the recognized preservers and performers of the high culture of the court and actively shaped the developments in Hindustani music and Kathak dance styles. Their style of entertainment was widely imitated in other Indian court cities, and their more recent influence on the Hindi films is all too patent. The popularity of Indian films rests chiefly on their songs and dances. The very notion of the romantic musical owes its inspiration to the style of entertainment at the kotha, and several tawa’ifs and their daughters, including Jaddan Bai and her later famous daughter Nargis, found work in Bombay in the budding film industry.

Guldbadan’s kotha was bustling with life when I arrived. I was shown around, and my queries and silences were met with loquacious explanations. The owner and manager of the kotha was the chaudharayan, or chief courtesan, an older woman who has retired to the position of manager after a successful career as a tawa’if. Gulbadan had acquired wealth and fame, and she recruited and trained the girls who came for their various reasons, along with the more talented daughters of the household. Typically, a wealthy courtier, (and during the nawabi, often the king himself), began his direct association with a kotha by bidding for a virgin whose patron he became with the full privileges and obligations of that position. He was obliged to make regular contributions in cash and jewellery, privileged to invite his friends to soirees, and to enjoy an exclusive sexual relationship with a tawa’if. His guests were expected to impress the management with their civilities and substance so that they would qualify as patrons of the women who were still unattached, or at least as ‘regulars’ of the kotha.

The chaudharayan always received a fair chunk of the earnings to maintain the apartments, pay to hire and train other dancing girls, and attract gifted tabla and sarangi players, chefs, and special servants that such establishments employed. Many of the musicians belonged to famous lineages and much of late-nineteenth-century Hindustani music was invented and transformed in these salons, to accommodate the taluqadars and new professional men who filled the patronage vacuum in the colonial period.

Other women, called thakahi and randi, were affiliates of a kotha but had little or no prestige. Their less remarkable appearance and talent restricted them to providing sexual services in their spartan quarters down-stairs. Secretly associated with the establishment were khangi, or women who were married and observed strict purdah, but who, for financial or other reasons came to the kotha for clandestine liaisons; the chaudharayan collected a fee from them for her hospitality. A large number of men were also employed as doormen, watchmen, errand boys, tailors, palanquin carriers and others, as was her grandson, Chhote Mian, who had brought me there. They lived on the lower floors of the house or in detached servants’ quarters and were also often kinsmen who screened suspicious characters at the door, acted as protectors of the house, and spied on the activities of the police and medical departments. Pimps or other male agents came into existence in the colonial period, but Gulbadan had managed to keep them at bay. She also disabused me of some entrenched myths about the kotha.

The notion that the chaudharayan’s recruitment practices were and are shady and unscrupulous has become well-established over time. It is popularly believed that the most common mode of recruitment was, and still is, kidnapping; that the tawa’ifs were linked to a large underground network of male criminals who abducted very young girls from villages and small towns and sold them to the kothas or nishat khanas (literally, pleasure houses). Lucknow’s famous poet and litterateur, Mirza Hadi Ruswa, romantically fueled, if not actually generated, this belief in his Umrao Jan Ada. The novel first appeared in 1905 and was an immediate best seller; the fictional Umrao Jan became the quintessential tawa’if of Lucknow. Set in the second half of the nineteenth century, it is a melodramatic story of Umrao Jan, who as a beautiful child of five is kidnapped and sold to a tawa’if in Lucknow, where she trains and becomes, after a few complicated twists and turns in the plot, a renowned and much sought-after courtesan. Ruswa uses the classic ploy of writing an introduction wherein he explains that he is merely recording the true story of Umrao Jan, told to him by the protagonist herself. His use of the first person in the ‘memoir’, in which the courtesan frequently addresses him by name, makes it all the more convincing.

The myth about kidnapping was stoutly punctured as I conversed with roughly thirty women, whose ages ranged from thirty-five to seventy-eight, and a more nuanced picture emerged. The compelling circumstance that brought a majority of them to the various tawa’if households in Lucknow was the misery they endured in either their natal or their conjugal homes. Four of these women were child widows, two of whom hailed from the same district and had lost their husbands in a cholera epidemic; three were sold by their parents when famine conditions made feeding these girls impossible. Seven were victims of physical abuse, two of whom were sisters regularly beaten by their alcoholic father for not obliging him by making themselves sexually available to the toddy-seller. Three were known victims of rape and deemed un-marriageable; two of them had left their ill-paid jobs as municipal sweeper-women, because they were tired of ‘collecting other people’s dirt’, two were battered wives, one had left her husband because he had a mistress, and one had run away for her love for music and dancing that was not countenanced in her orthodox Brahmin home. Three said they had left their husbands without much ado, seeing the advantage of earning their own living and being at liberty to use their resources as they wished, and did not want to have children. The remaining four were daughters of other tawa’ifs. Not one claimed that kidnapping had been her experience, although they had heard of such cases. This assortment of refugees from the sharif, or respectable, world gave a completely ironic slant to the notion of respectability.

The problem, according to Saira Jan, a plump, good-looking woman in her early forties who recounted her escape from a violent and alcoholic husband with humour, was that there were no obliging kidnappers in her muhalla (neighbourhood). ‘Had there been such farishte [angels] in Hasanganj, I would not have had to plot and plan my own escape at great peril to my life.’

This catalogue reflects the wide range of unfavourable, even dangerous, circumstances from which these women had escaped. Desertion has been traditionally resorted to by those trapped in situations they had no other effective means of fighting or changing. Gulbadan, who had become the chaudharayan in her late thirties (she claims she was born in c. 1900 and initiated – nath uteri – when she was thirteen years old), had been the niece of a tawa’if and was raised in the household she now managed. She spoke of the kotha as a sanctuary for both men and women; men escaped the boredom of their domestic lives and women found in it a greater peace and freedom than in the normal world. She reminded Saira that she was a miserable, underweight, frightened wretch when she had first appeared at her doorstep.

‘She was thin as a stick, her complexion was blotchy, her eyes sunk in black holes, and she had less than two rupees tied to the end of her sari. Even these she had to steal,’ explained Rahat Jan, Gulbadan’s ‘partner’ (her term). ‘Now look at her, we call her our hathini [female elephant], who eats milk and jalebi [syrup-filled, deep fried sweets] to keep herself occupied between meals, although she argues it is to keep her voice melodious.’

Most women told stories of their prior lives without inhibition. They had wanted to escape ‘hell’ (the word jahannum, the Islamic hell, was frequently used to describe their earlier homes) at any cost. The rigours of learning professional skills, chaste Urdu, and earning their own money helped them develop self-esteem and value the relative independence they encountered in Gulbadan’s and Rahat Jan’s kotha. Here they could be women first, and Hindus and Muslims in a more mutually tolerant way, since the culture of the kotha represented elements of both, and was acknowledged as a true example of the Ganga-Jamni tahzeeb.

The story of one of the Hindu child widows, Rasulan Bai, 35, is especially compelling because it exposes the ineffectiveness of the 150 years of social-reform legislation and the lack of options for young childless widows even today. While it is the story of a seasoned rebel, it also explains why a courtesan does not consider herself complicit in bolstering values that keep other women in powerless positions:

‘I was married when I was ten in a land-owning Rajput family where my mother did not work. Born in Lucknow, I attended three years of school but I barely knew how to recognize the letters that spell my name. My gauna ceremony occurred just three months after I began menstruating. I remember arriving at my husband’s house with my dowry, and plenty of gifts for my in-laws. That summer [1960] there was a very big flood, which drowned most of the city, destroyed our house, livestock and our food reserves. While my husband was out with his brothers trying to salvage some of the food stored in earthenware jars, he drowned. I survived but I often wished I were dead.

‘The local Brahmin said that my ill-starred presence had brought flood and death to the city. My jewels, clothes, and the few silver coins which I had hidden away, were forcibly taken away from me, and I became a widow in white who did all the nasty, heavy chores for the household. I was thrown scraps when I cried out in hunger. You talk about the laws that were passed by the British to prevent child marriage, you talk of the rights we won [the Hindu Civil Code, 1956] but I scoff at all that. I had no recourse to laws or to lawyers, only to my wits sharpened by adversity. I first tried to get back at them with sly acts of sabotage. I did the washing-up indifferently, leaving a dull film on the metal platters and the pots. For this my mother-in-law thrashed me. I would sneak into the kitchen when my sister-in-law had finished cooking and add a heavy dose of salt to the lentils and vegetables. I would hide my smile when I heard the yells and abuse heaped on her by the men folk. She caught me and thrashed me till I was unconscious.

‘Life was unbearable but I was trapped; there was nowhere that I could go. My parents, who had come for the funeral, were distressed but they did not offer to take me back because they still had my younger sisters to marry. Fights, violence erupted all the time. Finally, when they found out that I stole money to buy snacks from the vendor, they threatened to burn me alive. I wanted to run away but didn’t know where I would go, except to the Gomti to drown myself. Eventually, I found shelter with a troupe of itinerant performers after I told them my troubles and showed them the bruises on my body. They smuggled me out of that hell, gave me bit parts in their dramas, and finally brought me to the lap of Bibi Khanum [another tawa’if] in Lucknow, and I have never looked back. I had no option but to run away. Tell me, sister, what would you have done in my place?’

There were many stories, each with its own flavour of horror, and of courage.

‘Many women flee their homes in the villages, and come to the anonymity of the city to work as domestic servants, as ayahs or maids, or cooks,’ said Gulbadan as she tucked another paan into her mouth. ‘Some join road gangs run by government or private building contractors only to break bricks into small pieces with a hammer, all day in the sun, and earn in a month what we make in a few hours of passing the time in civilized company. To make ends meet they have to sleep with their employers and the dalals [middlemen], who found them their jobs, and get beaten up by their husbands when they find out. A woman compromises her dignity twenty-four hours of the day when she has no control over her body or her money.’ This response was peppered by the remarks of the others, who agreed that women are always vulnerable to the exploitative demands of men in the outside world.

The women who said that their own parents had sold them when they were unable to feed them, let alone set aside money to pay for a wedding and a dowry, felt that their parents were forced by circumstances to take such a heartless decision. Now they sent money home every month to take care of their impoverished families, which was gratefully received, and whatever resentment they may have felt for being abandoned as children had dissipated through understanding the limits imposed on women in this world. Gulbadan, who spoke more aphoristically than the others, said she had grown old and withered in her three score and ten years but the scope for women to change the lives they grumblingly led was minuscule.

What they couldn’t change they called their fate, their kismat, their naseeb. Here, in our world, even though things are not as good as they were before the angrez came, women change their fate. Even philosophers and poets will tell you that no one can change their kismat. Ask these women, who have lived and worked together for more than twenty years, whether or not they think that I taught them how to mould their own fate like clay with their own hands.

I did, and they agreed, with laughing nods, while they celebrated Janam Ashtami (birthday of the Krishna, the divine patron of Kathak) and the Muslim festival of Eid on the third floor of Gulbadan’s impressively large building.

Gulbadan had tossed this off as she sat on the large platform covered with an old Persian rug and worn velvet-and-brocade bolsters that propped her up. Watching her deft fingers prepare a paan, or betel leaf, with its half dozen nut-and-spice fixings, I felt I was in the presence of an alchemist who had transformed base fortunes into gold. She, along with her septuagenarian friends, had inherited a way of life and struggled to preserve it, quite selfishly, in the face of an increasingly hostile future. Their business was neither to exploit women, nor to transform the lot of the generality of womankind, but to liberate and empower themselves and those with whom they were associated.

The high level of camaraderie, banter, and affectionate interaction that I observed and participated in on several visits to their apartments over eight years affirmed this impression repeatedly. The chaudharayan enacts several roles, the most challenging being to inspire, in the women who come to them, a confidence in their own ability and worth, restore shattered nerves and set about undoing the inferiority they had internalised. Saira helpfully explained:

‘The problem was to forget the meaning of the word aurat [woman] that had been dinned into my mind from the day I was born. Fortunately I was still a child [eleven or twelve] so forgetting was not as difficult as it might have been even a few years later. I forgot my misery upon arriving in a house where a different meaning for that word was already in place, where Amina Bai and Zehra Jan [Gulbadan’s granddaughters] were acting out those meanings for us all.

‘They did not fear men because they were admired and praised by men; nor had they dealt with nagging mothers and aunts about not doing this, or that. They never worried about not being able to get married, nor scolded or slapped by their fathers for being “immodest”. The shadow of dahej [dowry] had never darkened their lives. I resented them to begin with, thought them spoilt and selfish, but slowly I began to realize that they were of a different ilk. I would have to break my own mental mould and recast myself. I got a lot of love from Gulbadan, Rahat Jan, and Amiran. They would listen to me, and I would regurgitate all the sorrow, pain, and poison I had swallowed, again and again. Now when I tell you my story, it is as if I am telling you another’s tale. Really, I didn’t know that I was capable of doing anything, being anyone, or owning my own building and employing seventeen carpenters in a charpai karkhana [wooden cot workshop]. I had the mentality of a timid and ugly mouse; now I am accused of being too arrogant, and am envied for the property I own.’

The self-fashioning ethos of the kotha, quarrels and jealousies notwithstanding, makes it possible for them to assimilate their newly revised perceptions and behaviour patterns. They mostly agreed that living among a host of nurturing women (and even with some who were not) without the dread of men, and freedom from the pressure of the ‘marriage market’ where grooms were ‘for sale’, gave them the inner courage to develop their skills and perceive themselves the equals of men.

There are other therapeutic devices invented over the ages that are still in use in these salons. The novices assimilate a secret repertoire of satirical and bawdy songs, dances, mimicking, miming and dramatic representations, aimed at the institution of marriage and heterosexual and homosexual relations that are privately performed only among women. These ‘matinee shows’, as they call them, help ‘the newcomers to discard the old and internalize the new meaning of being an aurat.’ I recognized this, when in answer to one of my early (and very naive) questions I was treated to a improvised vignette, ‘Shaadi ya barbaadi?’ (marriage or disaster?).

VTO: Gulbadan, since you are a handsome woman, so well educated, with all this money and property and jewels, why didn’t you marry a well-to-do man and settle down to a life of respectability?

Gulbadan (first frowned pensively, and then laughingly said): We first thought you were a jasoos [spy] for the government or the Christian missionaries; Chhote Mian tells me you visit their offices all the time with your notebook. Par aap to bilkul nadaan [naïve] hain. You ask strangely ignorant questions, which you call doing Amriki [American] research. Is marriage ‘respectable’ in Amrika? Are women not abused there? Do they not divorce? Well let us show you what marriage is before you wish it on an old and respectable woman like me, or any of us here. Let us dispel the darkness in your mind about the nature of marriage.

Of what they then played out for me, I can only offer a prosaic summary, because it is difficult to capture the visual thrill of the half-hour-long satirical medley of song, dance, dialogue and mime that followed: A wailing sarangi was the perfect substitute for the sound of an unhappy wife. Rasulan immediately took her dupatta (long scarf) and wound it around her head as a turban to play the husband. Elfin Hasina Jan took her cue as the wife; others became children and members of the extended family, while Gulbadan remained on her settee amid the bolsters, taking occasional drags from the hookah, presiding, as a particularly obnoxious mother-in-law, on a scene of domestic turmoil.

Hasina Jan playing wife and mother first surveys the chaos: the children meul, ask for food and drink, and want to be picked up. The mother-in-law orders that her legs, which have wearied from sitting, be massaged; the husband demands food and undivided attention; the father-in-law asks for his hookah chillum to be refilled, and a sister-in-law announces that she cannot finish doing the laundry, nor knead the chapati dough because she is not feeling too well. Hasina is defeated, harried, and on the brink of a nervous breakdown. While muttering choice obscenities under her breath she begins, in a frenzied way, to do the job of a wife. She lights the coal stove, dusts and tidies the room, cooks, presses the legs of the mother-in-law who emits pleasurable grunts, carries live coals to replenish the hookah, tries to soothe baby who is now snivelling, puts plates of food in front of the demanding husband. She nearly trips another bawling child. She finally collapses, striking her brow with her hand as she croaks a ‘hai tobah’ (‘never more’).

A little later the din subsides and she, choked with sobs, says that her kismat is terrible, that she will jump into the well to escape her fate. She is chained to this frightful life, all for the sake of money to fill her stomach and for shelter. The rest of the household snores noisily. Her husband, who is belching and hiccupping after his food and drink, makes a lunge at her for some quick sex. She succumbs, and after thirty agitated seconds of his clumsy effort, she asks him for money for household expenses. He grudgingly parts with twenty rupees, reminding her that she needs to restock his supply of the local brew. She complains that the money is just not enough even for the groceries, for which she receives a slap, tearfully renders an accounting of the money she spent last week, cries some more and finally falls asleep, wretched and hungry. ‘So wives don’t do it for money,’ Saira giggled, giving me a nudge in my ribs, ‘they are selflessly serving society.’ There is not a dry eye in the audience; we have tears of laughter streaming down our faces. So, jested another in English: ‘Will you be a wife or tawa’if?’

They had transmuted grim reality into parody. The thankless toil of an average housewife, including her obligation to sexually satisfy a sometimes faithless, or alcoholic, or violent husband, for the sake of a very meagre living came across vividly. ‘Was not the situation of the housewife tantamount to that of a common prostitute, giving her body for money? It is we who are brought up to live in sharafat [genteel respectability] with control over our bodies and our money and they who suffer the degradation reserved for lowly [neech] women,’ Saira added, lest I, poor naïve thing, had missed the whole point of their theatricals.

Such vivid irony is a stock idiom in their speech and song. Male in-laws, particularly fathers and brothers-in-law, are caricatured in countless risqué episodes enacted regularly and privately among women. As things got more raucous I began to think that even their refined speech – begamati zubaan – seemed to be an affect. They ridiculed the aggression and brevity of sexual arousal in men, even as they amuse, educate, and edify the denizens of the kotha. These routines, embellished with their peculiarly rude brand of humour, irreverent jokes and obscene gestures, are performed like secret anti-rites, distilled and transmitted from generation to generation as their precious oral heritage.

I had also seriously questioned the courtesans’ use of the burqa. This cloak, usually black or white, is worn over regular clothes and covers the wearer from head to foot, extending the seclusion of Muslim women, who observe purdah outside the home. The wearers see the world through a small rectangular piece of netting that fits over the eyes, while they remain hidden. Indubitably an artefact of a male-dominated society, where men dictate that women keep themselves covered so as not to provoke lewd comments or lustful aggression. I was baffled at why tawa’ifs not only used the burqa to move around when they went visiting or shopping since injunctions about female modesty did not apply to them, but also insisted that I should wear one as they led me to other kothas in the vicinity.

It was precisely because they were not required to be in purdah, they reasoned (in another classic reversal of patriarchal logic), that they chose to block the gaze of men. It was an extension of the autonomy they enjoyed in their living space and their jism (bodies), unlike ‘normal’ women whose bodies were considered the property of their husbands. They were forced to remain in seclusion to maintain (and increase) khaandaani izzat, or family honour; for them to show their faces in public would bring disgrace to their families. ‘Ah, but our case is just the opposite,’ said Saira. ‘Men long to see our faces. If they could brag among their friends that they had seen Gulbadan or Amiran in the bazaar without a covering, they would go up in the esteem in which their friends hold them. We are not in the business of giving them cheap thrills. While we walk freely and anonymously in public places, looking at the world through our nets, they suffer deprivation because we have blinkered them. As you know by now, we do not bestow anything on men without extracting its price.’

I would have disputed this had I not experienced the temporary freedom the burqa gave me to walk along the winding alleys in a very old-fashioned and gossip-filled city, where I formerly never passed without being accosted with vulgar taunts from the idle youth who mill on the streets. These women had appropriated the power of the gaze while eluding the leer of sexually frustrated men. Playing by the rules of strict segregation practised in the old parts of Lucknow to keeps strangers from being aroused at the sight of ‘respectable women’, the tawa’ifs find the burqa liberating instead of restrictive, and are aggressively invisible to all those who wish to behold their faces. They know they can discard the burqa at will, as some of the younger women in the outer world are doing in defiance more and more, but they choose to use it as a perforated barrier between the world and them. Yet its use remains an indictment of male behaviour and culture.

While I had heard about the rigorous training and education courtesans undergo to ultimately please and entertain their patrons, I was to learn, for the first time, of their secret weapon – the art of nakhra, or pretence. Courtesans master the skill of duping their patrons in order to spare no opportunity of coaxing money out of them and their friends. In addition to their exorbitant rates, they subtly deploy an arsenal of devious ‘routines’ that make up the sly subtext of an evening’s entertainment, to bargain, cajole, and extort extra cash or kind from their unsuspecting patrons. Some of these are practiced, some invented, but nuances are refigured with care to suit the temperament of a client or the mood of the moment to always appear ‘spontaneous’.

These well-rehearsed ploys – the feigned headache that interrupts a dance or a song, pretend sulking and pouting, an artificial limp that prevents a dance, tears, a jealous rage – have beguiled generations of rais, the rich, to transfer their wealth to these women. The tawa’ifs refusal, at a critical juncture, to complete a sexual interlude with a favourite patron is a particularly profitable device, because affected coital injuries or painful menstrual cramps involve expensive and patient waiting on the part of the patron. Gulbadan said she often carried the game a step further by ‘allying’ herself with the patron against the ‘offending’ courtesan to lend credibility to the scene. She would scold and even slap her until the patron begged her not to be so harsh. Gulbadan was the privately acclaimed champion of these more serious confidence tricks, and others cheerfully confessed to having blackmailed, stolen, lied and cheated for material gain as soon as they acquired competence in this art. They invest their gains shrewdly to retire comfortably at the age of thirty-five – when beauty begins to fade and thicker midriffs make dancing an unpretty sight.

The formula, Gulbadan confided, is to win the complete trust of the man. This they do by first mastering all the information about the man – his public reputation, his finances, his foibles and vanities, his domestic relationships and any embarrassing secrets: ‘Then,’ giving me a naughty wink and making a grasping gesture, ‘you have them by their short and curlies.’ She continued:

‘Not many come here openly any more because our salons are regarded as houses of ill-repute in these modern times. Most come only to drink or for sex, both in short supply at home. We know how to get a man drunk and pliant, so that we can extort whatever we want from him: money, even property, apologies, jewels, perfume, or other lavish gifts. Industrialists, government officers, other businessmen come here now; they have a lot of black money [undeclared cash] that they bring with them, sometimes without even counting it. We make sure that they leave with very little, if any. We know those who will pay large sums to ensure secrecy, so we threaten them with careless gossip in the bazaar or with an anonymous note addressed to their fathers or their wives.

‘We do not act collectively as a rule but sometimes it may become necessary to do so. We once did a drama, against a moneylender who came and would not pay us the money he had promised for holding an exclusive soiree for him. So when a police officer, who had fallen in love with me, came by, we all told him tales of how the wretched man would not return jewels some of us had pawned with him. We filed a police report, he was arrested, and some of the pawned items (which the jeweller had taken from some of our recently straitened noble patrons) were made over to us by the lovelorn officer; others of his debtors sent us gifts and thanks for bringing the hated Rastogi to justice.

‘But our biggest nakhra of all is the game of love that makes these men come back again and again, some until they are bankrupt. They return every evening, like the flocks of homing pigeons, in the vain belief that it is we who are in love with them.’

Umrao Jan, Ruswa’s alleged confidante, presents this particular nakhra insightfully:

Scene from Film: Umrao Jan by Muzaffar Ali

‘I am but a courtesan in whose profession love is a current coin. Whenever we want to ensnare anyone we pretend to fall in love with him. No one knows how to love more than we do: to heave deep sighs; to burst into tears at the slightest pretext; to go without food for days on end; to sit dangling our legs on the parapets of wells ready to jump into them; to threaten to take arsenic. All these are parts of our game of love. But I tell you truthfully, no man ever really loved me nor did I love any man.’ (Emphasis added.)

A discussion of this last nakhra, which occurred only after several visits, brought perhaps their most startling secret to light. It was difficult to imagine that these women, even though they were economically independent, educated, and in control of their lives, would spurn the opportunity for real intimacy and emotional and sexual fulfilment. Everyone agreed that emotional needs do not disappear with success, fame, or independence; on the contrary, they often intensify. Almost every one of the women with whom I had private conversations during these many visits claimed that their closest emotional relationships were among themselves, and eight of them reluctantly admitted that their most satisfying erotic involvements were with other women. They referred to themselves as chapat baz or lesbians, and to chapti, or chipti, or chapat bazi, or lesbianism (after Shaikh Qalandar Bakhsh Jur’at, an Urdu poet from Lucknow, 1749-1809, wrote in rekhti, his now famous Chapti Namah). They seemed to attach little importance to labels, and made no verbal distinctions between homosexual and heterosexual relations. There was no other ‘serious’ or poetic term for lesbianism, so I settled for their colloquialisms.

Their explanation for this was that emotions and acts of love are gender free. Normal words for love such as mohabbat(Urdu) or prem (Hindi), or love (English) are versatile and can be used to describe many kinds of love, such as the love of man or woman, the love for country, for siblings, parents of either sex. There was, in their view, no need to have a special term for love between two women, nor was there a need to flaunt this love in any way. There are words that suggest passionate love, like ishq; and are used by either gender. Although their bisexuality was a strictly private matter for them, the absence of a specialized vocabulary reduced it to a simple fact of their liberal lives, like heterosexuality, or the less denied male homosexuality. The lack of special vocabulary can be interpreted as the ultimate disguise for it; if something cannot be named it is easy to deny its existence. Urdu poetry, too, is often ambiguous about gender, and homosexual love often passes for heterosexual love. Many poems really express homosexual love, of the persona of the poem for a young boy, who is described in the idioms for feminine beauty.

The frank discussions on the subject of their private sexuality left some of my informants uneasy. I had probed enough into their personal affairs, they insisted, and they were not going to satisfy my curiosity any further; they were uncomfortable with my insistence on stripping bare their strategic camouflage, by which they also preserved their emotional sanity. Their diffidence to talk about their lesbianism underscores their quiet but profound subversion of social values. It became clear that for many of them heterosexuality itself is the lajawab nakhra, the ultimate artifice, credibly packaged with contrived passion and feigned orgasms. My ardour for precise statistics faded as the real meaning of their silences and their disguises began to sink in.

‘I know, I know,’ continued Afsar Jan, impatiently, ‘we are blamed for enabling men to maintain their double moral standards and destroying happy marriages. Must we betray our own interests for the dubious cause of women who suffer such men as husbands, fathers, and brothers? Today, things are grim; Lucknow’s landed gentry lost their power after zamindari was abolished, and our profession is now illegal; there is hardly a handful of kothas in operation. Has this helped the cause of women or only made life harder for us? Are men treating their wives better? Beating them less? Only we have been silenced and we are now invisible in Lucknow society.’

In fact their silence is so well held that, for all official intents and purposes (such as taxation), the prudish administration’s own nakhra is that it has abolished the world’s oldest profession. Yet, climbing up the rickety stairs of the now seedy kothas in the alleys of Lucknow’s Chowk are the new patrons, petty shopkeepers and a large number of public officials, not for an engaging cultural soiree but for some furtive, loveless sex. For the tawa’if it is a mixed outcome: it is a small triumph, because their incomes, although barely adequate, are no longer taxed; it is a larger defeat because officialdom can piously claim that it has banned female sexual exploitation.

This completed the century long process of converting a proud cultural institution into a species of ‘vice’ and Lucknow’s celebrated kothas into musty dens for furtive sexual encounters.

Credits : Vena Talwar Oldenberg; Abridged and without footnotes, this essay is an excerpt from my ‘Lifestyle as Resistance: The Case of the Courtesans of Lucknow’ in Contesting Power: Resistance and Everyday Social Relations in South Asia (Douglas Haynes and Gyan Prakash, eds. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1991) pp. 23-61. The names of the courtesans were changed to protect their privacy. The author’s works include The Making of Colonial Lucknow 1856-77, Princeton University Press, 1984 and Shaan-e-Awadh: Writings on Lucknow, Penguin, 2007.

Lucknow, like much of India, is full of paradoxes – down-at-heel elegance, raffish charm, indolent culture, tehzeeb and thuggery. A city created by male chauvinist nawabs ruled today by a Dalit woman chief minister.

In 1858 William Russell marvelled at its ‘vision of palaces, minars, domes of azure and gold, cupolas, colonnades and long facades of fair perspective.’ He wondered, as he admired ‘this fairy tale city’ whether it could really be ‘the capital of a semi-barbarous race, erected by a corrupt, effete and degraded dynasty.’ Dazzled though he was by ‘the towers and spires of gold gleaming and glittering in the sun, the turrets and gilded spheres shining like constellations,’ he could not help noticing that ‘when viewed in detail the gorgeousness of the picture is obscured by a more than ordinary degree of dirt, filth and squalid poverty which are placed in juxtaposition with its grandest features.’

Over a century and a half later, Lucknow is not so very different. Present day visitors share the same enchantment and exasperation.

The dirt and the grandeur, shopkeepers who greet you with a pun and a scented paan while shamelessly diddling you over prices, errant scooterists who overtake on the wrong side and then apologize charmingly with a rhyming stanza to the beauty of your eyes, are all part of that extraordinary culture. A culture both material and metaphysical – of food and flower garlands, perfumes and poetry – harking back to a time where conversation was refined to a fine art and a master of humorous Phabti monologues or ghazals was honoured with a court title. In Lucknow, culture, not just aesthetic and the arts, even the essentials of life were carried to elaborate extremes. The Lucknavi paratha of unleavened bread had 18 layers, and each paincha of the Lucknow gharara divided skirt was made of 12 metres of cloth! Hand craft was at the very centre of this amazing society. The skills and skilful hands still remain; the products somewhat diminished and down-at-heel, as is Lucknow itself.

The hub of Lucknow and its crafts is still the Chowk – the crossroads and central square in the heart of the city where silversmiths, saree vendors, chikan embroiderers and gold zari sequin workers carry on their business side by side in narrow shops. Slipping off your shoes and sitting cross-legged on pristine white sheets against white bolsters, you can slip backwards into time and get a flavour of the old Lucknow – before jerry-built bungalows replaced the gracious havelis, and criminal politicians took the place of exquisitely erudite nawabs.

At Asghar Ali’s, the famous perfumers, you can sniff the distilled essence of 200-year-old rose, jasmine, hina or khus; buy scented betel nut, or drown in the intoxicating fumes of burning sandalwood. Down side streets you can get your saree orkurta stamped to your own design for embroidery, or get a scarf worked with the tiny silver wire spangles of badla mukesh.Kabab wallahs and restaurants selling nihari (tongue) and paya (trotters) in a succulent, spicy stew vie with the sweet shophalwais stirring up spiralling, hot jelabis, sohan halwa, balushahi or balai in enormous cauldrons.

Food is not just craft; it is a fine art. According to tradition it was the building of the Bara Imambara (a massive complex of shrines, prayer halls and tombs commissioned by Asaf-ud-Daulah in the late 18th century to give employment at a time of economic hardship) that led to the invention of Lucknavi dum or ‘pressure’ cooking. The cooks hired by the nawab to feed the labourers devised this method of slow, steam cooking so that relays of hungry men could get hot, fresh food through the night. The kakori and galauti kababs, fish and biryani rice of Lucknow are still famous. And as for that curliqued and convoluted Imambara plasterwork – like most of Lucknow, there’s more in it than meets the eye! The Rumi Darwaza, that great, equally over-decorated, apparently purely ornamental, arched doorway of brick and coloured stucco, withstood the British nine-pound cannon-shot for over an hour’s bombardment, proving indestructible.

Back to the Chowk and the muffled hammering of workers in the narrow side lanes beating silver into paper-thin waraksilver-leaf for sweetmeats and paans, a counterpoint to the raucous cries of street vendors, and the more politely phrased invitations of the Chowk’s famed chikan embroidery traders to enter and view their produce.

Chikan embroidery is another of Lucknow’s paradoxes. Tucked into the dingier corners of its elaborately curliqued stucco-work palaces and arched gateways are narrow, winding, over-populated lanes and dark, squat houses inhabited by women who are themselves enveloped in gloomy, black burkha veils and desperately poor, oppressed not just by economics but by their own social and domestic circumstance. Illiterate, devoutly Muslim, locked into marriages and family structures that allow little room for individual expression or creativity, they produce one of the most subtle and sensitive of India’s myriad embroidery traditions. The delicate, pristine white-on-white shadow and shade of chikankari, the epitome of fastidious refinement and esoteric elegance emerging from these dim, dirty, tenement dwellings – children, chickens and goats squabbling, squealing and defecating in each corner, cooking pots smoking – is one of the miracles and mysteries of this fairly complex city.

How chikan originated, even what its name means is, appropriately enough, an equal mystery. There are those who would have it – like everything else in the universe from space satellites and Jesus Christ to the more obscure sexual acrobatics – that it was all written down in the Vedas. D.N. Saraf in his book on Indian Crafts cites travellers to the court of Harshavardhana of Kannauj referring to delicate muslin draperies embellished with motifs worn by the royal harem. But these could have as well been woven as embroidered.

Folklore and one’s wilder jingoist fantasies apart, historical research, supported by the ancestral memories of master craftsmen, seems to suggest that chikankari stems from the white-on-white embroidery of Shiraz and came to India as part of the cultural baggage of the Persian nobles at the Mughal court, along with kalamkari textile painting, silk carpets, blue tile work and pietra dura. 12th century Persian poets were already using the word chikan as a metaphor for needle. Though Shirazi embroidery is done on coarse, unbleached linen, its repertoire of pulled, drawn thread, knotted, chain and overlaid stitches is strikingly similar to those in the chikankari tradition. Legend has it that it was Empress Noor Jehan, a noted aesthete and embroiderer, who, while making an Eid cap for her husband, the Emperor Jehangir, conceived the idea of using the fine white cotton mull for which Indian weavers were famous, as a base for her stitchery.

Be that as it may, it is well authenticated that the Mughal court adored and patronized chikan embroidery and gave it its own distinctive character and design identity. Chikan was used for everything – from turbans and veils to angarkhas, chogas and palace interiors. The imperial Mughal manuscript copy of the Padshahnama (exhibited some years ago at the National Museum) has a beautiful detail of a many-arched balcony curtained with flowing, sheer white-on-white draperies with delicate floral motifs, which could well be chikan. The cool understated refinement of chikan suited the sophisticated elegance of the Mughals, just as it did the searing heat of an Indian summer. The floral jaals, rosettes and paisleys that remain a part of the chikan tradition today are a legacy of their style and imagery – unchanged though occasionally distorted through the years.

Chikan, as Bernier, the 16th century French doctor and traveller reminds us, is ephemeral. He had a keen eye for the finer details of both Indian women and Indian textiles. He described the court ladies drawers, ‘enriched with fine needle embroidery, … so fine and delicate that … they last only one night, even though they are often worth ten or twelve crowns…’ The under-drawers and over-gowns are gone but their stylized, exquisite motifs have come down to us: preserved through the wooden printing blocks with which chikan motifs are transferred onto cloth for embroidery. Converted today into 20th century three-dimension by the labouring hands of women, working in situations and surroundings not much changed from their 16th century sisters.

The lanes around the Lucknow central Chowk still echo to the thhup-thhup rhythm of thousands and thousands of kurtas and sarees being printed. Traditionally they were printed in washable terracotta geru colour. Today they use the laundry man’s Robin Blue! Brokers, all men, generally exploitative male chauvinists, carry the work back to the bastis to be embroidered. Working on piece wages, the embroidery women do not themselves engage in outside commercial transactions.

A striking exception is SEWA Lucknow, begun by two young social workers in the mid-1980s. Working in the Lucknow urban slums, they were horrified to discover the miserable pittance the women got for long hours of blinding work. Its imperial origins long forgotten, chikan had become a symbol of the exploitation of women whom society forbade to emerge from behind their veils to fight for their rights. SEWA started with one tin trunk, five women and a core investment of 10,000 rupees –many, many fears and much hesitation. Gradually the number of women grew as word spread of an organization which paid higher than market wages. The first two-room office became a meeting place where women shared not only work but also common concerns and companionship. Male hostility to new ways that threatened established norms disappeared as wives came home with much needed cash as well as liberated ideas.

The SEWA women travelled all over India in search of new markets: interacting and exchanging ideas with export buyers from Habitat and Bloomingdales, social activists and prime ministers. Today, over seven thousand SEWA women share not just a turnover of several crore but a common commitment to quality and caring. They have discovered the fellowship of craftsmanship with tribals and Brahmins, stayed in dharamshalas and YWCAs, attended the Beijing Conference, shared a fashion ramp with Ritu Kumar and Mary MacFadden, signed the Shah Bano petition, and cast off their rigidly stratified notions of religion, male supremacy and birth control along with their burkhas.

As Lucknavi life is a composite culture, chikan is composite embroidery. Traditionally made up of 44 different stitches, at least 22 – variants of six basic stitch techniques – are known and practiced today. Some are done on the surface of the fine white lawn fabric, some underneath it, others tease and pull the warp and weft threads apart to create a net-like jaali pattern at the heart of the flowers or leaves that make up the motif. Their names – double star earring, cowrie shell, peacocks feather eye, grain of rice, grass blade – are both descriptive and poetic. They combine to form an exquisite, textured light and shade pattern of stylized flowers, fauna and foliage that is unique in its delicacy yet vibrant strength. Daraz, patterned cutwork seams, skilfully snipped in the shape of flowers, leaves, zigzag, or even the Awadhi fish emblem, sets off the fine embroidery on kurtas and caps.

Like so many Indian embroideries, chikankari is a manifestation of a woman’s inner spirit and creativity triumphantly transcending the sadness and squalor of her surroundings and the limitations of her circumstance. Like a dragonfly’s wing, its white-on-white gossamer textures reflect the light and shade of her life – its beauty and its fragile, transient nature.

A more in-your-face embroidery that is also a characteristic of U.P. and Lucknow is zardozi. Using gold and silver threads, with an occasional addition of coloured silks, this glitteringly resplendent embroidery is done on fabric stretched on a long rectangular table-like frame, usually by men. Two or three craftspeople sit at a single frame, working this intricate embroidery with hooked needles – piercing the cloth from the front, and pulling it with a hooked movement from the back – much as a cobbler does. Used traditionally for court regalia and robes, as well as ornamented hangings and spreads, zardozi embroidery is now an essential part of every bridal wardrobe; Swarowski crystals often replacing the more traditional metal sequins, and the delicate silver wire mukesh of yore.

Another typically Lucknow textile craft is the colourful satin patchwork that is used for quilts and ghararas (skirts) and edges formal dupattas. Minute triangular, diamond and semi-circular shapes are stitched together in geometric patterns finished with gold ribbon to create a lustrous and dramatic chiaroscuro of colours. Sadly, many of the craftswomen who used to practice this skill are now in sweatshops; machine-appliquéing baba-suits with Mickey Mouse and Donald Duck cutouts! But look out for the tie-dyed crinkle-dried muslin scarves that are the piece de resistance of the Lucknavi washermen. They are starched, twisted counter-clockwise, dip-dyed in flaming pinks, purples and yellows, and topped off with abrak, a luminous talc that gives an iridescent gold dust effect. Dupattas star-studded with sequins of different shapes and sizes, or dotted with silver and gold mukesh also set off the white chikan summer outfits. Apart from its own textile crafts, Lucknow is also a centre for fine Benarsi sarees and Farrukha-bad block prints, as well as the rougher textures of khadi and handloom from neighbouring Barabanki.

The silver jewellery of Lucknow, filigree, beaten or moulded, has a distinctive character of its own – jhumka earrings, chains, and necklaces have the same Mughal-influenced paisley and florette motifs as the embroideries. Brass, copper, silver and gold – hammered, beaten or cast, engraved, enamelled or repousse – have been used through the centuries all over India. Ewers, waterpots, vases, lamps and trays, in shapes consecrated by tradition to temple ritual or court ceremonial, or simply for bringing water from the village well. Every Indian city has a street in the bazaar dedicated to the sale of each specific metal and Lucknow is no exception. Crafts-people sit in their shops, and one can custom-order a specific shape or design. Each metal has its ascribed attribute: according to an ancient text, the Kalika Purana, gold ‘removes the excesses of the three humours and promotes strength of vision’, silver is ‘favourable and inimicable to bile, but calculated to increase the secretion of wind and phlegm’, bronze is ‘agreeable and intellectual, but favourable to undue excitement of blood and bile’, brass is ‘wind-generating, irritating, hot, and heat and phlegm-destroying’, iron is ‘beneficial in overcoming dropsy, jaundice and anemia’!

A metal technique worth looking out for is the engraved and enamelled meenakari brassware of U.P. While its main centre is Moradabad, fine examples of the work can be found in Lucknow. Respectively known as siakalam, chikan and maroriwork, the design is chased on tinned brass, and filled in with black or coloured lacquer, applied with a hot tool. When polished, the coloured patterns, generally flowing arabesques of flowers and foliage, emerge out of the glittering metal in an intricate, glowing relief.

Less well-known, but stunningly subtle in its dramatic black and white, is the Lucknavi version of bidri, the silver damascene work originating in the old Hyderabad state in Central India. There was a brief period, in the late 18th and early 19th century, when Lucknow craftsmen produced their own bidri metal ware. Occasionally using gold to replace the silver, and with more delicate trellis-like designs than the stylized floral motifs or bold geometric jaals of their Hyderabadi counterparts, silver wire is beaten into the engraved design on boxes, bowls and vases made of an alloy or copper, zinc and lead, treated with a solution of copper sulphate and saltpetre that turns it black. The silver motif shines out from its jetty backdrop – stars on a dark night.

Crinkled chunhat and abrak that only lasts one wash but gives so much pleasure. The exquisite, formalized ritual of eating paan, folded and presented on crossed palms, and the horrid, lurid blood-red betel stains that go with it. The courteous verbal jugglery and poetic conceits that accompany even the most trifling transaction and the inevitable unpunctuality and broken promises that ensue as a result. The plumed, tasselled tongas and the monstrous comic cross between a dinosaur and jeep that is Lucknow’s version of an auto-rickshaw. The combination of a Hindu political majority and a dominantly Muslim culture. The irrepressible folly and the fading grandeur. All are part of Lucknow’s unique charm and character. All must be understood, experienced and savoured.

The crafts, threatened, sometimes tacky and anachronistic, but nevertheless a legacy of distinctive and extraordinary skills, reflect the cross-currents and the culture, the problems and potential.

Credits : Laila Tyabji. Laila is a designer and a writer. She is the founder of DASTKAR (A society for craft and crafts people). She has worked in the craft and development sector for over 3 decades now. She won the ‘AID TO ARTISANS’ , Craft Award in New York in the year 2003. She has worked with artisans including the Chikan workers of SEWA in Lucknow, Kasuti embroiderers in Karnataka, Mahubani painters and Sujni in Bihar and Regus in Rajasthan.

An important victory for the `rebels’ of 1857, the Battle of Chinhat has all but been completely effaced from history. 158 years ago, on the morning of June 30, 1857, British officer Sir Henry Lawrence received reports of a force of insurgents making their way to Oudh. Resolved to ambush the rebels, he led his troops to the village of Chinhat.

An easy victory was certain and the East India Company’s officers had advanced ahead of the Kukrail bridge when they were suddenly fired at by sepoys hiding among mango groves at Chinhat. Led by Barkat Ahmad, a highly trained mutineer of the Company’s Army and joined by a number of Indian sepoys who defected from the Army on the site, the rebels had managed to completely outflank the British.

What followed was a battle that would force the company’s officers to beat a hasty retreat and take shelter in the Residency, where they would be held captive until September 1857.

The British officers and their families at the Residency had not expected the `mutiny’ to be of this magnitude. G Harris, the wife of an officer in the British East India Company, wrote in her diary on June 30, 1857, “Early this morning, we found that a small force of 300, with seven guns, was going out to meet the advanced guard of the enemy. When they reached the village of Chinhut, they found the rebel army amounting to between 12,000 and 15,000.”

“The siege of the Residency had been initiated by the sepoys from Chinhat and Lawrence’s death was the first important British casualty in the history of the mutiny,” says Prof TK Roy Choudhury, a historian, who has done extensive research on The first war of Independence.

While the siege of the Residency is fairly well-documented, the events at Chinhat have been lost in the annals of state libraries and archive divisions.

Noted historian Roshan Taqui believes the reason for this to be the great embarrassment that the crushing defeat was to the British. “This was the first time that Indian troops were seen as a force to be reckoned with. In any record by the British of the events at Lucknow in 1857, you will find numerous descriptions of the valour of the Company’s forces against the `rebels’. The loss at Chinhat has been treated as a mere transgression and an unfortunate miscalculation.”

However, telegrams sent by officers stationed in Lucknow at the time tell a different story. Documents at UP State Archives show this defeat was not the mere unfortunate skirmish it has been made out to be.

Writing from the Residency on the day it was besieged, Harris states in her diary, “Our unfortunate troops were taken at a disadvantage, obliged to fly back in terrible disorder, leaving nearly 200 killed and wounded. At nine o’clock, we were in a state of siege…”

Chinhat has since become an industrial part of Lucknow and it is hard to appreciate the significance of this once-small village, especially because there is no memorial to mark the defeat of the Company’s troops and to commemorate the Indian soldiers who won a significant victory here.

LU professor Aroop Chakravarti says the Company wished to create a wilful amnesia regarding the occurrence at Chinhat but the event should be given its due now. “The Battle must be adequately recognized by constructing a cenotaph in Chinhat.” While historians and scholars assert the importance of the battle and the role it played in crushing the very spirit of the British, there is a complete lack of knowledge among citizens. The Company might have in fact, succeeded in its attempt at relegating this battle to the background.

Credits : Somal Gupta / Times of India.

The most important activity in human life is eating. As any community or nation progresses, its diet is the most salient guide to its refinement. For this reason I should like to discuss the attitude of the court of Lucknow towards its cuisine and the extent to which the people of Lucknow improved the art of gastronomy.

At the time of Shuja ud Daula, the supervisor of the court kitchens was Hasan Raza Khan, who went by the name of Mirza Hasanu and came of a respectable Delhi family. A Shaikhzada, Maulvi Fazal Azim, had come to Lucknow from Safipur (Unao District, U.P.) to study. By a stroke of fortune he had been received into Mirza Hasanu’s house. The two had grown up together and Mirza Hasanu appointed him assistant supervisor of the kitchens. It was Fazal Azim’s custom to prepare the trays for dinner, then put his seal on them and take them to the Nawabs antechamber. He would personally hand them to Bahu Begums special maidservants and thus ensure that nothing detrimental was done to the food. He also kept on good terms with the maidservants.

Nawab Shuja-ud-Daula had his meals inside the Palace with his wife Bahu Begum. The maidservants brought the trays to the Begum, uncovered them in her presence and place the food on the Dastarkhwan [tablecloth]. Each day food for the Nawab and the Begum came from six separate kitchens. Firstly, there was the Nawabs own main kitchen supervised by Mirza Hasanu. In this two thousand rupees a day were spent on food, so that, apart from the wages of cooks and other servants, 60,000 rupees a month were spent on food and delicacies. The second was the subsidiary royal kitchen, the supervisor of which was originally Mirza Hasan Ali, but later on was Anbar Ali Khan, a eunuch; here three hundred rupees a day were spent on food. The third kitchen belonged to Bahu Begum’s apartments, supervised by Bahar Ali Khan, also a eunuch. The fourth was the kitchen of Nawab Begum, Shuja ud Daula’s mother, the fifth, Mirza Ali Khan’s, and the sixth that of Nawab Salar Jang. These last two were Bahu Begum’s brothers.

All these six kitchens were excellent and every day produced the most sumptuous and delicious food for the dinner of the ruler. One day a fly emerged from the Nawab’s dish which had been prepared in the royal kitchen. The Nawab was very annoyed and asked, ‘Where has this food come from?’ The maidservant thought that if she mentioned the royal kitchen, her adopted brother the Maulvi would get into trouble, so she said, ‘Sir, the meal has come from Nawab Salar Jang’s kitchen.’

After Shuja-ud-Daula’s time Asaf ud Daula gave Mirza Hasan Raza Khan the title of Sarfaraz ud daula and honoured him with the khilat. Hasan Raza then thought that supervising the kitchens was beneath his dignity and appointed Maulvi Fazal Azim for the task, who now took the dinner trays to Asaf ud Daula’s antechamber. He then collected some of his relatives to help him, amongst whom were his brother Maulvi Faiq Ali and his two cousins Ghulam Azim and Ghulam Makhdum. The four used to take turns to convey the meals to the antechamber. Following Asaf-ud-Daula’s reign, during the short period of Wazir Ali Khan’s rule, Tafazur Husain Khan became Vazir. He sent these relatives back to Safipur and appointed Ghulam Muhammad, popularly known as Bare Mirza, to be supervisor of the kitchens.

Thus from the time of Shuja-ud-Daula a very high standard of cooking was maintained. The very best cooks were enlisted, elaborate efforts were made in the preparation of foods and innovations were introduced. Expert cooks from Delhi and other places polished up their skills and invented new delicacies and special savours.

Sarfaraz-ud-Daula Hasan Raza Khan would prepare the most wonderful meals. He himself was extremely fond of good food and entertaining and as supervisor of the main royal kitchen he had every opportunity of displaying his talents. Scores of nobles became connoisseurs of good food, though Nawab Salar Jang’s family was the most celebrated for its innovations and delicacies.

Reliable sources tell us that Nawab Salar Jang’s cook, who prepared food for him alone, received a monthly salary of 1,200 rupees, an amount greater than the salary of any cook in the highest courts in the history of India. This cook used to prepare the most enormous pulaus, which no one except Salar Jang could digest. One day Nawab Shuja ud Daula said, ‘why have you never offered me any of those pulaus which are cooked for you?’ Salar Jang replied, ‘Certainly, I will have one sent to you today.’ Accordingly he asked his cook to prepare a pulau, but of twice the usual amount. His cook replied, ‘I am responsible only for your meals and I cannot cook for anyone else.’ Salar Jang said, ‘The Nawab has expressed the desire, can’t you possibly make him a pulau?’ The cook continued, ‘I can’t cook for anyone else, whoever he may be.’ After much persuasion on the part of Salar Jang, the cook finally agreed on condition that he himself would take the pulau to the Nawab, who would eat it in his presence, that he would not allow the Nawab to eat more than a few mouthfuls, and that Salar Jang would provide the Nawab with plenty of cold water. Salar Jang agreed. The cook prepared the pulau and Salar Jang himself placed it on the dastarkhwan. As soon as he had tasted the pulau, Shuja-ud-Daula was full of praise and began to eat heartily. He had taken only a few mouthfuls, however, when Salar Jang tried to stop him. Shuja-ud-Daula looked at him with annoyance and continued eating. But after a few more mouthfuls he became exceedingly thirsty and was happy to drink the cold water that Salar Jang had brought with him. Finally his thirst was quenched and Salar Jang went home.

In those days the best food was considered to be that which appeared light and delicate but was in fact heavy and not easily digestible. People with old fashioned taste still have a penchant for this sort of food but today it is not generally popular.

A special art was to produce one particular substance in several different guises. When placed on the table it looked as if there were score of different kinds of delicacies, but when one tasted them, one found they were all the same. For instance, I have heard that a Prince Mirza Asman Qadar, the son of Mirza Khurram Bakht of Delhi, who came to Lucknow and became a Shia, was invited to dine by Wajid Ali Shah. Murabba, a conserve, was put on the dastarkhwan which looked very light, tasty and delicious. When Asman Qadar tasted it he became intrigued because it was not a conserve at all but a qaurma (korma), a meat curry, which the chef had made to look exactly like a conserve. He felt embarrassed and Wajid Ali Shah was extremely pleased at having been able to trick an honoured Delhi connoisseur.

A few days later, Mirza Asman Qadar invited Wajid-Ali-Shah to a meal. Wajid Ali Shah anticipated that a trap would be laid for him, but this did not save him from being taken in. Asman Qadar’s cook, Shaikh Husain Ali, had covered the tablecloth with hundreds of delicacies and many varieties of comestibles. There were pulau, zarda, qaurma, kababs, biryani, chapatis, chutneys, achars, parathas, shir mals – in fact every kind of food. However, when tasted they were all found to be made of sugar. The curry was sugar, the rice was sugar, the pickles were sugar and the bread was sugar. It is said that even the plates, the tablecloth, the finger bowls and cups were made of sugar. Wajid Ali Shah tried everything and became more and more embarrassed.

I have said that trays of food for Nawab Shuja-ud-Daula’s dinners came from six different kitchens. This practice was not confined to him alone. It continued after his time and the honour was also accorded to some chosen nobles and especially to the royal relations.

My friend Nawab Muhammad Shafi Khan Nishapuri tells me that his grandfather, Nawab Agha Ali Hasan Khan, an eminent noble, used to send roghni roti, a rich bread, and meetha ghi [ghee], clarified butter, from his house to king. This bread was so fine and cooked with such care that it was not thicker than paper. The meetha ghee was a very special product which had to be prepared with great care.

In Delhi the most popular food was biryani, but the taste in Lucknow was more for pulau. To the uninitiated palate both are much the same, but because of the amount of spices in biryani there is always a strong taste of curried rice, whereas pulau can be prepared with such care that this can never happen. It is true that a good biryani is better than an indifferent pulau, for the pulau may be tasteless and this is never so in the case of a biryani. But in the view of gourmets a biryani is a clumsy and ill-conceived meal in comparison with a really good pulau and for that reason the latter was more popular in Lucknow. There are seven well-known kinds of pulaus in Lucknow. I can remember the names of only gulzar, the garden, nur, the light, koku, the cuckoo, moti, the pearl and chambeli, jasmine; but in fact scores of different pulaus are served. Muhammad Ali Shah’s son Mirza Azim ush Shan, on the occasion of a wedding, invited the parents of the bride and bridegroom to a dinner at which Wajid Ali Shah was also present. For that occasion there were seventy varieties of savoury pulaus and sweet rice dishes.

At the time of Ghazi ud Din Haidar, Nawab Husain Ali Khan of Salar Jang’s family was a great gourmet who had scores of different varieties of pulaus prepared for him. These were so light and delicate that no other nobleman could compete with him. Even the King envied him and gourmets would call him ‘the rice man’.

During the reign of Nasir-ud-Din Haidar, a cook came to Lucknow who made Khichri using pistachio nuts and almonds instead of rice and lentils. He cut the almonds into rice-shapes and the pistachio nuts into the shape of lentils so perfectly that when cooked the dish looked exactly like khichri. Once savoured, the taste could never be forgotten.

At the time of Nawab Sadat Ali Khah there was an expert cook who made nothing but gulathis, rice puddings. This was the splendor of the royal table, the favourite dish of the ruler and such a delicacy that the noblemen all longed for it.

There is a story about a new cook who came before Nawab Asaf-ud-Daula. He was asked, ‘What do you cook?’ He answered, ‘I only cook lentils.’ When he was then asked what wages he required he replied, ‘Five hundred rupees.’ The Nawab agreed to employ him but the cook said, ‘I will only take on service under certain conditions.’ When asked what those were, he said, ‘When your Excellency wishes to eat my preparation of lentils, you must order it the day before and when I tell you it is ready you must eat it right away.’ The Nawab agreed to these conditions and some months later ordered the cook to prepare his lentils. The cook did so and when it was ready informed the Nawab who said, ‘All right, put it on dastarkhwan, I am coming in a minute.’ The dastarkhwan was laid but the Nawab became engaged in conversation. The cook reminded him again but the Nawab tarried. After a third reminder, when the Nawab still did not appear, the cook took the pot of lentils, emptied it on the roots of a withered tree and departed. The Nawab regretted this and instituted a search but no trace of the cook was found. Some days later it was seen that the tree under which the lentils had been thrown was now blossoming. There is no doubt that this incident has been exaggerated. Still, one can judge from it the esteem accorded to cooks at the court and realize with what liberality an expert chef was treated.

Seeing the interest that the wealthy took in matters of food, cooks tried various innovations. One invented a pulau which resembled anar dana [pomegranate seed] in which half of each grain of rice was fiery red like a ruby and the other half was white and sparkled like a crystal. When the pulau was put on the table it looked as if the dish had been filled with coloured jewels. Another cook produce a nau ratan [nine-precious-gem] pulau, in which the rice was coloured to reproduce the nine well-known gems and the colours were so pure and so polished that they were a delight to the eyes. Many more delicacies of this nature were created which became known to different houses and kitchens.

Of the noblemen interested in food, one was Nawab Mirza Khan Nishapuri, who was reputed to have a vasiqa of 14,000 rupees a month. He showed such talent in producing delicious food and enlisting the services of expert chefs that his dastarkhwan became famed throughout the city. Another was Mirza Haidar, also of Nishapur. He was such an honoured and respected nobleman that the Nishapuri community in Lucknow acknowledged him as their leader. It was his practice whenever he accepted an invitation to take with him all the items necessary for the preparation of betel leaf and a hundred or more huqqas [hookahs], as well as the necessary equipment for cooling drinking-water. This was a great help to people of moderate means, who would make sure to invite him. In this way all arrangements for huqqas, betel leaf and drinking-water would be his responsibility and these arrangements were always perfect.

Three classes of people were employed in preparing food. First there were the scullions who cleaned enormous pots and dishes and worked under the cook. Second was bawarchi, the cook, who prepared the meals in large quantities. Third was rakabdar, the chef, who was the most expert and usually cooked in small pots for a few people only. He considered it beneath his dignity to produce food in large quantities. Cooks, too, like to prepared in small quantities, but chefs never do otherwise because in addition to cooking to cooking, they are occupied with the presentation and serving of the food. They adorn the dishes with dried fruits cut into the shape of flowers, edible silver foils and other embellishments. They prepare light, delicious conserves and pickles and exhibit their skill in the gastronomic art in subtle ways.

Ghazi-ud-Din Haidar was fond of parathas. His chef used to cook six parathas a day and put five seers [approximately ten pounds] of ghee into each, that is to say, he used thirty seers of ghee a day. One day the Wazir Motamad-ud-Daula Agha Mir sent for him and asked, ‘What do you do with thirty seers of ghee a day?’ He said, ‘Sir, I cook parathas.’ The wazir asked him to cook a paratha so that he could witness this. The chef did so and put in all the ghee it would hold and threw the rest away. Motamad-ud-daula said with astonishment, ‘You have not used all the ghee.’ The chef said, ‘What is left over is not worth keeping for another meal.’ The wazir could not understand the answer and said; ‘Only five seers of ghee a day will be given to you, one seer for each paratha.’ The chef said, ‘Very well, I will cook with that much ghee.’ He was so angry at the wazir’s interference that he started to cook very indifferent parathas for the King’s table. After a few days the King remarked, ‘What is wrong with these parathas?’ The chef said, ‘Your Majesty, I cook the parathas as Nawab Motamad-ud-daula Bahadur has ordered.’ The King asked for details and was given a full account. He immediately sent for the wazir who said, ‘Your Majesty, these people rob you right and left.’ On this the King became angry and slapped him, saying, ‘Don’t you rob? You who rob the whole monarchy and the whole country and think nothing of it? He only takes a little too much ghee for my meals and you don’t like it.’ The wazir repented, showed his contrition and the King, exercising his clemency, gave him a khilat. The wazir never interfered with the chef again and the latter continued to take thirty seers of ghee as before.

Credits : Last Phase of an Oriental Culture by Abdul Halim Sharar

(Handout Material)

 The great Rebellion of 1857 (also called the Indian Mutiny, Sepoy Rebellion, and First war of Independence) began as a mutiny by Bengal army soldiers, against their commanders in the army of the British East India Company. The rebellion came out of the sepoy’s long-held grievances about unfair assignments, low pay, limited opportunities for advancements, and the reorganization of Oudh, a region from which a third of them had been recruited. A more immediate cause of insult to the sepoys was the new Enfield rifle that required soldiers to reload by biting off the ends of cartridges greased with pig and cow fat, substances offensive to both.

The Siege of Lucknow was the prolonged defence of the Residency within the city of Lucknow during the Indian Rebellion of 1857. After two successive relief attempts had reached the city, the defenders and the civilians were evacuated from the Residency, which was then abandoned.

Lucknow was the capital of the former state of Awadh. The prolonged defence there by the British proved to be one of the key episodes in this uprising. Mainly there were issues of prestige and morale involved, but Lucknow also became the point at which the main forces of both the British and rebels were concentrated.

Background of the siege

The state of Oudh had been annexed by British East India Company and the Nawab Wajid Ali Shah was exiled to Calcutta the year before the rebellion broke out. This high-handed action by the East India Company was greatly resented within the state and elsewhere in India. The first British Commissioner (in effect the governor) appointed to the newly acquired territory was Coverley Jackson. He behaved tactlessly, and Sir Henry Lawrence, a very experienced administrator, took up the appointment only six weeks before the rebellion broke out.

The sepoys (Indian Soldiers) of the East India Company’s Bengal Presidency Army had become increasingly troubled over the preceding years, feeling that their religion and customs were under threat from the rationalizing and evangelizing activities of the company. Lawrence was well aware of the rebellious mood of the Indian troops under his command (which included several units of Oudh Irregulars, recruited from the former army of the state of Oudh). On 18 April, he warned the Governor General, Lord Canning, of some of the manifestations of discontent, and asked permission to transfer certain rebellious crops to another province.

The flashpoint of the rebellion was the introduction of the Enfield rifle; the cartridges for this weapon were believed to be greased with a mixture of beef and pork fat, it was felt that would defy both Hindu and Muslim native soldiers. On 1 May, the 7^th Oudh Irregular Infantry refused to bite the cartridge, and on 3 May they were disarmed by other regiments.

On 10^th May, the Indian soldiers at Meerut broke into open rebellion, and marched on to Delhi. When news of this reached Lucknow, Lawrence recognized the gravity of the crisis and summoned from their homes two sets of pensioners, one of sepoys and one of artillerymen, to whose loyalty, and to that of the Sikh and some Hindu sepoys, the successful defence of the Residency was largely entrusted.

Rebellion Begins

On 23^rd May, Lawrence began fortifying the Residency and laying in supplies for a siege; large number of British civilians made their way there from outlying districts. On 30^th May (the Muslim festival of Eid-ul-Fitr), most of the Oudh and Bengal troops at Lucknow broke into open rebellion. In addition to his locally recruited pensioners, Lawrence also had the bulk of British 32^nd Regiment of Foot available to him, and they were able to drive the rebels away from the city.

On 4^th June, there was a rebellion at Sitapur, a large and important station, 51 miles (82 km) from Lucknow. This was followed by another at Faizabad, one of the most important cities in the province, and other outbreaks at Daryabad, Sultanpur and Salon. Thus, in the course of these ten days, British authority in Oudh practically was lost.

On 30^th June, Lawrence learned that the rebels were gathering in the north of Lucknow and ordered a reconnaissance of the force, despite the available intelligence being of poor quality. Although he had comparatively little military experience, Lawrence led the expedition himself. The expedition was not very well organized though. The troops were forced to march without food or adequate water during the hottest part of the day at the height of summer, and at the Chinhat he met a well-organized rebel force, with a cavalry and dug-in artillery. Some of Lawrence’s sepoys and Indian artillerymen defected to the rebels, and his exhausted British soldiers retreated in disorder. Some died of heatstroke before reaching and within sight of the Residency. Lieutenant William George Cubitt, 13^th Native Infantry, was awarded the Victoria Cross several years later, for his act of saving the lives of three men of the 32^nd Regiment of Foot during the retreat. His was not a unique action; sepoys loyal to the British, especially those of the 13^th Native Infantry saved many British soldiers, even at the cost of abandoning their own wounded men, who were hacked to pieces by the Indian sepoys.

Initial Attacks

Lawrence retreated into the Residency, where the siege had now begun, with the Residency as the centre of the defence. The actual defended line was based on six detached smaller buildings and four entrenched batteries. The position covered some 60 acres (240000 Sq Mt) of ground, and the garrison (855 British officers and soldiers, 712 Indians, 153 civilian volunteers, with 1280 non-combatants, including hundreds of women and children) was too small to be defended effectively against a well prepared and well supported attack. Also, the Residency lay in the midst of several palaces, mosques and administrative buildings, as Lucknow has been the royal capital of Oudh for many years now. Lawrence initially refused permission for these to be demolished, urging his engineers to “spare the holy places”. During the siege, they provided good vantage points and cover for rebel sharpshooters and artillery.

One of the first bombardments at the beginning of the siege was on 30^th June where a civilian was trapped by a falling roof. Corporal William Oxenham of the 32^nd Foot, saved him under intense musket and cannon fire, and was later awarded the Victoria Cross. The first attack was repulsed on 1^st July, when the separate position of the Machhi Bhawan Palace to the east of the Residency was evacuated, and blown up. (Large amounts of power and ammunition was stored in it.) The very next day, Sir Henry Lawrence was fatally wounded by a shell, later dying on 4^th July. Colonel John Inglis of the 32^nd Regiment took military command of the garrison. Major John Banks was appointed the acting Civil Commissioner by Lawrence. When Banks was killed by a sniper a short time later, Inglis assumed overall command.

About 8000 sepoys who had joined the rebellion and several hundred retainers of landowners surrounded the Residency. They had some modern guns and also some older pieces which fired all sorts of improvised missiles.           There were several determined attempts to storm the defence during the first week of the siege, but the rebels lacked a unified command that could have coordinated all the besieging forces.

The defenders, their numbers constantly reduced by military action as well as disease, were able to repulse all attempts to overwhelm them. In addition they mounted several sorties, attempting to reduce the effectiveness of the most dangerous rebel position and to silence their guns.

First Relief Attempt

On 16^th July, a force under Major General Henry Havelock recaptured Cawnpore, 48 miles (77 km) from Lucknow. On 20^th July, he decided to attempt to relieve Lucknow, but it took six days to ferry his force of 1500 men across the Ganges River. On 29^th July, Havelock won a battle at Unnao, but causalities, diseases and heatstroke reduced his force to 850 effectives, and he fell back.

There followed a sharp exchange of letters between Havelock and the insolent Brigadier James Neill who was left in charge at Cawnpore. Havelock eventually received 257 reinforcements and some more guns, and tried again to advance. He won another victory near Unnao on 4 August, but was once again too weak to continue the advance, and retired. Havelock intended to remain on the north bank of the Ganges, inside Oudh, and thereby prevent the large force of rebels which had been facing him from joining the siege of the Residency, but on 11^th August, Neill reported that Cawnpore was threatened. To allow himself to retreat without being attacked from behind, Havelock marched again to Unnao and won a third victory there. He then fell back across the Ganges, and destroyed the newly completed bridge. On 16^th August, he defeated a rebel force at Bithur, disposing any new threat to Cawnpore.

Havelock’s retreat was tactically necessary, but caused the rebellion in Oudh to become a national revolt, as previously uncommitted landowners joined and rebels.

First Relief of Lucknow

Havelock had been superseded in command by Major General Sir James Outram. Before Outram arrived at Cawnpore, Havelock made preparations for another relief attempt. He had earlier sent a letter to lnglis in the Residency, suggesting he cut his way out and make for Cawnpore. Inglis replied that he had too few effective troops and too many sick, wounded and non-combatants to make such an attempt. He also pleaded for urgent assistance. The rebels meanwhile continued to shell the garrison in the Residency, and also dug mines beneath the defences, which destroyed several post. Although the garrison kept the rebels at a distance with sorties and counter-attacks, they were becoming weaker by the day and food too was running short.

Outram Arrived at Cawnpore with reinforcements on 15^th September. He allowed Havelock to command the relief force, accompanying it nominally as a volunteer until Lucknow was reached. The force numbered 3,179 and comprised six British and one Sikh infantry battalions, with three artillery batteries, but only 168 volunteer cavalry. They were divided into two brigades, under Neill and Colonel Hamilton of the 78^th Highlanders.

The advance resumed on 18^th September. This time, the rebels did not make any serious stand in the open country, even failing to destroy some vital bridges. On 23^rd September, Havelock’s force drove the rebels from Alambagh, a walled park four miles south of the Residency. Leaving the baggage with a small force in Alambagh, he began the final advance on 25^th September. Because of the heavy rains, much of the open ground around the city was flooded or waterlogged, preventing the British making any outflanking moves and forcing them to make a direct advance through the parts of the city.

The force met heavy resistance trying to cross the Charbagh Canal, but succeeded, only after nine out of ten men were killed storming a bridge there. They then turned to their right, following the west bank of the canal. The 78^th Highlanders took a wrong turning, but were able to capture a rebel battery near the Qaiserbagh Palace (also Kaiserbagh), before dwindling their way back to the main force. After further heavy fighting, by nightfall the force had reached Machhi Bhawan. Outram proposed to halt and contact the defenders of the Residency by digging tunnels and mining through the intervening buildings, but Havelock insisted on an immediate advance (he feared that the defenders of the Residency were so wakened that they might still be overwhelmed by a last-minute rebel attack.). The advance was made through heavily defended narrow lanes. Neill was one of those killed by a rebel musket fire. In all, the relief force lost 535 men out of 2000, mainly in this last rush.

By the time of the relief, the defenders of the Residency had endured a siege of 87 days, and were reduced to only 982 fighting persons.

Second Siege

Originally, Outram had intended to evacuate the Residency, but the heavy casualties incurred during the final advance made it impossible to remove all the sick and wounded and non-combatants. Another factor which influenced Outram’s decision to remain in Lucknow was the discovery of a large stock of supplies beneath the Residency, sufficient to maintain the garrison for two more months. This was laid in the stores by Lawrence before he died and he did not manage to inform about this to any of his subordinates. (thus, due to not being informed about this fact, Inglis had feared that starvation was imminent.)

Under Outram’s overall command, lnglis took charge of the original Residency area, and Havelock occupied and defended the palaces (the Farhat Baksh and Chattar Manzil) and other buildings east of it. Outram had hoped that the relief would also demoralise the rebels, but was disappointed. For the next six weeks, the rebels continued to subject the defenders to musket and artillery fire, and dug a series of mines beneath them. The defenders replied with sorties, as before, and dug counter-mines.

The defenders were able to send messengers to and from Alambagh, from where in turn messengers could reach Cawnpore. A volunteer civil servant, Thomas Henry Kavanagh, the son of a British soldier, disguised himself as a sepoy and ventured from the Residency, aided by a local man named Kananji Lal. He and his scout crossed the entrenchments east of the city to reach Alambagh, to act as a guide to the next relief attempt. For this action, Kavanagh was awarded the Victoria Cross and was the first civilian in British history to be honoured with such an award for the action during a military conflict.

Preparations for the Second Relief

The rebellion had involved a very wide stretch of territory in northern India. Large number of rebels had flocked to Delhi, where they proclaimed the restoration of the Mughal Empire under Bahadur Shah-II. A British army besieged the city from the first week in June. On 10^th September, they launched a storming attempt, and by 21^st September they had captured the city. On 24^th September, a column of 2,790 British, Sikh and Punjabi troops under Colonel Greathed of the 8^th (The King’s) Regiment of Foot marched through the Lahore Gate to restore British rule from Delhi to Cawnpore. On 9^th October, Greathed received urgent calls for help from a British garrison in the Red Fort at Agra. He diverted his force to Agra, to find the rebels had apparently retreated. While his force rested, they were surprised and attacked by the rebel force, which had been camping close by. Nevertheless, they rallied, defeated and dispersed the rebel force. This Battle of Agra cleared all organised rebel forces from the area between Delhi and Cawnpore, although guerrilla bands remained.

Shortly afterwards, Greathed received reinforcements from Delhi, and was superseded in command by Major General James Hope Grant. Grant reached Cawnpore late in October, where he received orders from the new commander-in-chief in India, Sir Colin Campbell, to proceed to Alambagh, and transport the sick and wounded to Cawnpore. He was also strictly told, not to commit himself for any relief to Lucknow until Campbell himself arrived.

Campbell was 65 years old when he left England in July 1857, to assume the command of the Bengal Army. By mid-August, he was in Calcutta preparing his departure upcountry. It was late October before all preparations were completed. Fighting his way up the Grand Trunk Road, Campbell arrived in Cawnpore on 3^rd November, securing the countryside before launching his relief of Lucknow. The massacre of British women and children following the capitulation of Cawnpore was still in recent memory. In British eyes, Lucknow had become a symbol of their resolve. Accordingly, Campbell left 1,100 troops in Cawnpore for its defence, leading  600 cavalry, 3,500 infantry and 42 guns of to Alambagh, in what Samuel Smiles described as an example of the “women and children first” protocol being applied.

British warships were dispatched from Hong Kong to Calcutta. The marines and sailors of the Shannon, Pearl and Sanspareil formed a Naval Brigade with the ships’ guns (8-inches guns and 24-pounder howitzers) and fought their way from Calcutta until they met up with Campbell’s force.

The strength of the rebels in Lucknow had been widely estimated from 30,000 to 60,000. They were amply equipped, the sepoy regiments among them were well trained, and they had improved their defence in response to Havelock’s and Outram’s first relief of the Residency. The Charbagh Bridge used by Havelock and Outram just north of the Alambagh had been fortified. The Charbagh Canal from the Dilkusha Bridge to the Charbagh Bridge was dammed and flooded to prevent troops or heavy guns fording it. Cannon emplaced in entrenchments north of the Gumti River, not only daily bombarded the besieged Residency but also enfiladed the only viable relief path. However, the lack of a unified command structure among the sepoys diminished the value of their superior numbers and strategic positions.

Second Relief

At daybreak on 14 November, Campbell commenced his relief of Lucknow. He had made his plans on the basis of Kavanagh’s information and the heavy loss of life experienced by the first Lucknow relief column. Rather than crossing the Charbagh Bridge and fighting though the tortuous, narrow streets of Lucknow, Campbell opted to make a flanking march to the east and proceed to Dilkusha Park. He would then advance to La Martiniere (a school for British and Anglo-Indian boys) and cross the canal as close to the River Gumti as possible. As he advanced, he would secure each position protecting his ammunitions and supply. He then secured a walled enclosure known as the Secunderbagh and linked it up with the Residency, whose outer perimeter had been extended by Havelock and Outram till the Chuttur Manzil.

For 3 miles (4.8 km) as the column moved to the east of the Alambagh, no opposition was encountered. When the relief column reached the Dilkusha wall, the silence ended with an outburst of musket fire. British cavalry and artillery quickly pushed through the wall. The column then advanced to La Martiniere. By noon, the Dilkusha and La Martiniere were in British hands. The defending sepoys vigorously attacked the British left flank from the Bank’s House, but the British counter-attacked and drove them back into Lucknow.

The rapid advance of Campbell’s column placed it far ahead of its supply caravan. The advance paused until the required stores of food, ammunition and medical equipment were brought forward. The request for additional ammunition from Alambagh further delayed the relief column’s march. On the evening of 15^th November, the Residency was signaled by semaphore, “Advance tomorrow.”

The next day, the relief column advanced from La Martiniere to the northern point where the canal meets the Gumti River. The damming of the canal to flood the area beneath the Dilkusha Bridge had left the canal dry at the crossing point. The column and guns advanced forward and then turned sharp left towards Secunder Bagh.

Storming of Secunder Bagh

The Secunder Bagh was a high walled garden approximately 120 square yards (100 sq mt), with parapets at each corner and a main entry gate arch on the southern wall. Campbell’s column approached along a road that ran parallel to the eastern wall of the garden. The advancing column of infantry, cavalry and artillery had great difficulty in maneuvering the cramped village streets. They afforded some protection from the intense fire raining down on them by a high road embankment that faced the garden. Musket fire came from loopholes in the Secunder Bagh and nearby fortified cottages, and cannon shot from the distant Kaiserbagh as well (the former King of Oudh’s – Wajid Ali Shah palace). Campbell positioned artillery to suppress this incoming fire. Heavy 18-pounder artillery was also hauled by rope and handled over the steep road embankment and placed within 60 yards (55m) of the enclosure. Although significant British casualties were sustained in these maneuvers, the cannon fire breached the southeastern wall of Secunder Bagh.

Storming of the Shah Najaf

By late noon, a detachment of the relief column led by Adrian Hope disengaged from the Secunder Bagh and moved towards the Shah Najaf, a walled imambara and mosque, that is also a mausoleum of Ghazi-ud-Din Haider, the first king of Oudh in 1814. The defenders had heavily fortified this multi-storey position. When the full force of the British column was brought to the Shah Najaf, the sepoys responded with unrelenting musketry, cannon grape shot and supporting cannon fire from the Kaisebagh, as well as oblique cannon fire from secured batteries north of the Gumti River. From heavily exposed positions, for three hours the British directed strong cannon fire on the thick walls of the Shah Najaf. The walls remained unscathed, the sepoy fire was unrelenting and British losses mounted. Additional British assaults failed, with heavy losses.

However, retiring from their exposed position was deemed equally dangerous by the British command. Fifty Highlanders were dispatched to seek an alternate access route to the Shah Najaf. Discovering a breach in the wall on the opposite side of the fighting, sappers were brought forward to widen the breach. The small advance party pushed through this opening, crossed the courtyard and opened the main gates.

Seeing the long sought opening, their comrades rushed forth into the Shah Najaf. Campbell made his headquarters in the Shah Najaf by nightfall.

Residency Reached

Within the besieged Residency, Havelock and Outram completed their preparations to link up with Campbell’s column. Positioned in the Chattar Manzil, they executed their plan to blow open the outer walls of the garden once they could see that the Secunder Bagh was in Campbell’s hands.

Moti Mahal, the last major position that separated the two British forces, was cleared by charges from Campbell’s column. Only an open space of 450 yards (410 m) now separated the two forces. Outram, Havelock and some other officers ran across the space to confer with Campbell, before returning. Stubborn resistance continued as the sepoys defended their remaining positions, but repeated efforts by the British cleared these last pockets of resistance. The second relief column had reached the residency.

The Evacuation

Although Outram and Havelock both recommended storming the Kaisarbagh palace to secure the British position, Campbell knew that other rebel forces were threatening Cawnpore and other cities held by the British, and thus he ordered Lucknow to be abandoned now. The evacuation began on 19^th November, while Campbell’s artillery bombarded the Kaiserbagh to deceive the rebels that an assault on it was imminent, canvas screens were erected to shield the open space from the rebels’ view. The women, children, sick and the wounded made their way to the Dilkusha Palace, under cover of these screens, some in a variety of carriages or litters, others on foot. Over the next two days, Outram spiked his guns and withdrew after this evacuation.

At the Dilkusha Palace, Havelock unfortunately died on 24^th November. The entire army and convoy now moved to the Alambagh. Campbell left Outram with 4000 men to defend Alambagh, while he himself moved with 3000 men and most of the civilians to Cawnpore on 27^th November.

The first siege had lasted 87 days, the second siege a further 61. The most Victoria Cross awarded on a single day were 24 and on 16^th November 1857, during the second relief, the bulk of these being for the assault on Secunder Bagh.

Now the rebels were left in control of Lucknow (though temporarily) over the following winter, but surely were prevented from undertaking any other major operation, by their own lack of unity and by Outram’s strong hold on the defended Alambagh.

The Second Seige of Lucknow

During the following winter season, Campbell re-established his communications with Delhi and with Calcutta. He also received fresh reinforcements from Britain and built up a substantial transport and supply column. After capturing Fatehgarh on 1 January, 1858, which allowed him to establish control over the countryside between Cawnpore and Delhi, Campbell suggested leaving Oudh alone during 1858, concentrating instead on recapturing the state of Rohilkhand, which was also in rebel hands. However, the Governor General, Lord Canning, insisted that Oudh be recaptured, so as to discourage other potential rebels.

Campbell’s army consisted of seventeen infantry battalions, twenty-eight cavalry squadrons and 134 guns and mortars, with a large and unwieldy baggage train and large numbers of Indian camp followers. The army crossed the Ganges River in late February, and advanced to rendezvous with Outram at the Alambagh on 1^st March 1858. The army was then reorganised into three infantry divisions under Outram, Brigadier Walpole and Brigadier Lugard, and a cavalry division under James Hope Grant. A force of 9,000 Nepalis (not to be confused with the regular Gorkha units of the Bengal Army) was approaching Lucknow from the north, commanded by Brigadier Franks.

The defenders of Lucknow were said to be 100,000 in number. This suspiciously large and round figure reflects the fact that the defenders lacked coordinated leadership, and were largely the personal retinues of landowners, or loosely organised bodies of fighters, whose motives, dedication and equipment varied widely. The British were not able to gain any reliable reports of their numbers. The rebels were nevertheless equipped with large numbers of cannon and had heavily fortified the Charbagh Canal, the city and the palaces and mosques adjoining the Residency to the north of the city. They had however not fortified the northern approaches to the city on the north bank of the Gumti River, which had not seen fighting previously

Campbell began by repeating his moves of the relief of the Residency the previous year. He moved to the east of the city and Charbagh Canal to occupy a walled park, the Dilkusha Park, although this time he suffered from rebel artillery fire until his own guns could be brought up.

On 5^th March, Campbell’s engineers constructed two pontoon bridges across the Gumti. Outram’s division crossed to the north bank, and by 9^th March, they were established north of the city. Under covering fire from his siege guns, his division captured the grandstand of the King of Oudh’s racecourse (known as the Chakar Kothi). Meanwhile, Campbell’s main body captured La Martiniere (formerly a school for the children of British civilians) and forced their way across the Charbagh Canal with few casualties.

By 11^th March, Outram captured two bridges across the Gumti near the Residency (an iron bridge and a nearby stone bridge) although heavy rebel artillery fire forced him to abandon the stone bridge. Meanwhile, Campbell occupied an enclosed palace (the Secundrabagh) and an imambara (the Shah Najaf) with little opposition; these two positions had been the scene of heavy fighting the previous November. In front of him was a block of palace buildings, collectively known as the Begum Kothi. There was severe fighting for these on 11^th March, in which 600 to 700 rebels died.

Over the next three days, Campbell’s engineers and gunners blasted and tunneled their way through the buildings between the Begum Kothi and the main rebel position in the King of Oudh’s palace, the Kaisarbagh. Meanwhile, Outram’s guns bombarded the Kaisarbagh from the north. The main assault on the Kaisarbagh took place on 14^th March. Campbell’s and Frank’s forces attacked from the east, but Campbell surprisingly refused permission to Outram to cross the Gumti and take possession of Kaisarbagh between two fires. As a result, although the Kaisarbagh was easily captured, its defenders were able to retreat without difficulty.

Final Capture of Lucknow

Most of the rebels were abandoning Lucknow and scattering into the countryside. Campbell failed to stop most of them, by sending his cavalry after some rebels who had left earlier. Operations temporarily halted while the British reorganised and most regiments fell to looting the captured palaces.

On 16^th March, Outram finally re-crossed the river Gumti, and his division advanced on and stormed the Residency. There were disjointed rebel counter-attacks on Alambagh and the British positions north of the Gumti, which failed. A rebel force which was supposed to contain Begum Hazrat Mahal, the wife of the dispossessed King of Oudh, Wajid Ali Shah and her son Birjis Qadar whom the rebels had proclaimed King, was driven away from the Musabagh, yet another walled palace four miles northwest of Lucknow.

The last few rebels, 1,200 men under a noted leader, Ahmadullah Shah, also known as the Maulvi of Faizabad, were driven from this fortified house in the centre of the city on 21^st March. It was then that the city of Lucknow was declared cleared.

The Outcome

Campbell had advanced cautiously and had captured Lucknow with few casualties, but by failing to prevent the rebels escaping, he was forced to spend much of the following summer and monsoon season clearing the rebels from the countryside of Oudh. As a result, his army suffered heavy casualties from heatstroke and other diseases.

Outram had also failed to protest his orders not to advance on 14^th March, which had allowed most rebels to escape. Outram was the Civil Commissioner for Oudh in addition to his military command, and may have allowed his hope for pacification and reconciliation to override his soldier’s instincts.

Rebel casualties were hard to estimate. British troops usually executed any prisoners they captured, whether armed or not. One of the prominent British casualties was William Hodson, who led an irregular cavalry unit and also served as an Intelligence officer, killed during the capture of the Begum Kothi on 11^th March.

Lucknow Mutiny Tour

This is a travelogue by Michael Clapp who visited Fatehgarh with Tornos to trace his Grandfather’s tragic death history as a Police Officer serving British Police of United Provinces (Now Uttar Pradesh) in 1936. The trip was coordinated and researched by Team Tornos to track the Police Memorial and obtain necessary permissions. Gilbert Cole is a celebrated name in the Uttar Pradesh’s Police Department (UPP), specially in Fatehgarh for his duty and valour. Read On….

(Pic: Gilbert Wheeler Cole – Superintendent of Police, Fatehgarh – Killed in action on 3rd April 1936) 

18^th & 19^th November, 2018

Some people commented that heading off on my own at the end of my tour to India might be the most interesting bit of the holiday.  The plan was to visit a place called Fatehgarh in Uttar Pradesh to see whether any of the memorials to my Grandfather’s death in 1936 were still there.  In the end it turned out to be an amazing adventure thanks to the local people and especially the Farrukhabad/Fatehgarh Police Department!

The background was that Gilbert Wheeler Cole joined the Indian Police Service straight out of school in the 1920’s after coming top in his examination group at Sandhurst for the Indian Civil Service.  By 1936 he was Superintendent of Police for the Fatehgarh district of the United Provinces next to the Ganges in Northern India.  On the night of 4/5^th April, 1936 he was called out to a village about 10 kilometres from Fatehgarh to arrest a man who had just shot dead a couple of his relatives and was holed up in a village house.  Gilbert Cole lead an assault on the house and ended up being shot dead in the confusion and darkness.  The murderer also died in the incident and Sub-Inspector Jainti Prasad was fatally wounded.  At the time my Grandmother, Helen Cole, was in Sheffield recuperating from a car accident in India the previous autumn.  At the time of the shooting she was having an appendix operation so was not told about the shooting until a few days later.  My mother and uncle were also in Sheffield being looked after by their Grandparents.

Helen Cole did not visit India again but in the 1980’s and 1990’s various family members visited Fatehgarh to see the grave and the various memorials.  I think the last to visit were my parents in November, 1999.  My mother’s family history archive contained a list of four sites of interest, so my intention was to see as much as possible.

I left the Explore group in Amritsar after a great day seeing the Golden Temple and the flag down ceremony at the Pakistan border crossing.  I shared the flight down to Delhi with various members of the tour but managed to miss the opportunity to say goodbye in Delhi Airport as I was right at the back of the plane and everyone was through to the international section of the terminal before I got off.  After a second short internal flight I arrived at Lucknow Airport and was met by my guide, Pankaj Singh from Tornos my   travel organiser, and Thapa, my driver. Once I had checked into the Sarovar Portico Hotel (a step up from most Explore hotels) I went for a short walk to see a little of Lucknow.  Unfortunately, it got dark before I managed to get further than the closest park, so I returned to the Hotel where I had dinner with a couple of British Ear Doctors who were on their way to southern Nepal to help some local charitable health mission.

At 9 am on Sunday 18^th November we left the hotel and headed east towards Fatehgarh.  Within half an hour we were driving along the new Agra to Lucknow Expressway, which was a bit of a surreal experience after the chaos of most Indian roads.  Three almost empty lanes of road in each direction with only the occasional tractor, pedestrian and motorcycle making it any different from elsewhere in the world. At one point the road markings and central reservation disappeared and the road was marked out as a full-size emergency runway.  After a couple of hours, we turned off the expressway and headed north on a more traditional Indian road. By 1230 we reached the Diamond Palace Hotel in Farrukhabad, checked into the hotel and had some lunch in the hotel restaurant. 

At 1.30 we headed out of the hotel with the first aim of finding the memorial in the Police Lines. On the way I asked to stop to buy some flowers to lay on the memorials and grave.  After a few stops to ask directions (and a few U-turns) we found the entrance to the Police Lines at the southern end of Fatehgarh.  The Police Lines are barracks for policemen and their families.  We stopped at the entrance to ask for permission and were escorted into the armoury building.  After a few minutes sitting on the veranda we were led into the audience hall of Regional Inspector Shi Kishwas (Name may be wrong) Ali where Pankaj and I were asked to sit down and offered a cup of chai. We explained my reason for visiting and after several interruptions due to urgent police matters Shi Ali escorted us out of the armoury and drove us in convoy around the corner to the memorial.

To my amazement the memorial looked cleaner than it had in the 1990’s pictures. It also had a new wall surrounding it and a square of trees.  Apparently, the new Superintendent of police had ordered the restoration work when he had been appointed to the district earlier in the year and they had had a parade on 22^nd October to commemorate martyr’s day.  I laid a garland of flowers at the base of the memorial and took numerous photos, including some with the police officers who were showing me around.  I did mention that somehow over the years my grandfather’s name had been changed from Gilbert to Cilbert (easily done if you never see English Christian names).

After asking directions to the British Civilian cemetery we said our goodbyes and headed off to search for Gilbert’s grave.  Heading west from the Police Lines we fairly quickly found a very derelict British Cemetery which had lost its enclosure wall and was being encroached by the surrounding farmland.  This did not look anything like the previous photos, so we quickly concluded we were in the wrong place. 

Pankaj had the number of a local priest who he called and agreed to meet at the mission hospital.  By the time we found him the priest had to go off to a meeting (it was Sunday!) but a local man he recommended jumped in the car to give us directions to a British Military Cemetery that he believed looked more like the photos I had brought with me.  Within a few minutes we arrived at this place and the surroundings made it look like we were on the right track!  Unfortunately, the place was looking very overgrown and many of the graves here were looking in a sorry state.  It looked like some of the locals had been grazing their animals in the graveyard. 

As we started our search of the undergrowth a crowd of local children gathered and started the new Sunday afternoon game of “hunt the grave stone”.   From the photos we managed to work out which quarter of the grounds the grave was, but we did not seem to be having much luck finding the correct inscription.  I was just looking for Pankaj to ask him whether to ask whether there was a place where the broken tombstones were laid aside, when a cry went up from behind some bushes “Cole Sahib!”.  After fighting my way through some bushes there it was!

The crowd soon cleared away all the foliage and leaves and I laid another of the garlands on the top of the headstone.  Of course, then many pictures were taken including lots of selfies by members of the crowd.  An old woman came up to Pankaj claiming to be the one cleaning the gravestone in one of the photos my parents took in 1999.  She seemed to be the custodian of the graveyard.  Pankaj suggested I gave her 500 rupees to clean up the grave and look after it for a few years, which I did as he paid someone to buy some sweets for our young helpers.  I am not sure where she was while we were searching all over for the grave or whether she, too, had forgotten where it was!

So, two out of four missions accomplished, and it was still only about 4.30 in the afternoon.  We headed back towards Farrukhabad to drop off the helpful local who had shown us where the graveyard was.  As we were driving, I mentioned that one of the next two aims was to find out whether the bungalow my grandfather had lived in was still identifiable.  To help us with this the local man suggested searching out the current Superintendent of Police’s (SP’s) bungalow.  The only things we had to work with were a photo from the 1930’s and a reminiscence from my mother (or Grandmother?) that it had fantastic views across the Ganges.  After many drives down dead end lanes that ended up at the top of a river cliff overlooking the flood plain of the river we came across the Superintendent’s Bungalow and enquired with the sentry whether he recognised anything from the photo.  He sent for another policeman who invited us into his office and offered us some chai.  After much discussion and searching for records, etc.  I was told we were waiting to see whether the current SP had time to see us.  Half an hour later we were led though a gate in a wall into the impressive front garden of the bungalow.  Unfortunately, the porchway looked nothing like the one in the photo!

We were then invited into a living room where we were offered another cup of chai (superior china this time!), sweets and savouries.  After a few minutes SP Santosh Kumar Mishra came out, set up his phone and police radio, and I explained what we had already found and what I was looking for.  SP Mishra spoke perfect English as apparently, he had worked abroad for several years as an engineer before coming home to India to serve his people as a policeman.  At 36 he was only a few years older than my grandfather, when he held the same post.

My story of a crazy Englishman coming all this way to Fatehgarh, to search out where his grandfather had died, obviously struck a chord with him and within a few minutes he was suggesting we hold a proper commemoration at the parade ground the next day.  He also asked his local staff whether they had any ideas where the 1930’s bungalow was.   After half an hour and a few photographs of this historic occasion I was led out to the SP’s jeep and we drove off in a convoy fronted by a jeep load of armed policemen and followed by my driver and car. 

After a few minutes we turned down a side road, like some of the one’s we had already investigated, and stopped in front of an old brick wall with what looked like bricked up archways.  Some of the officers who had been in the area for a long time believed that this was all that remained of the 1930’s bungalow, which had been on a far larger plot of land that may have stretched as far as the current SP’s bungalow.  The land had progressively been sold off by the government because of its prime location next to the Ganges.  After a brief look around, I was driven back in the convoy to the SP’s bungalow where we agreed some plans for the next day.  By this time, it was around 7 pm so we drove back to the hotel and I had dinner in the hotel restaurant (only vegetarian food was available, and no beer could be consumed at the tables).

Next morning after breakfast we left the hotel at 9 am on a quest to find a plaque in the village of Pipar Gaon, which was where the incident occurred in April, 1936.  Pankaj had arranged with the Superintendent of Police the previous evening that we would be shown the spot by officers from the local police station, so we first drove to the village of Mohammadabad.  After further chai and a search through an old record book, to see whether they could find a record of the incident we headed off in convoy back towards the village of Pipar Gaon. 

This was two or three miles back along the road we had come along and then down a single-track side road, across the railway line and into a small farming village.  We stopped next to a gate in a wall into what turned out to be a school playground.  There in the corner stood what looked like a bus shelter with the plaque at the top with exactly the words I had found quoted in a letter from a visit by a friend of the Helen’s in 1939.  Right opposite the local Junior high school was in session and were in the middle of a lesson in the courtyard. 

Within a few minutes quite a crowd had gathered, which included various members of the local press.  Of course, this resulted in a long photo session along with various selfies with any of the locals who possessed a camera phone.  The police officers then joined in the lesson of the day at the school, which happened to be about road safety and traffic rules! I was asked to say a few words to the children about the reason I was there.

Apparently, the school was the local junior high school for 6 to 11-year olds.  At one time it had been called the Cole-Jayanti school after the plague but was now just to be called after the village name.  It looked very basic by British standards, but the children remained sitting in disciplined rows despite the chaos that was going on just behind them. 

Just as we were about to be offered another cup of chai by the locals, we had to make our apologies as I was told we were expected back at the Police Lines in Fatehgarh by midday.  As we were leaving, we were bombarded with offerings of snacks, which I am sure would have been more suitable to give to the children for lunch.

We made our way back to the Police Lines via the remains of the old bungalow we had been shown the previous evening.  This enabled me to look at the view that Gilbert must have seen most days and meet the current owners of the property which is currently being developed for Gayatri Shakti  Peeth Ashram.  Apparently, the organisation also has such places in the UK.

Soon after midday we arrived back at the police lines, which appeared to be far busier than the previous day with uniformed officers all over the place.  We were ushered into the armoury building and asked to wait on the veranda (and served another cup of chai). After fifteen minutes or so we were escorted across to another building, greeted by various senior police officers and shown into an audience room where I was sat at a place of importance next to the large desk.  A few minutes later SP Mishra arrived with various officers and proceeded to check that all his communication was functioning.  There then followed a session that I doubt would relate to anything that goes on in a British police station.  A series of petitioners came into the room, singularly and in groups; presented pieces of paper to the SP, which were written on and placed ready to file.  There followed various prolonged discussions, in Hindi, which seemed to consist of arguments from the civilians followed by a proclamation from the SP or one of the other police officers.  It was difficult to follow exactly what was happening as I only occasionally got translations.  Apparently one case was a land dispute; another  the resulting property dispute after a married daughter had decided to move to a city after her marriage rather than live in the parental home and another something to do with a suicide.  The final case seemed more like British police matter as three men came in looking as though they had been in a fight.  I commented that most of the issues we heard in that short session would probably be resolved in other ways in England, often involving the expense of consulting a lawyer, at far greater expense to the plaintiff.  Of course, some would not occur in the first place due to the difference in cultures.  This system was the same in the days of the British Raj, so my Grandfather was probably involved with daily sessions like this although the population of the district was probably a lot lower than the current two million.

After this session was over, we strolled down to the parade ground with an entourage of people.  We were met there by a couple of hundred police recruits, lined up in military style ranks, who were called to attention and saluted as the SP arrived.  I was then shown into the veranda of the old hospital building, which overlooks the monument, and asked to show the waiting press corps some of the pictures and documents I had shown SP Mishra the evening before.  They all took notes, and some tried taking TV videos of my tiny tablet screen.  This was to try to explain to them what was about to happen and why the commemoration was more about the dedication of policeman in the past, and into the future, rather than a throw-back to the days of empire.

Next, we paraded into the enclosure around the monument where I was given a wreath to place on the steps (the inscription had meanwhile been changed to Gilbert).   I am sure I should have had a suit with me rather than the clothes I had been travelling with for the last two weeks.  I am not used to being in the middle of a paparazzi pack!

Next, we moved to the adjoining parade ground where a microphone had been set up and I was requested to make a speech to the gathering of police recruits.  Luckily, I had been prewarned of this so had a little time to prepare some words.  SP Mishra introduced me to the crowd and then I relayed some of the history and say how the event inspired many members of the family in different ways.  I am sure Pankaj’s translation to Hindi made a better job than I did in portraying the story as an inspiration to the new recruits.

As we were leaving the parade ground SP Mishra asked me whether I knew anything about military drill.  As I said the only experience, I had was with the scouts he asked the RI to give a quick drill demonstration to us.  I managed to capture the whole of this on video on my phone.

Next, I was shown around some other important buildings in the police lines, while discussing which buildings may have been around in 1936.  SP Mishra was pleased to show me the women’s police station next to the main gate where women can be seen exclusively by women police officers.  I was then ushered into a large conference room where the press had gathered for a post parade press conference.  This started off with refreshments of snacks and samosas (and of course some chai).  I then answered a few questions about Gilbert Cole and my opinions of what I had seen of the work of the Indian Police.  I exchanged a few business cards in case the press or TV wanted to clarify any of the history.

Once this wrapped up, we walked back to the SP’s audience room where I shook hands with the local BJP MP who received his own explanation of the events of the day.  SP Mishra then presented me with a book as a memento of the occasion.  By this time, it was 3.30 pm and we had at least a 3-hour journey back to Lucknow to get some sleep before my early morning flight back to London.  We therefore made our apologies and headed off.  Unfortunately, we got a little lost on the way out of Fatehgarh but, thanks to the expressway, we got back to Lucknow soon after 7pm. 

Well you don’t get that sort of treatment of your average Explore group tour to India!  Thanks, must go to the Farrukhabad/Fatehgarh police force and especially SP Santosh Kumar Mishra for making me so welcome in their district.  I would also like to thank my guide Pankaj Singh and driver Thapa from Tornos for looking after me so well over the last four days.  All four target sights visited and a lot more besides!

Michael Clapp

High Wycombe, UK.

21st November, 2018.

It is interesting to realise that the Nawabs of Awadh (present Lucknow), were peerless in a way that these kings were not known for their wars & victories as much as the unique Awadhi culture they embraced.  The era of the Nawabs of Awadh is known best for the exclusive cuisine it gave birth to and the architecture it left behind. And the Nawab who brought up this city as a pearl on the map of northern India, is the fourth Nawab of Awadh – Nawab Asaf-ud-daulah.

Born in 1748 as Mirza Yahya alias Mirza Amani, he became Nawab Asaf-ud-Daulah on Jan 31, 1775 when he ascended the throne of Awadh as the Nawab of Awadh. He was the eldest son of the third Nawab of Awadh, Shujauddaula and the only child of his mother ‘Bahu Begam’.

Nawab’s childhood was spent in lavish & splendid Nawabi environment, which made him quite a spoilt kid. Nawab’s teacher Sharfuddaula made every possible effort to make him capable of his Navabaidada, but at that time Nawab couldn’t improve himself to this extent.

Although he was very much pampered by his mother when he was small, in his later years Nawab didn’t have good relations with his mother and grandmother. Often, he used to ask his mother for the complete ownership of the treasure left by his father, but his mother refused every time. Disagreeing by this, he started residing in Lucknow and thus, in 1775, he moved the capital of Awadh province from Faizabad to Lucknow. It is when he shifted to Lucknow that he built various monuments, including the famous Bara Imambara in and around the city.

Asaf-ud-daula was first appointed as Meer Aatish in the Mughal Empire. After that, on 18 February 1762 he was raised to the position of Director of Deewan e khas (a hall of private meetings of the royals). He also used to oversee the work of minister ship along with Raja Beni Bahadur from time to time.

Asaf-ud-Daula enthroned Awadh at the age of 26, after the death of his father, Shujauddaula.

It was Nawab’s keen fondness of constructing buildings, rather grand structures that he is the Nawab who established maximum number of notable structures in Lucknow.

When Nawab shifted his capital and transferred from Faizabad to Lucknow, he and his court took up their abode in Daulat Khana – a collection of buildings lying north-west of the Rumi Darwaza in Huissanabad. Being associated to Nawab Asaf-ud-Daula, these buildings are also known as Daulat Khana-e-Asafi; Daulat Khana means Nobleman’s mansion. The buildings cover an area of around 45 acres. The buildings are placed in an irregular fashion amidst garden and in between tanks.

Attached to Daulat Khana is Mahtabh Bagh. This placed served as parade ground for the British after annexation. Though the garden disappeared during the 1857 uprising, but its traces remain.

In 1784, a terrible drought had hit the land of Awadh. Due to the calamity, the life of the people got disrupted. The citizen didn’t have any means to earn for survival. In those days, the people of Awadh lived with much pride and everyone didn’t accept alms. Thus, to provide them a source of employment, Nawab ordered the construction of the Imambara in Lucknow – popularly known as the Bara Imambara or Asafi Imambara. The act was a perfect instance of the generosity of Nawab Asaf-ud-daula.

Nawab Asaf-ud-Daula at the Imambara listening to the sermons of the priest during Muharram. Quite in contrast to today when people wear black clothes in mourning, here they can be seen wearing all white. Probably the tradition of wearing black clothes in the mourning period of Muharram came much later.

In his desire to make a building which would be unique in structure & design, the Nawab called upon architects from throughout India to compete in building plans. It was Kifayat-Ullah, a well known architect whose designs were accepted and which resulted in an edifice which excelled at every level of magnificence and enigmatic architecture.  Standing peacefully on a busy road of Hussainabad in old Lucknow, the Imambara sees a large footfall of domestic as well foreign tourists throughout the year, although more in the winter season. The second floor of the building has a labrynith, the famous ‘Bhool Bhulaiyya’. The maze comprises of more than 1000 passages, some leading to dead ends, some to abrupt drops and some to the entry and exit points. It is said that it was moulded to puzzle the enemies if they enter the Imambara. The way to exit the Bhool Bhulaiiya was only known by Nawab and the architect Kifayat Ullah.

There is also a five-story step-well, known as Shahi Baoli, or the Shahi Hammam (royal bath). Presently, only two stories are visible as the rest three are submerged underwater. There is a saying that ‘even walls can hear’ and this spectacular architecture proves it true. The walls of the halls are built in such a way that even if you light a matchstick or whisper in one hall, the sound will echo into another hall. It intrigues and amazes the onlookers and visitors. The shrine of Nawab Asaf-ud-daulah is also placed within the monument. It took 6 years and 22000 people to build the Imambara complex.

Asaf-ud-Daula constructed the Bibiyapur Kothi, where he frequented to resort to his passion for hunting. He also built the beautiful Chunhat Khoti.

Nawab also had a liking for gardens and consequently planted many gardens in Lucknow. Rose was his favourite flower, to an extent that it was considered his weakness.

In Asaf-ud-Daula’s period, Lucknow appeared as a Gulistan, meaning a beautiful garden. He laid down many gardens and established mohallas (localities) around it.

The pomp and show seen in Nawab Asaf-ud-Dauala’s court was unparalleled. No other royal court could match the splendour & lavish styles of his court at that time. Nawab Asaf-ud-Daula’s collection of luxury essentials were not found or seen in any other place. During that period, Lucknow glittered like a chandelier and no other city in India could come at par with it. Soon, the exuberant displace of Lucknow’s architecture caught the eye of the whole world.

Nawab Asaf-ud-Daula is seen seated in the court and smoking huqqua, listening to the court musicians entertaining him.

Roomi Darwaza, Badi Masjid, Sheesh Mahal, Aishbagh, Charbagh, Golden Bastion are some of the structures and gardens developed by the Nawab. He also constructed a canal through the Gomti River for the public.

One thing Asaf-ud-Daula is prominently known for is his immensely kind and charitable nature. Every day, in the morning he routinely offered alms to destitute and desolated people. He is quite famous for distributing muskmelons to the poor with alms placed inside. This act of putting alms in muskmelons drew a saying to his name which goes as 

‘Jisko na de maula, usko de Asaf ud dauala’

(One who is forsaken by God is bestowed by Asaf-ud-Daula)

Nawab also had a way with poetry and used to write the poems in the name of ‘Asif’. Famous poets like Meer, Zarat, Mashafi, Sauda were in his court. He also had library of around 300,000 books.

He also enjoyed watching kite-flying duels. It was at Baradari in Chowk where he used to sit and watch the kite-flying.

Despite not getting along well with his mother, Nawab invited her often to stay in Lucknow. For her, he built a separate palace named ‘Sunahara Burj’ meaning golden tower. She, however, never stayed here permanently.

Under the reign of the fourth Nawab, Lucknow emerged as a pearl on the map of Northern India with significant developments taking place here.

It can be convincingly said, he made Lucknow the capital of Awadh out of a whim which brought a sweeping change to the city and the people of this land were blessed by his administrative decisions for generations in row.

When a goose stops laying eggs but needs too much feed, what does the owner do? Probably, cook it away. Something similar happened with Awadh’s last Nawab – Wajid Ali Shah, who ascended the throne of Awadh in 1847 and was dethroned by the British in 1856. After the annexation of Awadh Empire, the British packed him off to Metiyaburj, about four miles south of Calcutta.

According to the British, Wajid Ali Shah, at that period of time, was doing nothing except living his life like a King. And they gave this as the reason behind their edict to oust Nawab Wajid Ali Shah. Does the metaphor in the first line make sense now?

Wajid Ali Shah’s contributions like military reforms, his attempts at improvement of administration, and his subjects’ immense fondness of him – was brushed under the carpet by the British.

When the King was sent to Metiyaburj, he was accompanied by his Prime minister, some of his begums (wives), some musicians, khansamas (chefs) and officials. His chefs used to attend this displaced court as best as they could. They even prepared banquets as lavish as they used to make during his days as Monarch. His chefs did this to give him the feeling of still being their King and would remember his former seat – Lucknow, as his great romance and not face the hurting reality of its passage. He made him live up to his status as king to an extent that if 5 kilograms of meat was used in making one piece of kofta they didn’t scale down even during his former-king phase.

Now, centuries later, Wajid Ali Shah’s sole inheritor of the royal cuisine he founded – Manzilat Fatima and Fatima Mirza of Calcutta are trying their best to keep that legendary taste alive.

However, this descendants face plenty of problems. The recipes passed down the family are a cook’s real property. Nawab had 250 wives and 42 children so no ‘family recipe’ matches the other. Moreover, the British ensured that no documentation of Nawab’s days in exile or last days is done. As, Wasif Hussain, the manager of Nawab’s mausoleum in Metiyaburj says, “His successors and his subjects were left with nothing.”

Manzilat Fatima is a law graduate from the ruling line. Manzilat’s father, Kaukub Meerza is a grandson of Birjis Qadr – the sone of Wajid Ali Shah and Begum Hazrat Mahal. He is also a former reader of the Aligarh Muslim University. Birjis was crowned king by the Mughal emperor Bahadur Shah Zafar during 1857 when Wajid Ali Shah was in Calcutta. Birjis is purported to have died after having dinner at a relative’s home in Metiyaburj.

And this was not the first time that an Awadhi royal’s food was poisoned. The royal biographies narrate – a consort sending the king a paan as a token of love during their good days and the king would not be surprised to lace its leaves with poison when the good time was over.

This incidence of Birjis’ murder made its way into the minds of the family, passed down to generations to an extent that even it became a ritual to check the food before being served to the members of the family. As Manzilat remembers that during her childhood days her paternal grandmother would always check the food and explains her impatience with the proof – seekers.

Manzilat also tells about some set questions that she has had faced since the time she launched a pop-up restaurant of Awadhi cuisine in 2014 and a home dining service, Manzilat’s, in Calcutta in 2018 – “Did I inherit a recipe book?”, or “Do I have monogrammed table-mats from Wajid Ali Shah’s time?” to which she cheekily replies – no she didn’t inherit any recipe book. Due to Birjis’ murder, there links with other branches of the kin broke up. Birjis’ wife absconded from Metiyaburj to Calcutta. Besides her great grandmother – Begum Hazrat Mahal was a queen fighting the British and not preparing cookbooks.

Manzilat makes good mutton biryani and adds mustard oil to keep it light and non-sticky. Manzilat’s cooking exhibits her expertise in aromas, sense of proportion and spicing integral to Awadhi cuisine. Fatima Mirza, a school principal also has substantial domain knowledge. She has been working on a cookbook containing the recipes around family dishes like Kacche Tikia ke Kebab. These are the only kind of Awadhi Kebabs where Sattu (ground Bengal gram) is added and these are Nawab Wajid Ali Shah’s favorite. Fatima says, “As the king aged, hakeems advised the chefs to add Sattu to neutralize the heat of meat and make it easily digestible.”

Shahansha Mirza, a government official, and heritage aficionado throws light upon the difference between Mughal and Awadhi cuisine. He says, “Unlike Mughal, ours has no overdose of mace or cardamom or dry fruits. We say about Urdu – “Urdu apki zubaan pe hamla nahin karta hai,” meaning-  speaking Urdu, does no assault to your tongue. Similarly, Awadhi food is subtle, with a big presentation though.

The khansama’s (master chef’s) ego is also given great allowances by the King’s descendants. It was quite a thing in the heydays of the king to have his master chef refuse to cook for any other branch of the kin. There was even a ritual of chefs keeping their demand during the time of seeking employment they are not going to broaden their expertise. It implies that a Biryani cook would remain a biryani maker only, or a cook who makes dal (pulses) won’t put his hand in anything else.

Guddu, a grandson of Puttan – descendent of one of the great chefs of Wajid Ali Shah talk about a dish that has the sound of one made in Awadh’s trite past. He adds that now few are there with the “stomach & liver of Wajid Ali Shah” to digest extravagant dishes like meat mutanjan.

Hussain, the manager of Wajid Ali Shah’s mausoleum says – now, the Nawab Biryani, with potato is found everywhere. And as information which does the round, he adds, that potato was introduced to Biryani considering its exotic value. At that time, Potato was a new vegetable introduced by the Portuguese. Fatima and Manzilat both agree with this view.

Guzishta Lucknow written by Abdul Halim Sharara is a go-to book to dig more about Nawab Wajid Ali Shah’s exile. The book reads that Nawab spent INR 24000 on a pair of silk winged Pigeons, INR 11000 on a pair of white peacocks and approx. INR 9000 per month on food for animals in his Metiyaburj Zoo.

Nawab Wajid Ali Shah’s nature of splurge is evident not only the developments made under his reign in Awadh but also in Metiyaburj. Although this quality was something he borrowed from his Nawabi clan, the contributions made by him to the Mughal Cuisine are unparalleled. And the essence of which Fatima sisters endeavors to keep alive for the generations to come.

Whether you are a fashion buff or not exploring various dressing styles is always amazing. And understanding fashion becomes even more fascinating when viewed through the lens of history. When we explore the history of people, their fashion sense unveils itself. Every empire or era has its own taste of fashion which is unique in its own way. Historically, Awadh holds a significant position with respect to various art forms, including the fashion fabric of India.

Beyond the myriad monuments and cuisine, this land has been a birth place to many exquisite types of attire – particularly during the Nawabi era. The creativity and the artistry that has gone into creating these costumes are something unparalleled. These attires reflect royalty to a fault, and this is the reason they have still not lost their charm in the modern times. In fact, these costumes are evolving with time without spoiling its Nawabi and regal essence. For instance, the palazzos we see today are a modern version of gharara pants.

Although Nawabi era is widely famous for its culture, cuisine and monuments, the fashion style of Awadh is equally wonderful. So, here are favourite picks from among designs & costumes the Nawabs or Mughals gifted to us:

Kali kurta : It is open from the front and has a round neck. The kalis or gored panels give a fuller look to the garment. A triangular gusset is swen under the arm and two suspended pockets are inserted in the side-seams.

Choga : the long-sleeved choga used as an outer garment is made of soft black pashmina, obtained from the fleece of the underbelly of the rare Tibetan wild mountain goat. It is open from the front but fastened at the waist level. Borders are woven in jamawar.

Angarakha : made of kinkhwab brocade, Angarakha is one elegant piece of Awadhi costume. It refers to a traditional men garment worn by men. It overlaps and hugs the upper body and it tied to the either of the shoulders.  It used to be a courtly outfit.

Peshwaz : it is believed to be introduced to India under the reign of Babur, the first Mughal Emperor. However, the first written reference to this garment can be found in the Ain-i-Akbari – a documented recording of the life of Emperor Akbar. It is opulent Mughal clothing designed for women. It is in the form of a tunic and comprised a fitted skirt and bodice. It was worn similar to a robe – tied at the waist. As it was designed in a way that opened in the front, women were needed to wear cholis (traditional blouse) under it.

Farshi Pajama : It is a type of lower prevalent in the late 17^th & early 20^th centuries. It was worn by royal women, especially in the courts of Awadh.  Farshi Pajama is a flared parted skirt held by drawstrings. It was usually the dress of the royalty or ladies from privileged classes of Uttar Pradesh. (formerly United Provinces of Agra and Oudh in North India). Farshi derives from the word ‘farsh’ meaning floor as this pajama is of floor length. It is straight till the ankles and from there starts the flare reaching up to the floor. Farshi pajama was actually a break down on the flowing gowns of the British. The complete outfit comprises – farshi pajama, kurta/long short and a dupatta (long stole). Today, it is also called Farshi Gharara due to its similarity in appearance with the gharara. It is intricately & copiously embroidered.

Gharara : Originating in the ethnic soils of Awadh (now Lucknow), gharara is one of the most elegant traditional outfits. It comprises a short or knee length kurti,, team up with a pair of widely flared pajamas, usually ruched or pleated the knee with some delicate design. The birth of Gharara dates back to the late 19^th century and early 20^th century. The attire was admired by  the Nawabs of that era and the women of the elite ‘Taluqdar’ and Nawabi clan donned it as a symbol of class, sophistication and the aristocracy. The modern day Palazzo is actually the twist to the Gharara pajama. Gharara is a much favoured ethnic dress for Muslim women in North India, South Asia and Pakistan

Sharara : This is another three-piece outfit worn by women, generally to weddings. It has flared pants as lower with skirt-like outline below the knee. It is heavily flared, resembling the shape of an umbrella. It is paired with a kurti and dupatta to complete the look. The origin of sharara is believed to have derived from Mughal’s design aesthetics. It was Bollywood movies of 70s & 80s which gave them popularity among common people.

Lucknow was considered the richest city of the late 18^th century, not only in terms of wealth and heritage but also in its nafasat (refinement) and nazakat (elegance).

The city became synonymous with luxury, extravagance, creative arts, extraordinary buildings and architectural follies. Lucknow is a striking example of a post-medieval town, with a considerable capital of architecture, dance, music, poetry, and all this enhanced by a tantalizing flavour of a gracious lifestyle.

No wonder it has been described as “the last example of an oriental Capital in India”.

Lucknow’s rich culture mae it distinctive, and gave a special meaning to the adjective Lakhnavi. Used pejoratively, this term suggests – foppishness, fastidiousness, mannerist behaviour, reflected costumes and over-elaborate etiquette, idle preoccupations of a powerless aristocracy with a surfeit of enforced leisure.

The culinary arts of Awadh were incomparable. In addition to delicacy of taste, great importance is placed on the presentation of food. It is made to look attractive through its own colour, and appetizing through smell. Interest in good food is usually confined to a few wealthy people and gourmets, but in Lucknow this interest is shared by nearly everybody.

As a result, not only have a large number of good cooks thrived here, but ladies of noble families also acquired the art. There is no distinguished family in which ladies do not display great skill in delicate and delicious cooking. Here women show great skill in embellishment of food.

Dastarkhwan is a Persian term, which literally translates to a meticulously laid-out, ceremonial dining spread. In Awadh, it is a custom to sit around and share the Dastarkhwan. Laden with the finest and the most varied repertoire of Khansamas, Dastarkhwan of the nobles was called Khasa.

Nazakag was at its peak then – as the saying goes even stepping on a banana skin by mistake would make the Begums sneeze endlessly. And how could cuisine be deprived of Nazakat and Nafasta? Throughriche in taste, the dishes hadall the ingredients, thus making them light on the stomach. Only the extracts of spices were used to make them.

The bawarchies and rakabdars of Awadh gave birth to the dum style of cooking or the art of cooking over a slow fire, synonymous with Lucknow today. The richness of Awadhi cuisine is amplified not only by the variety it offers but also the ingredients used. One example is the selection of pieces of meat for various dishes. The spices are also cut and prepared with great art and care.

Lucknow is proud of its Kebabs. The Kakori Kebabs, Galawat ke Kebabs, Shami Kebabs, Boti Kebabs and Seekh Kebabs are among the known varieties. The Shami Keab was the most important of them all. Nargisi koftas and Pasanda kebabs are popular too.

Korma, a preparation of meat in gravy, is an essential item of Awadh is a meat preparation with thicksiy gravy. In ‘Pai-ki-Nahai’, leg and other bones are cooked and bone juice is mixed with mouth-watering gravy.

Even in peak winters this dish makes a person sweat. Shab Deg, another winter speciality, is a legacy of Kashmiri settlers in the province. Cooked overnight, it’s a rare delicacy.

Zarda, a rice dish, is a picnic delicacy of Basant (spring) when Wajid Ali Shah and his troupe would go dressed in yellow, the colour of spring in boats called bajras.

Kundan Kalitya is a mutton dish prepared with gold leafs, no less! Mutanjan is another invention of the Nawabi era where sweet rice is cooked with pieces of fatless meat and dry-fruits.

The jauzi halwa, habshi halwa, badam-ka-halwa are hot favourites even today, but the art of preparing them is confined to only a few households. Halwa-sohand, prepared from parts of germinated wheat mixed with milk, sugar, saffron, nuts etc, requires a dose of love and patience as vital ingredients.

And don’t forget that it also needs drops of shabnam (dewdrops) on wheat kept out under the night-sky for germination. The role of the morning sun and the evening dew remains a mystery for many.

The Shai-tukda is another delight. But what takes the cake is the preparation of sevain, which is an art unique to each Khansama. The best sevain, of course, was the one prepared and presented by Zulfain of Laila fame.

The true beauty of any cuisine is in its originality. And that’s why Awadhi cuisine conjures taste like no other – it is sumptuous, flavoursome and till today holds it authentic taste. The Awadhi cuisine in Lucknow, though created ages ago, still gives the feel of being served right out of a nawab’s kitchen. However, due to great influence of Mughal cooking techniques, Awadhi cuisine is quite a melange of Persia, Kashmiri, Punjabi and Hyderabadi royal food.

The cuisine surprises you with delicacies both vegetarian & non-vegetarian. Mutton, paneer and spices such as cardamom and saffron are the frequent ingredients in Awadhi cuisine.

A Restaurant Manager in New Delhi suggests, “The Lucknowi or Awadhi cuisine is the consequence of the Nawabs who have governed the town for more than centuries.” Mughlai, continental, Chinese and other Indian products are served in his restaurant. “Food from Mughlai is prepared in thick white gravy and is very rich,” he added.

Dum Pukht, one of the features of this cuisine, involves sealing the ingredients over slow fire in large haandis and allowing the ingredients to cook in their own juices and aromas.

Awadhi cuisine’s richness lies not only in the variety of cuisine, but also in its ingredients used. The chefs commonly known in Awadh as Khansama transformed the traditional Persian word dastarkhwan meaning a dining spread with elaborate dishes such as kababs, kormas, kaliya, nahari-kulchas, zarda, sheermal, roomali rotis, and parathas.

Many people are of view that Nawabi cuisine is synonymous with non-vegetarian food, however that’s not completely the case. There is a plethora of vegetarian dishes in the form of subz begum bahar, paneer gulmohar and khus ke khaas kabab, firdousi aloo dum pukht.

 And for the non-vegetarian lovers, the cuisine has a fine array of dishes like shami kabab, nihar gosht, biryani, mutton and many more including the famous dessert of the region, phirni, rabadi and the special meetha paan.

So, does knowing the wide range of dishes available in Awadhi cuisine confuse you from to where to start? Here are few of the best picks from the Awadhi food palette which will make you crave it more:   

Zarda

This sweet cum dessert is made with special basmati rice flavored with cardamom sugar syrup. Zarda is quite a royal dish. It is a special dish made during festive occasions or other celebrations at homes in Lucknow.  The saffron color and taste of the dessert is quite refreshing and mesmerizing. It is garnished beautifully with chandi vark (silvery layer) and dry fruits. It is a must have dish if you have special love for sweets.

Shahi Tudka

The word shahi always means royal, and that’s what this dish is. The dessert is made of bread as its base with the topping of rabri and dry fruits, flavored with saffron and cardamom. The deep fried bread at the base is soaked in cardamom flavored sugar syrup. The aroma and presentation of this delicacy are amazing.

Makhmali Murg

The sauce of this delicacy is made of milk and cream which gives it a white color. The pieces of chicken are soaked into this creamy sauce. The flavor of the sauce is sweetish and fascinating.

The creamier the sauce the better it tastes.

Murg Musallam

Murg Musallam is a stuffed roasted chicken. The chicken is first marinated for several hours and stuffed with boiled eggs and dry fruits, which is further cooked in different spices. This dish is considered as favorite one of the royal family. The dish is garnished beautifully with chandi vark.

Seek Kebabs

Kebabs have always been an important part of Awadhi cuisine. These are special kebabs made of lamb. The lamb is blended with different special spices and cooked on the charcoal which provides it the tenderness and juicy flavor. The aroma of these kebabs is mouth watering.

Tunday Ke Kebabs

These are categorized under must try dish of Lucknow. Their ancestors had served the Nawabs of Lucknow. Preparation of these kebabs is very special and secretive, which they had been following since many years. These kebabs will melt in your mouth leaving indelible the flavor of each and every spice.

Shami Kebab

This kebab exists both as vegetarian and non-vegetarian dish. The minced meat or paneer is blended with all the “khadda masala” to give it an Awadhi twist. These are so common in Lucknow that now it is considered as street food.

Biryani

One of mu favorite, it is a dish consisting of rice cooked with meat, different spices, and dry fruits. It is cooked in a special way known as “dum”. The dish is always served with dahi raita and green chutney which adds up its flavor. The garnishing of a dish is done in a very different way i.e. with sliced up fried onions.

Warqi Paratha

It’s a layered paratha which is usually served with curry based dishes. It makes the perfect combination with non-vegetarian curry.

Kulfi Faluda

It is the most favorite dessert of Lucknowites. It is the combination of saffron flavored kulfi which is the iced milk and dry fruits garnished with falooda. The pleasant aroma of aroma and scented faluda will refresh you. It completes your five- course meal perfectly.

Mutton Korma

The dish is prepared by cooking mutton in the spicy gravy made out of dry fruits, yogurt, and cream. The mutton is cooked on a low flame so that the spices added to the curry add its flavors to it. The mutton becomes tender and juicy in taste. It is served with paratha or rice and tastes delicious.

Mutton do Pyaza

The specialty of this dish is that its sauce is prepared of onions. The content of onions in its sauce provides it a very different flavor. The spices added to its sauce increase the aroma and deliciousness of the dish.

Malai Ki Gilori

As the name suggests, this dessert is made of malai with the stuffing of dry fruits and mawa. The flavor of cardamom is quite pleasant. The outer covering of malai is decorated with an edible silver coating which is also known as vark and pista

Nihari Ghost

It’s a dish made of spicy sauce and tender meat. The content of sauce of this dish is more with tender mutton soaked into it. The spicy sauce of this dish will blow your mind.

Nimona

The curry of a dish is made out of grinded peas with pieces of potato soaked into it. Every single vegetarian who tries it for the first time loves it. It is usually served with boiled rice and both make a great combination.  

Galaouti Kebab

The name itself reveals the secret of this delicacy. The grinded flesh of lamb or beef mixed with the variety of spices provides it a perfect taste. The fried kebabs melt down as soon as you keep it on your tongue, reviving all the taste buds in your mouth.

Mahatma Gandhi’s life is full of instances where his heroism and patriotism reflects. One such movement was the Champaran Movement, the seeds of which were actually sown in Lucknow during the 31^st Congress session in December 1916. The 1916 Congress session is also historic because Lucknow Pact between Congress and Muslim League was signed, laying the foundation of Hindu and Muslim unity against British colonialism.

The journey of Mahatma Gandhi is an inspiration for all. And this journey was for giving the nation a better future, Lucknow was one of the significant stops for Gandhi. Here are some of his prominent visits and stops in the city.

Rifa-e-Aam Club (October 15, 1920)

Gandhi spoke of discipline in taking the non-cooperation movement forward during a public gathering at the Rifa-e-Aam Club. He spoke about organizing an army of 30 million Indians for non-cooperation; settling of Khilafat movement question on behalf of Indians; and securing justice for Punjab, besides India’s freedom. This was the place where the historic Lucknow Pact was signed.

Speech at Charbagh, Lucknow Railway Station (February 11, 1920)

Gandhi said, “no time for speeches, but for action”. Only students of University of Lucknow (then Canning College) were to attend this meeting, but the entire city of Lucknow turned up to listen to him. Gandhi asked students to leave government (British) schools and take up a spinning wheel to produce coarse cloth. This, he said, would help attain ‘Swaraj’ or self-rule.

Open-air meeting beside Gomti (February 26, 1921)

Speaking in Urdu, Gandhi asked people to come out in numbers, to understand the meaning of Swaraj and act on things needed to attain it. He spoke about the massacre of Jalianwala Bagh and the power of India’s strength. He asked people to establish ‘panchayats’ ( self-governed bodies) and abide by their decision instead of the British court of laws.

Speech at National School, Chinhat (February 27, 1921)

Gandhi spoke of non-cooperation and being non-violent while inaugurating the school. He asked people not to bribe students to boycott British schools, but to make them understand the importance of not studying in British schools. He said if students understood it to be a sin, they themselves would boycott government schools on their own.

Gokhale Marg (March 1936)

In one of the posh localities of Lucknow, Gokhale Marg, there exists a large banyan tree. The tree has a special place in the history as the sapling of the tree was sown by Gandhi when he visited the Kaul family (congress politician’s family).

Speech at Aminabad Jhandewala Park (August 7, 1921)

It was raining heavily leading to chaos. Muhammad Ali asked the audience to be silent as Gandhi was supposed to enter a 24-hour ‘fast of silence’. Umbrellas were not used. Gandhi spoke of non-violence, against abuse and about the Swadeshi movement (developing Indian nationalism with an economic strategy).

University of Lucknow (September 27, 1929)

The historical Bennett Hall (now Malviya Hall) was blessed with the Mahatma’s presence. The occasion was the launch of the Lucknow University Students’ Union. In his inaugural address, Gandhi asked students to boycott foreign goods and adopt Khadi (hand-woven fabric produced by Indians).

Gandhi stayed at Firangi Mahal

Bapu’s footprints in Firangi Mahal: Among the many untouched treasures of Firangi Mahal is a pair of intricately crafted Khadau (wooden slippers) that was worn by Mahatma Gandhi during his stays at the house of Maulana Abdul Bari, an influential mass leader of the United Provinces in the late 19^th and early 20^th century. Tornos’ Heritage Walk includes a visit to Firangi Mahal.