The Black Beauty

A misty morning in the monsoon, and I stepped out of my apartment to begin my daily commute to work. Becky, the dog, rested peacefully at the stairs bidding me goodbye with her poignant eyes. She looked more tired than usual or was she ill; I didn’t know. I stroked her black hair, and rubbed her forehead before leaving. The murk of the fog that morning shielded the greenery around – holding a silence that can move you. Taz, the dog, emerged from the murk with Aunty Daisy. I stopped by him for our morning love session, and then continued to walk towards the spot where I board the cab to work daily.

The rain and I do not get along too well. Well, it’s not abhorrence – it’s just that we generally encounter each other in the wrong timing.  So, in adherence with our history, it started pouring on the day I forgot to carry the umbrella. Getting wet unwantedly is not my cup of tea (clothes and shoes all spoilt before reaching work – I find no joy in it!). My only respite was the fact that this is Bangalore’s drizzle – where drizzle actually means a sprinkling shower unlike Bombay. (Bombay, my love, you are still special.) The cab wasn’t on time to make things worse. As I kept looking at my watch and wished that the cab arrives before it pours badly, I could feel the shelter of an umbrella over my head. A voice called from behind – “Didi, umbrella?” I turned sideways to see who the protector was. I saw eyes laden generously with kohl that sparkled with the rain drops on her face and a smile so full of life that can brighten a misty morning! She kept smiling while I tried to reassess my memory. I thought of Mumbai a while ago, and the past came alive – was this true? Was I actually seeing Nauheed? Yes, she was there in front of me asking if the umbrella was protecting me well.

I had met Nauheed in a local train in Mumbai. We commuted together to Andheri every weekday in the 7:10 local – while she travelled back from Andheri to New Bombay after the local reached its destination, I trotted off to sweat in an air conditioned office. Nauheed used to sell costume jewelry in the local train. Vendors have a thriving business in the lifeline of Bombay that runs incessantly.  The ladies’ compartments are their most remunerative targets for business. Nauheed also resorted to this lucrative zone of the Bombay locals. On the first meeting I had asked her, “Who buys these so early in the morning?” She had replied, “You will see in some time, Didi.” As the train jolted at a station, a gang of college girls entered the compartment, and Nauheed’s baskets were seized. “Limited edition, Didi”, she had chuckled with a twinkle in her kohl loaded eyes. I had scanned her basket, and replied, “Limited indeed. I don’t get these in Colaba too. Where do you hunt for them?” Nauheed had been prompt in replying, “That’s my secret Didi. First rule in the business is to maintain confidentiality of source.” We both had exchanged wide grins, and from then our daily exchange of stories had begun. The stories ranged from far and wide – from her village to my native city, from growing up to surviving, from sustaining to dying – every day a new face of life. She used to speak with such innocence, with an eagerness to narrate.

Nauheed touched my arm, and I was back to Bangalore. She said, “You didn’t answer anything I asked. You don’t remember me?” The innocence was still intact. I told her that it was impossible to forget her. I had drifted for a while to the city that never sleeps. I enquired about how she had reached Bangalore. She said, “I will tell you. Tell me why did you leave the city? You liked it a lot. What happened?” I smiled, and answered, “I found another job here.” She asked, “A better one? I came here for better work too.” The downpour was increasing, and I pulled Nauheed closer to me in the umbrella. It had been a fifteen minute wait, and there was no sign of the cab. I called up the driver to enquire about the delay, and realized there was going to be further postponement to the commute. “For whom are you waiting, madam?” she asked. I wiped the rain droplets falling on me from the tips of the umbrella, and said, “Why are you calling me madam? Has Bangalore instilled pretentiousness in you?” Nauheed answered, “No Didi. I think I have developed it as a habit after working at the salon. I have to address all the clients as madam.” “You work at a salon now. Where?” I asked. Nauheed told me she worked as a masseuse at a local salon. After I had stopped travelling by our common route to my work in Bombay, Nauheed told me a group of goons had looted their house in the slum. A gang bout out broke and things turned ugly. She had managed to elope with her younger brother to her village in the outskirts of Bombay. A man in her village runs an agency for people to find work. He had arranged for her to find work here at the salon.

The mild downpour had stopped by now, and yet my cab had not arrived. The driver called, and said that another cab will be coming. “What will you do madam, sorry, Didi, if the cab doesn’t come? Will you take the bus?” I shrugged, and said, “I will just go back home. Going by the bus is absolutely a waste of time now. Actually, I am thinking I might as well go home now. It’s late already.  Do you want to come? It’s getting cold. I will make tea.”  Nauheed said, “It isn’t that easy to go home madam.” I was perplexed at her answer, and asked, “What do you mean by that?” She diverted from the question, and said that she was waiting for a friend. They both were travelling to Belgaum today.

A few seconds later, Nauheed’s friend Leela arrived. She was clad in a sari, and decked up with makeup and flowers in her hair. Nauheed introduced me to Leela as her ‘Didi’ from Bombay. Leela glanced at me, and asked, “How much do you earn in a day? You don’t put makeup to work?” I didn’t quite know how to answer that.  My mind started calculating my salary per day. After a moment I held back my mind, and asked myself, “Are you seriously thinking of answering that?” By then Nauheed had nudged an elbow to Leela. I could see that she was fuming, and whispered mildly something to her friend. Her words seemed to vaporize into the moist atmosphere. I tried to read her lips but in vain. She told me, “Sorry madam. She didn’t mean it like that.” “Like what?” I asked.  Nauheed diverted again saying that Leela’s home is in Belgaum, and they both are visiting an ancient shrine there. “Oh is it? Which shrine? I have read about Belgaum. I’ve heard that it’s beautiful” I told them. Leela lost no time to answer, “Have you heard of Saundatti and the temple of Yellamma there?”  I had read about it in Nine Lives, one of my favorite books by William Dalrymple. My mind was thinking a thousand thoughts now – Saundatti, Yellamma, Devdasis, servants of the goddess, concubines, and the thoughts were endless. The whole world occurred to spin around me.

I brought myself to composure, and controlled my emotions. Maybe I was over thinking. It was possible that Leela and Nauheed were plainly visiting the ancient temple of Yellamma in Saundatti. However it was hard to believe that they were plainly visiting the shrine. Why would they do so? The ancient Devdasi system wherein young girls were dedicated to a life of sanctioned prostitution and their virginity was auctioned in the name of service to the goddess was banned in the 1980s. When I had read the history behind the whole concept I was flabbergasted by the orthodoxy and malevolence that kept this practice alive for so long, and continues to keep it alive clandestinely. In the wake of unburdening themselves, poverty afflicted parents continue to see it as a means of ‘better work’. Better work – that is what Nauheed had told me. Nauheed couldn’t have been a Devdasi, could she? I had known her for so long. What about Leela? I was struggling to find the answers that were haunting me.

Leela and Nauheed were busy counting money and discussing some route details. I interrupted them saying, “Are you travelling to Saundatti for the first time?” The cab arrived. I was looking at Nauheed waiting for an answer from her. She was silent. The silence was killing me. “Why?” I asked. Leela was arranging the folds in her sari, and was sitting on the pavement now. The driver was honking. He opened the door of the car, and called out, “It’s getting late, madam.” I sat inside the cab still waiting for an answer. Nauheed closed the door for me. The cab started moving, and then she ran behind the cab. The driver halted the cab. Nauheed tapped on the door. I lowered the glass to see her kohl enamored eyes, again.  “Didi, I was born as Nirupama. I was dedicated when I was seven. I was sold when I was twelve. I started working in the red light area in Bombay when I was fourteen.  You keep this umbrella with you, Didi. You don’t like getting wet unwantedly, I know”, she said. “Madam, can we go?” the driver asked me. “Go” Nauheed told him, and the cab sped past.

Life – the moment you think that you know it all, it will surprise you like never before. Servants of god – that is what these girls are called – the literal translation of Devdasi. What dogma dictates this? I fail to understand why humans are the most loathsome creatures on this earth when they have been bestowed with the most beautiful emotions. I had never imagined that one of those “Nine Lives” from Dalrymple’s travelogues will meet me in real life. As I alighted from the cab that evening when I was back from work, the rain came pouring again. However, this time around we were meeting at the perfect time – a time when I opened Nauheed’s umbrella to shelter myself and the rain’s twin adorned my eyes. I strolled back home. Taz was out for his evening walk with Aunty Daisy. I stopped by him again for our moment of love at dusk. I kept walking towards home remembering the black beauty. Becky was there to welcome me at the stairs. As I folded the umbrella, “What did you do all day, missy?” I asked her. She was jumping to sniff the folded umbrella – yellow colored with black spots all over it. A little butterfly came fluttering in from nowhere. It fluttered for a while around me, and finally rested on the umbrella. We all were home.

The Last Mughal

The conflict between imperialism and religious fundamentalism that has jeopardized the world, is deep-rooted in blood, and has a history that is more than 150 years old. William Dalrymple brings forth stories from the past, and elucidates this strife in ‘The Last Mughal’, in an insightful manner. The book is not an assembly of historical archives, rather the archives woven into a tale that repaints the anachronistic India of 1857, and the series of events that spawned the Revolt of 1857 – the battle between the British Imperial Rule, and the en mass Indians.

Dalrymple presents an unbiased perspective on the Uprising of 1857, telling the story of the revolt from both sides. Very impressively, he explains that it was not one, but many a reasons, stacked over years that instigated the uprising. On one hand he describes the Indian perspective of the revolt, narrating the stories of rampant Christian proselytism, unjustified British policies of land and property, and the linchpin of the revolt – forcing Indian soldiers (sepoys as called by the British) to bite off pig and cow fat greased cartridges, hurting the sentiments of Hindus and Muslims alike. The latter reason also led the revolt to be called as the Sepoy Mutiny. On the other hand, he also presents an intense picture of the atrocities suffered by the British officials, and their families at the hands of the rebels, during the initial period of the revolt. Indians suffered two ways; first at the hands of their own countrymen, the mutineers who massacred Christian proselytes, and second at the hands of the British who unleashed vengeance for their beloveds. The book purely describes the story of the common man, caught up tragically in a bloody upheaval.

The backdrop of the tale is the alluring old Delhi, upholding the grandeur of the Mughal dynasty, and presenting the prodigal lifestyle of the city.There is a dedicated chapter in the book that emphasizes the stark difference in the strict military life of the British in Delhi, and the rather laid-out lives of the Delhiwallahs. In the quaint Mughal capital, lived the last of the Mughal emperors, Bahadur Shah Zafar II. A frail old man aged 82 at the time of the revolt; Zafar has always been looked upon as a pliant puppet in history. Dalrymple gives a vivid account of the Zafar that the world has been little aware of. He beautifully describes Zafar as a gifted poet and calligrapher who created, and nourished a court of artisans, musicians, orators, writers, and poets like Zauq, Ghalib and Azurda. Zafar, having a Hindu mother, was also the upholder of religious harmony. He is also accountable for some of the finest monuments of the Mughal era, and for hailing yet another cultural renaissance of India. Zafar was a king with simplistic ideas on life, rather than a tyrant who wished to annex and vanquish. Dalrymple beautifully describes the Mughal court, the key members associated with it, and how they influenced the emperor. He also presents an account of the royal family, and how the emperor’s favorite queen, Zeenat Mahal played a paramount role in his life.

While the book narrates the artistic splendor of the Mughal dynasty in its old age, it also holds at its heart, the story of the demeaning political arena of this period. Zafar had forfeited real political power to the East India Company. Strewn with a bunch of heirs, conspiring and belligerent for fading power, the royal family was amidst a crisis. Zafar was at the throne of this poorly controlled kingdom. Despite this, the collaborated Hindu-Muslim rebels chose him to lead them in the war against the British. More than a leader, Zafar was to be a consenting tool for the rebels to wage terror against the British army. Dalrymple quotes Zafar’s qualms at this proposition of the rebels, ranging from fear to pain to agony. He also quotes excerpts that prove Zafar’s failure to lead the rebels, the lack of food for the mutineers, and the gradual tiff between the mutiny leaders. Not only was it Zafar’s incapability, for what could an octogenarian do, but also the mismanagement and spinelessness on the part of the rebel leaders, added with the infidelity on the part of Zeenat Mahal and other members of the emperor’s household, that led to the final siege of Delhi, the imprisonment of Zafar, and his ultimate exile to Myanmar.

The book also describes the fall and destruction of Delhi, post its capture. The city was badly leveled of its forts and buildings, leaving behind bare and disserted lanes, markets and streets. Dalrymple further ventures the reader into the trial of Zafar by the East India Company. This is one of the most interesting points in the book, wherein he puts forward numerous facts that point a finger at British craftsmanship of fallacy. It was never proved if the Company was legally entitled to try the Mughal emperor, forget about charging him of deceit and mutiny, and master minding the revolt, which was claimed to be aimed at placing Muslim rule at the prime in the world! Not only was Zafar unjustly tried, the Hindu-Muslim unity that had been the cynosure of the Mughal era was brutally crushed now. The British proclaimed that the revolt was an unscrupulous Islamic fundamentalist plan; the truth however was that the revolt was of upper-caste Hindu origin that bloomed in Meerut, and was later joined by diffused groups of people across the country that included the Muslims as well. This lead to Hindu-Muslim polarization that conflagrated the country during independence, and continues to do so, time and again.

The Last Mughal is more than just a book on history. No construal of the uprising is as gallant as this one. William Dalrymple time travels the past, and helps you see the glory and the misery of that time. It helps to understand some of the most powerful lessons of history, and clarifies a lot of speculations about the Indo-British relations during the revolt. The book is full of footnotes, excerpts, and notes that speak of the commendable research involved, right from Delhi to Myanmar. It is fascinating that such an intense read can be so amusing at the same time; this is the skill of Dalrymple. He does not weave a story, he weaves magic.