No Illusions

The siege at Lucknow during the 'Great Indian Mutiny' of 1857–8 was thefabled event of its time. A flourishing town in Ontario, Canada, and a defunctgold mine camp in New South Wales, Australia, still carry the name—Lucknow—theythen received. The naming of the gold mine was particularly appropriate. Theextravagant display of wealth by Lucknow’s rulers in the years between 1780sand 1850s had drawn to the city numerous European hucksters and mercenaries, aswell as genuine merchants, artists, engineers and other professionals. All ofthem left as large an impress on the city’s landscape as on the purses of itselite.

Most Indians still see pre-colonial Lucknow as a fabulous place: a city ofextravagant nawabs, refined manners, flowery Urdu, and sumptuous cuisine. Nowcomes a book that makes visible the major sights of Lucknow as they appeared inthe immediate aftermath of the famous siege and a bit later. Lucknow: City ofIllusion, edited by Rosie Llewellyn-Jones, the respected author of twoimportant books on Lucknow, is constructed around the rare photographs ofLucknow in the extraordinary collection assembled by EbrahimAlkazi. Mr Alkazi, best known in India for his fifteen years as the Directorof the National School of Drama, is equally distinguished in two other fields:advertising and art exhibition. His extensive collection of rare photographs isnow held by SepiaInternational—of which he is the Chairman—and it is gradually beingpublished for wider use. Though the book naturally highlights the 150 or sofascinating prints in the collection itself—including two spectacularmulti-part panoramas by Felice Beato dated 1858—it also contains any number ofmaps, drawings, paintings and other illustrations that enhance its pictorialimpact. Nothing of major architectural significance at the time—1850s thru1870s—is left uncommented-on. All reproductions are of the finest quality.Much care has been invested in the book’s design. It is indeed a sumptuousproduction, well befitting both the collection and the collector.

The original photographs were all albumen prints, apparently from negativesmade by the wet-plate collodion process that was the big new thing inphotography at the time. It was a difficult and dangerous process. One first setup and focused the camera, and only then prepared the plate by using a mixtureof collodion—i.e. guncotton dissolved in ether and alcohol—and some otherchemicals, followed by a bath of acidified silver nitrate. The wetplate was then rushed to the camera for exposure, and promptly developedbefore the collodion had fully dried. Potassium cyanide was the preferredfixer! The photographers traveled with complete darkrooms (or‘dark-tents’), and had to have several bulky cameras, since there was no waythen to make different enlargements from a single negative. Learning such factsfrom various web-sources made me more appreciative of the amazing worksdisplayed in the book. It also explained why there were no images of the stillinhabited, though much ruined, areas of Lucknow—there had to be little or nomovement when the relatively slow exposure was made. The few human beings inthese photographs seem to be firmly held in a pose. Nothing appears to be innatural motion.

The only other time the word ‘illusion’ occurs in the book is in an essayby the editor, in her description of an imagined boat-ride down the Gomti, theriver that embraces the city within its many curves. ‘The journey ends atDilkusha Kothi, another European style "country house" subtly transmuted tosuit the nawabi taste in this city of illusion (sic) (p. 210).’ The sight ofsuch a house in Lucknow countryside could indeed have the effect of an illusionon some, not unlike—for example—the first sight of the architecturalphantasmagoria in Las Vegas. But does it make Lucknow ‘a city of illusion?’

And yet the elite of Lucknow were known to take delight in creating illusions.Even in matters of gastronomy. Consider this anecdote provided by Abdul HalimSharar in his seminal book on old Lucknow, Mashriqi Tamaddun ka Akhiri Namuna:Guzishta Lakhnau:

Prince Mirza Asman Qadar [of Delhi] . . . who came to Lucknow and became a Shi’ah, was invited to dine by Wajid Ali Shah [the last King of Oudh]. Murabba, a conserve, was put [before them] 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, 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. [1]

Needless to say the Delhi prince had his revenge later in a similar manner. But,whereas for the king and the prince the illusion was mostly a source of delight,the word ‘illusion’ as used in this book—and in a few other books onLucknow—seems to express a value judgment concerning Lucknow’s culture ingeneral, and its architecture in particular. Surely the editor doesn’t meanthe crass comparison with Delhi that one often hears with reference to Lucknow?(That argument, as applied to architecture, goes as follows: the sandstonebuildings of Delhi are ‘real,’ while the brick-and-plaster buildings ofLucknow are merely an attempt to create an ‘illusion’ of that reality.)

The introduction outlines the foundation and expansion of the Nawabi Lucknowand its major architectural projects, introducing also much pre-photographygraphic information on the city. Lucknow is commonly described as raising itselfat Delhi’s cost, from where the best in all trades and professions fled toescape the many marauders of the 18th century. That is also the editor’s view.But it could be said to be true mainly for the final two decades of the 18thcentury. People stopped fleeing from Delhi after 1803, after the British forcedthe Marathas out. No major Urdu poet, for example, then left Delhi to seekfortune at Lucknow. Only several Mughal princes did, to enjoy the generosity ofthe nawabs. The editor, however, is right in pointing out a desire in the eliteof Lucknow to claim superiority over Delhi. That desire, to much extent,reflected the already existing sectarian—Shi’ah vs. Sunni—andracial—Persian vs. Central Asian—rivalries.

Sophie Gordon’s essay on the four royal palaces of Lucknow—Macchi Bhawan,Daulat Khana, Chattar Manzil, and Qaiser Bagh—is magisterial in its expositionof the buildings’ original design, extent, and purpose. Her juxtaposition ofthe photographs of the area in and around the Qaisar Bagh taken by Beato (1858)with those taken by other cameramen only a few years later, forcefully brings toour awareness the grandeur of the original, and its subsequentdiminution—first through destruction, then by reconstruction—at the hands ofthe colonial authorities. William Howard Russell, a correspondent of TheTimes, witnessed the ‘drunken plunder’ of Lucknow in 1858, and thenrevisited the city in 1876. After seeing the colonial constructions, he wrote inhis diary: ‘Lucknow has been fairly "improved" off the face of the earth(p. 89).’ (Sadly, Russell was wrong; far worse things happened to Lucknowafter 1947.)

It was Nawab Asafuddaulah (1775–97) who built the Great Imambara, the mostrenowned structure at Lucknow. It is highlighted in the book in an extraordinaryeight-part panorama by Felice Beato, together with some brief comments by Mr.Alkazi. The substantive chapter on its complex of buildings is written by PeterChelkowski, who usefully brings to the subject his knowledge of the rituals ofmourning in Iran that relate to the martyrdom of Imam Husain and his companionsat Karbala. His comments underscore the fact that the construction in India oflarge edifices devoted exclusively to Shi’ah rituals of mourning—i.e. imambaras—wasan indigenous development, and not an imitation of something Iranian. He couldhave further augmented his argument by referring to the appearance of similarbuildings, though smaller in scale, in Jaunpur under the Sharqis, who ruled overmuch of Oudh in the 15th century. Chelkowski’s extensive use of structuraldrawings and ground plans further enriches his discussion. He is also the onlyauthor who draws our attention to the spectacular effect of the local stucco onthe Nawabi buildings. ‘Using recovered lime or shells from dried up lakes, themasons were able to produce stucco that shone more brilliantly than the marbletombs of the Mughals (p. 110).’ Since no extant structure in Lucknow can nowprovide that experience, we are fortunate to get from several of the photographsan idea of those buildings’ original resplendence.

Chelkowsky’s discussion of the use of taziya—temporary symbolicreplicas of holy tombs—in the mourning rituals of Muharram is extensive andrich in detail. His assertion that Durga Puja and Jagannath processions ‘had asignificant influence on the Indian taziya rituals,’ is a useful suggestion,even if the processions he mentions do not as much belong to Oudh as to Bengaland Orissa. The commonality he rightly underscores is that the respectivedevotees first construct and put on display ephemeral sacred structures andthen, once the ritual purpose has been served, return them to the elements—towater in one case, and to earth in the other. I must point out, however, thatthe same indigenous influence failed to make acceptable the Iranian practice of taziya—i.e.an enactment of the events of the Karbala—despite the powerful presence of theannual Ram Lila enactments all over Oudh. If the overarching Sunni dominationdisallowed the latter imitation, why did it allow the former?

The Great Imambara complex contained several buildings of which three weremajor structures: the Rumi Darwaza (the Byzantian/Ottoman Gate), the Jami’Masjid (the Friday Mosque), and the Imambara itself. The name of the formal gatehas long been a topic of much speculation. Chelkowski believes that ‘"Rum"here indicates not only Byzantium . . . but the Roman Empire as well, and thatthe Rumi Darwaza is the equivalent of a Roman triumphal arch (p. 108).’ The isno evidence to indicate any interest on the part of Asafuddaulah—or, for thatmatter, any other ruler in India—in Ancient Rome. We don’t even know forcertain if the gate was so named by the Nawab. The Sultan of Rum (i.e. theOttoman Caliph), on the other hand, was not only well-respected in India, buthis court was referred to as ‘the Baab-al-‘Aali’ (‘the SublimePorte’). My own equally far-fetched speculation would be as follows: the RumiDarwaza was Asafuddaulah’s assertion against the Sunni Caliph, his Jami’Masjid was a rejoinder to the Sunni Emperor Aurangzeb, whose rather nondescriptmosque still stands close by, and that his Imambara, with its facsimile gravesand wide aisles, was something like the Westminster Abbey.

I should also add that contrary to Chelkowski’s assertion (p. 104) it wasnot unknown among the Indian Shi’ah elite to send bodies of their dead—orwhat remained of the bodies after temporary internments—for permanent burialat Karbala. In fact, the awkwardly placed grave of Asafuddaulah in the Imambaracould be due to just such an instance. His burial became permanent when his ownline ended with him, and his younger brother—a bitter rival—ascended thethrone. However, Chelkowski’s comment about ‘bringing Karbala to India,’by bringing dust from there or creating facsimiles locally, is right on target.

The essay on the ‘Country Houses’ of Lucknow by Neeta Das convincinglydelineates increasing interest among the Nawabs for European architecturalfashions. Asafuddaulah, who moved the capital to Lucknow from Faizabad, and hissuccessors, avidly patronized enterprising European engineers and alsoself-taught architects, such as Antoine-Louis Polier and Claude Martin.Sa’adat Ali Khan, who had spent several years in Calcutta, tried to createsomething akin to its Esplanade in Lucknow’s Hazratgunj. He was also, ineffect, turning his back on the original city, building his new residencesfurthest away from its people. The predilection for things European, however,should not be read as ‘a severance from the Mughals (p. 168).’ In fact, theonly ‘Mughal’ structure of any note built in Delhi during the 18thcentury—the tomb of Safdar Jung, an ancestor of the Lucknow nawabs—was builtunder Oudh patronage and emulated poorly what preceded it in Delhi. The Nawabsof Oudh did not have the resources that Shahjahan had. Even Shahjahan’sdescendents did not have the resources to emulate him. In Lucknow, Europeanengineering skills, indigenous talent, and locally available constructionalmaterial (bricks and stucco) made possible, and dictated the shape of, what thedifferent Nawabs, with their eclectic taste, desired and achieved—something asbaroque as the Rumi Darwaza, and something as ludic as the Chaumukhi building.

The remaining two chapters, ‘The Residency and the River’ by the editorand ‘La Martinière: An Enlightened Vision’ by Nina David, are equallycomprehensive and rewarding. Well-chosen paintings compliment the photographsand enrich the discussion. Several appendices, including detailed biographies ofthe photographers and a useful bibliography of English language sources makethis excellent book truly comprehensive on the subject.

Claude Martin died in 1800. His town house (the so-called ‘LackperraHouse’) was originally purchased by Sa’adat Ali Khan in 1803, for the use ofa guest, Prince Sulaiman Shukoh of Delhi.[2] It soon became the Nawab’s ownfavorite house, who named it Farah Bakhsh and launched major new constructionsnearby. The building was always called Farah—not Farhat (much less Farhad)—Bakhsh.All Persian and Urdu sources use that name alone, as do the two early Englishsources mentioned in the editor’s own important book (A Fatal Friendship).[3]

Similarly, the alternate name for Darshan Bilas was always Chaumukhi, and not‘Chaurukhi.’ Both ‘Farhat Bakhsh’ and ‘Chaurukhi’ seem to me asinventions by semi-literate contemporary guides. One also comes across a totallyincomprehensible name, ‘Zinat Algiya,’ with reference to a tomb within theHusainabad Complex. The person buried in the tomb, according to a contemporaryaccount, was the mother (d. 1256/1840–1) of Muhammad Ali Shah, and not, asguides now tell, his daughter. [4] (The same author,incidentally, also mentions the Gend Khana (lit. Ball Court) as one of thatNawab’s many new constructions.) The confusion of the old Iron Bridge with alater, colonial bridge that replaced the Nawabi bridge of boats, is alsounfortunate (p. 208), since it could have been resolved by consulting the map onpage 20.

C. M. Naim is Professor Emeritus, South Asian Languages and Cultures,University of Chicago.

Notes:

1.