In the City of Gold and Silver by Kenizé Mourad, Anne Mathai in collaboration with Marie-Louise Naville Page A

Nouran is a peasant from the Sitapur area, some fifty miles outside Lucknow. She had walked all the way into town with her five young children. Although she is not even thirty years old yet, she looks closer to fifty, exhausted by toiling the land and the harsh climate.
    â€œOur village belonged to the Rajah of Salempur,” she says in a colourful dialect, forcing Hazrat Mahal to concentrate to be able to follow. “We have always worked his land and, as is the custom, he used to give us a quarter of the harvest. It was also he, of course, who provided us with the seeds, the water, the tools, the cart to transport the wheat or sugar cane, and who paid all the taxes. If it was a good season, we had enough to survive on and even a little extra, and if it was poor, the rajah helped us until the next harvest. We never went hungry. He was a good master. His army protected us from bandits and marauders, and his presence dissuaded the civil servants from creating trouble for us. He was like a father to us and we were all devoted to him, he could ask whatever he wanted of us in exchange, like repairing the fort, cleaning the drains . . . Although he could be severe at times, he was always fair and we respected him. Until the Angrez came along and upset everything!”
    â€œThey gave you the land though!” objects Hazrat Mahal.
    The peasant woman begins to cry:
    â€œAh, the heavens have truly punished us! I had told my husband we should not take the land that belonged to our master. He beat me, berating me for being an ignorant, stupid woman, shouting that the Angrez were offering us an opportunity to be owners, to do as we liked with the whole harvest and to become rich. Like all the other farmers, he followed the village council’s decision: after numerous discussions, they had decided to accept the occupier’s offer. We never saw our rajah again. Thank goodness, I think I would have died of shame.”
    â€œThen what happened next?”
    â€œFirst, in order to buy seeds, pay for the water and rent the cart to transport the sugar cane, we were forced to borrow from the village moneylender at an interest rate of 15 percent a month. The harvest was not very good, but the worst part was that the new taxes, evaluated by the Angrez, were much higher than the previous year! That took up half our profit. After we had repaid our loan, we had nothing left to live on. The village council asked the government for an extension until the next harvest, six months later. Their immediate response was: ‘Either you pay up or we will seize your land.’ We thought it was an empty threat as in the state of Awadh, never, as far back as any peasant can remember, has anyone seen land being confiscated to pay off a debt! Neither the king
 
nor any of the taluqdars would have imagined confiscating our means of livelihood on the pretext that we owed them money. At worst, we were asked to send our children to help with different jobs!”
    Using the corner of her dupatta to wipe the tears away, Nouran then continues in a broken voice:
    â€œWhen the buyers, the rich merchants and the moneylenders from nearby villages actually turned up, we realised the Angrez government was not joking. A delegation of elders hurriedly set off for the capital to plead the villagers’ cause. On the way there, they met other deputations from surrounding villages who were facing exactly the same problem. When they arrived in Lucknow, try as they might to explain the fate of the tens of thousands of families that were being condemned to die from hunger, it was all in vain. The authorities refused to listen. It seems that in their country this is the way things are done: someone who is in debt has his possessions seized and is thrown into prison . . . ”
    â€œThat makes no sense at all,” comments Imaman. “How can a man who is locked up pay his debts? These Angrez really do have strange