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

customs.”
    â€œStrange? Criminal, you mean!” exclaims Nouran, red with indignation. “If not for you, my benefactors, my children and I would have died of hunger, like the tens of thousands of peasants who, driven from their land, are dying now.”
    Then turning to Hazrat Mahal she continues:
    â€œHuzoor, is our king going to return? I beg you, tell him his people are waiting for him, they need him!”
    Moved, Hazrat Mahal holds the woman in her arms.
    â€œI will tell him, I promise, but as you know the British are detaining him in Calcutta . . . ”
    â€œNot for much longer!” interrupts Amman. “The people have had enough! All one hears everywhere is talk about driving them out. They have to leave India this year, so the prophecy says.”
    â€œWhat prophecy?”
    â€œThe prophecy of Plassey of course! It predicts that the Angrez will be forced to leave India a hundred years after the Company’s troops overcame the king of Bengal’s troops at the Battle of Plassey. This victory that marked the beginning of their domination was won on June 23rd, 1757. It is now January 1857 . . . ”
    Hazrat Mahal nods her head. As a good Muslim, she believes neither in the prophecies nor in the miracles that the common people are so fond of. She is careful, however, not to share her doubts with Nouran, who only has this hope to keep her going.
    â€œEveryone here has problems,” Imaman sighs deeply. “The peasants and the big
 
landowners, as do the shopkeepers and craftsmen. Now there are no clients left, the hundreds of luxury businesses and workshops that made all these marvels have had to close. The other day, going down the street I noticed some craftsmen begging. They were men who had been my suppliers. I pretended not to see them so as not to humiliate them, and I sent my servant to give them a few rupees as alms. It broke my heart though. What is going to become of us all, if even the little people who created our town’s wealth no longer have any work and are dying from hunger?”
    â€œIs no one distributing wheat and soup as before in times of famine?” asks Hazrat Mahal, amazed.
    â€œThat used to be funded by the king or the taluqdars then. Today, the wealthy are these money-lending shopkeepers who get rich by ruining others. They have no pity for anyone.”
    All of them are silent, lost in their gloomy thoughts. Suddenly, Hazrat Mahal remembers the real reason for her visit.
    â€œAnd Mumtaz? What has become of her?”
    â€œMumtaz? She only remained here for a few months after you left,” explains Amman. “She was a good girl but did not have the necessary qualities to develop into a great courtesan. Nonetheless, we have always ensured our girls are well placed, even if they do not attain high positions. We never abandon them. We never allow them to be reduced to prostitution, although this has often been a problem, it is something we are proud of!”
    â€œSo . . . where is she?”
    â€œWe married her off to a small local taluqdar. As she was from the countryside, we thought she would be in her element there. But the last news we received, three years ago now, was that she had left.”
    â€œLeft? To go where?” asks Hazrat Mahal, alarmed.
    â€œShe had no children, so her mother-in-law treated her as her ‘whipping boy’ and relegated her to the level of a servant. She is said to have run away and managed, it seems, to return to Lucknow. I even thought she had gone to ask you for help.”
    Help . . . Poor Mumtaz, she was too shy and too proud to go begging to someone who had forgotten her for so many years . . .
    â€œHow can we find her?”
    â€œI have had people search for her all over the Chowk in the second-rate houses. No one has seen her. At least, that is what I was told.”
    Hazrat Mahal shivers.
    She may be dead and it is all my fault . . . I had