Chikankari is an ancient form of white floral embroidery, intricately worked with needle and raw thread. Its delicacy is mesmeric. For centuries, this fine white tracery on transparent white fabric has delighted the heart of king and commoner alike. It is a complex and elegant craft that has come down to us, evolving, over the years into an aesthetic form of great beauty. That it has survived the loss of royal patronage, suffered deeply at the hands of commercialization, lost its way sometimes in mediocrity and yet stayed alive, is a tribute to the skill and will of the craftspersons who have handed down this technique from one generation to another.

Origins
Chikancraft is rooted in antiquity. The origins of Chikan are shrouded in mystery and legend. Some historians opine, that Chikan is a Persian craft, brought to the Mughal courts of the Emperor Jehangir by his beautiful and talented consort Mehrunissa. The queen was a talented embroiderer and she so pleased the king with this ethereal, white floral embroidery that it was soon given recognition and royal patronage. Workshops were established wherein this embroidery was practiced and perfected.
The word ‘Chikan’ is probably a derivative from the Persian word ‘Chikin’ or Chikeen which means a kind of embroidered fabric.In all probability the word Chikan is used for the white floral embroidery that Mehrunnissa brought with her from Persia. This form of embroidery became very popular with the king and his nobles and was embroidered on the finest Daccai mulmuls or muslin garmentswhich were most appropriate for the hot, tepid climate of Delhi.
There are some very fine Mughal miniatures that depict the Emperor Jehangir in white flowing muslin garments. Historians believe this could be chikan. After the decline and fall of the Mughal court, the artisans and craftsmen scattered across the length and breadth of India. Some settled in West Bengal, so for some time chikan flourished in Calcutta, though it is no longer practiced there. Some fled to the Northern state of Awadh and settled in the royal courts of the descendents of Burhan ul Mulk, a Persian nobleman, who had found favour with the last Mughal King, Bahadur Shah and was appointed as the Governor of Awadh.
Under the cultured, sophisticated influence of the rulers of Awadh, chikankari began to flourish yet again. It is interesting to note that Chikan was brought to India, supposedly by a Persian lady and later, it was given patronage and impetus in Awadh under rulers of Persian origin.
The origins of Chikancraft, therefore, remain shrouded in the mists of time. But we can say with some justification that it gained a meaningful presence in Lucknow and its surrounding areas sometime during the late18th and early 19th century when it was brought to the Lakhnawi courts of the nawabs. It was patronized by the self-indulgent, pleasure-loving nawabs, favoured by local rajahs, sultans and zamindars and became a very intrinsic part of Lakhnawi grace and culture.
The Mughal influence is strongly evident in the development of Chikancraft. It can be traced back to the great Islamic empires of the 16th and 17th centuries, such as those of Safavid Persia, India and turkey. All three empires were affluent and encouraged the development of art and craft. The Mughal kings set up workshops in their courts based on the Persian Karkhanas. Here artisans and skilled craftsmen were encouraged to produce works of great art, such as paintings, textiles, jewellery, and objects of art in stone, wood, marble and mother-of-pearl.

By: Intizar Husain

ONE fine morning under the programme of Sahitya Academy I found myself in Lucknow, and wondered if it was the Lucknow I had earnestly desired to get a glimpse of. When after partition Attiya Husain wrote her novel depicting the Lucknow of good old days, she chose to present it under the title Sunlight on the broken column. Now the broken column is very much there, but sunlight has long faded away. The novel had been dubbed as decadence by the maulvis, reformists and the progressives alike, and as a flourishing of fine arts and culture by the liberals. Prof Anis Ashfaq, who was kind enough to host me and sensing my keenness to have a glimpse of that sunshine, led me to Imambara Asifiya. What a splendid structure. One was left wondering at high, spacious roof with no columns to support it. The upper story has a bhoolbhulliyan, a maze. It provides added attraction to visitors.

While coming out of the Imambara I was reminded of the Lucknow adage: Jis ko na dain Maula/ Uss kou dain Asifuddaula (Whom God doesn’t give, Asifuddaula does). It speaks for the generous nawab’s popularity among the masses. And with this building project he also earned the goodwill of Maula as well as of the people, who were happy to get jobs of different kinds because of the project.

Anis Ashfaq has his own nostalgia with reference to his city. He enumerated the names of a number of distinguished scholars and creative writers, who deserved to be treated as Lucknow ki abroo (pride/honour) but they passed away one by one in recent decades. Talking about Prof Masood Hasan Rizvi in particular he informed me, ‘You have come here at the appropriate moment. Masood Hasan Rizvi seminar hall in Lucknow University is ready for inauguration. We also have a plan for a hall in the name of Prof Syed Ehtsham Husain. He too was associated for long years with this university.’

Anis Ashfaq now heads the Urdu department. Accompanied by him I went to the university, cut the tape inaugurating the hall and entered it carrying a short story under my arm. But wait awhile. I should first tell you about my visit to the late scholar’s mansion to see his illustrious son Nayyer Masood, who was not present on this auspicious occasion. He was ill. Anis had forewarned me that we wouldn’t have a long sitting with him. He was not in a position to sit comfortably and talk. And yet we had a long sitting though all the time he appeared feeling uncomfortable.

Nayyer Masood too should be seen as a continuation of those Lukhnavi personalities about whom Anis was talking so nostalgically. He is a scholar marching in the footsteps of his father and also a short story writer. His different scholarly works speak of his deep linkage with the fading Lucknow, while his stories written in symbolic mode of expression are indicative of his modern sensibility.

Coming out of the Imambara I was reminded of the Lucknow adage: Jis ko na dain Maula/ Uss kou dain Asifuddaula (Whom God doesn’t give, Asifuddaula does).

Exchanging views with him on certain controversial subjects I felt that like a true scholar he can afford to be dispassionate even on subjects like the controversial book by Dr Giyan Chand Jain, which has divided the Urdu writers in India into two warring camps. By the way, Dr Jain is counted among the most competent scholars of Urdu. But during his last years he wrote a book which triggered off a bitter controversy in India.

Personally speaking, I see no harm in controversies, whether it is an ideologically warfare or a researchers’ battle. But what is unfortunate is the situation that so often a controversy among us degenerates into personal bickering and charges and counter charges. The same happened in this case. But in the heat of the controversy came the sad news of his death in a distant land. And the controversy came to an abrupt end, perhaps temporarily. So Giyan Chand Jain is no more among us. But his high place as an Urdu scholar remains as it was.

Now coming back to the inaugural function at the Lucknow University, which was presided over by Prof Roop Raikha Verma, ex-vice chancellor, I was sitting in the Masood Hasan Rizvi Semianr Hall sandwiched between two major Hindi writers Mudara Rakshas and Vibhoti Narain Roy. At least the latter should not be an unfamiliar name for readers of fiction in Pakistan as his short novel Shehr Main Curfew has already been translated into Urdu. The novel is a telling portrayal of Muslims in their mohallahs when curfew is imposed on a riot-ridden city. It should be taken as a documentary account of the situation as it is based on the observations of the author in the capacity of a police officer.

So here in the learned gathering of the university I read my story hoping to be received as a better alternative to the formal speech which could be expected on this occasion. It was a sombre function held in a university and so hardly conducive for any kind of heated discussion. Such discussion took place in another function, which had the distinction of being a gathering of Hindiwallas. I found here only one Urdu writer and he was Prof Sharib Radaulvi. It was here that I had to face a volley of questions and a heated discussion with reference to the story I had read at the university.

Lucknow as on 1901

LIVING rich, savouring everything was a full-time occupation in the erstwhile province of Awadh or Oudh as it is sometimes called. Reminiscent of PG Woodhousian England, the bankas or the gentlemen and the begums or the ladies made sure each season and nuance produced richness in all aspects of life.

Where Lucknow gave us tehzeeb, beautiful jewellery and chikan embroidery, it also made an occupation out of eating. There were 1,300 varieties of mango alone, including Kali Ghata, Badlur Asmar, Suhagsisi, Shyam Sunder Kelwa Misri.

Foods have history in Lucknow. Tunda Kebab is so named because it was a specialty of an one-armed chef. The uniqueness of this kebab is the masala which is a zealously guarded family secret and prepared by women in the family. It is said to incorporate 160 spices. Kakori kebab is considered blessed since it was originally made in the place by the same name in the dargah of Hazrat Shah Abi Ahder Sahib with divine blessings.

The bawarchis and rakabdars of Awadh gave birth to the dum style of cooking or the art of cooking over a slow fire, which has become synonymous with Lucknow today. Their spread would consist of elaborate dishes like kebabs, kormas, kaliya, nahari-kulchas, zarda, sheermal, roomali rotis and warqi parathas. The richness of Awadh cuisine lies not only in the variety of cuisine but also in the ingredients used.

Lucknow is also proud of its Kebabs. The Kakori Kebabs, Galawat ke Kebabs, Shami Kebabs, Boti Kebabs, Patili-ke-Kebabs, Ghutwa Kebabs and Seekh Kebabs are among the known varieties. The 100-year old 'Tunde ke Kebab' in chowk is the most famous outlet for choicest Kebabs even today. The Shami Kebab was the most important of them all. Made from mince meat, the kebabs are round patties filled with spicy surprises and the tangy raw green mango. The best time to have them is May when the fruit of the mango tree is in its infancy. In other seasons the kairi can be substituted with kamrakh or karonda both having a tart flavour reminiscent of the raw mango. Lime juice is rarely used.

The seekh has long been considered a piece de resistance in the Awadhi dastarkhwan. Introduced by the Mughals it was originally prepared from beef mince on skewers and cooked on charcoal fire. Now lamb mince is preferred for its soft texture.

Korma a preparation of meat in gravy was an essential item of the Awadh dastarkhan. 'Biryani' was yet another item cooked in Dum style. The method imparted a typical Awadhi flavour to this rice preparation. The warqi paratha and sheermals are other sumptuous dishes of Lucknow that are simply a gourmet's delight.

Shah Deg, a winter specialty, is a legacy from Kashmiri settlers in the province. Jauzi Halwa Sohan, another winter delicacy, has dewdrops on wheat kept outside for a night as an essential ingredient. Zarda, a rice dish, is a picnic delicacy of Vasant (spring) when Wajid Ali Shah and his troupe would go dressed in yellow, the colour of spring in boats called bajras. Kundan Kaliya is a mutton dish prepared with gold leafs, no less!

Dastarkhwan, a Persian term, literally means a meticulously laid-out ceremonial dining spread. It is customary in Avadh to sit around and share the Dastarkhwan. Laden with the finest and the most varied repertoire of the khansamas (chefs), the Dastarkhwan of the raeis (the rich) were called Khasa (special).

Shami Kebab was what any dastrakwhan worth its name would consist of in the month of May when the mango was still raw (kairi). Nehari kebab is a post rain delicacy seasoned with mustard oil buried for nine months in a mud pot under a tree and opened after the rains. The mustard plant is harvested in February and March.

In Awadh the mustard oil is heated in large cauldrons till it smokes. Then it is passed through muslin cloth to remove any impurities. This oil is then collected and sealed in large earthenware pots or urns and buried in the earth, preferably under the shade of a tree or a cool place. It is left to mature for a period of 9 to 10 months, i.e. through the rainy season so that the oil is further cooled when the rain water seeps into the ground. Then it is dug up and is ready for use. The long period of underground storage transforms the oil to a granular texture which is used for cooking purposes.

An unusual offering is the Pasanda Kebab, picatta of lamb marinated and then saut`E9d on a griddle.

Nahari, a hot favourite of Awadh is a meat preparation with thick spicy gravy. In 'Pai ki Nahari' leg and other bones are cooked and bone juice is mixed with a mouth watering gravy.

Winters are dedicated to halwas of all kinds which came from Arabia and Persia to stay in India. There are several varieties of these, prepared from different cereals, such as gram flour, sooji, wheat, nuts and even eggs. The special halwa or halwa sohan which has four varieties, viz Papadi, Jauzi, Habshi and Dudhiya is prepared especially well in Lucknow.

The Jauzi Halwa Sohan is a hot favourite even today, but the art of preparing it is confined to only a few households. Prepared for the most part from germinated wheat, milk, sugar, saffron, nuts etc., it has love and patience as its vital ingredients. You need to appreciate the play of shabnam or dewdrops on the wheat kept out under the night sky for germination. For the rest the role of the morning sun and evening dew may remain a mystery.

by Harbans Singh

The Lucknow Omnibus—Lucknow: The Last Phase of an Oriental Culture
by Abdul Halim Sharar; A Fatal Friendship: The Nawabs, the British and the City of Lucknow by Rosie Llewllyn-Jones; The Making of Colonial Lucknow: 1856-1877 by Veena Talwar Oldenberg. Oxford University Press. Rs 495.

NO other Indian city and its culture arouse so much curiosity, nostalgia and debate as Lucknow. Its virtues have often been berated, its sins and follies magnified, and the legendry manners lampooned; its wealth and splendour have been yearned for and the loss of cultural ethos lamented. Lucknow, in fact, has had something for anyone who may wish to study the rise and fall of a city which was the culmination of a culture born out of unlimited power and wealth for the rulers, as also a symbol of all that was wrong with the elite of the country.

The omnibus on Lucknow is a boon for all those who wish to understand the city, the times and the causes that made and unmade it and its culture. The three books, Lucknow: The Last Phase Of An Oriental Culture by Abdul Halim Sharar, The Fatal Friendship by Rosie Llewyn-Jones and The Making of Colonial Lucknow: 1856- 1877 by Veena Talwar Oldenberg, collectively offer a perspective of the city from different angles and provides an insight into the life-style of the Nawabs and the motives and chicanery of the British. The reader has the luxury of a juxtaposed version of the city that was Lucknow.



There is no aspect of the nawabi culture and life that has not been noted and commented upon by Maulvi Abdul Halim Sharar. Growing in the sunset days of Wajid Ali Shah in Matiya Burj, and exposed to the changes that were taking place in the world, his comments on life and works of the successive Nawabs is penetrating and incisive, though, understandably, soft and forgiving to their foibles. Indulgently, he absolves the last Nawab of any blame, and offers explanation for the vanquished and the vanishing.

The other two books supplement the theme of the decay of the culture and the kingdom. Rosie Llewellyn-Jones has made a very spirited defence of the Nawabs. It is a different matter that in her eagerness she has only succeeded in bringing out the single-minded pursuit of self-interests by the British and the less than determined approach of the Nawabs to stand firm in their convictions. Veena Talwar Oldenberg’s remarkable study of the city after 1857 brings out in detail the system evolved by the British with the sole aim of ensuring their safety, controlling the citizens and commanding their loyalty.

Abdul Halim Sharar provides a brief history of Avadh and that of rulers from Burhan-ul-Mulk to Wajid Ali Shah. The former, who lived in mud-houses in Faizabad, occupied as he in ‘touring the domains about matters of administration’ had neither the time nor inclination for building luxury houses, is contrasted with those who came later. One was Nasir-ud-Din Haidar, who had become so effeminate that he spoke and dressed like a woman. The last one, so romanticised by many, took some interest in military affairs by giving the regiments fancy names and raising ‘a small army of beautiful girls.’ Obviously, this did not prepare the kingdom to face the imperial onslaught of the British.

The extent of corruption in the largely absent administration comes through the book of Veena Talwar Oldenberg. She also brings out the despicable living conditions of the common people in the dissolute culture of dancing and singing girls, which in turn was fed by the lawless-ness of the countryside. While Sharar’s work educates a reader about the life and culture during that period, her painstaking effort provides an insight into the life of the citizens in general, though her intention was to study the system introduced by the British to control and command the citizens.

A Fatal Friendship by Rosie Llewllyn-Jones is a book, she acknowledges, written in anger and sadness. She has attempted to redeem the architecture of the nawabi period. The less than classical architecture of the Nawabs has been discussed by her, and she admits that ‘if one were to engage in the fruitless task of apportioning blame for the demise of the city as an indigenous organism one would have to indict the Nawabs as much as the British for their vacillating, half-hearted attempt to keep the city purely Indian.’ Nevertheless, in her misplaced defence of the Nawabs, she has taken exception even to the building of the observatory, hospital, a bridge and a college (aborted), arguing that all these were primarily meant to benefit the British. For much too long Lucknow culture has been lionised and its decay lamented. This omnibus gives a reader the chance to compare and evaluate facts and opinions in totality, to analyse history and its events and to also listen to what is unsaid but nonetheless loud and clamouring.