“Historians are stuck with the evidence, novelists can describe what actually happened,” says the French writer, Jean-Félix de la Ville Beaugé. In Firestorm in Paradise, historian Rana Safvi switches roles from the constraints of the former to the imagination of the latter. In her history of Mughal Delhi, Shahjahanabad, published in 2019, she meticulously retraces the topography of the city, uncovering remains of their long-forgotten kiosks and gardens. Now as a novelist, she populates those stone remnants with people, smells, songs and sights, bringing back life as it must have been to Old Delhi.
As one would expect, Safvi’s storytelling is deeply woven into the topography of the Mughal palace, the Lal Qila, or Red Fort as it is known in English. The fountains, courtyards and pavilions of the Fort are like actors in the story, along with the princes, concubines and simple people of the bazaar. The rhythm of court protocol, Hindu, Muslim festivals and wedding preparations are like a musical score accompanying the action.
Contrasting with the immobility of the physical palace and its formal traditions, are the passions and aspirations of the characters. The heroes are young, beautiful and inspired by love. Among the women, there is a terrible longing to be free of the restrictions of living in purdah. Among the men, the growing power of the English, and the crushing poverty that lurks just outside the gates of the Fort weighs on them. These tensions contribute to the explosion of destructive violence of the uprising of 1857, called by the British the Sepoy Mutiny, and now known as the First War of Independence by many Indians.
Among the mix of historical and fictional characters, the heroine, Falak Ara (“who adorns the firmament), is a dreamy girl budding into womanhood, a gifted, self-taught album painter, a daughter of Bahadur Shah, the last emperor, and a palace attendant. Bahadur Shah himself plays a major role in the novel, which brings the pathos of his reign vividly to life. The contrast between her father’s position and her mother’s provides much of the tension in the novel.
Intrigue spins about Falak Ara. An amulet she wears around her neck, and an old album painting of emperor Aurangzeb’s banished daughter Makhfi, lead us into a mystery story worthy of any tale from the Thousand and One Nights.
Safvi’s depiction of women, especially those in purdah, is lively and hits the mark. Readers can savor the contrast between the extreme decorum they had to observe, avoiding the presence of all men but for their closest relatives, and the earthiness of their conversation. When some Englishwomen pay a visit to the empress, the ladies in waiting wonder how, with such long fingernails, their visitors wipe their bottoms.
Festivals are lovingly described, and Safvi emphasizes the syncretistic spirit of the palace, where gurus and Sufi sheikhs alike are venerated. After all, the Mughal family descended from daughters of Rajput Maharajas. Black magic and talismans are trafficked into the palace from witches and holy men from the bazaar.
Sex, too, is a big part of life in old Delhi. While the dignified old emperor dallies in the company of accomplished dancing girls, readers learn that the arts of the Kama Sutra were energetically practiced by women who lived from their charms. Apparently the ability to stretch one’s body like silly putty contributed to their notoriety and high fees.
Outwardly paradisiacal, inwardly seething with passion and intrigue, the Palace is then caught up in the firestorm of the title. Converging on the fatal date of May 31st is an army revolt, a massacre, a wedding, and a frantic search for hidden treasure.
In this, her first novel, Rana Safvi shows herself to be in control of her storytelling, and uses her descriptive powers to good effect, invoking the beauty of her beloved Shahjahanabad:
The architects have designed a moonlit garden with white flowering bushes, trees and plants. It was for enjoyment in the heavenly evenings and nights when the scents from the flowers overpowered the senses, the camphor lamps and the candles from the Sawan and Bhado’n pavilions made one languorous and dreamy.
Yet at other times her writing can seem stilted. In part this reflects an attempt to evoke the highly educated speech of the courtiers and royals, but often incongruously modern expressions come to the mouths of her characters. One moment they are saying “May Allah grant that your reign is prolonged,” and in another moment we read “… the Hindustanis had many grievances against the angrez sarkar [British rule], but this seemed weird.” A good rule for historical novels is to use, as much as possible, words and expressions contemporary with the events narrated. George Macdonald Fraser is a model here.
We find ourselves, nevertheless, beguiled by Safvi’s storytelling, and, without realizing it, gets a magisterial lesson in the Mughal court and the glittering cultural scene that disappeared forever in the disaster of 1857.