Pages From History By Salim Ansar

Picture: Shaista Suhrawardy Ikramullah

Born in 1915 and educated in Calcutta and London, Begum Shaista Suhrawardy Ikramullah was one of the few Muslim women to have taken part in the Pakistan Movement. She continued to play an active role in Pakistani politics in the critical years preceding Martial Law, and later as Ambassador to Morocco (1964-7) and delegate to various international conferences. Her writings in lsmat, Tehzeeb-e-Niswan, Humayun, and in the magazine sections of Dawn. Pakistan Times, Sind Observer and Morning News established her reputation as a writer in both English and Urdu.

KOONDAS – AN INTERESTING STORY

Koondas are a ceremony performed by Muslim ladies which definitely savour of Hindu influence. As a matter of fact, the story of the origin of this custom is a most interesting one. It shows how ingenious the female mind can be in thinking out ways and means to humiliate a hated rival. The name of Nur Jehan conjures up visions of beauty, charm and romance. Her life story deserves the caption, 'Truth is stranger than fiction'. Born in a noble family fallen on evil days, abandoned on the wayside at birth, picked up by a caravan of kindly merchants who engaged her own mother to look after her, fortune smiles on her father once again; she rises from one position of power to another, and in the end is introduced to the court of Akbar, the richest and most famous court of the East at that time. Nur Jehan, whose name yet is Mehrunnisa, becomes a frequent visitor to the court. The sun of her beauty reaches its zenith and its rays attract the eyes of Salim, the heir to the most magnificent and wealthy throne of the East, a child of many hopes and prayers. Akbar, the Great Moghul, dreams of alliances with the turbulent and proud Rajputs. How can he allow his son to marry Mehrunnisa, the daughter of an impoverished family of Iran; all the might of the empire comes between the ill-starred lovers and separates them. Mehrunnisa is hurriedly married to a young cavalry officer and sent out to far-off Bengal, and Salim is betrothed and married, with pomp and splendour, to the daughter of the most powerful of the Rajputs, the Rana of Jodhpur. In the veins of their sons mingle Moghul and Rajput blood, and Akbar's dream of Hindu-Muslim unity seems near to realization.

But the flame in the heart of Jehangir continues to smoulder for many years. At last, Akbar dies at a ripe old age. Jehangir has now been married for fifteen years and is the father of many sons. Yet he has not forgotten the gazelle-like Persian maiden whom, in that far-off youth of his, he had met one day in the gardens of the Fatehpuri Palaces and to whom he had given two little pigeons to hold for him. One of these had flown away and Jehangir, annoyed at her carelessness, had asked what had happened. 'It flew away, sir,' she said.

'But how?' asked the prince rather irritably. 'Like this, sir', she said, letting the other one go also. No, he had not forgotten that innocent, coquettish gesture of hers.

History does not record exactly what transpired when Akbar died, but the fact is that Mehrunnisa's husband was killed trying to suppress a local rebellion and, on receipt of this news, the King ordered that Mehrunnisa be sent back to Delhi with royal honours. On her arrival at the Court, she hears whispers that perhaps her husband's death was not the accident she had imagined it to be, and begins to suspect that perhaps the Emperor had a hand in it. For seven long years, this suspicion clouded Mehrunnissa's mind, and she refused Salim's supplications to become his queen. But after seven weary years, all told twenty-two years or so of waiting, Salim's love was rewarded and Mehrunnisa became his wife. He called her, first, Nur Mahal the 'Light of the Palace', and then, Nur Jehan, the 'Light of the World'. He gave not only his heart in her keeping, but the reins of government also. His cup of happiness was full; he needed nothing more. But there were thorns to this rose of perfect happiness, as there always are. Salim was now Emperor Jehangir, and his first wife could not be expected to submit to the insult of being supplanted like this. She, the descendant of the proud Rajputs, to be humiliated in this way! She thought and she planned in many ways to bring about the downfall of Nur Jehan. But the sun of Nur Jehan's fate had come out of the clouds at last and was shining in full splendour and nothing could dull its radiance. All efforts of this proud daughter of the Rajputs to bring her down failed. She thought and she thought, her wounded vanity sought some means of assuaging itself and hit upon a most ingenious plan; she staged a most elaborate ceremony, the ceremony of offering niaz in the name of Bibi Fatima, the Prophet's daughter.

Now, strictly speaking, nazar and niaz are not Islamic; food and drink dedicated in somebody's name do not get consecrated in Islam, but by this time a lot of Hindu influence had permeated the Moghul court in the wake of Rajput princesses, and the idea was taking hold that anything offered in the name of a saintly person became sanctified. The Rajput queen arranged a most elaborate party to which all the ladies of the court were invited, among whom, of course, was Nur Jehan, who was seated in a place of honour, the cynosure of all eyes, being not only the King's favourite but the queen of his heart and of the realm. The Rajput Queen, too, seemed to show no resentment today, but went about happily arranging the details for the niaz. In an adjoining pavilion, washed with rose-water and made further fragrant by the burning of loban in silver and gold bowls, a milk-white table-cloth was laid; food cooked by seven ladies of highest ranks and purest of characters was to be served there. When all was ready, the Rajput Queen came into the hall where the guests were assembled and asked them to enter the pavilion where niaz, in the name of Bibi Fatima, the pure and noble daughter of the Prophet, was laid out. There was a stir in the hall as the ladies got up. The maids-in-waiting ran forward to hold the trains and take up their ladies' fans and pandans. Nur Jehan, too, adjusted the folds of her peshwaz and got up; all waited for Nur Jehan to lead the way but, as she took the first step towards the pavilion, her rival came forward with a most reluctant air and said, 'Madam, I am sorry, you cannot partake of this food because, it is dedicated to the name of Fatima and only those can eat it who have been married but once.' The Rajput Queen had had her revenge! Before the flower of the Moghul aristocracy, Nur Jehan had been humiliated. It had been driven home in a telling way that she might be supreme in the heart of Jehangir, but she was not his first, the rightful wife.

There is no record of how Nur Jehan took this insult, or what the reaction of Jehangir was to all this. But there are stories that, when asked for an explanation, the Rajput Queen innocently remarked that she had completely forgotten that Nur Jehan had been married before and that she had staged this dedication in all innocence; only at the last moment had it dawned on her that Nur Jehan could not eat the food.

Whatever the truth of this story may be, the fact remains that this custom, thought out by a queen to salve her wounded vanity, remained with the ladies of the Moghul court, and to this day, on the eve of a girl's marriage and many other occasions, such as on her recovery from some illness and so on, a koonda ceremony is held. Food is cooked in a specially cleaned and perfumed place by ladies of unblemished character and reputation. It is cooked all night and in the early hours of the morning it is laid in a room where no man can see it, and it is partaken of by seven, fourteen, or twenty-one girls, and ladies. Unmarried girls, married women and widows can partake of it, but no woman who has been married more than once can touch this consecrated food. As I said before, this is a completely un-Islamic attitude as Islam enjoins a widow's remarriage and no odium whatsoever is attached to it; but this custom, as I have shown, originated in the pique of a Hindu queen, and to this day is carried out in the same way as she planned it.

But the koondas somehow seem to have taken the fancy of the ladies, and they have thought out many more instances when koondas can be held. Now there are at least half a dozen different occasions and kinds of koondas, dedicated to different saintly persons. For the long life and success of a boy, a koonda is dedicated to Hazrat Ali.

Here again food is prepared elaborately by the ladies, but is served and eaten by men. Then there are the koondas held on the twenty-second of Rajab. Anyone at any time can decide to have a koonda; all that is needed is that the ceremony be dedicated to the memory of some holy person; that the food should be cooked with a great deal of elaboration, and that it should be eaten at the place where it has been cooked. The most popular koonda is the one held on the twenty-second of Rajab and dedicated to Imam Jafar Sadiq. For this kheer (rice pudding of a sort) and little flour cakes (puris) are cooked. These are then served in large earthen bowls (koondas) and eaten at the place of their cooking.

Koondas mean so much preparation and modern life is so hustled that fewer and fewer people care to undertake it now.

BOOK NAME: CEREMONIES CUSTOMS AND COLOUR – BEHIND THE VEIL
AUTHOR: SHAISTA SUHRAWARDY IKRAMULLAH

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Picture: Habib Tanvir

As the man who brought the popular and the demotic into modern Indian theatre, Habib Tanvir was one of Asia’s most important and gifted theatre directors. In these memoirs, touching on both the private and the public aspects of his life with startling candour, he takes us on a journey from his childhood in Raipur to the Bombay film world of the 1940s and thence to Indian People’s Theatre Association, offering an invaluable window into twentieth-century India.

ZULFIQAR SHAH BUKHARI SAHEB

Zulfiqar Shah Bukhari Saheb, the station director of [All-India] Radio Bombay, was a very carefree man. He never gave any thought to a person’s status when meeting them. He would visit the highest drawing rooms, he hosted members of high-class society in his own drawing room, but he could speak freely and intimately with the lowliest of people. He would wander all over the city in search of good artistes and he was always accompanied by a gang of young writers and artistes. He would sit with them at hotels, have chai and exchange gossip. He was a very witty talker, would sing Punjabi folk songs and knew thousands of verses by Mir, Ghalib and Anis. When I was working at Tahir Saheb’s SOHO House one day, I bumped into him at an Irani restaurant where I was sitting with friends. When he saw me he left his chair and came to me and said, ‘You have a good voice, your accent shows a good upbringing, the scales in which you talk show some sophistication-you should be in broadcasting) Why are you stuck with Tahir Saheb? Come and meet me in the studio tomorrow, I will have a word with Tahir.’

The parties at Bukhari Saheb’s house revolved around different sets. One consisted of the princely rulers and nobility, one revolved around people from the film world and musicians, and there was one set consisting of writers, poets and intellectuals. The ruler of Baroda, the Maharaja of Patiala and Nawab of Sacheen frequently came to the parties. The Nawab of Sacheen spoke both English and Urdu fluently. Or perhaps this was due to the influence of his first wife, Alima, who was a lover of poetry. Alima was from Chalib’s clan and used to speak the pure Dehlavi language. She was very good-looking, well proportioned, of wheatish complexion, and had a very charismatic personality. She was not only extremely intelligent and well-read but was also informal and mixed easily. No one knows why the Nawab Saheb felt the need to have a second wife.

I never looked at Bukhari Saheb’s daughters with anything but modesty. They too never showed any other intention and even Bukhari Saheb never hinted that he was thinking of me as a potential son-in-law.

‘What is this you are wearing?’ Bukhari Saheb said, ‘Get up and come with me,’ and took me straight to the shop of Said Laffance. Laffance was the famous English tailor of Bombay. He used to be very smartly dressed. Without even asking me Bukhari Saheb asked him to cut a beige suit piece. I said softly, ‘The cloth is far too good,’ but he paid no attention to me, he was always in such a hurry, and moved ahead and selected a green silk piece for the shirt and a matching necktie. With the same speed he bought me a pair of suede shoes and socks. Meanwhile, the tailor was done with the measurements. He asked him the trial date and left the shop. The shop was located at Flora Fountain, the car was on the other side of the road. He almost ran across to the car while I was left behind. Then he said something which he had said to me a thousand times before that. ‘If you keep whiling time away on trivial matters, how will you have time left for the more important things?’ Bukhari Saheb used to rise early, have a cup of tea, rush to the bathroom, get ready in no time, gobble his breakfast and reach office before everyone else. I was always a slow mover and am still like that. I wake up leisurely, spend time over my cup of tea, read the newspaper on the pot for a long time, take time over my bath, linger over my breakfast, then enjoy my cigarette for five to seven minutes and only then am I ready to start work. Bukhari Saheb had witnessed this and had repeated this cliché several times: ‘Look, there are only twenty-four hours in a day. If you spend so much time grooming yourself and in getting ready, how will you be able to achieve big things?’ I had given thought to the admonition but my routine has not changed to this day. How could I explain to him that the time he regards as being wasted is extremely important to me? During that time, whether I am in the bathroom or smoking a cigarette, I am filling myself up creatively and a lot of work gets done. As for composing poetry, that requires months of leisure. But Bukhari Saheb had already reached the stage mentioned by Ghalib:

Ji dhoondhta hai phir wahi forsat ke mat din

In 1947 Inqilab published the famous speech of Maulana Abul Kalam Azad, which he had delivered on the steps of the Jama Masjid and in which he had addressed the Muslims of Delhi who had been deeply ravaged by Partition. ‘Remember, it was only yesterday that your caravan had descended on the banks of the Jamna. The minarets of this historic mosque offer their obeisance to you. This is your legacy. Do not avert your gaze from it, do not be afraid. Come, let us take a vow that this is our land, and any decision about its future will remain inconclusive without our assent …’ Maulana was a master of the spoken and the written word but this address, apart from its literary merit, was so stirring for its political relevance that it became etched in my heart. I was sitting in the Inqilab office when I read it and I immediately made dozens of carbon copies of the address, sent one copy home and the rest to Madani and other friends and acquaintances.

It was the time of Partition. Riots and massacres were raging everywhere. All around the Inqilab office, from Mohammed Ali Road and Bhendi Bazaar to Parel, panic reigned everywhere. There were some killings also, not at the scale at which they took place in Delhi but there were some. People were running from Nagpur to Hyderabad and from Hyderabad to Karachi anyhow they could. There was pandemonium, paranoia and uncertainty in everyone’s mind. I was personally opposed to going to Pakistan, which is why I had sent copies of Maulana’s address to everyone at home. All my uncles and most of their extended families had already left for Pakistan. My father was pressurizing me to do the same, saying there was no future left for Muslims in India. At the same time Bukhari Saheb dispatched a letter to my father saying, ‘This young man insists on staying in India. Please put some sense into him. I will get him a good job there, and if he does not want to live in Karachi then I can get him posted to the New York branch of Radio Pakistan, which we are about to launch, and he will get a great salary there: He also referred to his Peshawari origins to appeal to my father’s sense of nativity. He was trying to break my resolve through my father.

My father had left Peshawar as a youngster and never returned. Obviously, Bukhari Saheb’s letter must have evoked a wave of nostalgia so he wrote to him saying, ‘I will make Habib see reason when he comes home: When I reached Raipur my mother, sisters, father, everyone began to bulldoze me about going to Pakistan. ‘Look, Abdur Rashid’s entire family has left, most of our relatives, friends, acquaintances have gone, what will we do if we stay back?’ It was true. Most Muslims of the city had fled, some had sold off their houses and property at throwaway rates, some had simply abandoned their gardens and plots, some had handed over their houses to their relatives and left. Bade Babu, Terhe Sir, Hamida Aapa, Sanjida, Zakia Aapa, Qureisha Aapa, Riyaz Bhaiyya, Niyaz Bhaiyya, Siraj Bhaiyya, the whole lot was missing. Of that big and flourishing khaandaan, only a handful of people were left. Otherwise, there was just desolation. I was exceedingly fond of travel and Sightseeing, then there was the lure of New York, the salary Bukhari Saheb had quoted-his offer was beyond my wildest dreams-but in spite of everything I did not like the notion of Pakistan. I felt that the country’s partition had been wrong. The orbit of my patriotism extended from the country to the city, from the city to the mohalia, from the mohalla to the house, from the house to the aangan, and from the aangan to that corner where my naal, my umbilical cord, was buried. I refused to leave the country. Fortunately, my voice carried some weight in the family. My opinion had been sought earlier in matters of a match for my sisters or when it came to buying clothes; even as a child I was the one who bought the groceries, meat, vegetables for the house. I was trusted in matters of money and even from the time I was young my father had not taken any major decisions without consulting me. So, on this issue, my views prevailed. We stayed here. None among my parents or siblings went to Pakistan.

BOOK NAME: HABIB TANVIR MEMOIRS
AUTHOR: HABIB TANVIR

Picture: Punjab Regiment Insignia

This is the story of the 1st Punjab Regiment from its birth in 1759 to the present time. The Regiment, under many different names, but always in direct descent from its original forebears, served the Honourable East India Company for the first hundred years of its life and then, in succession, one Queen and four Kings of England, the last of whom, King George VI, recognized its long and loyal service by becoming its Colonel-in-Chief. For nearly two hundred years the battalions of the Regiment served the British and fought in their wars faithfully and well, not only in India but also in many countries overseas. It was senior in service of all the Corps and units of the old British-Indian Army. In 1947, keeping its name, badges, distinctions and traditions, it became part of the Army of the new and sovereign state of Pakistan.

A regimental history is usually read by relatively few, but this particular story, covering as it does nearly the whole period of the British connection with India, can be of interest to the general reader. It is, moreover, the very stuff of which wars are made and from which spring victory or disaster. However brilliant the strategy and however deft the tactics of the higher command, it is, in the last resort, the regimental officer and the common soldier who decide the issue. They knowing little and caring less of higher problems, concentrate on the task assigned to them, however small and seemingly obscure it may be. It is on their determination to achieve their object and on their steadfastness that success depends. It is of war as seen from their viewpoint that this book tries to tell.

NORTH-WEST FRONTIER PROVINCE

On the outbreak of the Great War the Government of India had to decide upon the number of troops that could be spared for overseas theatres and those required for watch and ward on the North-West Frontier. The 2nd Rawalpindi Division, located at Rawalpindi, of which the 84th Punjabis formed part, was selected for the latter role. This, combined with the fact that the two battalions, the 62nd (1/1st) and the 66th (2/1st) Punjabis, with which the 84th was linked, were mobilized very early in the war, dashed any hopes the Battalion had of being sent overseas as a complete unit in the early days of the war. With the mobilization of its linked battalions, recruitment to the Battalion was made unlimited, and on December 31st, 1914, its strength stood at 16 Indian officers, 1,035 other ranks and 314 recruits. Excited by the entry of Turkey into the war, encouraged by the preaching to prepare for jihad (religious war) and egged on by the Turkish emissaries working incessantly amongst the tribes to foment a general rising, the tribal lashkars (concentrations) began to show signs of excitement, and in December, 1914, the Rawalpindi Division was moved at very short notice to Waziristan. The Battalion was in camp when it received orders to return to Rawalpindi. The twenty-eight mile march was done in a day, and the Battalion was in Bannu by December 4th, 1914.

The 84th remained on the North-West Frontier until March 23rd, 1917, except for an interlude from May to August, 1915, at Rawalpindi. On the whole, the situation on the North-West Frontier remained remarkably quiet during the First World War. This was mainly because of the Government's policy of avoiding any unnecessary complications with the tribes.
It was against the Mahsuds only that operations on an important scale had to be undertaken. The area around Miramshah was the principal target of their activities. They interfered with road-making, raided convoys, sniped columns and surrounded militia posts. They were greatly encouraged in these activities by the inroads of lashkars from across the Afghanistan border.

Throughout the six months after its arrival in Bannu, the 84th was continually engaged in operations against the Mahsuds and the invading tribesmen from across the Frontier. In December, 1914, it formed part of the road-making column and was complimented for its work by Major-General Townshend, the Brigade Commander, later Commander of the Garrison of K*t al Amara. In March, 1915, the Battalion formed part of a column under Brigadier-General Fane and successfully drove a lashkar of 10,000 Zadrans and other Khost tribes, who had crossed the frontier and advanced to surround the Miramshah post, across the Durand Line-the international frontier. When the 84th left for Rawalpindi on May 11th, Brigadier-General Fane said in a farewell message:

The G.O.C., in bidding good-bye to the 84th Punjabis on leaving the Brigade, thanks Lieutenant-General W. R. Walker, all British and Indian officers, non-commissioned officers and men for the good work they have always done whilst in Bannu; work which has been tedious and hard, and has always been cheerfully performed. The G.O.C. wishes all ranks the best of luck and would be proud to have them under his command at any time.

The second tour of duty on the Frontier was in the Mohmand territory, whither the Battalion was sent in August, 1915. Shortly before this move, a detachment of 200 rifles was sent to Oghi on the Black Mountain border. This detachment, under Major Lloyd, did not rejoin the Battalion until its arrival at Fort Sandeman on November 10th, 1915.

The Mohmands had commenced raiding across the administrative border soon after the declaration of war. They suffered heavily in their encounters with the troops, and remained quiet for some time. But in August, 1915, they were again in an aggressive mood, their centre of activity being the area round Shabkadar and Hafiz Khor. The Mohmands made full use of the tribal ability to concentrate and disperse quickly, and gave the troops some anxious moments. Rumours of impending attacks were frequent and continuous and the Battalion moved from one threatened place to another, preparing and constructing camps and defences on the barren and rocky plains and hills in the scorching heat of summer. During September and October it occupied six camps in the Shabkadar area. During this period, the Battalion also participated in two offensive actions. It formed part of a column which, on September 5th, drove the tribesmen from a range of hills three miles from Shabkadar. It had one man wounded and one machine-gun mule killed. On October 7th, a fresh concentration of 5,000 tribesmen was reported in Hafiz Khor, and on the 8th the Brigade Column moved out once again. On this day, "C" Company, commanded by Subedar Habib Shah, distinguished itself by withstanding many efforts of the tribesmen to snipe and rush the gun crews of the mountain artillery which it was protecting. The tribesmen dispersed by the afternoon and the column returned to Shabkadar.

Towards the end of October, the 84th returned to Rawalpindi and then moved to Fort Sandeman in Baluchistan, where it arrived on November 9th, 1915, and remained until it left for Mesopotamia in March, 1917.

Although the unit did not go overseas until late in the war, it sent reinforcements to many units already serving overseas, and these officers and men took part in many battles fought in the various theatres of war. From the outbreak of the war till March, 1917, the 84th furnished reinforcements of 10 British officers, 16 Indian officers, 1,187 rank and file and 25 followers. The largest number went to the linked battalion, the 62nd Punjabis (1/1st), because of the heavy casualties suffered by it in Mesopotamia in 1916. The strengths of the major drafts supplied to various units were: 2 British officers, 7 Indian officers and 326 other ranks to the 129th Baluchis; 26 other ranks to the 57th Rifles (F.F.) ; 1 British officer, 1 Indian officer and 100 men to the 22nd Punjabis; 2 British officers, 2 Indian officers and 462 other ranks to the 62nd Punjabis (1/1st); 2 Indian officers and 155 men to the 92nd Punjabis ; and 2 Indian officers and 25 men to the 57th Camel Corps.

The 84th Punjabis thus well-deserved this compliment of the Commander-in-Chief:

With a wide conception of the true situation, which necessarily entails sacrifices by individual units for the good of the whole army, this Battalion had readily given its best, notwithstanding the fact that by so doing it was possibly lessening for a period its own efficiency.

The officers and men upheld the great traditions of the 84th, Major G. M. Morris served with the 129th Baluchis and in 1916 joined the 62nd Punjabis (1/1st), which he later commanded in front of K*tal Amara before being appointed to the command of a brigade. Captain F. F. Hodgson died of wounds received in France in 1915. Lieutenant-Colonel Harrington, who was transferred to command the 62nd Punjabis (1/1st) in 1916, and Lieutenant C. R. Prendergast, who joined the 28th Punjabis, were both killed in action. Captain E. L. D. Fordyce died in Assam in December, 1916, while serving with the Naga Hill Police Battalion. Captain P. T. Blanford, who went to the Malay States Guides, won the M.C. for his gallantry.

Of the Indian officers sent to other units, Jemadar Karam Dad Khan was killed, while Subedars Shah Nawaz Khan, Ram Singh and Dasaunda Singh, and Jemadars Rahim Dad Khan, Sundar Ali, Dittu Khan, Abdul Khan and Munshi Singh were wounded, the last named subsequently dying of his wounds. Subedar Firoz Khan was awarded the I.D.S.M. for gallantry in Somaliland in 1915 while serving with the King's African Rifles.

Of the rank and file sent as reinforcements, 28 were killed, 248 wounded and 6 became prisoners of war.

Towards the end of 1916, all reinforcements sent to other units in the field were transferred to the 62nd Punjabis (1/1st), except those with the 129th Baluchis in East Africa, who rejoined the Battalion at Rawalpindi.

BOOK NAME: HISTORY OF THE FIRST PUNJAB REGIMENT
AUTHOR: MAJOR MOHAMMED IBRAHIM QURESHI

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Picture: Reza Shah Pahlavi & Farah Pahlavi

“Remember its flight
The bird is mortal”
—Forough Farrokhzad

Her story began like a fairy tale. At the age of twenty-one, Farah Diba married the Shah of Iran, Mohammed Reza Shah Pahlavi. In a matter of days, her quiet life was turned upside down: her coronation as the empress of Iran was covered in the world’s press, and overnight she became an international celebrity. A loving marriage, the raising of four children, and a devotion to social and cultural causes marked her early years as queen.

FARAH DIBA TO FARAH PAHLAVI — WEDDING
We all awoke at the crack of dawn on the morning of 21st December I959. My wedding was to be celebrated in the early afternoon and, for that last night, I had gone back to my uncle’s house to be with my family. The dress designed by Yves Saint Laurent was there on the hanger but, before putting it on, I had to put myself into the expert hands of the Carita sisters, who had come specially from Paris to do my hair. They seemed even more excited and nervous than I was, and so I set about reassuring them, which brought a little laughter. It would be a long, emotional day, and I wanted everyone to enjoy it.

The tiara was delivered after breakfast. As the crown jewels are the property of the state and guarantee the currency, they very rarely leave the vaults of the Central Bank of Iran. The authorization has to be countersigned by several people, including the Minister of Finance. I was to wear a tiara made from the Crown Jewels of Iran designed by Harry Winston. It was incredibly beautiful, but this priceless object had the disadvantage of weighing nearly two kilos.

That gives some idea of the challenge faced by my hair-dressers: to set this marvel on a head unaccustomed to performing balancing acts, and even less to staying still. The task was all the more difficult as I had to wear the tiara until evening, travel several miles in a car, go up and down stairs, walk, smile, greet people. … They worked for three full hours, and I don’t think they really breathed easily until the next morning when they learned that nothing dreadful had happened.

As I put on my dress embroidered with Persian motifs in silver thread, sequins and pearls (imitation, of course), I had a kind thought for the dressmakers at the House of Dior in Paris. They had wished me all the happiness in the world, and I know that they had sewn one hem with blue so that the good fairies would at last give the king the son he so desired.

At last, at the appropriate time, Princess Shahnaz, whose affection had been so invaluable in those last weeks, Prime Minister Manouchehr Eghbal, and Minister of Court Hossein Ala arrived to take me to the king. The religious service was to be celebrated at the Marble Palace right in the heart of Tehran, and so we had a long way to travel from the wooded slopes of Shemiran.

The king was waiting for me at the top of the grand staircase of the Marble Palace, standing very straight and tall in his ceremonial uniform. As soon as I got out of the car, six little girls dressed in white with coronets of flowers fell in behind me, but one page-boy, my little cousin Ahmad Hossein, went before us strewing petals on the steps. I don’t know who felt more emotion-the king or I. Our marriage would be celebrated in a few moments, and it was only then that I realized I had no ring for him! No one had thought of it, least of all me, but it is the bride who should bring the ring. Ardeshir Zahedi, the king’s son-in-law, came to the rescue by giving me his, which a few moments later I put on my husband’s finger. A few days later I gave him a wedding ring, and since his death I wear both our wedding rings on the same finger.

Only our families and a few members of the government had been invited. We wanted it to be an intimate ceremony, as is usually the case in Iran for religious weddings. According to custom, all the symbols of a fruitful, happy marriage had been laid on a carpet: a mirror and candles for light, bread for plenty, incense to ward off evil, candy for the sweetness of life, and of course the Koran. The Imam Jome of Tehran recited the verses that precede the union of two people. Then, raising his eyes, he asked me solemnly if I would take the man by my side to be my husband. Contrary to the tradition which requires the fiancée to be persuaded and not to agree until the third time she is asked, this time the Imam did not have to wait: I answered yes immediately with a spirit and joy that raised smiles and murmurs around us.

When I saw the photos of the ceremony with all its moving moments, I felt slightly disappointed. Because of my train, I could not sit in an armchair like the king, and so I had been put on a stool, which made me half a head taller than my husband. There had not been a single person, among all those protocol people so experienced in what is proper and elegant, who had thought that it would have been more fitting, and also more harmonious, to have the sovereign at least on the same level as his wife. After a short moment’s respite with the family, we went on to the sumptuous old Golestan Palace—the former residence of the Qajar kings now used only for ceremonial occasions-where more than a thousand guests were waiting for us. I went through this magical reception in a haze, so my memory of it is dazzling but vague. All the faces around us seemed to share our happiness, whether they were close friends and relatives or officials.

Twenty years later the dream had turned into a nightmare: demonstrations and riots shook the country, and Farah and the Shah decided to leave. Seriously ill, the exiled Shah would never again see his home. Together they sought refuge in Morocco, the Bahamas, Mexico and Panama—hiding out in a New York hospital while the Shah received treatment—until they were finally given shelter by Egyptian President Anwar al-Sadat.

The wife of the Egyptian president, Jehan Sadat, described the incident in her memoirs:

“Jehan, our situation is desperate,” Farah phoned me from Panama in March of I980. “My husband’s cancer has spread to his spleen and if he does not have an operation immediately, he will die. But I cannot trust anyone here.”

‘‘Why, Farah, why?” I asked. She sounded close to tears. “It is difficult to explain over the phone,” she said, letting me know that her telephone was bugged. “But we must leave Panama immediately. There are ominous reports.” I knew right away what she was referring to, for I too had heard rumors that Panama might be bargaining with Tehran to return the Shah to Iran and to certain death.

“But what about the Shah’s operation, Farah?” I asked her. “Oh, Jehan, I don’t know what to do. I must get him out of this hospital.” I knew exactly what Farah couldn’t say, though I didn’t want to believe it.

“Can you not get American doctors there to perform the operation?” I asked her. ‘The government of Panama has refused them permission,” she said, her voice breaking.

“Surely the U.S. government can intercede on your behalf,” I said. ‘The U.S. government?” Farah said bitterly. ‘‘We have had enough of their help to last a lifetime.”

Tears came to my own eyes as I listened to her. Her voice, once so strong, was now strained, her former confidence broken. How cruel the last fourteen months had been for the Shah and Farah.

I contacted Anwar Sadat at his office, telling him the gravity of the situation. “I have just told Farah that she and the Shah should come immediately to Egypt,” I said ‘‘Was I wrong?”

‘There is no question, Jehan,” he said. ‘Tell Farah I will send the presidential plane for them immediately.” “You are sure? You know there will be trouble,” I said to him. But he was sure. “It will please God,” he said. Farah could not believe it when I called her with the good news.

‘‘You will allow the American doctors to operate?” she asked disbelievingly. ‘‘You are sure?” She had been afraid for so long that she did not know whom to trust. ‘‘Yes, Farah, yes,” I said to her again and again.

The Shah died on 27th July I980 at Cairo Hospital. The funeral took place on 29th July I980, two days after the king’s death. His body lay in Abdin Palace.

“Of all the kings, heads of state, and foreign dignitaries who had known my husband over the thirty years of his reign, none came to Cairo to pay their last respects—none.

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BOOK NAME: AN ENDURING LOVE – FARAH PAHLAVI A MEMOIR
AUTHOR: FARAH PAHLAVI