From the memoir: When Oscar Wilde’s daughter-in-law did ‘Oriental’ makeup for Qurratulain Hyder

Sir Harry Turner was president of the British Union of Journalists. He turned out to be an elderly gentleman of the same ilk as Mr Owen Jones. He spoke most compassionately. “The problem in London is that journalists have laid down a set of very stringent rules: people from the British Commonwealth cannot get employment here, because in the blink of an eye Fleet Street will be inundated with them. I hope you will appreciate my helplessness due to this constraint and agree to work for a provincial newspaper.”

“No, only Fleet Street!”

“Okay, so will you work for a women’s magazine?”

“No. I will report only for a national daily.”

Sir Harry was silent for two minutes, lost in thought. Then stretched his hand out for the telephone. Dialled the managing editor of The Daily Telegraph and engaged in a serious conversation with him for some time. Then turned to me and said, “I have just discussed your case. Owing to union rules you will not be paid a salary. You will work as a trainee reporter and as a token, you will get five pounds a week and taxi fare for the commute which your reporting will necessitate. Is that all right? Go there right now.”

I thanked this kind gentleman for his good offices, left his decrepit-looking workroom, rushed down the dimly-lit wooden staircase and went straight to the office of The Daily Telegraph, which was located a short distance away. The large clock on the building was showing 11.30 am

The managing editor said to me, “For the present, you will have to report for the women’s page of the newspaper. I have spoken to the editor, Miss Barnet.”

Amazing British efficiency! Several Englishwomen were working in the women’s page office on the third floor. Miss Barnet was an elderly woman who, with typical British reserve, exchanged a few comments matter-of-factly with me on the weather for two minutes, then said, “This is April and British women are going to put away their winter wear in preparation for spring. Write a note quickly about how to safeguard woollen clothing. Miss Griffith in the next room will give you the most recent information on mothballs, etcetera.”

Preservation of woollens and mothballs!

I went to the typewriter and began typing: “Oh! To be in England, now that spring is here –”

“… however, moths that feed on woollens thrive in spring… etcetera… etcetera…”

La haul vila quvat…

One day Miss Barnet asked me, “How do fashions change, and what kind of hats do women in your country wear in spring?”

I replied, “Women don’t wear hats in my country. They dress up their hair with flowers instead.”

“Great! Take the photographer and go with Gillian to a good store in Bond Street immediately, and get yourself photographed with flowers in your hair in front of a mirror. Then take another photograph with Gillian’s new hat, then come back and write a feature titled, ‘Spring Fashion in East and West’.”

That is exactly what I did. The day the article was published, along with the photographs, I thought: how will I face my friends? But it was too late. This faqir was drowning in the ‘women and fashion journalism’ of Fleet Street, while on the shore stood James Joyce and TS Eliot, watching and singing dirges!

Oscar Wilde’s son, Vyvyan Wilde, was given the surname “Holland” by his mother after his father’s disgrace and humiliation. Mr Holland’s wife had a very grand beauty parlour on Bond Street and she was the queen’s personal beautician. She would be doing the queen’s make-up on the morning of the coronation, so I went to the beauty parlour one morning and interviewed Mrs Holland. Zubaida and her husband, now Group Captain Allahadad (who was air attaché at Pakistan House) accompanied me. We went into the parlour. Zubaida looked around and said to me softly, “This Mrs Holland is the most expensive beautician in England. Only millionairesses, film stars and countesses can afford to come here. If only we had enough money to get ourselves made up once in a way!”

Allahadad advised, “Zubaida, learn to live within your means!” And to me he said, “We will finish our shopping. You conduct your interview.”

Mrs Holland came out, looked at me closely and said to Allahadad, “Come back after exactly two hours.”

We went into the lounge and she began telling me about Queen Elizabeth’s vanity case. The interview was over in half an hour and I was worried that I would have to wait for an hour and a half for Zubaida Allahadad. But Mrs Holland, who had returned to the beauty parlour, came out and said, “I want to do your make-up – free of cost, as a gift!” Saying so, for a full hour and a half, Oscar Wilde’s daughter-in-law executed her artistry on my face. Then, looking at her handiwork, she remarked, “This is a pure Oriental look!”

I looked in the mirror and a strange new face looked back at me – reddish-brown complexion, coal-black Japanese eyebrows and Siamese eyes; thick lips! I thanked Mrs Holland and she presented me with a large box tied with a pink ribbon, saying, “I have kept all the products of the brand of make-up that Her Majesty uses in this box for you, in keeping with your complexion.”

I thanked her once again, and bidding her goodbye I came out. Zubaida and Allahadad appeared in the main doorway at exactly the same time. Zubaida looked at me in utter astonishment. “What… what… has she done to you?”

I came out onto the road and said, “This is an Oriental look… What would you know about it?”

“And what is in this box?”

“Sacred objects! Don’t touch them. Her Majesty uses this brand of make-up!”

But as soon as we got into the car, Zubaida opened the box. All the make-up in it was a deep brown! Zubaida looked at my face closely and said, “You’re looking exactly like an African-Chinese puppet doll.”

“What sort of puppet doll is this?” asked Allahadad switching on the ignition and continued, “Zubaida, I told you, you should learn to live within your means.”

As part of the coronation ceremony, I had been invited to a special television programme that was produced for the Commonwealth – a mere two-and-a-half-minute speech. It was shot on a very Oriental set. Carpets from Bukhara adorned the walls, curtains from Kashmir, Omar Khayyam type surahis or long-necked wine decanters; Moorish arches – and Zubaida’s shimmering sari and sparkling jewels which embellished the Oriental “look”. In accordance with the director’s wish, as I was walking under the Moorish arches towards the camera, a question flashed in my mind: What am I doing here and what is all this about? Sometimes, the most relevant questions come to you on the most unexpected occasions.

“What are we doing here?” I asked Taqi Mian the following evening, as we were walking past Pall Mall where two-tiered stands were being erected for onlookers. Taqi Mian and I were walking here and there in order to broadcast eye-witness accounts of preparations for the coronation, for the BBC Urdu Service. Buckingham Palace loomed under the fog. Behind the trees one could hear the bagpipes of the Highlanders. The Commonwealth nations had sent regiments of their armies to participate in the coronation parade. The grand Pakistani regiment of handsome young Punjabi jawans marched in front of us.

“Taqi Mian, can you tell me why these people… in fact, why all of us, are present here?”

“Sir Syed Ahmad Khan…,” Taqi Mian began.

“Fine… Sir Syed Ahmad Khan would have driven through this gate on a buggy and gone in to meet Queen Victoria. Thereafter, MAO College was established and then we studied English. Pakistan, which like India, is part of the Commonwealth, came into being and the regiments of both countries are here to participate in the coronation. Just imagine, what will Sir Syed’s spirit feel about all this if it chances upon this scene?” I demanded.

“It will probably feel quite happy,” replied Taqi Mian.

“Would Sir Syed have approved of the Partition?”

“Perhaps – or certainly – once I complete my research, I will come to a definitive conclusion. That reminds me – Pandit Nehru is also coming for the coronation.”

“Which reminds me,” I repeated and looked at my watch, “I must go to Shakuntala’s. She called yesterday to say that she’s not well.”

I wished Taqi Mian goodnight and walked towards Knightsbridge from Pall Mall.

Excerpted with permission from A Tilt in Time, Partition and Pakistan: A Mid-century Memoir, Qurratulain Hyder, translated from the Urdu by Fatima Rizvi, Women Unlimited Ink.