Poet Emperor of the last of the Moghuls

by Farzana Moon

  “You have not ceased to mourn the death of Prince Dara Bakht, Zil-e-Subhani, it is obvious.” Mahbub Ali Khan commented aloud. “I can tell by the light of sadness in your eyes. Though, today is the auspicious day of your wedding.”

  “The happiest in my long life of struggles, ringed by the noose of deaths, tragedies and invasions.” Bahadur Shah Zafar smiled wistfully. “As to my lost Prince, yes, he has been in my thoughts lately. The same year Ranjit Singh died and the war in Afghanistan commenced. A year before that Herat was invaded and a year after Ranjit Singh’s death Kabul was suffering the pangs of invasion. Russia and Britain fighting for supremacy in the land of the Moghuls, or to be precise I should say, in the land of the Hindus. How did it all start I don’t seem to remember? Can’t remember much these days, anyway. Refresh my memory, Mahbub, so I know where things stand.”

  “A sort of stalemate, Zil-e-Subhani, yet the map of Hindustan is dyed with the blood of the Afghans.” Mahbub Ali Khan began rather histrionically. “Ranjit Singh, may God bless his soul, was reluctant to a tripartite alliance with the British, but did agree to one alliance urged by the British to ousted Dos Muhammad and to secure the throne for the exiled Shah Shuja. Even the emirs of Sindh were forced to sign a treaty to help put Shah Shuja on the throne, practically losing their independence. Twenty thousand troops by the orders of Lord Aukland marched to Afghanistan. After a great fight and countless casualties Shah Shuja was installed on the throne. Dost Muhammad surrendered and was exiled to Calcutta. Apparently Shah Shuja rules, but everyone knows Afghanistan is being governed by William Machaghten. Ghazni and Kabul were captured too, but then Ranjit Singh died suddenly, the rest you know, Zil-e-Subhani.”

  “Yes. Kabul, Jerusalem of the Moghuls, ravaged and plundered.” Bahadur Shah Zafar half lamented, half reminisced. “Ranjit Singh, poor soul, may God grant him heaven as his eternal abode. He did like Shah Shuja I believe, but extracted Koh-i-Noor diamond from him as a price for protecting his life and interests.”

  “Shah Shuja is not going to last long, Zil-e-Subhani.” Zauq prophesied, edging closer to the throne and curtsying. “When British Army entered Kandahar, bringing back exiled Shah Shuja, he was confronted with icy indifference by the citizens of Kandahar. Rumor has it that most of the time Shah Shuja sits idle, watching through telescope the wives and daughters of Kabulis who happen to enjoy fresh air on the flat roofs of their homes. And if he likes any of them, he summons them to his presence.”

  “Ah, my venerable court poet prophesies, besides indulging in canards!” Bahadur Shah Zafar declared with a sudden whiff of cheerfulness. “Since Shah Nasir has left Delhi, rather abandoned me, you would guide me in realms of poetry and I would become your disciple.”

  “You are our spiritual guide, Zil-e-Subhani. You yourself are greatly accomplished in writing Ghazals than any of the poets in your court. I myself would be your slave if you but permit me this great honor?” Zauq sang beamishly, his eyes shining with gratitude.

  “First and foremost we are enslaved by foreign invaders.” Ghalib breathed disdain. Envy cutting through his heart like sharp knives since he deemed himself better poet than Zauq. “Zil-e-Subhani, the corpse-strewn gorges of River Kabul tell many tales of wars and tragedies. British troops are comprised mainly of Indian soldiers as we all refer them as sepoys and sowars. And they are the ones dying for killing Indians, a paradox most horrifying. Sepoys dying in droves while the casualties on British side are only a handful.”

  “Can the pen of a poet mitigate the sting of those tragedies?” Bahadur Shah Zafar challenged.

  “Half of those reports are not true, Zil-e-Subhani, and the other half exaggerated.” Captain Fane took the liberty of defending his countrymen before Ghalib could respond.

  “Even half the tragedies in this world taint the minds and hearts of countless millions than millions of lies multiplying every blink of an eye. And exaggeration, paradoxically, tempts all to dig deep into the roots of the truth.” Bahadur Shah Zafar chided. “William Machaghten thinks that he can win Afghanis over with money, but he is entirely mistaken in this respect for Afghanis are a proud and chivalrous race. The reports are confirmed that after conquering Kabul William Machaghten offered Dost Muhammad’s brother Jubba Khan ten thousand pounds worth of jagir if he would leave Afghanistan and would move to India as an exile. Jubba Khan was incensed by this offer, telling William Machaghten that he felt so insulted that he would spare his brother the shaft of such an insult by not even mentioning this offer to him.”

  “William Machaghten is inexperienced, Zil-e-Subhani, and is still in the initial stages of learning.” Captain Fane chuckled to conceal his embarrassment. “Muslims should be more wary of Wahhabis than the British, Zil-e-Subhani. Are Wahhabis not the ones who desecrated the tomb of Prophet Muhammad in Medina?”

  “That was thirty-six years ago. How did you know?” Bahadur Shah Zafar was impressed and fascinated.

  “Because I am studying Wahhabi religion, Zil-e-Subhani.” Captain Fane boasted proudly. “Besides, they are filtering in into Hindustan and preaching hatred and intolerance. Well, Shah Waliullah of Delhi and Al-Wahhab of Nejd were contemporaries. Both studied in Medina before returning to their native countries to implement radical thoughts.”

  Bahadur Shah II enthroned with Mirza Fakhruddin. Opaque watercolor, ink, and gold on paper H. 12 3/16 × W. 14 3/8 in. (31 × 36.5 cm) The Art and History Collection Courtesy of Arthur M. Sackler Gallery, Smithsonian Institution, Washington, D.C., LTS1995.

  “That is correct, Zil-e-Subhani.” Ahsanullah Khan couldn’t stay behind to flaunt his own knowledge of Wahhabism. “Almost nine years ago a Wahhabi by the name of Syed Ahmed started teaching in Bengal the cult of war and hatred. He and his followers were noticed by Hindu and Muslim neighbors by their long beards and plain dress, their women completely veiled in a long shroud called burqa. Syed Ahmed incited five hundred men equipped with clubs to attack a village in the name of Jihad. They killed a Brahmin priest, cut the throats of two cows and dragged them bleeding through a Hindu temple.”

  “The same Syed Ahmed who died fighting Sikhs in the village of Balakot? The same one, upon whose death Ranjit Singh fired gun salutes from every fort while ordering that the whole city of Amritsar to be lit up for celebration.” Bahadur Shah Zafar reminisced aloud. “I recall snippets of conversations in my father’s court about Syed Ahmed, how he was distorting Islamic laws, and preaching self-made laws of hatred and intolerance. The most hated of his laws is to declare war on so-called infidels, not even knowing that he himself is an infidel if there is such a thing as being infidel. Deviating from the precepts of Islam where war is forbidden, permitted only in self-defense, or when all negotiations of peace-treaty are foiled. With his death, hopefully Wahhabi cult would be finished and forgotten.”

  “Not likely, Zil-e-Subhani.” Ahsanullah Khan pumped his quivers of Knowledge to fullness. “Wahhabi cult is flourishing afresh more than ever before since the disciples of Syed Ahmed are successful in circulating false statements that he was not killed. Weaving a web of sanctity around his disappearance that he didn’t die, but was lifted up to the heavens. Ascribing saintly virtues to him and saying that Syed Ahmed himself foretold of his disappearance. He is well and alive, his disciples claim, hiding in a cave in the Buner Mountains. He disappeared because God was displeased by the faint-hearted response of the Indian Muslims to his—Imam’s call. When his followers would prove their faith by uniting once more to renew their vow of Jihad he would return and would lead the men to victory against the unbelievers.”

  “Lies grand and fantastic. Those would-be martyrs would be the downfall of Islam.” Bahadur Shah murmured sadly.

  “May I add, Zile-e-Subhani, that the death-wish mentality of the Wahhabis has exalted the status of martyr as the ultimate goal of every Jihadi. Of course with the great gift of temptation—Paradise.” Captain Fane couldn’t resist his temptation to expose the fanaticism of the Wahhabis.

  “You have succeeded, Fane, in
distracting king’s attention from the feast of poetry.” Bahadur Shah Zafar eased himself up from his throne thoughtfully. “No more talk of Wahhabis. I must commune with my poets in Roshanara Garden.” He dismounted the throne slowly. “Sad, passing sad that your Company is setting its own standards of fanaticism, dictated by greed, discourtesy and heedlessness. The customary gifts to me are altogether stopped, though revenues from our states that the Company collects are doubled.”

  “You didn’t accept the terms, Zil-e-Subhani, suggested by the Company, which caused the cessation of gifts.” Captain Fane stood there flustered and embarrassed.

  “Those crafty terms with the reek of arrogance, demanding that the king abandon all his rights and renounce all claims on his sovereignty!” Bahadur Shah Zafar exclaimed with a sudden burst of passion. “My father didn’t accept those terms and I honor his decision as my own now that I am the king, though emperor no more. Remind your rulers or schemers, Fane, that my ancestors ruled supreme in India. And now I as their progeny are compelled to subsist on a dependent existence, exposed to penury with inadequate means even to maintain the dignity of a nominal sovereignty. The main income of your Company comes from taxes they impose on the revenues from the states they themselves collect, labeling it euphemistically Pax Britannica, which is nothing but tax Britannica.” He strolled through the files of his courtiers, acknowledging their curtsies silently, his look distant and unseeing.

  The afternoon sun was lowering confetti of gold over the royal procession as Bahadur Shah Zafar with his poets and courtiers promenaded down the gravel path toward the garden. In the distance he could see the pavilions decked with friezes and colorful pennants where poetry session was to be held in honor of his pre-wedding celebrations. After breakfast he had decided to visit the royal stables to commune with his favorite horse Hamdam. Also, commanding his mahout to bring his elephant Maula Bakhsh so that he could share his joy with the pet royalty that the king was getting married this very evening. Now that the stables were left behind and waterfalls edged with roses coming into view, Bahadur Shah Zafar’s heart was longing for the feast of poetry and profundity. Marble terraces and fountains gurgling not too far were claiming his attention, but his steps were guiding him toward the garlanded pavilion under which Persian carpets and brocaded pillows awaited the royal occupants to unleash their talents of poesy and inspiration.

  Sawan Pavilion was coming alive with gems of poetry from the lips of the poets as Bahadur Shah Zafar made himself comfortable on his makeshift throne of gold and brocade. A tall candle was being passed from poet to poet for recitation or impromptu versification. It was now placed in front of the youngest poet by the name of Mustafa Khan Shefta who began to recite ecstatically.

  “Indian soil is a luxury laved

  Even the pious indulge unfazed

  The mystics grow wild with wine

  Those on vigil sleep till day

  Not to talk of drinkers merry, even the priestly class

  Partake of sensuous feasts, amorous games play

  In this world of gay abandon

  Who will think of the Judgment Day

  The poor are daring like Farhad

  The beggars live in royal grace

  Joy here has come to stay

  All grief has fled the place

  Except of course, the grief of love

  Which gives delight, though irritates.”

  “Sweet wine of poetry! No wonder I have no taste for wine of the grape.” Bahadur Shah Zafar applauded, the rest cheering and applauding. “Your talent, Mustafa, would be shared by millions now that lithograph press has been introduced in Delhi. Pray, sing more of love and of Delhi. Poetry is the only treasure left in our court to boast of abundance.”

  “Your praise, Zil-e-Subhani, is my inspiration.” Mustafa Khan Shefta’s very eyes were spilling the wine of poetry.

  “My moon of love went back home as the morn arrived

  The sun tore my collar cloth with its talons bright

  Who has cast a sizzling glance on my love’s tender face

  Why with a rosy tint my teardrops are dyed

  Don’t compare the vale of Nejd to Delhi’s alleys wild

  Nejd was Majnun’s desert, Delhi is my wandering wild

  While he was beheading me he turned to me and said

  ‘That I can keep my word, you should now realize’

  He hasn’t even visited my home, nor graced my bier

  or grave

  None of my desires, alas, has ever fructified

  O my kind, consoling friend, how can it stay untorn

  Remember, it’s my collar slit, stitch it as much as you like

  If I don’t engage my thoughts with her coiling locks

  Who will then take care of me in this severance night.”

  “Sublime, sublime! My heart is breaking.” Bahadur Shah Zafar cheered amidst applause while the candle was placed before Momin.

  “Do not for God’s sake quit such a fine resort

  Let heaven go to hell, hug the beauties lane to heart

  The lovers know no cure for the ills of heart

  Abandon not the wails and sighs, though they profit not

  Why find a new beloved and restart the game of heart

  Alright, do no change, O love, retain your temper rash

  and hot

  Do not, O nightingale, leave your glade for the lane

  Where even the morning breeze cannot easily blow

  and waft

  The tavern is a wondrous heaven, Momin leave it not

  In this hell you can find houris blooming hot.”

  “Young stars are shining in my court today as if touched by the finger of God.” Bahadur Shah Zafar complimented generously.

  “I do feel the presence of God here today, Zil-e-Subhani.” Momin sang cheerfully, spilling an impromptu couplet.

  “I feel as if you are with me

  When company I have none.”

  A great applause and Zauq was claiming the candle of inspiration.

  “See how God bestows greatness on things small

  The pupil of the eye enfolds the sky big and vast

  Let heavens hurl a thousand bolts, I’ll not complain

  But save me God from the pain of parting, this will break

  my heart

  They’ll never say on their own, no more, thanks thee, Lord

  Never will they be content, the greedy human lot

  I am that captive who would fall into the trap again

  Even if the hunter kind liberates me from the bars

  If you want to see His sight without veil or mask

  Go get a clear view through the window of your heart”

  “Divine, divine!” Bahadur Shah Zafar exclaimed, a thunderous applause following. “I don’t drink, yet I am getting drunk without drinking.” His gaze was alighting on Ghalib who sat contemplating the candle before him with a smile almost caustic.

  “The world to me is a kindergarten where children sport

  and play

  A show goes on before me, be it night or day

  Solomon’s throne to me is a bauble commonplace

  The miracles of Christ are just a trivial tale

  The world to me is a mere phantom, without a solid core

  The worldly things are to me, mere illusive shades

  The desert hides itself in dust seeing me approach

  The river rubs its brow on earth, fallen prostrate

  Ask me not how I fared in your absence, Sweet

  Rather see, how you blossom before my eager gaze

  I am self-conscious, true, and self-adorning too

  Why not, when a mirror-like beauty stares me in the face

  Place a peg of wine before me, should you like to see

  The blossoming of my tongue, the flowering of my prate”

  “Ah, sublime, verses sublime.” Bahadur Shah Zafar clapped, signaling the informal mode of versification.

  Taking advantage of this sanction, Zauq was t
he first one to commence the art of bantering. Though patient and courteous, he genuinely disliked the style of Ghalib. The prime reason for his dislike besides others was that Ghalib deemed his poetic compositions much superior than from any of the court poets. So feeling a sudden prick of arrogance from Ghalib’s recitation, Zauq shot this teaser.

  “Keep yourself away, O Zauq, from the daughter of the Grape

  Taste it but once and you become its slave”

  “We are the connoisseurs of art and not Ghalib’s

  advocates

  Let’s see who can produce a marriage song of better grace.” Ghalib quipped promptly.

  “Those who flaunt their poetic claims, tell them to

  their face

  This is the true prothalmion, let them emulate.”

  Zauq flung this impromptu retaliation.

  “My intent is to convey what I truly feel

  And not to show my expertise in the poetic field

  I am true to my word, lies repel me deep

  God is my witness, truth is my creed.”

  Ghalib spilled his poetic genius with a haughty toss of his head.

  “Talent runs in rivulets of rivalry, it is becoming obvious.” Bahadur Shah Zafar chided. “Zauq, are you willing to take the challenge of Ghalib and construe a few lines in honor of this age and time, if not the paeans of our marriage?”

  “Your obedient slave, Zil-e-Subhani. Poetry to me is like breathing. Where does it come from and where does it go, I remain completely unaware.

  Gladdened by the happy news all the poets and bards

  Are engaged in singing paeans of their king and lord

  Let me also join the chorus, sing a song of praise

  That even she should sing encores, the painted nightingale

  What an auspicious day has dawned on earth today

  If crows and kites lay their eggs, phoenix will they deliver today

  Life-restoring is the news of your health restored