by Farzana Moon
Even the dead would come to life with its healing force
Your life, O lord, is linked with the life of the populace
It’s a fount of drink immortal, ah, your royal grace
From the drops that slip and fall when you wash and bathe
Precious pearls are seen to form, pearls in their shine and shape
If these pearls are used in making tonics for the weakening age
The new drug will rejuvenate the bone gone dry with age.”
“This portrait of poetry in inspiration, Zauq, has earned you the title of poet-laureate.” Bahadur Shah Zafar announced happily.
“I am overwhelmed, Zil-e-Subhani.” Zauq gasped for breath, his eyes shining. “My breath is sucked out of inspiration and poetry no more.”
“In faith then, we should turn to Ghalib to conclude this poetry session.” Bahadur Shah Zafar laughed.
“In faith, Zil-e-Subhani, a sad and bitter conclusion. My apologies in advance.” Ghalib’s eyes were lit by the fire of jealousy as he sang feverishly.
“Faith tugs me back, heresy goads me on
Kaaba lies behind me, in front the temple gate
I am a lover given to fooling simple-hearted dames
Laila speaks ill of Majnun when I instigate
Men rejoice at union, but do they ever die
Lo, the wish of severance night has blown into my face
May it prove to be the last, the spate of blood I see
Who knows what dreadful sights await my gaze
Though life has fled my hands, it still flickers in the eyes
Let them lie before me, the cup and flask of ale
He shares my faith, he has my trust, is partner of my trade
How dare you malign Ghalib, right in my face.”
“Beautiful, sizzling verse!” Bahadur Shah Zafar complimented profusely, getting to his feet.
“This poetry session is not complete, Zil-e-Subhani, until you recite one of your poems.” Ghalib requested suddenly.
“Yes, Zil-e-Subhani.” Zauq chimed in, others joining in a chorus.
“To escape this din, I must recite.” Bahadur Shah Zafar waved away the candle, not willing to sit. “Also, I am afraid, my wedding ceremonies would be delayed.” He began to recite dreamily.
“I do not need the kingly crown, not the hermit’s coarse cloth
Grant me, God, enough sense to love you like a maddened hart
There is nothing precious in the books, I wrote so many to discard
It is Your word that stands engraved in the tablet of my heart
Deem it a blessing great the moments spent in a spirited way
Do not, O promise-breaking Saqi, hold back the foaming glass
I’ll welcome my path that leads me to my cherished goal
Be it the path of piety pure, or the way of cup and flask
It is the ebb and flow of breath, stop it, and the world is dark
The hallelujahs of a heartless priest are not as effective as the calls
Of a drunkard who, withal, has a kind, compassionate heart
I better get to my bride’s house before she refuses to marry the old emperor.”
Bahadur Shah Zafar sauntered out of Sawan Pavilion, followed by his poets and courtiers.
It was late afternoon when Bahadur Shah Zafar decided to visit his stables once again, neglecting his siesta after lunch since he was restless. He had summoned Ahsanullah Khan and Mahbub Ali Khan, but they were standing far behind him while he was busy communing with his pet elephants. The royal horses decked with gold and silver ornaments were claiming his attention, but his gaze was returning to the painted forehead of his pet elephant.
“Ah, Maula Bakhsh, how the mahout spoils you. Look at you, the silk scarf, steel shield and garlands of flowers.” Bahadur Shah Zafar let Maula Bakhsh wrap his snout around his arm playfully. “Look at Khurshid Ganj and Chand Marut as gaudily dressed as you. All three of you so vain and coquettish.” He turned abruptly, facing his viziers. “You should drag me away from here, my friends. I must not be late for my nikkah ceremony at the home of my future in-laws.”
“That would be breech of etiquette, Zil-e-Subhani, we dare not be disrespectful.” Mahbub Ali Khan spoke for both since Ahsanullah Khan stood there discomfited.
“I would be disrespectful to the parents of the bride if I am late for the wedding ceremonies of my own wedding.” Bahadur Shah Zafar smiled. “Make sure that the feast at our palace when we return is grand and opulent.” He headed toward the palace gardens, arresting the swath of colorful roses in his gaze, his senses catching the gurgle of fountains in the distance.
“Your grand wedding procession is ready, Zil-e-Subhani, waiting for you whenever you are ready.” Ahsanullah Khan broke his silence, staying a few paces behind.
“A few more jewels to color me young and I would be ready.” Bahadur Shah Zafar intoned cheerfully. “Meanwhile, any news of importance that I should be aware of.”
“Nothing much of importance, Zil-e-Subhani, but news just the same, an unusual piece.” Ahsanullah Khan appeared to think aloud. “Almost three years ago during the famine a Muslim boy by the name of Azimullah and his mother managed to enter a British compound, begging for food and shelter. One priest by the name of Reverend Carshere adopted them. Besides food and shelter, Azimullah received free education, becoming proficient in French and English while his mother was employed as a nursemaid. Now Azimullah is in the service of Brigadier John Scott at Cawnpore, working as a language tutor and a translator. He is quite a character, has learnt to play Mozart on Broad wood Piano, performing the parlor trick of reciting Shakespeare in Urdu.”
“Zil-e-Subhani, if I may?” Mahbub Ali Khan began exigently before the king could disappear behind the palace doors. “This is what British officers are singing in Cawnpore.
For dancing and dressing
For sky-larking and caressing
No Indian station could vie with Cawnpore.”
“They are singing much more than what I have heard.” Bahadur Shah Zafar paused at the vast steps of his palace. “Ahsanullah Khan, tell us what was that snide verse which the magistrate Robert Thornhill recited in open court?”
“If I remember it correctly, Zil-e-Subhani.” Ahsanullah Khan pumped his lungs for a powerful recitation.
“With a turban on his head and a saber on his thigh
The stinking nigger mounts his gat to turn his back and fly
Then let the conches blast
To the loud tom-tom reply
A nigger must his hookah smoke
As without his hookah die.”
“Scum of London! Thieves and beggars. Calling Indian, nigger.” Bahadur Shah Zafar’s comment heavy with disgust was tossed over his shoulders before he disappeared behind the imposing portals.
The much-awaited evening had arrived for Bahadur Shah Zafar with a fanfare of wedding celebrations, his bride-to-be only seventeen years old and he on the rungs of sixty-five. A large hall in the mansion of Nawab Samsam-Daula was lit to refulgence with gold and silver candelabras. Bahadur Shah Zafar seated with Zeenat Begum on the velvety davenport was receiving felicitations, the brocaded canopy overhead dripping with gossamer gold creating the illusion of magic and mystery. Yet magic was real in the dreamboat eyes of Zeenat Begum, sparkling in the grey pools of their own youthful serenity. She was dressed in bridal fineries of red silks, displaying clusters of rubies and diamonds stitched with gold thread. Her fair features were aglow with the warmth of curiosity and her large eyes catching each color and nuance from floral bouquets to Persian carpets, from tables of ivory and rosewood to the chests gleaming with koftgari designs. A Muslim priest was being escorted toward the bridal couple amidst the tunes of bridal songs from the lips of the ladies. These ladies were seated not too far from the royal couple, one of them playing a two-sided drum with both hands while another lady tapped the top of the drum with a spoon to balance the rhythm. A group of royal guests as turbaned men and bejeweled ladies were makin
g way for the venerable Mulla so that he could perform the nikkah ceremony with all due propriety.
This Mulla was no other than Mulla Majasi, the spiritual guide of Bahadur Shah Zafar. He was hugging a green copy of the Quran, though he had no intention of reciting any verses. Instructed in private by Bahadur Shah Zafar to perform the nikkah ceremony simply and succinctly, he was most obedient to the instructions of the king. Besides, he was sad, rather feeling guilty that he was leaving the king and settling in Rangoon since his son had found a lucrative trading opportunity over there, entertaining great hopes of helping other family members once that he was settled. Two witnesses were not far behind, also from the retinue of the king. One witness was Mirza Qaiser, a prince related to Bahadur Shah Zafar’s wife Taj Mahal Begum and the other was Hafiz Muhammad, a scholar of theology. Nawab Quli Khan was making room for Mulla Majasi who stood poised for nikkah ceremony, two witnesses on either side of him waiting reverently. Suddenly voices faded to whispering and the music stopped as Mulla Majasi opened the Quran. He was overwhelmed by this sudden impulse to read one short verse from the Quran, but he closed his eyes, reciting from memory while avoiding the piercing gaze of Bahadur Shah Zafar.
“In the name of Allah, the Beneficent, the Merciful
Praise be to Allah, Lord of the worlds
The Beneficent, the Merciful
Owner of the Day of Judgment
Thee alone we worship, Thee alone we ask for help
Show us the straight path
The path of those whom Thou hast favored
Not the path of those who earn Thine anger, nor of those who go astray.” 1: 1-7
Mulla Majasi kissed the Quran and procured an illumined document of nikkah-nama written in Arabic. Still not meeting the gaze of Bahadur Shah Zafar, he began the ritual of nikkah ceremony.
“Malika-i-Zamani Nawab Zeenat Begum is willing to accept Zil-e-Subhani Bahadur Shah Zafar as her husband. In the presence of two witnesses here, if you consent Nawab Zeenat Begum to marry Zil-e-Subhani, then sign your name to the left of the margin.” Mulla Majasi handed her the nikkah-nama on a velvet tablet, while the witnesses merely bowed their heads.
Bahadur Shah Zafar’s heart was somersaulting to catch Zeenat Begum in one eager embrace, but master of propriety always he sat there smiling ardently. Two witnesses were now signing under her name and nikkah-nama was passed to him, Mulla Majasi once again poised for continuing the ceremony.
“Zil-e-Subhani, Bahadur Shah Zafar in the presence of two witnesses agrees to pay a haqq mahr of fifteen lakh rupees to his bride Zeenat Begum. Of which one third is payable forthwith and two-thirds at any time during his married life. If you consent to this, Zil-e-Subhani, then sign in the box to your right.”
Bahadur Shah Zafar signed impeccably and the two witnesses followed suit. Suddenly, the dancing girls converged from all four doors, carrying silver trays heaped with sweets. Two-sided drum came alive again against the nimble hands of one woman, while another one tapped it with a big spoon. The wedding songs soared high through the lips of the women singers in unison. Bahadur Shah Zafar sat there bewitched by the beauty of his young bride, worshipping even her feet shod in velvet shoes, studded with jewels. Zeenat Begum herself looked enchanted, her eyes bright and sparkling. The dancing girls were offering sweets to the guests while tumblers were being filled with wine or sherbet from the flagons of the stewards in gold turbans and red jackets. After sharing sweets with his newly wedded bride, Bahadur Shah Zafar got to his feet. He clapped his hands to gain attention amidst the jubilations of dancing and singing.
“I bestow the title of Zeenat Mahal on Zeenat Begum and fix an allowance of five hundred rupees a month and five hundred rupees for her relatives. My Queen.” Bahadur Shah Zafar assisted his bride to her feet. “A great feast awaits us at our palace.” He turned to his hosts and the guests, his heart somersaulting again, this time against some pincers of presage nameless.
“Zil-e-Subhani.” Nawab Samsam-Daula edged closer. “The jewelry my daughter is wearing is worth ten thousand rupees, a part of her dowry.” He stole a loving glance at her daughter who stood there blushing as if suspended between ether and sky.
“Your daughter is priceless, Samsam-Daula, worth countless times more than all the jewels in the world.” Bahadur Shah Zafar flashed his bride an ardent smile, his old heart wild and implacable. “Don’t think Samsam-Daula that I am not aware of what else you have given your daughter. Bolts upon bolts of silks, a great bed with brocaded pillows. Fine china and utensils of gold and silver, not to mention horses and elephants, all caparisoned and bedizened.”
“Bounties of Zil-e-Subhani are boundless. His Majesty doesn’t need anything.” Samsam-Daula declared profusely.
“If that were true I would be scattering gold over the head of my lovely queen from your mansion to my palace.” Bahadur Shah Zafar quipped merrily. “Come, my lovely Queen, the wedding procession is waiting outside to escort you to your new home.
“The brocaded howdah in which Bahadur Shah Zafar sat with his bride was all perfumed and garlanded. In front of this was the wedding procession replete with music and dancing. Colorful turbans bobbing up and down and dancing girls in layers upon layers of chiffons were creating a collage of rainbows. The studs in their noses and tilaks on their foreheads were radiating their own beams of color against the lights held high by machalchis.
Bahadur Shah Zafar was oblivious to the great show ahead of him, only communing with his newly found love under some spell of bliss and euphoria. Zeenat Mahal was bashful, barely able to whisper Zil-e-Subhani against the ardor in his gaze and his gentle caresses. The distance between her parents’ mansion and his palace was not too long and the royal cortege was entering the palace grounds.
“You are the queen of my heart and the soul of my love.” Bahadur Shah Zafar pressed Zeenat Mahal closer. “Never leave me or I would die.” He was kissing her lips madly and feverishly. Totally unaware of the fireworks in his heart and the fireworks exploding outside on the palace lawns to welcome the new queen.
Chapter Three A Prince is Born
Jahaz Mahal in Mehrauli was hosting Bahadur Shah Zafar and his family. Two happy years of his marriage with Zeenat Mahal and he was the happiest of men despite his grievances against East India Company. More so, suspended in bliss and swoon for the past couple of months since he was blessed with a son by Zeenat Mahal. The newborn Prince, Jawan Bakht, cradled in royal bassinet dripping with laces and velvets was the cynosure of all eyes in this chamber of ivory and damask.
It had been almost a week since Bahadur Shah Zafar’s entourage had reached Mehrauli for Flower Festival. Added to the festivities was the official celebration of the birth of Prince Jawan Bakht with fireworks and entertainments. The entire entourage had stayed at Zafar Mahal, but this particular day being the last day before returning to Red Fort Palace at Delhi, Bahadur Shah Zafar had decided to visit Jahaz Mahal where his family enjoyed the informality of carefree abandon. And that’s what they were doing right this moment, lounging on velvety davenports or lolling against round pillows in hues of emerald and crimson. One brocaded davenport was Bahadur Shah Zafar’s royal seat along with Zeenat Mahal. The shafts of sunlight illuminating the floral arrangements on rosewood tables were further enhanced by the reflection-dance of colors from a pair of chandeliers all aglow with the fire of crystal brilliance.
The younger princes were seated on Persian carpet by the window in full view of the waterfall, feeding the fountains down below in the garden. They were laughing and drinking while reciting poetry and perfecting the art of versification. A stunning view of the garden could be seen from the window right across from the window framing the waterfall and that’s where the bevy of princesses were gathered, playing cards. The begums with the exception of Zeenat Mahal had formed their own circle, only the white bassinet separating them from the ever-loving couple as the king and the queen. The warmth of love and serendipity was in the air as poesy and parlance drifted side-by-side, yet a s
ubtle hush pervaded all of a sudden as if the angels stood listening to the silence. Zeenat Mahal’s pallor with the glow of marble was making her eyes brighter and more beautiful than ever before as she ripped open the curtain of silence with the spontaneity of fairy godmother.
“Zil-e-Subhani, I have been meaning to ask.” Zeenat Mahal asked dreamily. “During our stay at Zafar Mahal, I couldn’t help noticing that no Europeans were seen passing through the Gurgaon road?”
“They are not welcome, Beloved, and banished from the precincts of Mehrauli as far as I am concerned.” Bahadur Shah Zafar smiled whimsically. “Their own arrogance has become the bane of their exile. British shopkeepers to be precise! While riding close to Zafar Mahal it was customary for them to dismount as a mark of courtesy to me—the emperor tuned king. Since they refuse to practice the art of courtesy anymore, I have bought all the land around here, diverting the main road away from Zafar Mahal so that they could never come close to our palaces or gardens.”
“Whether they come close or not, Zil-e-Subhani, they still meddle in our affairs behind the scenes.” Ashraf Begum began half cautiously, half apprehensively. “After our dear Prince Dara Bakht passed away, the British Resident became obsessive with the issue of succession of the Crown Prince. Ignoring your choice of the oldest Prince Mirza Quaish and choosing Prince Fakhroo instead. I love Prince Fakhroo equally as other princes, but I don’t like the idea of British Resident asserting his authority to choose and decide.”
“I don’t think that the British Resident had any intention of asserting his right.” Taj Mahal Begum was quick to rise to the defense of her son chosen as Crown Prince before Bahadur Shah Zafar could respond. “Prince Mirza Quaish himself was disinclined, didn’t want the burden of responsibility. He told me so before he left for Cawnpore.”
“Now to think of it I heard conflicting reports from all quarters which need disseminated.” Bahadur Shah Zafar condoning the comments of his wives turned his attention to Prince Fakhroo. “Satisfy my curiosity, my beloved Prince, if you will. Did you sign any secret pact with Earl Ellenborough?”
