Poet Emperor of the last of the Moghuls

by Farzana Moon

  “No, Zil-e-Subhani. I couldn’t even think of signing any pact without your permission.” Prince Fakhroo lied smoothly.

  “Still reports keep coming to me from several sources that you signed or might have signed something to the affect that after my death you would not be recognized as heir apparent to my kingship, but only as a prince and would vacate the palace?” Bahadur Shah Zafar’s look was stern and piercing.

  “No, Zil-e-Subhani. Yet I have heard such rumors too from Delhi to Agra, to discredit me I suppose, as far as Cawnpore.” Prince Fakhroo whipped up another lie.

  “I hope what you say is true, my beloved Prince, only rumors.” Bahadur Shah Zafar murmured doubtfully.

  “Cawnpore reminds me of the recent marriage of a poor Brahmin girl by the name of Manu to Raja Gangdhar the Maharaja of Jhansi.” Akhtar Begum tossed this piece of diversion. “A fairytale marriage, Zil-e-Subhani, and she becoming Rani of Jhansi amidst great celebrations, fireworks and cannon firing a salute.”

  “Not poor by any standards, my Dear.” Bahadur Shah Zafar indulged amusedly. “The court gossip gets distorted somewhere along the way. Her mother died when she was two year old. Her father was advisor to Chimnaji Appa the brother to Baji Rao11 — the last of the Maratha Peshwas. When Manu — her real name Manikemika was three year old, Chimnaji Appa died and her father took her to the court of Baji Rao where she was raised as a princess. Now after marriage she is styled as Lakshami Bai. She is the Rani of Jhansi, true, the only wife of Gangdhar since his first wife died a year ago.”

  “Real or distorted, Zil-e-Subhani, court gossip fails to satisfy my curiosity.” Zeenat Mahal chirped happily. “Offering floral fan and floral canopy at the shrine of Qutubddin Kaki I understand since Prince Jahangir was allowed to return home from exile and his mother fulfilled her vow to offer such gifts, but why the same gifts are offered at the temple of Devi Yogmaya?”

  “Two more years of court gossip, my beloved Queen, and you would know the answers to everything. All the rites and rituals of the royal protocol, no matter how shallow and impecunious everything has become.” Bahadur Shah Zafar sighed reminiscently, his gaze tender and profound. “Since the temple is not far from the shrine, I think I told this to one of my sons before, can’t recall when. Well, my father wanted to honor the temple with similar gifts in respect of his Hindu subjects. In fact this is done in the true spirit of Islam that one should not hurt the feelings of the followers of other faiths.”

  “And what does royal protocol suggest, Zil-e-Subhani, when followers of other faiths hurt us?” Zeenat Mahal challenged.

  “Forgiveness is divine, Beloved, if hurt is not too deep.” Bahadur Shah Zafar smiled tenderly. “We need to get out of our dark thoughts and bask under the grandeur of Zafar Mahal. We would stop there before returning to Red Fort. I have to show you the new addition in honor of our Prince. A royal balcony called Hira Mahal right across from Moti Mahal in Red Fort. You must see Hayat Bakhsh garden with roses the size of sun-disks—”

  A lusty wail from the lungs of Prince Jawan Bakht lured everyone’s attention to the bassinet. Bahadur Shah Zafar literally leaped to his feet, scooping his son into his arms and rocking him back and forth until he was soothed.

  “Here, Beloved, I have lulled him to sleep.” Bahadur Shah Zafar lowered his son into the loving arms of Zeenat Mahal. “I must see my viziers in the garden and then a poetry session perhaps?”

  “You can’t leave, Zil-e-Subhani, not as yet.” Taj Mahal Begum protested. “You promised to tell us about the legend of the waterfall at this Jahaz Mahal.”

  “Several legends, my Dear, but one would suffice for right now.” Bahadur Shah Zafar indulged cheerfully. “The waterfall which you see from the window of this Jahaz Mahal is actually fed by a reservoir named Hauz-i-Shamsi. Iltumish of the Slave Dynasty in his dream saw Prophet Muhammad indicating to him a site revealing the footprints of his horse and instructing him to dig a reservoir to collect rain water. He obeyed and the reservoir was named after him. Later during the period of Lodi Dynasty a retreat was built close to the reservoir for the pilgrims which is now this Jahaz Mahal. Another legend is that Qutubddin Kaki also had a similar dream and since drinking water supply was getting low, he had the reservoir expanded with the result that now we enjoy this beautiful waterfall. Now I must say I have earned the privilege to leave this delightful company.” He waved, almost sprinting toward the door lest he be detained.

  Bahadur Shah Zafar emerged out on the terrace against the sparkling gurgle of waterfall as if transported to heaven. He looked splendid, swathed in silks with pearls around his neck and his turban glinting multicolored jewels. He stood still for a moment, awed by the beauty of this waterfall as if he had seen it for the first time. Inhaling the scent of Damask roses down below, his feet were guiding him down the lower terrace flanked by fountains. Beyond the symphony of this gurgle and splatter stood the Jharna Pavilion built by his father Akbar Shah. Painted in the color of sunshine this Pavilion was further lit by shafts of sunshine scintillating through neem trees in ribbons of gold. He could see Ahsanullah Khan and Mahbub Ali Khan standing by the pool. They were waiting for the king so that they could commence their afternoon walk, exploring as usual the kernels of wars and intrigues.

  “A beautiful day, Zil-e-Subhani, for our last walk here. Tomorrow we would be in Delhi by this time.” Ahsanullah Khan swept his arm in a casual curtsy.

  “I was just noticing the purity of the waterfall, so crystal-clear and serenading.” Bahadur Shah Zafar also acknowledged the curtsy of Mahbub Ali Khan before making this comment. “Serenading some lost beloved, I am not sure who?”

  “Serenading the Saint of course!” Mahbub Ali Khan declared involuntarily.

  “Keeping at bay the sinners for sure, who are despoiling the peace of this land, already shattered and shuddering against the violence of invasions.” Bahadur Shah Zafar Quipped. “Afghanistan. Kabul the Jerusalem of Padishah Babur groaning against the weight of greed-mongers from Russia and Britain.” He strolled ahead of his viziers toward the graveled path edged with roses and jasmine.

  “Now that Shah Shuja is assassinated, Zil-e-Subhani, peace might return to the land of the Afghans?” Ahsanullah Khan edged closer.

  “No peace, I am afraid.” Bahadur Shah Zafar appeared to prophesy. “I can smell the reek of death and devastation even in the scented air of this garden. Not only Shah Shuja assassinated, but Captain Burns too by one of the tribesmen. William Machaghten murdered also. Unrest and uprising. British defeated, Afghans exulting. Irony of fates. After William Machaghten’s murder by one of the Akbar Khan’s retainers, Akbar Khan jeered to the face of a captured British officer, saying: you will seize my country, will you, you will seize my country?”

  “It is always a lost cause to invade Kabul or any part of Afghanistan, Zil-e-Subhani.” Mahbub Ali Khan consoled, keeping pace with the king. “If foreign invaders could study the history of this land, they would know that Khyber Pass is not the gateway to the golden bird of India, but a tunnel of torture and tragedy. No one has ever been able to rule the unruly clans of this land. Though, they are most hospitable when friendly, but if provoked most brutal and unrelenting. Akbar Khan in the spirit of his father Dost Muhammad repossessed Khyber Pass from British soldiers, got Shah Shuja assassinated and brought his father Dost Muhammad back to power. His Baluchi army is gloating over their success, saying that the English being turned out of Afghanistan have eaten dirt.”

  “Sad and tragic that out of forty-five hundred British force and twelve thousand fellowmen only one man by the name of Dr. Brydon survived during retreat through the snows toward the death-traps of Afghan defiles.” Bahadur Shah Zafar commiserated aloud. “Dr. Brydon was severally wounded and utterly exhausted as he rode into Jalalabad, it was reported. The women and children who had survived through the treks of Khurd Kabul defiles were transferred to the care of Akbar Khan.” His gaze was absorbing the colors of Bougainvillea as if rainbows had landed on earth in the far pavili
ons. “Exceptionally tragic such defeats and conquests. Especially, the defeat of the British, considering their magnitude of power, of their superior ships and arsenal.”

  “More sepoys died than British soldiers during this war of occupation as you know, Zil-e-Subhani.” Ahsanullah Khan remi-nisced aloud. “Before and during the war British forces destroyed many villages, drove off or slaughtered stock, burnt crops and storehouses, chased tribesmen and their families way down the hills to perish. Refugees from Kabul were massacred. The town and fortress of Ghazni was razed to the ground. The bazaar of Kabul was looted and demolished.”

  “All this happened since Earl Ellenborough replaced Lord Aukland and became the Governor General of pride and tyranny.” Bahadur Shah Zafar began regretfully. “This land is being despoiled by the great game of the British and Russia. Both parties condoning the fact that while in the process of killing and subjugating, their chances of being killed are multiplying with as great force as the force of hatred and contempt inside the hearts of the natives. Wasn’t Captain Arthur Conolly murdered by the Khan of Bukhara? He was the one who told his superiors in Calcutta that it was feasible for the Russian Army to invade India, either following in the footsteps of Alexander the Great through Khyber Pass in Afghanistan, or else by the example of Persia, using Herat, Kandahar and Quetta as staging posts.”

  “All that is correct, Zil-e-Subhani, but on a lighter note and quoting Captain Fane we should be more weary of Wahhabis than the British or the Russians.” Mahbub Ali Khan chuckled. “Though we should not fear much, they are almost non-existent here. Rather exploring the foreign territory, they are regrouped in Riyadh under the leadership of Faisal Ibn Saud. Riyadh, as the genuine Muslims claim has become the country of the Wahhabis. The stronghold of the fanatics, who claim themselves as true Muslims and everyone else an infidel or a heretic. Promoting their man-made assertion that it’s their duty to slay an infidel to earn great merit.”

  “I don’t know what genuine Muslim means! Yet, Wahhabis are very much settled here, even in Delhi, I fear.” Bahadur Shah Zafar murmured thoughtfully. “They have very skillfully sidelined Quran’s message of mercy, charity, tolerance and forgiveness. Wahhabi is a sect distinct on its own, not even close to any precept of Islam, doling out hatred and hostility to all who don’t fit their man-made version of Islam. Distorting the meaning of Jihad and urging their followers to fight, to become martyrs, that way they could go straight to Paradise.” His gaze was reaching out to the far pavilion, painted in the color of sunshine. “What were those articles of faith, Ahsanullah, I forget, which Shah Muhammad Ismail wrote—the jihadi, the most devout of all Wahhabis?”

  “Those article of faith quite similar to his warring songs which he wrote for his fanatics, Zil-e-Subhani.” Ahsanullah Khan began avidly. “He calls his followers the Army of Holy Warriors. His injunctions sort of run this way: War against any infidel is incumbent upon all Muslims. He who shall equip a warrior in this cause of God shall obtain a martyr’s reward. His children would dread not the trouble of the grave, nor the last trumpet, nor the Day of Judgment. Cease to be cowards, good men, join the divine leader and smite the infidel. I give thanks to God that a great leader has been born in thirtieth century of hijra. By great leader he meant Syed Ahmed, who is no more.”

  “No wonder, Wahhabis are being denounced as wicked, faithless imposters wherever they congregate.” Bahadur Shah Zafar hurried toward the pavilion while admiring the red-dusted path edged by Mulsari trees. “In Bombay, I heard, when the Wahhabis prohibited people from celebrating Prophet’s Birthday, they were chased out of town, denounced as infidels. In Delhi also, that was last year, fourteen Mullas issued a fatwa against Wahhabis, denouncing them as seditious hate-mongers. Declaring further that since this particular group of Wahhabis was banished from Mecca and Medina, they came here for worldly riches to cheat and impose upon ignorant Muslims the hateful creed of their own making.”

  “Wahhabis have banned music too, Zil-e-Subhani.” Mahbub Ali Khan added his own snippet of news. “They are also saying, poetry is the work of devil, but I am looking forward to the poetry session this glorious afternoon.” He sprinted ahead toward the pavilion of gold and sunshine. “I can hear already the poets gathered there and making merry.”

  “My father built that pavilion as his lone retreat to escape the hustle and bustle of the Flower Festival, but it is best suited for poetry sessions I am sure.” Bahadur Shah Zafar’s voice quivered against the weight of nostalgia and sadness. “Poetry is divine, the ripple-dance of music from the throats of the angels.” His steps were light and unhurried as he approached closer to the open pavilion.

  The afternoon hush outside the pavilion was splintered by the voices of the poets and the trilling of laughter. Inside the pavilion were hum of cheers and cries of ecstasy amidst the bouts of versification. Seated on Persian carpets against pillows of Italian velvet and brocade, a handful of poets were vying for praise, mostly from each other and specifically from the king. Bahadur Shah Zafar was seated on a makeshift throne of green velvet, silver candelabra on a low stool before him his light of inspiration. The rest of the poets had their personal candles in silver candle holders, more for ambience than for serving as the beacons of formality. Though, right this moment a youngest of all poets by the pen name of Azad was being introduced by his father formally.

  “My only son, Zil-e-Subhani, and an accomplished poet even at the age of twelve.” Maulvi Baqir introduced his son, beaming with pride. “His given name is Muhammad Husain, but he is already known by his pen name Azad amongst his friends since his first poem appeared in Lahore children’s periodical by the name of Guldasta.”

  “Great credentials, Baqir, I didn’t know you had a son.” Bahadur Shah Zafar applauded, turning his attention to the young poet. “What made you adopt the pen name of Azad, young man?”

  “Don’t know, Zil-e-Subhani. It sounded good.” Azad offered precociously. “Papa told me it means to be free and I love to be free.” He lowered his head, awed and flustered.

  “Your son is going to be a great philosopher if not a great poet, Baqir.” Bahadur Shah Zafar commented after bestowing a smile on Azad. “I hear you are starting a newspaper in Delhi. It would be a great benefit to us and to the general populace. What’s it going to be called?”

  “Delhi Urdu Akhbar, Zil-e-Subhani.” Maulvi Baqir responded passionately. “I have a lucrative business for foreign merchants in Delhi bazaar, but I want to serve the community of Delhi by publishing unbiased news, more in terms of education as well as enlightening.”

  “A great service indeed if people can have access to truth.” Bahadur Shah Zafar commented, becoming aware of the flood of inspiration in the eyes of his poets. “I am a great patron of truth. And poetry is the tongue of truth I can see shining in the eyes of my poets, so we must resume our poetry session.” He signaled consent with a wave of his arm.

  “With the grace of your inspiration, Zil-e-Subhani, we would resume if you would kindly recite a couplet of your own?” Mustafa Khan Shefta requested on behalf of all the poets.

  “My inspiration is cold as a dying flame, but I would recite one couplet.” Bahadur Shah Zafar smiled enigmatically.

  “In the world of forms I am in human form

  But in the world of spirits I am in a different state.”

  A great applause broke forth, receding to stillness as Mustafa Khan Shefta began to recite.

  “Softly blows the autumn blast

  The heat inspires the blossoming phase

  Even the deserts are garden green

  Winsome, beauteous, compelling praise

  None is plagued by heaven’s blights

  The land is one blissful place

  The malicious mars has shed his ire

  Like Venus soft it now behaves

  Restrain your writing, Shefta, hold

  Though Muse-inspiring is this vale.”

  Another burst of applause and Momin sent his quatrain whirling.

  “
Your arrival has sent them scurrying, otherwise there was

  A swarm of despairs around my yearning heart

  Momin read that ghazal again which yester night

  Had won from audience a soul-stirring applause.”

  Zauq was next to flaunt his talents before the applause could subside.

  “How temperate is this air that in this garden blows

  Like the pulse of a man robust, see, it ebbs and flows

  Refreshing like the breath of Christ is the vernal breeze

  Sanatorium like is the grove with its shady trees.”

  With a disdainful toss of his head, Ghalib pumped his lungs for the expulsion of his genius, waiting for the applause to subside.

  “If there be a Jesus Christ

  Let him for my ache provide

  Law and scripture could sure be invoked

  But that assassin all rules defied

  Her gait is like an arrow-flight

  Who can in her heart reside

  When she speaks, sit tongue tied

  O how I prate in frenzy wild

  May none make out what I imply

  Ignore if someone evil speaks

  Do not to evil deeds reply

  Restrain the man who goes astray

  Forgive if someone errs in pride

  Find me the man who has no wants

  Who can for everyone provide.”

  A thunderous applause and Bahadur Shah Zafar with a wave of his arm made a gesture of restraint.

  “Before we close this session, let’s talk of heart. From heart to heart in tongues of poesy.” Bahadur Shah Zafar eased himself up slowly. “Tomorrow we return to Delhi, so make this day worthy of remembrance. A few couplets here and there would suffice, save the ghazals for longer sessions.

  “My heart conceals a chiseled diamond, sparkling to the view

  Multicolored, multifaceted, flashing different hues”

  Ghalib flashed an impromptu couplet.