Poet Emperor of the last of the Moghuls

by Farzana Moon

  “Feelings choked within the breast, my life has on the lips arrived

  See the state where I have arrived, but you haven’t yet arrived.”

  Momin sang giddily.

  “You can’t leave as yet, Zil-e-Subhani.” Zauq implored, noticing the intention of Bahadur Shah Zafar. “You have to recite one of your poems, old tradition, hard to break.”

  “Then you have to follow me. For I intend to recite this to the birds on my way to Jahaz Mahal.” Bahadur Shah Zafar tossed this comment over his shoulders, reciting.

  “I am not a saint-philosopher, nor a tavern-mate

  I am God’s humble creature, a sinner reprobate

  Law is my religion, love, my creed and trait

  Call me what you like, O idols—an atheist or a man of faith

  I am neither domineering, nor a cringing sort

  Nor a singing nettle, nor a flower frail

  Like a painted drinker on tavern wall

  I am not a man awake, nor a drunkard crazed

  I have none to share my grief, no friend, no mate

  I’m sorrow’s mourner, sorrow mourns my fate

  He who once accepts me flings me back in haste

  I am a Cain counterfeit in the market place

  What should I tell you Zafar, I am what I am

  A shoe-bearer of the Prophet, his humble subordinate.”

  Bahadur Shah Zafar was lost in the magic-mystery of his garden, inhaling deep the scent of roses and nostalgic memories.

  The scent of roses was still fresh and nostalgic after more than a year, this time in Delhi as Bahadur Shah Zafar sat with Zeenat Mahal and his daughters in the private chamber of Rang Mahal. Almost one and a half year, now Prince Jawan Bakht was claiming the attention of his step-sisters most adorably, and a bundle of energy he was, royally spoiled. Bahadur Shah Zafar’s sons and the husbands of his daughters had gone hunting, so he had decided to spend a quiet evening with his queen and his daughters, forgetting about the issues and concerns of India wading through the tides of invasions and rebellions. Though, such tides had become very much a part of the royal household, luring the interest of Zeenat Mahal and his daughters most specifically. His other wives had lost interest in any kind of political upheavals, abandoning themselves to the sole luxury of relaxation and entertainment.

  Zeenat Mahal, perfumed and bejeweled, lolling against a large pillow on the davenport was admiring her step-daughters for their skill in keeping abreast of the news of the bullying British and the sulking rajas subsisting on pensions from British East India Company. Though, her gaze was shifting to her royal husband, happily involved in teaching Prince Jawan Bakht the art of rhythm on his toy drums. The scent of roses from large floral arrangements on brass tables was reaching her and she inhaled deeply, her thoughts languid and fleeting.

  “Wars have snatched humor out of our lives, Zil-e-Subhani, but English wit is alive on the streets of London.” Rabeya Begum laughed suddenly, exchanging a mischievous smile with her sisters. “Or on the pages of newspaper I should say. A London newspaper, I have heard, has a cartoon of Russian bear looking voraciously at Afghan territory while an equally ferocious British lion tries to stop the bear from reaching its goal. Underneath this the caption reads: No you don’t.”

  “Russia is out of the picture, my Dear, only the Company is adamant upon playing the game of Divide and Rule.” Bahadur Shah Zafar watched Prince Jawan Bakht run to his mother before turning his attention to his daughters. “Though, from the corpse-strewn gorges of Kabul River, red-coated myths about the Company’s invincibility and its officers’ courage are torn to shred. Still, the British keep bullying emirs and rajas out of their states into exiles and annexing their territories to their previously acquired lands of revenue.”

  “London’s new satirical journal Punch, Zil-e-Subhani, makes fun of Earl Ellenborough since he is not humbled by his defeat in Afghanistan.” Princess Fatima Sultan flashed her own bulletin of news. “The best is this couplet against him:

  Farewell, the plumed troops and the big wars

  That make ambition virtue.”

  “Yes, my Dear, to change the status of Company’s humiliation in Kabul to that of prestige, Earl Ellenborough must become the puppet of his own ambition.” Bahadur Shah Zafar commented sadly. “And he did succeed in his ambition, annexing Gwalior and usurping the rights of ten year old Raja of Gwalior. His next prey was Sind and to conquer that he appointed Charles Napier. Napier had once denounced East India Company’s administration as leeches sucking the life blood of Indians, but he is proving to be the most prejudiced of Governor Generals. Advising his colleagues that a British General should never retire in the face of the natives. He too has succeeded in conquering Karachi and Sukkur, forcing Rustum Khan—an emir of suspect loyalty as he believes, to cede some of his territories to the rule of Bahawalpur who has been helpful to the Company during the Afghan War. Well, he has annexed Sind also and allegations are on the rise that British officers have violated emir’s harem and have carried away the most attractive of odalisques for their own pleasure.”

  “Everyone blames Earl Ellenborough, Zil-e-Subhani.” Zamani Begum could not be left behind to unseal her own jar of news. “The Punch is quoting the ageing Montstuart in its article. Earl Ellenborough’s behavior is like that of a bully who having been knocked down in a street brawl—Afghanistan, returns home to pummel his wife—attacking Sind.”

  “And yet, Charles Napier is the culprit.” Zeenat Mahal broke her silence. “The Punch printed his own confession which he sent after the conquest, a three-letter message to London, I have sinned. And Punch also represented him as confessing against the storm of criticism in England of sinning against the emirs by deposing them and seizing their territories. Strange how we all get caught up inside the intricate web of news and intrigues.” Her lips parted in a beatific smile. “England seems close when we read about their people in our newspapers and India seems very far when the news from other states reach us. Nawab Wajid Shah of Oudh has married a courtesan, bestowing upon her the title of Hazrat Mahal. Doesn’t seem real, more like a myth. Isn’t it, Zil-e-Subhani?”

  “Nothing mythical about it, Beloved, though the news is quite stale.” Bahadur Shah Zafar’s eyes were gathering the stars of adoration. “She has already blessed the Nawab with an heir to the throne. The name of their son is Birjis Qadra. Another mythical queen is Rani of Jhansi as you would believe. She is childless as yet, so half mythical perhaps?”

  “Not mythical at all, Zil-e-Subhani!” Zeenat Mahal’s eyes were lit up with a subtle challenge. She exchanged a meaningful glance with Rabeya Begum who seemed intent and listening while her step-sisters played with Prince Jawan Bakht. “Solid as a rock she is as she was when she was just a little girl. In the court of Baji Rao she acted as a queen of courage while growing up with Nana Sahib and Tatya Tope as her playmates. One afternoon while riding she saw Nana Sahib falling from his horse. He was injured and covered with blood. Witnessing this scene she didn’t cry or scream for help, but mounted Nana Sahib on her own horse and brought him into the palace.”

  “Another story, Beloved, rather this fact.” Bahadur Shah Zafar smiled indulgently. “Not only courageous, she was headstrong. Once when Nana Sahib denied her a ride on his elephant, she declared that she would have ten elephants more to each one of his. This prophecy of her childhood came true after she got married.”

  “Nana Sahib, not only has his elephants, Zil-e-Subhani, but his ambassador of revolution, Azimullah Khan.” Mubarak Nisa commented with a tinkling of mirth.

  “Azimullah, my Beauty, is no revolutionary, but a lady’s man if I may say so in the presence of my wives and daughters?” Bahadur Shah Zafar almost bit his tongue. “Tatya Tope however has a penchant for causing rifts and dissensions.”

  “A Pashtun by the name of Bakht Khan is gaining rank and esteem in the army of East India Company, Zil-e-Subhani.” Princess Fatima Sultan demurred aloud. “Is it possible that we could lure him to Delhi?” Her
eyes were riveted to Prince Jawan Bakht in her lap sleeping soundly.

  “Alas, my command even over the small army over here is nominal, my Dear. In fact, it’s not even an army, but royal guards.” Bahadur Shah Zafar eased himself up, beginning to pace. “The glory of the Moghuls is gone. A few rajas who are not sent to exile by the British still extend their hand of friendship to me, chief amongst them, Raja Nahar Singh.” He paused, facing Zeenat Mahal. “I almost forgot, Beloved, Mahbub Ali Khan must be waiting for me in the garden. I need to dictate a letter.” He turned to his heels, disappearing behind the doors hurriedly.

  The most beautiful of palace gardens, Hayat Bakhsh was the abode of Bahadur Shah Zafar where he had strolled with Mahbub Ali Khan before settling in Sawan Pavilion to dictate a letter to Queen Victoria. Amongst others present was George Thompson to witness the dictation of the letter and to deliver it to the Queen. He had come to India on a philanthropic mission as an active advocate to protect the rights of the Indian people. While in Calcutta he had received an offer from Bahadur Shah Zafar to be his agent, so he had come to Delhi posthaste to be the emissary of the King.

  Charmed by George Thompson’s manners, Bahadur Shah Zafar was feeling at ease to share his concerns and grievances, and postponing the drudgery of dictation. Much had been on his mind lately, including the dwindling of revenues. The expenditures to maintain the royal household were rising and he was constrained to appeal to Queen for funds much to the chagrin of his pride and royal sentiments. Stepping out of his dark thoughts, he was snatching a moment of clarity. He sat inhaling the scent of roses, his gaze reaching out to the square flowerbeds interspersed with watercourses.

  “It has been more than five years since I ascended the throne, Thomas, and I am beginning to feel the strain of expenditure.” Bahadur Shah Zafar began reluctantly, choking on his feelings of shame and chagrin. “Palace rooms are in dire need of repair. Some of the palace gardens are in utter neglect since the staff of gardeners is small. Well, when my father passed away, Amherst was advised by Lord Aukland that the presentation of one hundred and one trays of presents by the Governor General to be dispensed with. To which I did not agree, so Lord Aukland never presented himself in our court. He proposed an additional stipend of three lakh rupees per anum with the conditions that I forego all further claims of kingship. To which I also declined. I had objected only to the forfeiture of claims of kingship, but the British Government assumed that I had declined the offered stipend. My own funds are depleted due to the flux of more employees and their families. That’s why I have decided to send a letter to the Queen requesting increase in allowances.”

  “I remember, Zil-e-Subhani, your venerable father sending Ram Mohan Roy to the King of England on such a similar mission.” George Thompson commiserated with genuine warmth of friend-ship. “I have seen the glorious monuments of the Moghuls, but I am not familiar with Moghul History. Dare I request, Zil-e-Subhani, to enlighten me with a few of the important points concerning Moghul History?”

  “Moghul glory is gone, my Friend.” Bahadur Shah Zafar sighed relief as if sloughing off all burdens of ceremony. “The beautiful monuments of the Moghuls are falling prey to the ravages of time. Even Taj Mahal needing repair and maintenance. Mostly, Moghul emperors were tolerant and generous in the beginning. Later bigotry and intolerance settled in the courts of the Moghuls, then kindness and compassion again, a strange merging of creativity and destruction. What Tamerlane started as a hurricane of power laced with generosity of spirit by restoring lands to the original landlords, Aurangzeb finished in a flash the liberality and grandeur of decades by his acts of cruelty and hatred. That is the gist of the Moghul rise and its slow, lingering fall.”

  Bahadur Shah Zafar as a young man. The original painting is with the Rampur Raza Library. This picture was published in the Hindi work 'Swatantra Dilli' (Independent Delhi), 1957.

  “Tragic, Zil-e-Subhani, sad and tragic.” George Thompson murmured with great empathy. “I still fail to understand how East India Company gained so much power in such a vast land as to send Rajas and Nawabs into exile, or annex their territories in Company’s name. Claiming those lands as their properties, while forcing the real owners to accept small pensions for subsistence.”

  “Zakaullah here is a great historian, Thompson, he would gather the pieces of East India Company’s power for you in this land of gold and jewels in a few words.” Bahadur Shah Zafar smiled, turning his attention to his historian. “Won’t you, Zakaullah?”

  “At your service, Zil-e-Subhani, but I am not good in presenting the facts succinctly.” Zakaullah bowed his head. “And yet the grand presence of East India Company in India can be summed up in this parable of the camel. When a merchant allowed his camel to squeeze his head into the tent against the violence of rain and storm, the camel pushed his whole body inside, shoving the merchant outside to the exposure of inclement winds. In truth, tree of friendship with British began when emperor Akbar the Great granted the request of Queen Elizabeth in permitting merchants to trade goods in India. Later emperor Jahangir granted special privileges to British merchants in trading. The Moghul Empire was in throes of crumbling after the death of Emperor Aurangzeb, that’s when East India Company began their crusade of conquest and annexation. The loss of power for the Moghuls began in earnest when emperor Farrukhsiyar granted eight villages to the Company to save—“He paused, noticing the puzzled expression of George Thompson.

  “It’s time to dictate that letter before I get weary of my own thoughts.” Bahadur Shah Zafar bestowed a kind smile on George Thompson before turning his attention to his secretary. “Makhund Lal, dip your pen in black ink the color of my thoughts and your hand would stay steady in rapport with my whole being.” He breathed deep before commencing.

  “His Imperial Majesty the King of Delhi to her most gracious Majesty Victoria, the Queen of Great Britain and Ireland and their dependencies.

  Although from the unfortunate circumstances the flower of my kingdom has faded, and the dominion of this House is placed in your hands and under your Majesty’s authority, with the power either to diminish or enhance its dignity, its respect and its glory. Yet I confidently hope from the love of justice which God Almighty has implanted in your Majesty’s noble mind, that the ancient customs and usages belonging to the Imperial family of India will be restored. It is your Majesty’s high distinction to be the upholder of the weak and the fallen, and to extend towards such your royal countenance and succor.

  I am now old and have no ambition left for grandeur. I would devote my days entirely to religion, but I feel anxious that the name and dignity of my predecessors should be maintained according to the original engagements made by the British government. It is hoped from your Majesty’s exalted character for virtue and good faith that your Majesty will in consideration of the friendship which has so long existed between your Majesty’s predecessors and this ancient House, command your servants, under whose protection the chiefs of India have placed themselves to give a prompt and just consideration to my claim to an increase of stipend and allowances and restoration of privileges denoting my status and supremacy in India.

  In conclusion I have the honor to solicit that your Majesty would be graciously pleased to permit my representative the aforesaid Mr. George Thompson to return to me after explaining my views and receiving your Majesty’s reply.

  May the blessings of peace and prosperity attend your Majesty’s reign.” He pressed his temples. “I confer upon you, Thomas, the title of Safru’d-Dawla Musheerul Mulk Bahadur Musleh Jang. Tell your Queen that. May God go with you.” His gaze alighted upon the father-in-law of Prince Fakhroo before he closed his eyes. “Please escort Thomas to the palace, Ilahi Bakhsh, and entertain him with a grand feast. I want to stay here a while, then commune with my garden.”

  Bahadur Shah Zafar kept sitting with his eyes closed even after everyone had left. Seated on his gold chair in utter immo-bility he was drifting into dreams, neither chasing his thoughts, nor
willing to commune with his garden. His beautiful garden right below this pavilion was lost to him. Instead, he was entering a secret, sacred, silvery garden of the soul, surreal and mysterious. Here it was peace, the argent mists soft and gossamer. He was wearing a crown of stars and thinking that he had died. Suddenly, he was torn out of that garden and flung into a hoary furnace of the tortures of the damned. Bodies caked with blood and corpses dangling from the trees. Shuddering and whimpering, he was lifted once again into the white serenity of a silvery garden. His robe was stitched with stars and a crescent moon was lowered over the crown of stars on his head. Surely he was in heaven, sleeping blissfully.

  Chapter Four Festival of Eid

  Bahadur Shah Zafar had just emerged out into the courtyard of Diwan-i-Khas, but his thoughts were coasting over the shores of wars and greeds where British were gaining ascendance over the lordships of rajas and nawabs. His gaze was reaching past the gardens down to the river where tents were pitched, hosting motley of stalls to celebrate the festival of Eid. This was the first day of Eid-al-Adha after the yearly pilgrimage in Mecca, and Delhi was abuzz with festivities. Hawkers were selling bangles and henna-painted goats for sacrifice in commemoration of Abraham’s act of absolute surrender to God’s command to sacrifice his son. As a great reward for his perfect faith, God had sent a ram to sacrifice when he was about to sacrifice his son, and since then this ritual had found a permanent home in the heart of Mecca, spreading from continent to continent wherever the Muslims migrated.

  Bhadon Pavilion edged by spruces and entwined with bougainvillea in splashes of purple and orange was coming into view as Bahadur Shah Zafar kept strolling. He could espy Ahsanullah Khan and Mahbub Ali Khan standing by the north wall of the Pavilion under the bower of roses. A thin smile curled upon his lips with a recollection that they were waiting for him as commanded, so that they could accompany him on a casual walk down the river where Eid festivities were in progress replete with dancers, musicians, jugglers and acrobats. His smile was sad and lingering as if imprinting afresh on his memory the zeal of his courtiers which was multiplying as fast as the annexation-mania of kingdoms by the British East India Company. Sadness had become his constant companion since the past couple of years. A subtle realization dawning upon him that British had surreptitious designs to end his nominal rule as they had done with many other kings in India. With this thought simmering in his head he approached closer to Bhadon Pavilion, his viziers coming forward to greet him, avid and smiling.