Poet Emperor of the last of the Moghuls

by Farzana Moon

  “Eid Mubarak, Zil-e-Subhani.” Ahsanullah Khan greeted happily. “A lucky day, you are the father of another son!”

  “Eid Mubarak, Zil-e-Subhani.” Mahbub Ali Khan chimed in, smiling broadly. “What did you name your prince born on this auspicious day?”

  “Prince Shah Abbas, the most adorable! Mubarak Nisa is the lucky mother, happy beyond measure.” Bahadur Shah Zafar’s eyes were lit up with a subtle glow. “Eid Mubarak to you both also and may this day prove propitious in dissolving the tides of enmity and unrest in this land already bleeding to death with the arrows of greed and possession by foreign powers.” He kept walking, now flanked by Ahsanullah Khan and Mahbub Ali Khan on either side. “All the festivals that we celebrate here should bring us together as one whole, Hindus, Muslims, Christians, non-believers. And yet we are drifting apart. I feel I am an alien in my own country, alienated from everyone, whether friends, advisors or kindred.” He espied Ghulam Abbas appearing suddenly. “Ah, my devoted attorney, your wise mother Mubarakunissa might solve this riddle for me, why do I feel so alienated?”

  “The breeze of uncertainty, Zil-e-Subhani, my mother would tell you.” Ghulam Abbas began with a poetic élan. “Most of the people around here feel the same way I have noticed, and yet they are asserting their wills to practice what they believe to be their privilege and birthright. You might be getting a petition this very day, Zil-e-Subhani, from a group of Muslims to slaughter the cows on Eid, knowing fully well that they are sacred to the Hindus.” His kind heart was already rejecting this petition.

  “The religion of Muslims does not depend upon the sacrifice of cows.” Bahadur Shah Zafar exclaimed with restrained anger. “Islam teaches respect for the religion of others. We live with Hindus and Sikhs and we must respect their beliefs. Jews, Muslims and Christians also must live in harmony, whether in Delhi or in any other part of the world. We should treat everyone with respect, even the ones who earn our anger and disapproval. Especially the ones through whose hands we suffer injustice. Has it already been two years since the British refused to reinstate my allowance as requested by me in my letter to Queen Victoria?” He asked abruptly.

  “Your letter, Zil-e-Subhani, probably never was delivered to Queen Victoria.” Ghulam Abbas consoled. “Most probably it was cut down by the court of directors. George Thompson as we heard presented two letters on your behalf to the President of the Board of Control. It was reported to us as you know George Thompson’s mission fared no better than that of Ram Mohan Roy sent by your venerable father to King George 1V. The fact is that the Directors wrote to the Governor General. The king having for so many years refused to receive this allowance, it is by no means obligatory to us to renew this offer.”

  “The fact is that even in the absence of allowance we have managed to maintain the palace and its grounds in impeccable condition.” Bahadur Shah Zafar ruminated aloud, his gaze reaching out to the colorful stalls beyond the palace gates. “Mindset of the British is an open book to me, I can hear them say: Since palace and gardens are in splendid shape, we don’t need to provide any funds for maintenance. So they withhold the allowance rightfully due to us, collected by them from the revenue of our state. And when we run out of funds to maintain the upkeep of our palace grounds, they would be happy of the excuse they are looking for to dissolve our kingdom. And yet this is the day of Eid and we should be grateful that there is peace in Delhi. So tragic, wars are wreaking havoc in other parts of our empire, ours no more. Many factions and endless frictions, war in Sind, the Sikh wars in Punjab and in several other states, I have lost count.” He promenaded past the palace gates into the main road, commenting over his shoulders. “Keep me informed of the outcomes now and then, Ahsanullah, and now is a good time.”

  All sorts of gifts; jewelry, carpets, jeweled artifacts and paintings just to name a few were housed under colorful tents, attracting wealthy buyers. Though the tide of attraction was shifted toward Bahadur Shah Zafar as soon as he appeared amongst them. He was being greeted most reverently since he was loved by the populace of Delhi, regardless of their race, creed or religion. In return, he was acknowledging their greetings with a wave of his arm. Even when he didn’t—absorbed deeply in conversation or simply tired, people understood, bowing double in curtsies along the road or standing there smiling with their hands joined palms upward.

  “First Sind annexed, then Gwalior isolated as you know, Zil-e-Subhani.” Ahsanullah Khan’s impassioned voice was reaching Bahadur Shah Zafar. “Charles Napier defeated the Sindians at Miani and again routed them at Dabo. As for Gwalior, the Maharaja of Gwalior Jayaji Rao Sindia is still a child. His nominal power was usurped by the military party. When the British intervened and defeated the state troops at Majajapur and Panior, they did so on pretext that the British Government is bound to protect the person of his Highness the Maharaja, his heirs and successors.”

  “Now I remember.” Bahadur Shah Zafar stood watching the procession of State elephants decked in cloth of gold with gilded howdahs on their backs. “Those chieftains of Gwalior fighting amongst themselves didn’t pose any threat to the British govern-ment. When James Outram informed the British government that those chieftains had their own petty grievances and had no intention of rebelling against ruling power of the British, he was replaced by Charles Napier who fought with chieftains with the vengeance of a war-lord.”

  “The same is true of the first major Sikh war fought on the sacred fields of Punjab, Zil-e-Subhani.” Mahbub Ali Khan began with the élan of a war correspondent. “When the second Maharaja after Ranjit Singh’s death was murdered, a bloodbath ensued. The heir of Ranjit Singh is still a child by the name of Dalip Singh, his nominal rule contested by the Sikh army called Khalsa. When Khalsa army moved against Gulab Singh who coveted the kingdom of Punjab, British intervened. A costly victory it was for the British at the very heart of Ferozepur. Sikh losses were ten thousand and twenty-four hundred British died. A conclusive, but expensive bid for Lahore was ruled out while the British sued for peace package consisting of an indemnity, partial annexation and reduction in the ranks of the Sikh Army. Kashmir with all its hill country between the Beas and the Indus, in lieu of indemnity, was ceded to British. And yet they sold it to Gulab Singh for three quarters of a million pounds.”

  “It’s all coming back to me now.” Bahadur Shah Zafar resumed his walk. “Gulab Singh had started his career as a trooper in the army of Ranjit Singh who had given him the state of Jammu as a reward for his gallantry. Ranjit Singh had offered Punjab to the British, it was rumored. Nothing came of it, but we do know that Gulab Singh is now the master of both Jammu and Kashmir. I am hoping he would keep these states peaceful and prosperous regardless of the diversity of race and religion.”

  “Peace and prosperity are myths of the past, Zil-e-Subhani, of which past I have yet to figure out.” Ahsanullah Khan began pontifically. “The respect for religions is no more. Tolerance for race and religion which endeared British to the local population has been dwindling since the last couple of decades. Can’t believe it has been more than a decade since William Wilber Force made those arrogant comments, they are still fresh in my memory. It is so important to have missionary access over here since our religion is pure, sublime and beneficial, while theirs of the Hindus is cruel and licentious. Their deities are absolute monsters of lust, injustice and wickedness. Hinduism is the most enormous and tormenting superstition that harassed any portion of mankind. Hindus indeed are the most enslaved portion of the human race. To emancipate them from this grand abomination is as much sacred duty of every Christian as emancipating Africans from Slavery.”

  “Aside from degrading the religion of the Hindus and the Muslims, the British have improved the conditions of living around here by building roads and digging irrigation channels.” Bahadur Shah Zafar appeared to deflect the harshness of such sentiments with a sigh as profound as his thoughts. “The Great Trunk road between Delhi and Calcutta has expedited internal trade. Farmers don’t have to depend upon m
onsoon rains anymore since irrigation channels in Punjab are fed by waters from the Ganges. Benefits outnumber the costs, higher revenues from land taxes. Ignorance of a few earns hatred of many as in the case of religious intolerance. Wisdom of few reaps benefits for all, though rarely noticed or acknowledged. Roads are always here for us to walk on, no one cares who built them. Well, I am digressing. I hear East India Company is planning to build railway lines from Calcutta to Agra, to Delhi.”

  “Top ranking businessmen are trying to raise money to fund this project, Zil-e-Subhani. Very expensive venture.” Mahbub Ali Khan offered hastily, noticing the sullen expression of Ahsanullah Khan. “Just this year, one railway enthusiast from the Company complained to the high officials of his own East India Company that the work they suggest in physical improvement of India is no better than the speed of an ant. Here’s his comment which I remember verbatim. Brilliant as is the Company’s prestige which hangs over our Indian empire, it must be confessed that it is still in a state of helpless and discreditable barbarism. Many, many centuries behind the example set by any other nation in civilized history.” He sucked in his thoughts, becoming aware of a few stragglers eager to greet the king.

  “I have come to become a Muslim, Zil-e-Subhani.” One Hindu man darted forward, prostrating before Bahadur Shah Zafar.

  “Begone, begone. You are set in your old ways and can’t practice the creed of Islam.” Ahsanullah Khan hissed menacingly.

  “You are dismissed, Ahsanullah.” Bahadur Shah commanded with restrained anger. “Return to the palace posthaste and don’t wait on me this evening.” He turned his attention to the stunned man who was struggling to his feet. “Here, give me your hand, my good man, and repeat this creed of Islam and you would be welcomed into the fold of Islam.” He held the man’s hand into his own gently and lovingly. “Now repeat after me.

  La illah ill Allah

  Muhammad ur Rasul Allah.”

  The man crumbling under the weight of awe and reverence repeated the Kalima and fled after making a couple of curtsies. Murmuring thanks and choked by gratitude. Ahsanullah Khan, shamed and flustered had disappeared discreetly. Bahadur Shah Zafar’s features were washed by sadness as he turned, retracing his steps toward the palace, followed by Mahbub Ali Khan. Clowns and magicians were attracting the attention of all, especially of the families with children, but the king and the vizier were avoiding the crowds and drifting away from the colorful stalls. Both were quiet, both acknowledging the greetings with a wave of their arm. Mahbub Ali Khan was now walking beside the king, his gaze tracing the road back to the palace gates. Bahadur Shah Zafar was contemplating the rise of zeal and bigotry amongst his courtiers, his thoughts turning to Wahhabis.

  “The reek of zeal and intolerance I can smell miles away.” Bahadur Shah Zafar began poetically. “And yet when the men in my court waft that odor, my mind becomes agitated. Next they would be preaching hatred and sanctioning murder just like the Wahhabis. Though, Wahhabism has run its course in India. Wasn’t it during the invasion of Afghanistan when the British succeeded in placing Shah Shuja on the throne, and Wahhabis fought in Ghazni against the British army of sepoys from Bengal and Bombay, dubbed as Army of the Indus? Many were killed and the remaining alive imprisoned. When brought in chains before Shah Shuja, he had them hacked to death with wanton barbarity with the knives of the executioners.”

  “That is true, Zile-e-Subhani, but Wahhabis are very much alive. Ridiculously deceitful, rather ludicrous in their attempt to raise the banner of Jihad. Which in their terminology means a sacred duty to kill brutally and savagely, proclaiming the sanctity of Holy War.?” Mahbub Ali Khan chuckled in anticipation of sharing with the emperor this bizarre recollection. “Remember, Zil-e-Subhani, a Wahhabi leader by the name of Syed Ahmed who was martyred at the battle of Balakot according to the devout disciples, who mourned him for days.”

  “Isn’t he the one dubbed as Hidden Imam, not killed but hidden from the sight of man?” Bahadur Shah Zafar reminisced aloud. “He was supposed to come out of his hiding after fourteen years and resume the role of preaching—hatred, I presume?”

  “The same one, Zil-e-Subhani!” Mahbub Ali Khan declared passionately. “He has returned as prophesied, after fourteen years, yes. Not in flesh or spirit, but in rags of lies. Wahhabi faithful are proclaiming that their Hidden Imam now called Amir-ul-Momineen has come back from the mountains and is summoning the faithful to join him in the just cause of Holy War. Heeding this call were a thousand recruits from Deccan who had arrived in Sittana for military training. Their commander by the name of Zin-ul-Abdin, curious and domineering by nature demanded to see Amir-ul-Momineen. He was informed by Wahhabi Caliph by the name of Qasin Kazzab that he could see the Imam only from a distance, for if he got close the Imam would disappear for another fourteen years. From their camp Zain-ul Abdin and his followers were led up to a mountain overlooking a cave. At the mouth of the cave stood three men dressed in white robes. In the middle was Amir-ul-Momineen, they were told, and the men standing on each side were his disciples to tend to his needs. Zain-ul-Abdin couldn’t sleep that night and by early dawn returned to the mountain, followed by a few of his comrades. Compelled by curiosity they ventured close to the three men. Lo and behold, those were not men in white robes, but effigies of goatskin stuffed with grass. Horrified to be fobbed thus, they asked the Wahhabi caliph why he had lied. Qasin Kazzab protested that he didn’t lie, that it was truly Amir-ul-Momineen who had performed a miracle by appearing as a stuffed figure. Thoroughly disgusted, Zain-ul-Abdin is now a vociferous critic of the Wahhabis.”

  “Who would unveil the deception of the Bhils, though they are very much alive and not claiming to be returning from the abode of the dead?” Bahadur Shah Zafar’s pace was slackened. “They are still being recruited into Company’s army, though they are born dacoits, torturing and burning both rich and poor before seizing their gold and jewels.” He was entering the palace gardens.

  “This reminds me of a Maharashtra folksong, Zil-e-Subhani, about an elusive bandit chief who was very popular.” Mahbub Ali Khan began exigently before the king could disappear inside the palace.

  “Raghu raised his revolt

  He stayed in the deep hollows of the Konkan

  Hid in the mango groves

  There was a big gun battle

  The rebels fought until they were victorious

  And white man’s face was smeared with blood.”

  “Somehow you have the power of refreshing my memory, Mahbub.” Bahadur Shah Zafar’s feet were leading him toward Rang Mahal. “Raghu was the son of a Bhil Chieftain who was appointed as a police Jamedar in the Company. Another Brahmin Jamedar in the Company had his suspicion that Raghu was leading raids in the neighboring village. After investigation, the police tortured Raghu’s family by attaching clipping horns to their breasts and testicles. This started a streak of vengeance with the Government Policemen were murdered, their wives raped. Moneylenders had their noses sliced off. Recently, just this year British officers took this matter into their hands. Raghu’s followers were dispersed and he was taken prisoner, tried and hanged.”

  “Konds of southern Orissa, Zil-e-Subhani, are the ones to be restrained more than the Bhils.” Mahbub Ali Khan commented thoughtlessly. “They still believe in killing their newborn daughters. Worse still is their penchant for child sacrifice to placate their gods for good fortune and making the soil fertile. They kidnap children for this religious ceremony, drug them before cutting them up to pieces.”

  “This brutal custom is declining rapidly and we must give credit to the British general John Campbell.” Bahadur Shah Zafar recalled sadly. “In his great wisdom and compassion he sat down with the Kond chieftains, telling them that once British used to sacrifice humans, but at that time they were ignorant. Then he requested them to renounce this evil custom by taking a traditional oath. Which they did, holding a handful of rice mixed with water and soil. Saying: May the earth refuse its produce, rice choke me, water drow
n me and tiger devour me and my children if I break the oath which I now take for myself and my people to abstain from sacrificing human beings. A ray of hope and prayers are our talisman for virtuous living, my good vizier. Now go, enjoy Eid with your family. We will meet tomorrow.” His footsteps were guiding him toward the comfort of his palace.

  Rang Mahal south of Red Fort Palace was hosting Bahadur Shah Zafar and his royal family this festive day of Eid in a grand style. He was seated on Takht-i-taus—a small throne with dripping velvets and embellished with jewels. His own jewels catching light from the chandelier hanging low from gilded ceiling were changing colors, fiery and brilliant. Velvety davenports were lending comfort to the ladies of the harem. Princes and the princesses lolling against satiny pillows on the Persian rug were admiring the dancing girls with studs in their noses and tilaks on their foreheads. Prince Jawan Bakht barely three year old was trying to imitate the dancers, then skipping around the round pool in the middle of the room fed by the waters of Jamna. Zeenat Mahal was commanding him not to splash the water as was his wont when unwatched. Bahadur Shah Zafar’s attention was lured toward his eldest son Prince Mirza Quaish already thirty-three year old, who had begun reciting a poem for the sole delight of his sisters and brothers.

  “The colonies and foreign governments