Poet Emperor of the last of the Moghuls

by Farzana Moon

  “Look, Zil-e-Subhani.” Ashraf Begum sprayed his forehead with a jet of saffron water. “Your forehead is smeared with so many colors you need a thorough wash.” She laughed.

  “And you, my Beauty, need a change of silks.” Bahadur Shah Zafar was quick to release a spray of red water from his sprinkler before she could flee.

  “We should stop this madness now. The floor is disappear-ing in rivulets of colors.” Akhtar Begum couldn’t help spraying the laughing couple with powdered red-dust.

  “Now really, we should settle down for a feast.” Zeenat Mahal was too nimble to let the trio escape against her own sprinkler of ochre jet.

  “Why I am being sprayed right and left when there is no dearth of royal pranksters in this palace of colors?” Bahadur Shah Zafar made one hopeless gesture against the din of music and laughter. The princes and princesses running and spraying, while squealing with mirth.

  “Truly, Zil-e-Subhani, we must stop. I am famished.” Taj Mahal Begum implored.

  “Yes, time to bathe and dress for feasting.” Bahadur Shah Zafar agreed, holding out his hand to Mubarak Nisa who had collapsed on the floor drenched in a rainbow of colors.

  The evening still bathed in the colors of festivity was wafting the scent of serendipity as Bahadur Shah Zafar sat with his family to partake of the feast prepared by diligent chefs. A great feast it was with a variety of viands, including twenty-five kinds of bread and as many varieties of rice dishes, and double the amount of desserts garnished with gold and silver leaves beaten thin and sprinkled with chopped pistachios.

  Sated with food, music and bouts of festivity, the royal family was sharing bulletins of news with a sense of amusement or indifference. Bahadur Shah Zafar’s wives were still teasing him, though spraying no colors, only the colorful jests.

  “Now that all five divans of your poetry are published, Zil-e-Subhani, are you going to write more?” Prince Fakhroo asked suddenly with the intention of snatching his father’s attention from the protests of his royal wives.

  “A poet, always a poet, my Prince.” Bahadur Shah Zafar smiled generously. “Can one stop breathing as long as one has the breath left to breathe?”

  “Lord Dalhousie almost did, Zil-e-Subhani.” Prince Mirza Mughal was eager to share his own bulletin of news. “The Koh-i-Noor diamond which he exacted from Dalip Singh, he finally delivered to Queen Victoria personally. Almost holding his breath, he had confessed, while carrying the diamond from Lahore to Bombay and then on a ship to London. He was heard telling the Queen. Sewn and double sewn, it was secured around my waist. One end of the belt fastened to a chain around my neck. It never left me day or night. The Queen was not impressed, it was reported.”

  “Indians too are not impressed by Lord Dalhousie since he signed a law of Emancipation Act before sailing to London.” Prince Khizr Sultan commented. “Under this law no one would be deprived of his inheritance on account of a change of religion. Hindus are very much against this law since they would no longer be able to disinherit their children if they were to abandon their ancestral faith.”

  “Hindus are already bitter about the European missionaries.” Prince Mirza Quaish began thoughtfully. “Religious literature is being distributed openly with the intention of proselytizing. It is unwelcome to many, especially to sepoys and sowars who are being invited by their English officers and exposed to the doctrines of Christianity.”

  “In earnest, my Prince, I believe the English want to educate, not proselytize.” Bahadur Shah Zafar intervened cheerfully. “They have great plans of offering education to young or old, male or female. It would be of great benefit to the general population, in my estimation.

  “I have been keeping abreast of news from London, Zil-e-Subhani, and their idea of education is quite different from how you perceive.” Zeenat Mahal was quick to join the royal parlance. “An English writer by the name of Macaulay is quoted saying: If our plans of education are followed up, there will not be a single idolater among the respectable classes in Bengal thirty years hence and this will be affected without efforts to proselytize.” She stole a glance at her son Prince Jawan Bakht almost eleven now, before continuing. “I am exposing Prince Jawan Bakht to the literature of the west even if it is unpopular around here. I think it broadens the mind.”

  “It is not the literature of the British, Beloved, that is unpopular, but their policies which antagonize the rajas and their subjects.” Bahadur Shah Zafar’s gaze was caressing both the prince and the queen. “The policy of Lord Dalhousie for one. His Doctrine of Lapse, whereby the Company could automatically annex the principality of any Indian ruler who died without natural issue. He put this Doctrine into practice a year ago at the death of Sivaji’s descendant at Sittana who had left no male heir, annexing his kingdom immediately.”

  “Jashn-i-Holi is the festival of the Hindus, Zil-e-Subhani, so why do we celebrate it?” Prince Jawan Bakht asked precociously.

  “Ah, my young Scholar!” Bahadur Shah Zafar indulged cheerfully. “Celebration is a way of life and my excuse to celebrate any festival adds joy to celebrate life. You are too young to understand the concept of religions. Islam teaches us to honor and respect the religions of others. By participating in celebrations of the followers of other faiths, we honor the spirit of Islam. You would be studying the history of Moghuls soon and I have appointed Hafiz Muhammed as your tutor, though he is a great theologian also, but remember our ancestor emperor Jahangir also celebrated Holi. He named it Eid-e-Gulabi, meaning pink Eid. And now in the spirit of joy let us go for a stroll in our garden Hayat Bakhsh and see if we can discover pink Eid in beautiful blossoms. And don’t forget to teach Prince Shah Abbas the lessons you have already learnt.” He got to his feet, beckoning all to join him in a leisurely stroll.

  Another swift year sucked into the seasons of the past since a leisurely stroll in Hayat Bakhsh garden and this particular afternoon the same garden was hosting poetry recitation. Bhadon Pavilion was the chosen abode where Bahadur Shah Zafar sat with his poets on a palace rug of Persian weave, exquisitely soft and luxuriant. The scent of roses mixed with fragrant blooms from Mulsari tree was permeating the pavilion, making the poets drunk with the perfume of poetry and flowers. Bahadur Shah Zafar was facing the open mehrab and he could see the star-like blooms of Mulsari tree, his gaze reaching beyond and hovering over the array of cypresses. His attention was turned to Ghalib who was obeying the command of the candle before him and reciting ecstatically.

  “The object of my worship lies beyond perception’s reach

  For men who see, the Kaaba is a compass, nothing more.”

  Ghalib bowed his head amidst the symphony of great applause.

  “I am glad you were arrested for gambling, not for heresy.” Bahadur Shah Zafar laughed.

  “In the Kaaba I will play the conch shell

  In the temple I have draped the ahram.”

  Ghalib spilled one impromptu couplet.

  “Now, for sure, you would be imprisoned on the charges of heresy.” Azad teased, more so to still his inner rancor against this genius of a poet than to be a part of the revelry.

  “I wish I had taken rosary in my hand, put a secretarian mark on my forehead, tied a sacred thread around my waist and seated myself on the banks of Ganges!” Ghalib exclaimed passionately. “That way I would be able to wash the contamination of my existence from myself and be like a drop with the river.”

  “You would merge with the ocean if you could swallow your pride without hesitation.” Bahadur Shah Zafar chided lightly. “Didn’t you refuse a college post, though your financial resources are insufficient, I hear?”

  “Yes, I did, Zil-e-Subhani.” Ghalib admitted, visibly discomfited.

  “What made you decline that post?” Bahadur Shah Zafar asked amusedly.

  “My pride as you rightly guessed, Zil-e-Subhani.” Ghalib confessed with a bold smile. “And the arrogance of Mr. Thomason, the secretary. It could have been a lucrative job to teach Persian at Delhi College, but whe
n I arrived at the gate I expected Mr. Thomason to come out and welcome me befitting my status. After a long time when he finally deigned to come out, he chortled haughtily that it was appropriate for him to welcome me formally at the Governor’s Court, but no such formality was required at the college. I told him that by taking a government appointment I had expected it would bring me greater honor than I now receive, not a reduction in those already accorded me. To which he shook his head, saying: I am bound by regulations. I was courteous enough to tell him then, I hope you would excuse me, before leaving him standing there perplexed.”

  “I graduated from Delhi College.” Azad seemed awestruck as if humbled by the hauteur of a great poet. “Some of the Shaikhs over there tried my patience while teaching me Arabic and Persian.”

  “The Shaikh hovers by the tavern door

  But believe me, Ghalib

  I am sure I saw him slip in

  As I departed.”

  Ghalib’s inspiration was fluid it was obvious as he spilled this quatrain.

  “The way you are spilling poetry today, Ghalib, it seems you are the master of Urdu poetry.” Zauq declared suddenly.

  “You are not the only master of Urdu, Ghalib

  They say there used to be a Mir in the past.”

  Ghalib’s spark of inspiration seemed inexhaustible.

  “Ghalib, pass the candle to Zauq before the wax of inspiration of the other poets melts and disappears.” Bahadur Shah Zafar applauded.

  “We can see a river in a drop, a barn in a single grain

  The whole is a part we can see, a universe compressed in a lane

  Who can strengthen out my life, knotted like a tress entwined

  With failures deep from heel to head in our life engrained

  The boat of life has arrived at the whirlpool of death

  Every breath that we inhale is a fatal gust of windy rain

  Our Kaaba is now subsumed in the gem of our heart

  Like the whirlpool we should now circle round this fane.”

  Zauq moved the candle swiftly in front of Momin before the applause could subside.

  “Kneeling to the idols, Momin, you have spent your life

  How futile to turn a Muslim when your end arrives.”

  Momin recited somberly.

  “Pray, do not sing of death as yet, you are young still.” Bahadur Shah Zafar applauded, his gaze spilling compliments. “Don’t be in a haste to pass the candle. Sing of something serene and festive.”

  “What festive scenes my mind recalled that drugged down my senses

  Drunk am I without a drink on this moonlit plain

  Lo, at his dying hour he kneels at his idol’s feet

  Momin has forsaken God, by restlessness deranged.”

  Momin was quick to place the candle before Azad, fearing reprimand from the king for using death theme again.

  Azad seemed spellbound, and couldn’t speak even after the applause subsided. He was feeling bashful, trying to banish the beautiful face of his beloved he had glimpsed but occasionally.

  “Today a flower must have bloomed afresh

  For her face has the freshness of a rose

  Angels must be longing to embrace her

  To feel the warmth of pure love

  Seeking forgiveness from beloved

  I dared desire her

  This fire of desire alone

  Polishing my tears to pearls.”

  Azad almost toppled the candle in his haste to place it before Shefta.

  “With such a tender piece of poesy, you couldn’t be that garrulous editor of Delhi Urdu newspaper as the rumor goes.” Bahadur Shah Zafar applauded, showering compliments on this young poet.

  “Whatever enterprise you start, be it good or bad

  Pursue it with your heart and soul and a determined zeal

  Let your body reflect your soul in its subtle, spiritual sense

  And your words reflect your meaning, lying deep-concealed”

  Mustafa Khan Shefta was as quick as Azad, though steady in his haste to place the candle in front of Bahadur Shah Zafar.

  “The brevity of my poets and somberness of their demeanor have robbed me of my own inspiration.” Bahadur Shah Zafar laughed before reciting.

  “You should have invested me either with a crown

  Or wrapped my body in a lowly, beggar’s gown

  I wish I were turned to dust and strewn at lover’s door

  If I was meant to be humbled to the ground

  If I was endowed with insatiate thirst for love

  I wish I were given a life unlimited, unbound

  That my heart is rent apart, I do not care

  Provided the pillow of your locks serves as its

  resting ground

  If I am not worthy of the company of the saints

  In the revelers’ throng at least let my voice resound

  Bereft of the Saqi’s grace, if I am to burn alone

  Make me a tavern lamp, burning at the tavern ground

  Everything is always wrong in this mundane world

  Such a place had better been a wild barren ground.”

  Bahadur Shah Zafar’s melancholy tones were sucked inside a thunderous applause. “You are generous to the old king.” He made a kind gesture. “If there is any news worthy to share we have a few moments before we return to the palace.” He invited comments, concerns, and suggestions.

  “The kingdom of Jhansi, Zil-e-Subhani, is abuzz with festivities.” Mahbub Ali Khan broke his silence. “Lakshami Bai has given birth to a son, naming him Damodar Rao.”

  “God be praised, an heir to the throne.” Bahadur Shah Zafar intoned cheerfully. “One little kingdom where Lord Dalhousie’s Doctrine of Lapse won’t apply.”

  “Paradoxically, Zil-e-Subhani, birth and death run parallel, never meeting in twain.” Ahsanullah Khan began pontifically. “Peshwa Baji Rao passed away in Bithoor near Cawnpore. His adopted son Nana Sahib has appointed Azimullah Khan as his advisor and secretary. Baji Rao was considered a coward even in his exile. Now people are singing on the streets.

  “We emptied the well

  And drained the land dry

  To grow a tree of thorns

  Running, Baji Rao.”

  “It’s not right to think badly of the deceased.” Bahadur Shah Zafar intoned sadly. “Peshwa unfortunately was the victim of circumstances. He was born when both his parents were imprisoned by Peshwa’s Cabinet. Till the age of nineteen he spent time in confinement along with his parents and he lost both his parents when still in his teens.”

  “Unfortunate indeed, Zil-e-Subhani.” Ghalib commiserated aloud. “His parents were accused of murdering a young Peshwa, their own nephew.”

  “That nephew was fifth Peshwa, Zil-e-Subhani, by the name of Narain Rao, haunting Baji Rao all his life.” Zauq appeared to be jogging down his own memory lane. “To drive the ghost away he built a temple for the priests of Panharpur on a river bank in the town of Maharashtra. The priests succeeded in exorcising the ghost, but it appeared when Baji Rao was exiled to Bithoor. There are many stories concerning this ghost.”

  “I have heard, but I forget.” Bahadur Shah Zafar appeared to contemplate. “Well, was he able to drive away the ghost again?”

  “People don’t think so, Zil-e-Subhani.” Zauq began thoughtfully. “Till the end of his life that ghost stayed with him, though he distributed alms to Brahmins, built temples and bathing Ghats. Performed endless prayers and did penances. Fasted for days and kneeled at the feet of sadhus and soothsayers.”

  “Sad, passing sad.” Bahadur Shah Zafar heaved himself up thoughtfully, his gaze alighting on Momin. “Momin, you still look sad, what’s wrong?”

  “Nothing, Zil-e-Subhani.” Momin smiled. “I am not sad, rather feel peaceful. Somehow I have this feeling that I won’t live for long.”

  “To dispel this doom and gloom, Momin, you must recite a worthy poem before we end this poesy session formally.”

  “My verse with its magic touch can th
e dead revive

  I have resurrected the name of Jesus Christ

  Is this the way to send your wishes through the

  rival’s missive

  Lo, I thank you from afar for such a callous style

  Ere, I used the term to suggest her deadly charms

  No one knew the name of doom, nor what it implied

  There comes to slay me, by hence ye dense despairs

  Lest he be unnerved by such a crown in sight

  Granted, you gave a harsh reply to the rival’s note

  But pray, tell me not what his note implied

  The bliss of union is separation’s recompense

  Why do you, O heaven, a new torment devise

  Bearing with your wrongs I have spoiled your ways

  My doings have undone me, I’ve now realized.”

  Momin sang madly and ecstatically.

  “Madness of the poets is maddening.” Bahadur Shah emerged out into sunshine, leaving behind the Bhadon Pavilion rocking with cheers and applause.

  Seal of the emperor in the first year of his reign.

  Chapter Six Weighing Ceremony

  The fortifications of Salimgarh outside the palace fortress of Delhi was teeming with guests for Bahadur Shah Zafar’s seventy-eighth birthday. He had requested that everyone should dress in yellow for his birthday and the palace gardens were looking like fields of saffron. The small bridge connecting Salimgarh to the palace was hosting a group of dancers, their bejeweled forms in silken splendor reflected in the moat surrounding the bridge, shimmering and shuddering. Bahadur Shah Zafar seated on a grand scale under the noble gateways was being weighed against seven kinds of grain, butter, gold, coral and silver. After this weighing ceremony all these items were to be distributed amongst the poor.