Poet Emperor of the last of the Moghuls

by Farzana Moon

  “My head has got used to resting on my love’s knees

  Propped on a pillow, it never feels at ease.”

  This couplet escaped Bahadur Shah Zafar’s lips as if he himself was its author. Watching bales of grain on the other side of the scale, his gaze was alighting on Ghalib. “More than a year since Momin passed away and my thoughts still wear the rags of mourning for his talent. His poems are still alive in my memory, yet I can’t recall how he died. Refresh my memory, Ghalib, while I go through this arduous task of weighing ceremony.”

  “He fell from the roof of his house, Zil-e-Subhani, and broke his arm and shoulder.” Ghalib began with a touch of sadness. “After the accident he predicted that he would die either in five days, or five months or five years. He died exactly five months after the accident.”

  “Now I recall, there was eclipse of the moon the same year.” Bahadur Shah Zafar’s gaze was floating over the ocean of his poets and courtiers without seeing. “Even the luminaries mourned the death of that poet.”

  “He lives in his poems, Zil-e-Subhani.” Zauq consoled with a spurt of animation, reciting a quatrain of Momin.

  “Accursed by shallowness if I expect

  I will win over my love if my rival I deride

  For long we heard the name of Momin, today, at last

  We actually saw this poet of poets, a name respected high.”

  “Death is hovering over this continent like a plague. I can smell its reek.” Bahadur Shah prophesied suddenly, watching vats of butter on other side of the scale. I don’t mean natural death but the death of a nation. Strange this feeling? Recently I learnt what Baji Rao said a few months before his death. At last I understand the mystery why British are successful in conquering India. They could always rely on the active

  collaboration of thousands of Indians who, for a variety of reasons are willing to cooperate with those whom they see as their masters.”

  “Baji Rao would have gathered more kernels of understanding, had he lived a few more years, Zil-e-Subhani.” Ahsanullah Khan was swift in voicing his opinion. “For both Hindus and Muslims the success in war is a mark of divine favor, as it is for Christians a divine act of providence. Our own people have begun to think that Company’s army is unbeatable.”

  “Our expectations then are making the British bold and boastful, Zil-e-Subhani.” Mahbub Ali Khan commented. “At the second Sikh war in Ferozepur, General Gough was heard congra-tulating his men for having triumphed where Alexander had failed. Though I believe he would be the first one to admit that the price for that victory was enormous, entailing heavy losses of life and armament.”

  “There is no dearth of armaments for their army.” Bahadur Shah Zafar was heaving a sigh of relief to see the piles of coral being removed from the scale to be replaced with the nuggets of gold. “Their latest invention is a mini rifle which can shoot up to a range of thousand yards, swiftly and accurately.”

  “They may be succeeding in making guns, Zil-e-Subhani, but are failing in their construction projects.” Azad was keen to share his own bulletin of news which he was going to print in his Delhi Newspaper. “They are running into debt in building the Calcutta-Agra-Delhi line. Even their own aides-de-camp Charles Napier is protesting that the Company has made very little progress in the improvement of India. He is repeating the sentiment of a railway engineer who had warned him four years ago and is warning him even now. Brilliant as is the prestige of our Company 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.”

  “Despite the slow progress of the Company, the Indians are hopeful and applauding the giant projects of the Britishers.” Bahadur Shah Zafar heaved another sigh of relief at the replacement of silver after the gold was scooped out, the last precious metal in the rites of this weighing ceremony. “A few years ago an Indian postal official appealed to the general public in this vein: The honor, the dignity and the glory of the Imperial Britain are vested in this project. A magnificent system of railway communications would present a series of public monuments vastly surpassing in real grandeur. The aqueducts of Rome, the Pyramids of Egypt, the great wall of China, palaces, the monuments and mausoleums of the great Moghuls, not merely of intelligence and power, but of utility and beneficence.”

  “A great gift, this sentiment, Zil-e-Subhani, to the swelling self-esteem of the Britain’s might and majesty.” Prince Mirza Quaish suppressed a derisive chuckle. “Peasant riots are on the rise. Due to drought not much is growing. Hired hands are protesting against the lack of money and justice. Injustice and corruption is running rampant in villages. Local insurgents have taken law into their own hands. Murder comes cheap with a reward of religious merit. People are talking about one holy man who had sought the aid of Mapillas—a secretarian group of poor Muslims, telling them that they would go to heaven if they could murder a Hindu landlord who had evicted a poor tenant. Moneylenders are suffering the most brutal of punishments. One moneylender’s limbs were hacked off one by one by the insurgents while they chanted, four annas, eight annas, twelve annas, before chopping his head off and saying good-riddance.”

  “Where are the British officers while natives drink the blood of their own brethren?” Was Bahadur Shah Zafar’s aghast query as he got down from the scale, squinting against the sudden shaft of sunlight.

  “They are busy supervising the torture chambers of their own design, Zil-e-Subhani.” Prince Mirza Quaish seemed drunk by his own font of secret knowledge known only to a privileged few. “A sure way of procuring evidence and confession they resort to such punishments as crushing the testicles of the prisoners, pardon my boldness, Zil-e-Subhani. Immersion to the point of drowning is another one, also suspension of arms. Or insertion of a chewing insect into the prisoner’s naval. A very common one, the rape of the prisoner’s wife in front of him.”

  “Most bestial and inhuman of tortures! What has the poor wife done to suffer the defilement of her body and soul?” Bahadur Shah Zafar’s features were washed by pallor, almost the color of robes worn by the nobles. “A few decades ago, almost thirty years from now—how time defies the dictates of time.” He began to stroll toward the garden flanked by two round towers, princes and noblemen following. “Yes, thirty years ago, natives were the ones devising their own methods of torture. Great waves of unrest and turmoil. Each man according to his own power and influence, as this saying became popular amongst the powerful and the tyrannous. Suspects were whipped to obtain confession. Notoriety alone was enough to condemn a bandit to death. Patels had the power to flog wrongdoers. And the most hideous of the punishments by the high-ranking Maratha chiefs, sentencing the man to be blown at the mouth of a cannon, or to be trampled to death under the feet of an elephant.” His feet were coming to a sudden halt close to the bridge where his own elephant stood garlanded and bedizened. “Ah, my beauty, my faithful one! Didn’t I purchase you from Mirza Latif Bakhsh and since then you have become companion of my heart?” He murmured, letting his jeweled hand be caressed by the powerful snout of his elephant Maula Bakhsh.

  “Your birthday, Zil-e-Subhani, and you look so sad.” Prince Jawan Bakht said precociously. “Maybe poetry would make you happy?”

  “No, my sweet Prince, no poetry session today.” A sponta-neous gale of laughter escaped the lips of Bahadur Shah Zafar. “Music and laughter in the air and the skills of the jugglers and the dancing girls. What else can an old king want from the world?” He stroked the jeweled dagger slung at the Prince’s waist. “We would witness the dance of flowers against the gurgling of fountains, my Prince. Explore the circular bastions against the red granite walls and then walk through the arched bridge to return to the palace for a grand feast.” He resumed his stroll, Prince Jawan Bakht beside him walking jauntily, joined by Prince Abul Bakr.

  “Prince Jawan Bakht is right, Zil-e-Subhani, we should have a poetry session in honor of
your birthday.” Prince Khizr Sultan proposed, keeping pace with the king to his right, Ghulam Abbas following.

  “What’s the use, my Prince. Poetry of life being choked here by annexations by the British.” Bahadur Shah Zafar’s thoughts were crushed by a subtle assault of melancholia.

  “A little respite here, Zil-e-Subhani. The attention of the British Government is drawn to our eastern neighbor, the kingdom of Burma and its annexation.” Prince Khizr Sultan responded non-chalantly.

  “What?” Bahadur Shah Zafar declared involuntarily. His gaze was lured toward the terrace flanked by fountains against the swath of purple and orange in bougainvillea. “The Anglo-Burmese war twenty-seven years ago. The British were victorious, yet they entrusted the kingdom into the hands of Burmese, and now annexation?”

  “I thought you knew, Zil-e-Subhani. I was merely commenting.” Prince Khizr Sultan looked flustered.

  “Of course I know, though I am getting forgetful.” Bahadur Shah Zafar admitted reluctantly. “It has been a year since the British stormed the Rangoon Pagoda, occupying Pegu. The big news at that time was that the naval escort to that expedition was Jane Austin’s brother introducing English literature. Though details escape me. Won’t you refresh the king’s memory, my Prince?” His feet were guiding him toward the arched bridge cradling Jamna waters, gilded copper by sunshine.

  “You know more than I do, Zil-e-Subhani. I didn’t even know about the first Anglo-Burmese war.” Prince Khizr Sultan laughed heedlessly. “You are right about the British storming the Rangoon Pagoda. It all started when the English merchants appealed to the king of Ava against incessant acts of atrocity and oppression by their government toward the English investors who were keen on trade and ship-building industry. The king of Ava ignored their pleas and when the English proposed to sign a treaty with a view of stopping oppression, the king refused. That’s when the war commenced amidst a flurry of hostilities. The British won and annexed the province of Pegu as their dearly-won portion of British territories.”

  “The greed and ambition of the Britishers portends gloom and doom.” Bahadur Shah Zafar kept strolling, waving now and then at the dancers, musicians and well-wishers. “Annexation of Rangoon is a new beginning, they want to be the masters of the world. I hope Mulla Majasi and his family are safe since they are now settled in Rangoon. I have a feeling we are all going to be sucked into the pandemonium of warring factions. Jhansi annexed too and Lakshami Bai bitter and rebellious. Her husband died recently I know. When did her son die and who did she adopt?” He asked no one in particular.

  “Damodar Rao, Rani’s son died when he was only four months old, Zil-e-Subhani.” Prince Mirza Mughal from behind stepped forward, proud to recall details of two years hence. “Then Raja and Rani adopted Anand Rao the son of their cousin, changing his name to Damodar Rao. Though, Raja of Jhansi never recovered from his grief. After his death, Lord Dalhousie under the protection of his Doctrine of Lapse rejects the legitimacy of the adopted son. Jhansi, you already know, is annexed and Rani is in absolute mood of defiance.”

  “Another defiant person in the game of Lapse, Zil-e-Subhani, is the adopted son of Baji Rao, Nana Sahib.” Prince Fakhroo couldn’t be left behind, still feeling guilty siding with the British secretly. “Almost two years since Baji Rao passed away and Nana Sahib is struggling to claim his legacy. Baji Rao, during his exile, used to receive every year a pension of eighty thousand rupees from the East India Company, but after his death all payments ceased. Lord Dalhousie refuses to accept Nana Sahib as legal heir since he was adopted. Nana Sahib is angry and belligerent, demanding the pension late Peshwa used to receive. Now he is sending Azimullah Khan to England to plead his case with the Board of Control or with British Government or anyone who is willing to listen.”

  “Lords have become beggars!” Bahadur Shah Zafar declared without bitterness. “Since we are wearing saffron robes, might as well hold a staff, get a beggar’s bowl and go begging for alms to sustain our tattered empires.” He laughed suddenly. “Poor Raja of Nagpur died without an issue too this very year. Quite an insignificant event, not worthy of notice, but noticed by Lord Dalhousie who was quick to annex late Raja’s kingdom—one and a half times the size of newly annexed districts in the Punjab.” His thoughts were lost in the din of cheers from people in the boat who had recognized the king on the bridge in his regalia of crown and jewels.

  “They know it’s your birthday, Zil-e-Subhani, and are sending their blessings.” Mustafa Khan Shefta caught their warm sentiments before their voices could become clear.

  “How very gratifying.” Bahadur Shah Zafar murmured gratefully. “Most Europeans used to think that religion, not politics ruled the Indian people. Also that Indians don’t care who ruled them—they thought, their own Rajas, Muslims or Europeans? To them, they seemed so jaded and fatalistic in their desires, so could be safely ignored. That was a false judgment. Now Britishers are shocked to discover how bitterly the subjects of even the most dissolute of rulers grieve when Lord Dalhousie dissolves their dynasties.”

  “They would not be shocked, Zil-e-Subhani, if they could deign to ask any ruling Raja as to the cause of bitterness.” Ghalib could not help but share his own portion of wisdom. “They would easily find out that Indians need to have amongst them a figure whom they could revere, a king in their midst and a king from their own people.”

  “A burden too heavy for any king, old and young if he is chosen to fulfill their expectations while alien forces loom high and mighty.” Bahadur Shah Zafar intoned profoundly, leaving behind the arched bridge and entering the palace grounds of Red Fort. “A birthday feast with my family might slough off the burden of such heavy thoughts. “Come, princes, Rang Mahal is the abode of our evening celebration.” He beckoned almost cheerfully.

  The birthday feast had ended a couple of hours ago, but Rang Mahal was still feasting on music and parlance. Dancing girls too with studs in their noses and tilaks on their foreheads were nimble on their toes close to Nahr-i-Bhisht. Piles of gifts lay neglected at Bahadur Shah Zafar’s feet as he sat with Zeenat Mahal on a velvety couch shaded by a gold canopy. Davenports dripping with velvets were occupied by his other wives, perfumed and bejeweled. Lolling against satiny pillows were princes and princesses, jesting and laughing. Brightly lit chandelier under the gilded ceiling was casting fantastic shadows and polishing the jewels of the ladies to surreal radiance.

  “What do I hear, Zil-e-Subhani, Americans establishing a Christian village in Farrukhabad?” Zeenat Mahal catching snippets of parlance amongst the princes voiced her own curiosity. “Missionaries from America, encouraging their own kind to inter-marry so that they could breed new Christians for the mission. Is India going to espouse the cause of Christianity and become a Christian empire?”

  “Unlikely as it is, Beloved, it could happen, though.” Bahadur Shah Zafar indulged amusedly. “It took two hundred and fifty years to convert the Roman Empire and it would take many centuries for India to be converted to Christianity, if ever?”

  “It is obvious, Zile-e-Subhani, they are most fertile in breeding and rearing. And if they keep going at this rate, it would be a few years, not centuries before this continent can claim the cross of Christianity.” Prince Fakhroo abandoned his discussion with the princes in favor of this interesting topic. “Gathering orphans from the streets, they get them married rapidly, breeding a battalion of workers. In North India, they have even opened a tent factory run by that new breed of Christians. Within a couple of years, they have grossed over sixty thousand rupees.”

  “Their dedication is commendable though, my Prince.” Bahadur Shah Zafar intoned thoughtfully. “When they gather ragged droves of orphans from the roadside, they feed them, educate them and then marry them. There was a hunting ground Rakha in Farrukhabad where they opened a school and a carpet factory. Sad and unfortunate for the missionaries though since most of them get so diseased and debilitated that they die before their missionary duties are fulfilled.”

 
“Their priests and Chaplins and Grecian little churches, Zil-e-Subhani, they survive most admirably I have heard.” Zeenat Mahal scoffed with a tinkling of mirth. “Only their wives die young, suffering the ravages of ill hygiene and child-bearing.”

  “India with its pantheon of gods and goddesses could never embrace any foreign faith.” Mubarak Nisa Begum flung this comment with a little toss of her head. “Centuries of Muslim rule and Hindus are still Hindus. Diversity is the creed over here and no one should feel threatened by foreign faiths, not even Muslims.”

  “And yet they do!” Ashraf Begum began with a sudden vehemence. “Hindus as well as Muslims have begun to voice their fears now that the prime aim of every Englishman is to convert all to Christianity, so that they could rule the entire world.”

  “Baseless canards, my Beauty. It’s not befitting that my wives indulge in such gossip.” Bahadur Shah Zafar’s tone was rather stern. “In politics one can take liberties, but religion is a delicate subject where one needs to tread with great caution.”

  “Politics too, Zil-e-Subhani, is a delicate subject since it incites hatred and rebellion.” Akhtar Begum sang haughtily, unintimidated by the stern expression of the king. “Nana Sahib’s close friend Tatya Tope has become a sworn enemy of the British since Lord Dalhousie has deprived Nana Sahib of his father’s pension.”

  “Many claim to be the sworn enemy of the British, my Dear, but they dare not acknowledge that in the open.” A pale smile hovered over the mustachioed lips of Bahadur Shah Zafar. “Another close friend of Nana Sahib, though no friend of the British has agreed to woo the British for reinstatement of funds. Azimullah Khan is his name and he is on his way to London to claim the legacy of Nana’s father. The pension which Baji Rao received when he was alive, now truncated, is making Nana Sahib furious, though he feels helpless.”