Poet Emperor of the last of the Moghuls

by Farzana Moon

  “Such morbid topics, Zil-e-Subhani. Your birthday today. We should be reciting poetry and entertaining happy thoughts.” Princess Raunaq Zamani broke her seal of silence.

  “Ah, my lovely Granddaughter!” Bahadur Shah Zafar exclaimed cheerfully. “You are right of course. But my poetry sessions are with my court poets. And none over here is ever interested in poetry.”

  “We are, we are!” Several voices from begums and princesses were raised in unison.

  “If you would recite one of your poems, Zil-e-Subhani, it would be your gift to us on your birthday.” Rabeya Begum teased sweetly.

  “Since I got so many gifts, dear Princess, it behooves me to reward you with something which can’t be purchased.” He smiled at his daughter before reciting.

  “Buried in dust, alas, lies many a beauteous shape

  Mirror-like the footprints watch the passing show amazed

  See the handiwork of God, His wondrous praise

  What varied humans He has made from a fistful of clay

  When we saw the spirit divine everywhere preside

  The difference between mosque and shrine at once got erased

  We depart from the earth loaded with the weight of sins

  Setting out for the world beyond, see the baggage that we take

  Despite knowing everything, you persist in silly ways

  We regret your attitude, your ignorance, O Zafar, bewail”

  He closed his eyes, his expression soft and tranquil.

  A cheerful applause followed by requests was over-whel-ming Bahadur Shah Zafar as he sat there smiling and demurring.

  “One more poem, Zil-e-Subhani, and we would importune no more.” Princess Fatima Sultan requested sweetly, knowing that the king would not deny her request since she was the most favorite of his daughters.

  “I don’t have the heart to deny you anything, my Love, but I would rather spill well-preserved pearls from the songs of my court poets.” Bahadur Shah Zafar smiled tenderly. “In the memory of Momin who died young. Here are the precious pearls straight from his heart.

  “I am afraid of your wrath, for your grace, I pray

  I am not scared of hell, nor seek the Elysian gate

  How can I stop praying to you for my needs, O God

  For in prayer lies subsumed the power of your grace

  I should dedicate my merit wholly to the Prophet’s gaze

  Let my wonder-dazed heart reflect my zeal for my race

  Turn me to a dagger sharp, so that by its glint and glaze

  I may break into bits, the hearts full of spite and hate

  I am a humble slave of the brave Muslim brigade

  I intend to rule over the bands of seraphic race.”

  “How sad. Poetry makes me weep.” Zeenat Mahal murmured, her eyes sparkling with some sort of fear nameless.

  “Why, Beloved! Poetry is sublime manifestation of God’s own creative energy.” Bahadur Shah Zafar caught and held the glint of fear from her eyes into his own. “What is this fear lurking behind your beautiful eyes?”

  “Strange feeling, Zil-e-Subhani. I can’t explain.” Zeenat Mahal was flustered all of a sudden. “For a moment I caught some sort of glimpse of carnage and devastation in Delhi. Then everything vanished in a fog. You were divested of all your jewels and I was wearing only rags.”

  “Sorry, Beloved, if Momin’s poetry evoked such terrible delusions.” Bahadur Shah Zafar’s look was piercing, his own heart thundering. “We are all tired, it’s time we rested.” He got to his feet. “Come, Zeenat, we will comfort each other in sleep.” He escorted her out gently out of this room toward this vast bedchamber on the west side.

  Chapter Seven Mourning at Red Fort Palace

  This sultry afternoon the spacious parlor of Moti Mahal inside the Red Fort Palace of Delhi was hosting Zeenat Mahal and Bahadur Shah Zafar. This palace seemed to be mourning like the rest of the palaces in this fortress since the death of Prince Fakhroo and Prince Mirza Quaish, both dying suddenly within a few days apart. But its marble floor furnished with rugs—the finest from Persia and Bokhara was lending the luxury of comfort and coolness. Bahadur Shah Zafar had taken off his turban with jeweled crown which he had worn during the morning ceremony of prayers and was to wear it again in the afternoon during the session with his poets and viziers. He was seated on a davenport, his head pressed between his jeweled hands. Opposite him on velvety couch sat Zeenat Mahal in white silks and adorned with pearls. Her gaze was caressing her king-husband with a mingling of love and sadness. She could neither fathom the depth of his grief, nor of the grief of the grieving queens in Rang Mahal, but her own young heart was longing for some semblance of peace and solace.

  “I have never seen you grieve thus, Zil-e-Subhani, though you have lost other children before.” Zeenat Mahal sought her husband’s attention. “I know losing two sons within a week, it’s terrible. Prince Mirza Quaish was quite young when his mother passed away I have heard, so I think now he has joined his mother in heaven. Yet you grieve thus, because you think Prince Fakhroo was poisoned?”

  “No, Beloved, no!” A cry of agony escaped the lips of Bahadur Shah Zafar, his jeweled hands falling limp into his lap. “He died of cholera, I know for sure, as did Prince Mirza Quaish. Can’t convince Taj Mahal, though. Well, the grieving mother. I have no energy to console her anymore. She has lost her mind it seems. It has been a week since we buried our beloved princes near the shrine of Qutubddin Kaki and Taj Mahal still thinks that Prince Fakhroo is making her suffer the agonies of wait and refuses to come home. I can’t endure her grief and the sorrow of my other wives. That’s why I don’t visit Rang Mahal anymore. I think I have ceased to live.”

  “How selfish, Zil-e-Subhani!” Zeenat Mahal protested sweetly. “What about me? Prince Jawan Bakht and your other sons and daughters. We all need you.”

  “You are the reason I exist, Beloved. Without you I would surely die.” Bahadur Shah Zafar murmured contritely. “You are so young and beautiful. And so very graciously maintain the aura of freshness amidst all these tragedies. Since Prince Fakhroo’s death I see death everywhere. Strange, my heart grieving for deaths yet to come. My court poets too are being snatched by the hands of death. Zauq died a year ago, or is it year and a half?

  “Close to year and a half, Zil-e-Subhani.” Zeenat Mahal murmured back. “Now I understand, you are still grieving for the poet, Zil-e-Subhani, since I hear you recite his poetry so often.”

  “Grief piled high over kingdoms dear and lost.” Bahadur Shah Zafar suppressed a sigh against one flicker of a wan smile. “I am glad Zauq didn’t live to see Oudh annexed, or he would have gone stark mad with grief. He died one year before Lord Dalhousie’s masterstroke on the eve of his departure from India when he annexed Oudh. Newly appointed General James Outram condemned the kingdom of Oudh as a den of thugs and sycophants. Though James Outram was ordered by Lord Dalhousie to send an ultimatum to the king of Oudh Wajid Shah to sign over the administration of Oudh to the Company, or the British would take it by force. The king’s mother pleaded with James Outram to give her kingly son one chance to rule wisely, but he wouldn’t budge as advised by Lord Dalhousie. Depressed as he was, the king wept and pleaded, baring his head which embarrassed James Outram, though he was not moved to compassion. Hazrat Mahal the queen of Wajid Shah urged her husband to disregard the ultimatum for the sake of their son Birjis Qadra—heir to the throne of Oudh. Wajid Shah, heeding his wife’s counsel refused to sign over his kingdom to the Company, but it was forcibly occupied and annexed.”

  “William Sleeman was the general of Oudh before James Outram as I recall, Zil-e-Subhani.” Zeenat Mahal reminisced aloud. “Harem gossip, but it’s true he was heard saying that the kingdom of Oudh is given up to crime, havoc and anarchy by the misrule of government at once corrupt and imbecile. Also true as he was heard saying that the Government should remove the king’s chubby, bejeweled fingers from the reins of power and set up a council of regency with himself at its head.”

&n
bsp; “Harem gossip or not, Beloved, his claim is refuted by the simple fact that the people of Oudh preferred the slandered regime of the king to the grasping but rose-colored government of the Company.” Bahadur Shah Zafar began with a subtle whiff of animation. “The annexation is accompanied by violence and spoliation wholly indefensible. The foundation of all property is unsettled to an extent unheard of under any civilized rule. The landowners are dispossessed. The Company is dealing with the kingdom as if it is not only entitled to its revenues, but to all its property, the spoils of war under their bow and spear. In fact, it is obvious that to them Oudh has become an uninhabited island newly discovered solely for their own pleasure to do what pleases them.”

  “What else can we expect, Zil-e-Subhani, the British have wired the map of India in one cohesive unit of mobility.” Zeenat Mahal consoled smoothly. “Lord Dalhousie alone masterminded the railway lines. New telegraph lines are stretched from Agra to Calcutta to Peshawar. The uniform rate of postage has made people to communicate quicker. Seven hundred and fifty-three post offices in India, a gigantic task.”

  “Much too gigantic as to undo what they have done with their accomplishments, Beloved.” Bahadur Shah Zafar pressed his temples once again as if to refresh his memory. “In the beginning those post offices had supplied free postage stamps to the sepoys which are now being whittled away along with their wartime allowances. To add to the unhappiness of the sepoys, the Company is enforcing the General Service Enlistment Act which requires that they should be prepared to serve abroad, not understanding the fact that crossing the Black Water is forbidden to orthodox high-class Hindus. You don’t know of course that during the second Anglo-Burmese war the sepoys were commanded to cross the sea to Rangoon. The Hindus refused of course and their kind general Colonel Tyler informed Lord Dalhousie that in respect of their religion he can’t force his men to cross the sea. Lord Dalhousie, in response, as a punishment forced the entire regiment to march by land, not to Rangoon, but to Dacca. Within five months only three men survived, the rest perished due to excessive heat and exhaustion.”

  “So terrible and tragic, Zil-e-Subhani. I am glad I don’t know much.” Zeenat Mahal confessed unabashedly. “New policies make me shudder and I have lost interest in politics.”

  “Poetry is dearer to me than politics.” Bahadur Shah Zafar was trying to slough off his sadness. “If events were summed up in poetry, my memory would be revived a thousand-fold. Strange that this poem after the first Sikh war is coming to my mind, reminiscent of the daggers of conceit by British soldiers.

  “We lately tamed the Afghan’s pride

  And now rolls down a fiercer blood

  The clarion sounds, the cannons boom—

  Unfurl the banner of St. George

  Their cry blasphemes the name of God—

  Allah, Allah, wild hurrahs

  Respond—”

  “I like William Thackeray’s description of India, Zil-e-Subhani than the poetry of British pride.” Zeenat Mahal was grateful of this diversion. “Gorgeous East of Thackeray’s genius—a fairytale land where Sultans sit on ivory thrones, fanned by Peacock wings in palaces paved with jasper and onyx.”

  “While English poets and writers sing of India’s fabled riches—though it was rich beyond imagination at one time, its weavers sing of their plight.” Bahadur Shah Zafar was holding on to the tapestry of his poems.

  “Every jilt of the town

  Gets a calico gown

  Our own manufactures are out of fashion.”

  “I fear, Zil-e-Subhani, we would be jilted out of our own royal lineage if we didn’t act swiftly.” Zeenat Mahal’s eyes were gathering clouds of fear all of a sudden. “I know the loss of Prince Mirza Quaish and Prince Fakhroo is still heavy on your shoulders, but we must choose an heir to the throne before the British deprive us of our royal heritage.”

  “Grief as well as the burden of duty has been heavy within my heart and on my shoulders, Beloved.” Bahadur Shah Zafar breathed tenderly. “I have already written a letter to Colonel Frazier appointing Prince Jawan Bakht heir to the throne. He is the legitimate heir, I have stated, gifted with all the endowments, qualifications and virtuous habits necessary for a prince. He has turned fourteen and has obtained complete education under my guidance. In postscript I have written that rest of my sons has no comparison with him, Prince Jawan Bakht alone merits my favor.”

  “It has been quite a while, Zil-e-Subhani, since the engage-ment of Prince Jawan Bakht and his father-in-law is anxious to set the wedding date.” Zeenat Mahal began reluctantly. “I shouldn’t be mentioning it now, but Mahmud Khan has made several trips from Malagarh, expressing his wish to finalize the marriage plans. Prince Jawan Bakht too loves Princess Kulsum and is eager to get married.”

  “Yes, Beloved, an heir to the throne needs his own heir to the throne, hoping that the Crown of the Moghuls is not snatched away by the British most savagely and blatantly. Settle the wedding date between a week to a month. We can’t afford pomp and ceremony since our funds are miserably depleted.” Bahadur Shah Zafar donned his turban and crown before getting to his feet, his heart heavy with presage. “Poets and viziers are waiting for me in the Sawan Pavilion and I must not keep them waiting for long. Poetry mixed with politics has become quite pungent to my taste, yet I try to sweeten it with hope, swallowing both bitterness and sweetness.” He claimed her hand, kissing it reverently. “You are my sweetness. Stay here, Beloved, till I return.” He plodded out of the room, forlorn and despondent.

  Evening shadows in Sawan Pavilion seemed to be descending early as Bahadur Shah Zafar presided over the company of his poets and viziers. Sated with the news of unrest and dejection he had resigned himself to listening rather than actively participating. There was no royal protocol in this pavilion, though he was seated on a gilt chair. All ceremony was missing as usual in such a gathering, but more so this evening amidst clouds of uncertainty and hopelessness. Men in plumed turbans seated on Persian carpets were either too drunk with the sense of their own ideation or afflicted with the fever of pessimism to voice any opinion against the dilemma of kings deposed and kingdoms annexed.

  “Prince Fakhroo used to give me ten rupees a month to buy fruit for my two adopted boys. Who will give me that now?” Ghalib lamented suddenly, his look glazed.

  “So, you are lamenting the loss of funds, not the loss of my prince, my venerable poet.” One ripple of a sad accusation trembled upon the lips of Bahadur Shah Zafar.

  “That’s not true, Zil-e-Subhani, I grieve for the dear, dear loss of both the princes, especially of my royal pupil. A great blow to me personally.” Ghalib protested bitterly. “After the demise of Zauq you appointed me as your personal guide and granted me the privilege of tutoring Prince Fakhroo. Eternally grateful I am of such honors, so precious and priceless.”

  “And yet after the death of Zauq I heard you exclaim, Ghalib. The Moghul princes gather in the Red Fort and recite their ghazals. The court will not last long many more days. How can it be permanent? Who knows if they will meet tomorrow and if they do, whether they will meet after that? The assembly can vanish at any moment.” Bahadur Shah reminisced aloud.

  “That was when you were ill, Zil-e-Subhani.” Was Ghalib’s flustered response. “When Zauq was alive, didn’t I plead? Look at your slave, my song has all the power of fire. Turn your attention towards me as my skill demands. Treasure me as the apple of your eye and open your heart for me to enter. See my perfection, look upon my skill, my presence alone bears witness that your age excels Akbar’s.”

  “Yes, always in clouds, extolling your own skill and inspiration.” Bahadur Shah Zafar commented, rather commiserated. “Your self-worth and self-aggrandizement fetch you nothing but misfortunes. After the death of Prince Fakhroo you were heard saying, he who appreciated my worth has died. Well, your fortunes are linked with mine. As long as I live, you will benefit from my favors. After I am gone I don’t know who will take care of whom?”

  “May you live l
ong, Zil-e-Subhani.” Ghalib murmured wretchedly. “I am sending a letter to Queen Victoria. You are going to hear about its contents sooner or later so I might as well reveal those to you now. After praising the Queen I have written that truly great rulers of history rewarded their poets and well-wishers by filling their mouths with pearls, weighing them in gold and granting them villages and estates in recompense. In the same way it is the duty of the exalted Queen to present me with a robe of honor and allot me pension.”

  “Unfortunately, your request would go unheeded like the requests of others many times before. Even the so-called affable Azimullah Khan failed to secure pension for Nana Sahib.” Bahadur Shah Zafar intoned against some burden of sorrow and compassion. “Much like a great adventurer he has returned home a few months ago. Despite his failure he was embraced by Nana Sahib. Chuni Lal here has been keeping abreast of all his moves and he would be glad to relate his adventures to our benefit.” He bestowed a kind smile upon the news writer.

  “I am surprised to see him sitting here, Zil-e-Subhani.” Ghalib was startled by this discovery and amused. “Since he is converted to Christianity, many demanded that he shouldn’t attend the court.”

  “There is no cause for shame for what he has done and he is always welcome in my court and in my palace.” Bahadur Shah Zafar’s gaze was sweeping over all with a subtle challenge. “Come, Chuni Lal, with all your graciousness, tell us about the adventures of Azimullah Khan.”

  “Your graciousness, Zil-e-Subhani, has granted me the privilege of staying here and I would be delighted to recount what I can remember.” Chuni Lal bowed his head in gratitude. “And if I forget, I know of more who would fill the gaps. Well, supplied with fifty thousand pounds from Nana Sahib and spending lavishly Azimullah Khan couldn’t help but attract the elite in London. Was very fortunate in meeting Lucie Duff the wife of the Prime Minister’s cousin whose husband served as an usher to the Queen. Lucie Duff, all the newspapers in London boldly write, took Azimullah Khan under her wings and introduced him to great writers like Dickens, Tennyson, Thackeray, Carlyle, Meredith and Macaulay. But before that he had landed in East India House of the Company’s Grecian headquarters on Leadenhall Street. He was received by a utilitarian philosopher by the name of John Stuart Mill who was pessimistic about overturning the edict of no pension, yet was kind enough to introduce him to Lucie Duff. Azimullah Khan’s mission appeared to be a social success as far as his being entertained in the drawing-rooms of London, but it turned to be utter failure in not gaining even the crumbs of any kind of allowance for Nana Sahib. After spending tens of thousands of Nana Sahib’s pounds for hiring lawyers, bribing clerks, entertaining dignitaries, or sending gifts of shawls and jewels to the wives of Company’s functionaries, he was doomed to failure. He had exhausted all venues of appeal and was constrained to return to his master of dwindling means, no other than Nana Sahib.”