Poet Emperor of the last of the Moghuls

by Farzana Moon

  “How can you say that, Zil-e-Subhani? We are only raising funds to support the army.” Bakht Khan seemed to be crumbling against the weight of his own guilt, standing there flustered.

  “Funds by killing and plundering!” Bahadur Shah Zafar’s eyes were spilling coals of rage and anguish. “Take away all my wealth and the ornaments of my wives for your own purposes, but do not harass my subjects.”

  “Forgive me, Zil-e-Subhani. We are trying to control the greed of the few, for majority of our sepoys are good, honest men.” Bakht Khan lowered his head, ashamed and humbled.

  “And zeal of the many goes unpunished.” Bahadur Shah Zafar murmured distractedly, ploughing his way toward Diwan-i-Khas. He seemed oblivious to the insolence of the sepoys amidst their own babel of arguments.

  Diwan-i-Khas with its openings of engrailed arches was hosting not only the poets and courtiers, but merchants and petitioners. Bahadur Shah Zafar seated on his Peacock Throne inside the rectangular chamber seemed dreamy, rather bewildered. Crowned and bejeweled he exuded the aura of kingship, but his expression was one of self-surrender, his pallor enhanced by the feverish glow in his eyes. Decorum and protocol were missing, yet all present were maintaining a semblance of etiquettes they were wont to practice during court sessions. A great lull had encompassed Diwan-i-Khas all of a sudden. The courtiers and merchants were quiet, but poets were awakening to the sting of optimism and inspiration.

  “As my father says, Englishmen are afflicted with divine wrath by the true avenger.” Azad was saying in an attempt to dispel the gloom of Diwan-i-Khas. “Their arrogance itself has made them the victims of divine retribution. For as the Holy Quran says, God does not love the arrogant ones.”

  “What would become of our sepoys considering that verse of the Quran? Their rudeness mixed with arrogance has become highly offensive to us.” Bahadur Shah Zafar’s gaze was settling on Azad with a quizzical expression. “Canards and ribbons of judgment float freely during the times of wars. Some people swear that when Turks came to India, there were female camels ahead of them upon which rode green-robed riders, but they were vanished from sight instantly. Only the troopers remained and they killed whichever Englishmen they found. Well, Azad, didn’t your poem just get published a week ago in the newspaper? A History of Instructive Reversals, wasn’t that the title? Won’t you recite since the downpour of petitions is silenced for a while?”

  “With great pleasure, stilling the agony of my spirit.” Azad imbued his response with a dint of enthusiasm.

  “Yesterday the Christians were in the ascendant

  World seizing, world bestowing

  The possessors of skill and wisdom

  The possessors of a mighty army

  But what use was that

  Against the sword of the Lord of Fury

  All the wisdom could not save them

  Their schemes became useless

  Their knowledge and science availed them nothing

  The Tilangas of the east have killed them all

  And event such as this no one has ever seen or heard of

  See how the strange revolutions of the heavens

  Open the eyes of instruction

  See how the reality of the world

  Has been revealed

  O Azad, learn this lesson

  For all their wisdom and vision

  The Christian rulers have been erased

  Without leaving a trace in this world”

  “The alien rulers are very much present in India, or how else would you explain fighting on the Ridge?” Bahadur Shah Zafar declared suddenly. “I had no idea that the British would attack until three days ago. So sudden this aggression and I am just beginning to learn the details. Gulab Shah informed me that the past week for five consecutive days sepoys under his command have attacked Englishmen entrenched at Meerut since they also have been shooting any native person who happened to pass that way. More details from Sidi Nasir who says General Anson and Henry Lawrence have been planning attack on Delhi for a long time, also securing alliances from the rajas of Sind and Patiala. They were to march from Ambala and Karnaul via Baghpat and join Hewill’s troops from Meerut, then march to Delhi. But the sudden death of General Anson delayed their plans. Fighting is still going on as you know on the Ridge opposite Hindan only nine miles from here. You have to compose another poem, Azad, to match the events, predicting results. And what that would be I don’t know?” His eyes were sparkling with stark torment.

  “I don’t know that either, Zil-e-Subhani.” Azad lowered his head in utter hopelessness. “Poetry has become a common commodity these days. Every suffered and suffering citizen of Delhi has become a poet, their laments worth praising and cherishing. Many a sepoys are being brought back wounded by swords or gunshots. They are a sight to incite pity, but the natives of Delhi who have suffered through their hands exclaim, covered with dust they are going to hell. I have heard some offering thanks to God, saying, those wicked men, are now decapitated liked fowls. People on the streets of Delhi would be the future poets of India I think, Zil-e-Subhani.”

  “To curse, I reckon, not to sing.” Bahadur Shah Zafar murmured dolefully. “Won’t you say something, Ghalib? You have become reticent of late. Won’t you recite or construe a poem to delight our hearts?”

  “I wish I could, Zil-e-Subhani.” Ghalib’s features were washed by pallor and sadness. “The tongue of my poetry is silent, though the lips of my thoughts speak. Lately, my affairs are in the hands of such notorious people as foreign invaders whom destiny has made the model of tyranny. And I speak of no other than the British. Like infidelity they are the embodiment of causes of the world disturbances. They squeeze and while squeezing they look like the habitual tormentors of mankind.”

  “In every village, Zil-e-Subhani, natives have become the real tormentors to their own kind.” Kalandar Khan sought king’s attention before anyone else could speak. “Raja Nahar Singh of Bullabhgarh has sent me with this petition. Requesting if you would please appoint some officers to check the highway robberies, for the inhabitants of the village of Pali are on a rampage to pillage and plunder.”

  “Your petition had reached me earlier if I recollect correctly. That was almost ten days ago.” Bahadur Shah Zafar was surprised at his own clarity of recollection, his look piercing. “I did employ five officers who were assigned to arrest and punish the ones involved in those wicked acts of plundering and pillaging.”

  “Raja Nahar thought you didn’t receive his letter, Zil-e-Subhani.” Kalandar Khan offered apologetically. “So he sent me with this petition personally since robberies are on the rise on the highway.”

  “Not strange since my orders are not obeyed and false orders are circulating with my signature forged.” Bahadur Shah Zafar appeared to utter a statement, not a complaint. “Much like the past mishap when sepoys attacked the Magazine. I had issued no such orders and their rash act resulted in disaster. The treasury was lost, and who blew up the Magazine, conflicting reports are difficult to disseminate.”

  “The latest sounds true, Zil-e-Subhani.” Chuni Lal began reluctantly. “Lieutenant Willoughby who had posted guards at the gates of the Magazine to safeguard the treasury had given the order to blow up the Magazine. His decision was sudden as a result of sheer panic. Against the last round of firing from the sepoys, one of his civilian clerk was shot through the right arm. Then Lieutenant Forrest was hit by two musket balls, wounding his left hand severely. That was the time when Lieutenant Willoughby gave order to blow up the Magazine.”

  “Whatever sepoys looted, that money never reached our treasury.” Bahadur Shah murmured regretfully.

  “Just yesterday, Zil-e-Subhani, another treasury at Mathura was looted.” Ghulam Abbas was quick to share his bulletin of news. “Thornhill, the magistrate at Mathura had learned that sepoys were plotting to loot the treasury, so he had the money packed in boxes to be transferred to Agra. Almost half a million silver rupees and ten thousand pounds worth in copper coins. Lieutenant B
urton was in charge of loading boxes in the bullock carts. When all was ready he told the native officer to order the guard to drive the carts. Where, the officer asked with a smirk. To Agra, of course, Lieutenant Burton said. No, not to Agra, the officer shouted angrily, turning to the guard. To Delhi. You traitor, Lieutenant Burton cried, but before he could protest further, a sepoy stole behind him and shot him dead. Then the sepoys set fire to the building and marched off with the treasure, throwing handful of copper coins to the onlookers. The villagers rushed to the burning treasury to loot the remainder of the silver and copper coins. Quarreling over the loot, wielding clubs and swords. Many were killed and many more injured by falling off roof beams and masonry.”

  “That money would never reach Delhi, I am certain.” Bahadur Shah Zafar prophesied dolefully. “Can’t they see how greed is killing them while they are bent on slitting the throats of their own brethren?”

  “Greed of the Europeans in the first place, Zil-e-Subhani.” Hassan Askari began pontifically. “I met a landowner in the bazaar who was saying, I didn’t object to the English Government at first, but lately it has meddled in everything and have upset all our ancient customs. Besides heavy land revenues and taxes on almost everything, life has become unendurable. It is worse now since village is fighting against village, caste against caste.”

  “Muslims joining their ranks and all on a crusade to kill the Christians.” Bahadur Shah Zafar’s look was challenging. “Isn’t that true, reverent Mulla?”

  “Not entirely, Zil-e-Subhani.” Was Hassan Askari’s bold, yet flustered response. “Many Wahhabis have been gathering under the banner of Maulvi Inayat Ali with cries of Jihad. In fact, before the festival of Eid-ul-Fitr on the eastern slopes of Mahaban Mountain. In Peshawar, one regiment of mostly Brahmins was disbanded on the suspicion of revolt, and yet they succeeded in absconding at Hot Mardan and marched off toward the nearby mountains. They were pursued by British troops under the command of John Nicholson, half of them killed. Yet, five hundred of them survived, finding refuge in Valley of Swat. Unfortunately the Wahhabi Chief of Swat, Syed Akber Shah had died recently, succeeded by his brother Sayyed Umar Shah who was not liked by the tribal chiefs. Though he did offer asylum to the fugitives, and yet Brahmins felt they were unwelcome. With the intervention of Akhund of Swat, they were able to depart on amicable terms, half of them finding refuge in Kashmir and the other half joining Inayat Ali in India, always a vocal Wahhabi. Now they are looking up to another staunch Wahhabi by the name of Meer Raz Khan who has seized two villages near the Yusufzai Plain. These are all the reports I have, Zil-e-Subhani, no one here to attest to their validity. As far as I am concerned, Wahhabis are no Muslims.”

  “Muslims are no Muslims either. Bypassing the injunctions of peace and slitting the throats of the People of the Book, brutally and indiscriminately.” Bahadur Shah Zafar’s eyes were burning with grief and anguish. “My thoughts are returning to the Ridge. Are we really being attacked by the British?” His look was glazed suddenly. “Two weeks ago, or is it more, I sent a letter to Lakshami Bai to bring her troops here. I didn’t hear from her. Did we get any response?”

  “Messages get lost in this ocean of chaos and anarchy, Zil-e-Subhani.” Mahbub Ali Khan ventured to keep the king abreast of events dark and chaotic. “While the fighting is still raging on the Ridge, Cawnpore is in uproar. There is great fear that sepoys would revolt in the same manner as they did in Meerut. Two weeks ago General Wheeler was commanded to get the barracks ready for refuge and to dig the entrenchment in case the sepoys revolt. Nana Sahib’s friend and advisor Azimullah Khan visited those trenches one day when the work was in progress. Noticing crude outbuildings, a lone well and uneven trenches, he could not help ask Lieutenant Daniel, what is this place? Lieutenant Daniel had replied, I am sure I don’t know. To which Azimullah Khan had said, Fort of Despair I should say. We will call it Fort of Victory, Lieutenant Daniel had retorted.”

  “Victory comes at a high price in that region.” Bahadur Shah Zafar commented. “That place is hotter than hell, people say and dust-storms so common that the whole sky turns saffron. If anyone needs any protection, it should be against the weather—the major enemy. Where is Nana Sahib? Last time I heard he was perfecting the skill of deception.”

  “I am not sure, Zil-e-Subhani.” Mahbub Ali Khan lost track of his bulletin of news. “He is in Nawabganj, still professing to be faithful to his covenant with General Wheeler. The Collector Charles Hilderson trusts Nana Sahib absolutely as a friend, even considering his offer for a safe passage to England for his wife and children. Strange how he rode into Cawnpore astride a large elephant ahead of a string of more elephants, two brass guns in the rear, four hundred lancers and matchlock men. Riding toward Cawnpore, he and his men encountered Baji Rao’s younger brother who had allied himself against Rana with the Peshwa’s widows. Nana Sahib’s men relentlessly ran that young man and his entourage into a ravine. Waving swords, they warned him that in a few days Nana Sahib would settle with him for good when the Company’s Raj would be over.”

  “Stranger yet, that Charles Hilderson still trusts him.” Ghulam Abbas was in haste to untie his own bundle of reports. “Charles Hilderson has installed Nana Sahib in a bungalow across from the treasury. Actually he is in possession of the Magazine and the treasury worth seven hundred thousand rupees.”

  “He earned that trust by deception I am sure.” Mahbub Ali Khan appeared to hold on to the king’s earlier comment. “A couple of times he sent his men out to apprehend runaway sepoys from Delhi who had plundered Government money, though those men never returned with any captives.”

  “At least, our Eid was calm and quiet, already a week gone.” Bahadur Shah Zafar sighed.

  “Quiet next day after Eid at Cawnpore also, Zil-e-Subhani.” Hassan Askari offered, gloating inwardly. “It was Queen’s birthday, but General Wheeler decided to forego the traditional artillery salute for fear that troops would mistake it for an attack. They are afraid that sepoys would attack them suddenly. Reverend Haycock over there, I have heard has entrusted his communion plate and altar cash to a neighboring landlord and has moved into the entrenchment. Another European by the name of Peter Maxwell has left his possessions in safekeeping with the natives and has joined others in the entrenchment.”

  “They can’t help but fear, Zil-e-Subhani, since revolts have become very common, rather unpredictable.” Makhund Lal seemed anxious to present his report. “Just yesterday there was a sudden riot in Lucknow. One brigadier and three officers were killed. Also European refugees from Oudh are seeking refuge in Cawnpore.”

  “Cawnpore is a prison, not a refuge, I am beginning to believe after hearing all these conflicting reports.” Bahadur Shah Zafar could barely keep his eyes open, seized by a sudden flood of weariness. “Nana Sahib, as the reports keep coming, has covert designs in attacking the entrenchment. He is also in constant touch with Hazrat Mahal of Lucknow with Azimullah Khan as his trusted advisor.”

  A sudden volley of uproar and commotion was filtering in inside Diwan-i-Khas. Bahadur Shah Zafar had risen to his feet, forcing his eyes open with his innate will to stay alert. All had grown quiet as if expecting a great disaster. This hush was disrupted by the breezy arrival of Sidi Kambar.

  “Zil-e-Subhani, British have defeated native sepoys at the Ridge.” Sidi Kambar fell prostrate at the steps of the throne. “At the first volley of cannon from the British, and the sepoys turned their backs, fleeing for their lives. The soldiers being brought into your palace gardens are the ones injured yesterday during the fight at Hindan?”

  “Where is Prince Mirza Mughal?” Bahadur Shah Zafar asked tremulously.

  “He left the field of Hindan yesterday, Zil-e-Subhani.” Sidi Kambar lifted his face up, ravaged by tears.

  “Were sepoys not under the command of Prince Abul Bakr?” Bahadur Shah Zafar was trying to hold on to the string of recent events.

  “Yes, Zil-e-Subhani.” Sidi Kambar murmured. “Prince Abul Bakr’s heart wa
s stricken with terror, it seemed, as the shells burst and he was stunned by so much bloodshed all around him that he fled as swiftly as the sepoys.”

  “For the rest of my life I shall live in seclusion of some garden clothed in my winding sheet.” Bahadur Shah Zafar murmured back, strolling through the silent files of his courtiers unseeing.

  He was drifting away toward Rang Mahal alone and forlorn, not even hearing the groans of the injured soldiers in his garden. A wraith of jewels and silks, he looked more like the ghost of the ages past, as if no blood ran in his veins, only the ether of memories vague and tragic.

  Death and tragedy, all illusion. And yet why does this sound real that sepoys have spoilt and wasted all the materials of the Magazine and have squandered all the money from the treasury? Bahadur Shah Zafar’s thoughts were gallivanting, his heart on a verge of collapse, and yet he was whipped by his need to be close to his beloved Zeenat Mahal. Sad and tragic, the fighting on the Ridge would continue until the British troops wend their way to capture Delhi.

  Chapter Eleven Rocked by Shelling

  Seated on his crystal throne inside the central chamber of Diwan-i-Khas, bejeweled Bahadur Shah Zafar looked more like a phantom of the Shakespearean tragedy than the aged king on the brink of collapse. In fact he was afflicted with a touch of senility though he himself was not aware of it, deeming himself the victim of his own moods, ranging from anger to apathy, from sadness to serendipity. Attended by poets, courtiers and a few officers of the sepoys, he had withdrawn himself this particular afternoon into his self-made circle of solitude, though seemingly attentive to the flow of conversation. Almost a month since the Ridge was captured by the British, but they were unable to conquer the city of Delhi against the constant flux of sepoys ready to die and defend. Casualties on the side of the sepoys were enormous, considering a steady stream of soldiers replacing the ones dead or wounded. Bahadur Shah Zafar was awakening to the pathos rife and uncontrollable. Fever and anguish within him seeking company of the dead Sufis.