Poet Emperor of the last of the Moghuls

by Farzana Moon

  “No easy task, Zil-e-Subhani.” Mufti Sadruddin smiled wryly. “I hired a charming man of noble character Maulvi Sarfaraz. He persuaded Jihadis that slaughtering cows and eating beef on Eid is not prescribed by any tenant in Islam. They can very well eat goat or camel meat and not offend their neighbors.”

  “The same neighbors who did cut the throats of five Muslim butchers accused of killing the cows.” Azad scoffed, addressing no one in particular.

  “Don’t be in a haste to deride our Hindu neighbors, my young Poet.” Ghalib chided. “For two and a half months now Jihadis are the ones looting the entire city of Delhi. Thanks to the injunctions of Zil-e-Subhani, we have some semblance of peace.”

  “There is no peace in Delhi, my Children!” Bahadur Shah Zafar exclaimed, waving his thin arm, his look feverish. “Sepoys have been killing and plundering both Hindus and Muslims. I wish I had the means and the authority to check their wicked acts, causing death and destruction. Neither do I have treasures, nor a kingdom. Always a Sufi at heart I wanted to sit in a corner in search of God with a few people around me, eating my daily bread. Now the great fire that was lit in Meerut has blown over to Delhi and it has engulfed this great city in flames. It seems I and my line is destined to be ruined. The name of the great Timuirids would soon be destroyed. These faithless sepoys have rebelled against their masters and have come here for shelter, they will all be gone before long. They have been unfaithful to their own leaders, what can I expect of them? They have come to ruin my house and once they have ruined it they will flee. Then the English would cut off my head and those of my children and they would display them on top of the Fort. They would not spare any of you. And if any of you are saved, then remember what I am telling you. Even when you take a morsel of bread, it will be seized from you and the noblemen of India will be treated like base villagers.” He stopped as abruptly as he had begun, panting for breath.

  “Zil-e-Subhani, Zil-e-Subhani.” Several voices rose in protest, unable to voice their concern.

  “A day of reckoning! We should talk about the great atrocities and assess the course of future.” Bahadur Shah Zafar resumed with an unusual spark of animation, his gaze lowering a feverish gleam. “Some sort of catharsis to purge clean our hearts of all grief. No more poetry sessions to lighten our hearts. Inspiration is congealed by the cries of the dead and the dying. By enacting the horrors of the past month we might be able to avert the current of future tragedies.”

  “The worse has happened and the worse is yet to come. That’s the litany repeated by many over here, Zil-e-Subhani.” Ghulam Abbas took the lead to unburden his own heart of grief, knowing that no one in Delhi could celebrate this festival of Eid amidst the volcano of death and devastation. “Riots everywhere, murders and massacres. Prisoners blown away from the mouth of a cannon. The same day as of the massacre at Sati Chowra by Nana Sahib, riots at Fatehgarh had intensified and sepoys had opened fire on Fatehgarh Fort. Great slaughter followed, many sepoys as well as Englishmen were killed. Next day the Englishmen secured boats to escape to Cawnpore along with their families, not knowing about the great massacre by Nana Sahib who had settled himself in his new headquarters at the old hotel of Cawnpore. Learning of the Englishmen’s boat approaching the village of Fathehpur, Nana Sahib’s batteries opened fire across from his palace at Bithoor. A few of the men were killed by a swarm of villagers and the rest taken captive. Wounded and bleeding the prisoners were loaded into bullock carts and transported to Azimullah’s house in the old Residency. A few days later the men were executed by the orders of Azimullah. The ones escaping the first volley of bullets were mercilessly slaughtered by the butchers. The women and children were imprisoned in Bibigarh. Three officers, Smith, Goldie and Thornhill were spared their lives and kept as hostages with the promise of securing evacuation of Allahabad. Now the atrocities by Englishmen, Zil-e-Subhani, if someone else has the heart to jump into this pool of catharsis?” A great sigh escaped his lips as if his heart was breaking.

  “The pool of catharsis is crimson by the blood of the victims, Indian or English, the same blood, the same life force. Hearts have become callous. Minds gone stark mad by blind rage.” Bahadur Shah Zafar moaned. “Yes, anyone brave enough to exhume the valley of death?” His feverish gaze was a beacon of woe and challenge.

  “Highlanders have dyed the heart of mother India with the blood of the sepoys, Zil-e-Subhani, as a token of vengeance.” Ghalib began pontifically, unable to contain the flood of misery and despair. “These frock-coated Victorians dubbed as Highlanders have descended upon India like the vultures of vengeance. Under the command of Colonel James Neill Indians are hanged on trees along the road to Benares. Villages upon villages are plundered, then torched and if anyone tries to escape the flames they are shot to death. Retribution at Fathehpur was terrible. Indians were flogged, then hanged, their bodies dismembered. This time under the orders of General Havelock, his soldiers singing in drunken revelry.

  “With our shot and shell

  We made them smell hell

  That day at Fathehpur.”

  “Wasn’t it at Fathehpur that Tatya Tope went tumbling down, his elephant shot by a Highlander, though he escaped unhurt?” Bahadur Shah Zafar’s mind was blocking the gory details which were sure to be repeated and would haunt him till his dying day.

  “Yes, Zil-e-Subhani, but Tatya Tope managed to flee, while General Havelock marched on to Cawnpore with the hope of saving the lives of the prisoners at Bibigarh.” Zakaullah began quickly, more so to lessen his own burden of shock since the events of past week than to console the king almost insane with grief and hopelessness. “Anger and desperation are compelling everyone to flee to safety. Learning of General Havelock’s victories and march to Cawnpore, Nana Sahib suspecting spies in his camp ordered the cutting of nose and right hand of any English writing Indian with the exception of Azimullah, of course. Next the three hostages Smith, Goldie and Thornhill were shot to death. Immediately after that Nana Sahib ordered the slaughter of prisoners in Bibigarh. He appointed Hussaini Khanum the begum in-charge for the extermi-nation of the prisoners. She was waiting for such a day and ordered sepoy guards to drag the prisoners out and shoot them. But their leader Yusuf Khan refused, saying that he would not kill women and children. Calling him a fool and a coward, she ordered the sepoys directly. When the sepoys asked the prisoners to come out, they would not budge. Taunting and jeering once again and threatening Yusuf Khan with the punishment of hanging, she ordered them to shoot all the prisoners inside the house. Fearing for their own lives the sepoys obeyed, aiming their guns at the prisoners amidst the din of women and children screaming and trying to shrink away from doors and windows. The first volley of shots killed but a few and the sepoys backed away, replaced by a second squad. They emptied their muskets into the air and staggered back, unable to endure the cries of the wounded and the dying. The Begum cursed and taunted again and again, but the sepoys moved away shamed and silenced. Yusuf Khan saying, let Tatya Tope kill us, but we have had enough. The Begum then called her lover Sarun Khan to finish the slaughtering. He hired a horde of butchers, handing them the swords. Five butchers began this dark deed by stabbing, hacking and mutilating like the reapers, wading through a pool of blood. Cries of the children were heartrending, trying to evade the blows of swords, many were suffocated to death under the skirts of their mothers. Morning after the night of this massacre when bodies were hauled out to be thrown into the well, some surviving children maddened by this horror were running in circles as if to ward off blows. Soon, their heads were decapitated by the butchers and they were joined with their families in the deep of the well.” He lowered his head, his breath labored.

  “Ah, how one lives to breathe the foul air of torment and tragedy.” Bahadur Shah Zafar groaned. “That same evening I heard Nana Sahib left Bithoor on his chestnut horse. And what followed, does anyone have the heart to recall and disseminate?”

  “Only for the sake of posterity, Zil-e-Subhani, where history
blunts the sword of vengeance. Hoping that it is blunted enough so that this age of horror ceases to exist.” Was Hasan Askari’s distraught expression, his eyes ready to drain blood from his own bleeding heart. “General Havelock’s soldiers drunk with grief what they encountered at Bibigarh went on a rampage of vengeance in Cawnpore. They stormed into the shops and homes of the Indians in a mad fit of plunder and rapine, sparing neither sex, nor age, yielding to no pity and not abstaining from any crime. Sepoys as well as civilians were dragged in droves to the gallows. Prisoners were flogged before being hanged. Beef was forced down the throats of the Hindu captives and pork down the throats of the Muslims. Brahmins were smeared with their own blood before being hanged by the sweepers. After General Havelock left, Colonel Neill took the reins of vengeance. He commanded that all Brahmins would be buried and all Muslims burnt. Introducing a blood licking law—that blood on the floor of Bibigarh was not to be washed, but cleaned up by forcing the natives to lick it from the floor. The captive sepoys were to lick blood from the floor of Bibigarh while being flogged and then hanged afterwards. Anyone refusing to lick blood was lashed so repeatedly and—”

  “No more, no more! Judgment Day is nigh.” Bahadur Shah Zafar closed his eyes. “Men blown to smithereens from the mouth of the cannon. Siege of Lucknow more horrendous than the bombardment at Cawnpore. Hazrat Mahal still holding?”

  “Holding strong, Zil-e-Subhani, since the populace of Oudh has crowned her son Birjis Qadra as the king of Lucknow.” Makhund Lal appeared to commiserate rather than share this information. “Though skirmishes resulting in deaths are reported. The British General E.R. Rees writes. The natives we don’t count. We feel their loss is nothing very great, but it pains us all to hear a poor European being knocked over. As to the massacre in Cawnpore, three days after that people noticed a partial eclipse of the sun, saying. The devil’s wind has not yet ceased to blow. There would be more massacres, horrors, famine.”

  “Famine of love in the soul and arrogance of the invaders!” Bahadur Shah Zafar’s eyes were shot open. “What pains me the most is how the Europeans are addressing the natives. Black-faced curs; fiendish niggers, besides—”

  “Zil-e-Subhani!” Sidi Nasir appeared suddenly, staggering. “The British launched a massive attack and the sepoys are crumbling against that assault, dying and fleeing.” His breathless confession had thrown a curtain of silence over all.

  “Zil-e-Subhani. I have six thousand warriors under my command and with your permission I would send them toward the Ridge to fight the British.” Zohur Ali ripped open the curtain of silence, waving his arms, his eyes shining with a desperate appeal.

  “How could your handful of men dislodge the British, my Friend, when ten times their number has failed?” Was Bahadur Shah Zafar’s feverish exclamation. “It is the end of August, the month of Flower Festival. We would go to Mehrauli to celebrate, right now!”

  “Zil-e-Subhani, Zil-e-Subhani.” Several voices protested in unison.

  “How could you, Zil-e-Subhani, when Delhi is under siege?” Was Ahsanullah Khan’s stunned expression.

  “We are not the besieged, but laying siege over the Ridge, you must stand corrected, my wise Vizier! They have captured the Ridge, true, but are the victim of their own victory. Can’t even come out of their stronghold to capture Delhi” Bahadur Shah Zafar’s look was glazed, but the tone of authority in his voice brooked no further protests. “The Flower Festival with all its pomp and pageantry. Flower fans and garlands of flowers to be offered at the temple and the shrine.” He got to his feet under the spell of unusual vigor and determination, turning his attention to his attendants. “Abdur Rahman, go post haste to the haveli and bring Queen Zeenat Mahal with you with all due propriety. And you Ahmed Beg, look to the preparation of flower fans and garlands and flowers stitched in sheets for offering. All must be done by this evening. The most important of all, you Inuzzur are in charge of the mounts, we leave early this evening.” He turned with the intention of leaving, but stood there suspended, the glazed look in his eyes replaced by a feverish glow.

  “Just to get away from this morbid state of affairs, Zil-e-Subhani. Are we a part of this pleasant excursion?” Ghalib asked skeptically.

  “Of course, my poets and viziers. We would have poetry sessions. Sufi music and songs under the canopy of starry skies.” He turned to his heels, color rising to his gaunt cheeks and feverish glow in his eyes deepening.

  The evening had descended early, it seemed, without pomp and pageantry as Bahadur Shah Zafar had dreamed or expected. The saddest of evenings, Ghalib had thought while accompanying royal pilgrims on the way to Mehrauli. Rather, it was a mournful procession with no fanfare of dancing girls and acrobats as was customary when there was peace and prosperity, but only the music of cannon shots in the distance. There was dearth of flowers too since most gardens were neglected during this pandemonium of killing and plundering. Only a couple of flower fans were hastily assembled and a few garlands. The age-old offerings of four-poster bed of flowers and waves of flowers on silken sheets were missing. The ladies in palanquins escorted by princes on caparisoned mounts were commencing this journey with heavy hearts, so was the king on his lone mount, bemoaning the absence of festivities in the bazaar.

  Bahadur Shah Zafar was still shielded by some spell of dream-reality, but feverish strain had left him and he had grown quiet and contemplative. He and his entourage had left through Delhi Gate, halting briefly at Humayun’s tomb and then proceeding straight toward Mehrauli. Bahadur Shah Zafar was oblivious to the poets Shefta and Ghalib riding beside him and they too were lost in their lone contemplations, merely the scepters of someone’s imagination if anyone chanced to watch them this sepulchral evening. One flower fan and a garland were offered at Yogmaya Temple followed by a simple repast.

  Now the machalchis were lighting their torches as the procession headed toward the shrine of Qutubddin Kaki. Something hoary and subliminal was in the air as if some evil was lurking against the dark shadows, but not a soul was to be seen for miles at this hour of the night.

  Azad along with Prince Jawan Bakht and Prince Shah Abbas were night escorts riding beside the palanquins, but their young hearts were heavy with the weight of premonitions. A gibbous moon had sailed above the white clouds, scudding along over the highway to starry heavens. In the distance, Jungli Mahal was coming into view, lit only by moonbeams. To Prince Jawan Bakht, this palace looked haunting and menacing, but he suppressed that feeling.

  “Are the Begums going to rest here in this palace, Zil-e-Subhani, while we continue our journey toward the shrine of Qutubddin Kaki?” Prince Jawan Bakht asked, his heart dithering.

  “Might as well ask the Begums, my Prince.” Bahadur Shah Zafar began somnambulantly. “Though this palace looks dismal. No colorful lamps or rich carpets to welcome us.” He sighed, the Scythian night within him more terrible than this unwholesome, unwelcoming island of darkness.

  “I don’t want to be robbed of the privilege of making offerings at the shrine of Qutubddin Kaki.” Zeenat Mahal chimed in, peeking out of her palanquin.

  “Thank you, Beloved, for saving me the trouble of making a decision.” Bahadur Shah Zafar sighed again as if alone with his beloved in this dream-world. “We should dismount here and walk to the shrine.”

  A sad and solemn procession of the royal pilgrims had reached the shrine of Qutubddin Kaki on foot as if ready to offer their lives if peace could be ensured. Abandoning their palanquins, the ladies had succeeded in infusing light-hearted gaiety to this strange whim-caprice of the king. Torches of the machalchis were adding great charm to the moonlit night, highlighting the grand gateway to the shrine. Shafts of moonlight scintillating through the marble screen of Moti Masjid not far off, was enhancing the ritual of offering flowers and garlands at the shrine. After that ritual all stood in reverence, praying silently until Bahadur Shah Zafar announced over his shoulders.

  “The ladies would rest at Jungli Mahal while we would go to our Amarian picn
ic spot at the mango grove.”

  “Not at Jungli Mahal, Zil-e-Subhani!” Zeenat Mahal protested. “We would stay at Jahaz Mahal as we always did before.”

  “Then we must commence our poetry session in Jharna next to Jahaz Mahal, Beloved.” Bahadur Shah Zafar’s heart was awakening to the pain in living. The mockery of his impoverished circumstances landing upon his awareness like an avalanche. “The purity of that waterfall is crystal-clear, and it seems to serenade some lost beloved. Mahbub Ali Khan, may his soul rest in peace, once in response to one of my comments said that these falls serenade the saint. I am hoping damask roses are still in bloom.” He dared not meet anyone’s gaze lest he weep. The enormity of war with all its atrocities and absurdities crushing his poetic spirit into pincers of agony.”

  Dawn was emerging pale and crimson, much like the freshly spilt blood. Poetry session had lost its sting of mad versification and was on the verge of expiration. It had been hours since the ladies had sought the comfort of sleep in Jahaz Mahal. Jharna was not the royal abode of the king and his poets, but the mango grove with rich carpets under their feet and a canopy of stars overhead. Machalchis of course were vigilant, entranced by the downpour of inspiration, so replete with grief and lamentations. Shefta’s voice was swaying on the last rungs of recital, his look opiate and distraught.

  “Who has lived in peace on this wasted hearth

  The rose lies lacerated, restless blows the breeze

  All are subsumed in Him, but He stands unique

  The glass inheres in the mirror, the mirror