by Farzana Moon
“No harm would ever come to us. We are of royal blood and strong in faith.” Bahadur Shah Zafar got to his feet with an astonishing surge of alacrity, giddy with the fever of anguish and madness. “Tomorrow at the stroke of midnight, we are going to attack the Ridge, I myself would lead. A proclamation to this affect is to be issued by the beat of drums to the populace of Delhi this very evening. We would gather at the Kashmiri Gate and when we attack, victory would be ours. Britons would flee, never to come back and harass us.”
“Zil-e-Subhani.” Ghalib protested, getting to his feet stunned.
The princes were in utter shock, springing to their feet in unison, standing there appalled and speechless.
“Don’t just stand there and gawk, Ilahi Bakhsh. Go, summon Kali Khan and entrust him with this proclamation.” Bahadur Shah Zafar commanded.
“Yes, Zil-e-Subhani.” Ilahi Bakhsh stalked out of Diwan-i-Khas, deflated and apprehensive.
“Don’t bother to come and see me tomorrow, Ghalib.” Bahadur Shah Zafar sauntered past all, unseeing. “Go, finish your diwan of poems.” He left Diwan-i-Khas, forgetting about his proclamation, it was obvious.
The proclamation was sounded after all, but Bahadur Shah Zafar was not there to honor his decision by his presence. An evening of fear and presage, followed by nightmares had rendered Bahadur Shah Zafar more vulnerable than ever before, and he had decided to leave the sanctuary of his own Fort. Afflicted with the fever of madness after he had left Diwan-i-Khas, a barrage of reports had begun to filter into the palace that British soldiers had concealed themselves inside the houses nearby with the intention of attacking the Fort. Fever of madness still coursing through his veins, his sleep was rigged with nightmares most horrific and excruciating. Blood was everywhere in his dreams. Royal blood churning before his eyes in fantastic ripples and streets of Delhi carving rivulets of blood, bright and crimson.
Crimson dawn with omens dark had jolted Bahadur Shah Zafar to a rude awakening. Nightmares had heightened the fever of his madness to such a pitch that he had herded his royal household together. Announcing that they were leaving the Fort right away, taking refuge at the tomb of Humayun against the imminent assault of the British.
The streets of Delhi were deserted when the royal entourage left the Red Fort. To Bahadur Shah’s feverish awareness, Delhi seemed to be cloaked in mourning as if dreading some terrible misfortune which could not be averted. Though leaving the palace in utter haste, Bahadur Shah Zafar had not neglected to carry with him the palace diary, a reliquary from Prophet’s beard and three sacred hair of the Prophet in a box. These relics had been in his possession as a sacred trust from father to son in the House of Timur since fourteenth century. He had deposited all these relics at the tomb of one Sufi by the name of Nizamuddin Auliya in the care of Shah Ghulam Hasan before proceeding to the tomb of Humayun.
Standing at the eastern gate of Humayun’s tomb, Bahadur Shah Zafar with a sudden clarity had remembered about his mock proclamation. Also recalling with much regret the absence of Bakht Khan who had come here telling him that his proclamation had gone into affect, but since the king was not there, the crowds had dispersed. Bahadur Shah Zafar kept standing at the eastern gate, peering out into darkness, envisioning the scene of his conversation with Bakht Khan who had begged him to come with him to Lucknow with his band of troops waiting at the River Side, but he had declined.
What would I do in Lucknow? Bahadur Shah Zafar’s head was spinning like a globe, muddied and bloodied. Why did I leave my palace? Why I am here at Humayun’s tomb? He leaned his head against the grilled gate, overwhelmed with grief and confusion. Where am I? Where is Zeenat, my princes, princesses? His eyes were closing and the ground slipping out from under his feet.
The night was silent and menacing, but Bahadur Shah Zafar was oblivious to his surroundings. The wind was whispering to him dolorous secrets through the swishing of neem trees and yet he couldn’t hear anything. His gaze was riveted to the sky studded with stars, a crescent moon embedded in there like a sharp bow, waxen and luminescent.
Suddenly, Bahadur Shah Zafar was sucked into another plane of dream-illusion where nothing existed but his senses gone numb. He didn’t know where he was. Delhi was a distant dream. He was tossed into a void, divested of royal robes and crown jewels. Alone and forlorn, imprisoned in an alien land, he had even forgotten his own name. He was on his deathbed, Zeenat Mahal watching him. His lips were forming words without sounds, a song rippling in his head.
I am not the apple of anyone’s eye, nor the joy of any heart
A handful of useless dust, no purpose I discharge
I’ve lost my strength and shape, I am severed from my friend
I am spring of the garden, laid waste by fall
I am a friend to on one, nor a foe to aught
I am the star-crossed fate, I am the ruined resort
Why should someone sing my dirge, or come to lay a wreath
I am the tomb of helplessness, better left in dark
I am not a lilting song, which others may hear or heed
I am the wail by severance caused, a cry of anguished heart
Bahadur Shah Zafar was gathering pearls of poetry in tears in dreams. He had slumped to the ground in a royal heap. His body was leaning against the gate and jewels on his crown throbbing like purple wounds against the canopy of white stars.
Poem written by Bahadur Shah, dated 29 April 1844.
Chapter Fourteen Sacking of Delhi
Delhi was burning this morning, pillaged and plundered. The streets were littered with corpses and rivulets of blood streamed through the homes of the victims in wake of British troops marching toward Red Fort. They didn’t know that the king had fled the night before. Madly drunk with the loot of the liquor and pugnaciously drunk with the poison of vengeance, they were on their grand mission to capture the king and his royal household. Even a brief eclipse the evening before had not deterred them in killing indiscriminately. So determined they were to reach the gates of city that they had engaged in hand-to-hand fighting when other means didn’t prove successful. Captain Hodson was indefatigable, though the dwindling groups of sepoys were proving to be tireless fighters. General Nicholson was already injured in the arm while commanding, more hurt by the drunken revelry of his soldiers than by his own physical wounds. General Wilson was appalled by the suggestion of General Nicholson who was contemplating retreat.
Far from retreating, British troops were advancing toward the Red Fort from their front-line position close to the ruins of the Delhi Bank. The spiked guns were lined up in front of the palace and the explosion party dashed forward under cover of fire to drop powder bags under the gates. In contrast to facing great difficulties while capturing Kabul Gate, Lahori Gate and Kashmiri Gate, there was virtually no resistance at the palace gates. The palace gates were blown open quickly and the British took possession of the palace. Only a few men were found hiding within and they were slain indiscriminately. A great cheer could be heard ricocheting through the palace halls, while the British victory flag was hoisted over the ramparts of the Red Fort.
The city of Delhi, already ruined and plundered and submerged into rivers of blood was given to looting afresh by the orders of General Wilson, sanctioning the killing of all natives they could find. And that’s what the soldiers precisely did, returning to the houses where the rich merchants sat behind closed doors. Sat shivering with fright at the barbarity of the British assaults against their men, women and children, murdered in cold blood or slaughtered brutally like animals. Chandni Chowk once again was the scene of horror, violence and carnage where a few hours ago one-eyed General Theo Metcalfe’s forces had fended off the axes and swords of the natives. The natives of course were hacked to pieces as they tried to flee pell-mell through Kabul Gate or Lahori Gate. After this pandemonium of mass slaughter the streets and bazaars of Delhi were soon deserted.
Looting more liquor from the stores and getting grandly drunk, the British soldiers were on a mis
sion of indiscriminate violence, killing all who dared show their faces on the streets. Men were being shot, hanged or bayoneted with a surge of glee and self-gloating. From all quarters, entire families trying to escape from the city were rounded up and executed in a ditch outside the city gates. Amidst the corpses littered on the streets were women with their throats cut from ear to ear, most probably by their own fathers or husbands against fear that they would be captured by the British. Though the ones surviving were not only captured by the British, but killed, their gold ornaments torn out of their ears and throats. The plunder at Kashmiri Gate swelled to a mountain several feet high. Silver and gold coins, jewels and jewelry boxes of exquisite designs and broaches carved out of solid gems of rubies and emeralds. So great and precious were these treasures that there were fights amongst the British soldiers while dividing the spoils, those fights ending even in bloodshed.
The palace of Bahadur Shah Zafar too was thoroughly looted and ransacked by the regiments of General Wilson, Captain Hodson and General Theo Metcalfe. Gold mohurs, strings of pearls, necklaces of gold studded with rubies, diamonds and emeralds. Plates of silver and gold and boxes and vases inlaid with precious gems. Silks and tapestries, even a silk robe of the emperor with verses of the Quran woven into its fabric. Royal wardrobe as well as royal furniture were seized with great greed and stowed away. Chests with koftgari designs, tables and chairs with gold marquetry. Fans of ivory, swords and daggers with jeweled hilts, cashmere shawls, gold bangles and gold-filigree ornaments.
General Wilson had made himself at home in Diwan-i-Khas. Seated on Peacock Throne he proposed a toast to Queen Victoria.
God bless the Queen!
“We would have a grand dinner this evening right here in Diwan-i-Khas to celebrate our victory.” General Wilson proposed another toast amidst cheers from his officers and soldiers. “We would torch the whole city of Delhi and erase it from the map of this earth.” He sang gleefully.
“I would not suggest such a drastic measure, General Wilson.” Edward Vibrat drank heavily. “I have seen enough horror in less than an hour. Almost forty defenseless people shot in cold-blooded murder by Turkman Gate alone.”
“If not the entire city of Delhi, then anything within the radius of five hundred yards should be demolished as a celebration of our hard-one victory.” General Theo Metcalfe suggested hilariously.
“Only to demolish Jami Masjid and Red Fort would be enough to mark the inception of celebrations.” General Nicholson croaked against the assault of pain in his thigh—the gunshot wound he had received but yesterday in addition to his wounds in arm and left hand. “I wanted to witness the fall of Delhi and now I can die in peace.”
“We should spare Jami Masjid and the Red Fort.” General Wilson proposed thoughtfully. “It’s enough that our soldiers are dancing jigs inside Jami Masjid and Sikhs are lighting victory fires next to the mosque.”
“The celebrations would not be complete without the jigs of vengeance, General Wilson.” Fred Maisey boasted drunkenly. “Fourteen hundred Delhiwallahs were slaughtered in Kucha Chelan. Why, because Nawab Ali Khan resisted the plundering and shot three British soldiers. Then began the spree of mass murder. Haveli of the Nawab was blown asunder. People were bayoneted and when our soldiers got tired of this sport, they rounded up the survivors, ordered them to march toward Jamna. Then lined them up below the walls of the Fort and shot them.”
“Such a shame that amongst them were poets, painters, philosophers and calligraphists.” Fred Roberts raised a mock lament. “I felt no pity for them though, but my heart sank when an old grey bearded man was brought and shot most savagely.”
“We can’t find the king and his family anywhere, General Wilson.” Edward Campbell stormed into Diwan-i-Khas breathless. “We have searched everywhere, Diwan-i-Am, private apartments, arcades and cloisters, even the harem quarters and the inner courtyards. Not a trace of the royal family—” He couldn’t finish, becoming aware of the slow approach of Ilahi Bakhsh.
“I know where the king is.” Ilahi Bakhsh caught the attention of everyone with his air of mystery and smugness. “The king and his family have retired to the tomb of late emperor Humayun. General Bakht Khan was also there, begging the king to go with him to Lucknow along with his troops. I have persuaded the king otherwise and have made sure that he doesn’t leave with Bakht Khan. Since I am in secret communication with Ahsanullah Khan, he has sent me a message that the king has declined the invitation of Bakht Khan, and the general has left along with his troops. State jewels of the king are with the queen Zeenat Mahal. She is with him and so is his royal family.”
“Let me go, General Wilson, and capture the king!” Captain Hodson appealed suddenly.
“Very dangerous expedition. I cannot allow.” General Wilson demurred.
“Our victory would be incomplete if we didn’t capture the king and his family.” Captain Hodson persisted.
“Why don’t we send Maulvi Sarfaraz and Ilahi Bakhsh to test the mood of the king if he is ready to surrender?” General Wilson was thoughtful and concerned.
“Captain Hodson should be allowed to go with them, General Wilson, that’s only fair.” Neville Chamberlain appealed on behalf of the Captain who looked crushed and flustered.
“Alright.” General Wilson agreed reluctantly. “Let Maulvi Sarfaraz and Ilahi Bakhsh proceed first. Captain Hodson, you follow a little later and maintain a considerable distance between you and those two men. Take a small force of few soldiers with you. Go at your own risk and don’t beg me to come to your rescue.”
“Thank you, General Wilson.” Captain Hodson almost collapsed with relief. The fever of vengeance rising inside him on the brink of explosion.
The afternoon scudded by islands of luminous clouds seemed surreal as Captain Hodson dispatched Punjabi irregular cavalry under the command of Ilahi Bakhsh and Maulvi Sarfaraz toward Humayun’s Tomb. Unable to contain himself of the excitement and burning with the ardor of vengeance, he started soon after toward the marble Tomb with fifty of his soldiers. Half way to Humayun’s Tomb, he could see Ilahi Bakhsh and Maulvi Sarfaraz, followed by their cavalry riding back toward Delhi.
Captain Hodson was greatly distressed upon learning that while on their way to Humayun’s tomb, Ilahi Bakhsh and his men were attacked by a party of sowars who had killed four of his escorts, wounding their horses. Much to the chagrin of his own pride, Captain Hodson was able to persuade the retreating cavalcade to follow him and finally they were on their way to the Tomb in white marble. The clouds had grown thick and dark as they approached closer to Humayun’s tomb. A storm was brewing within the hearts of men, it seemed, and within the hearts of nature. Reaching closer, Captain Hodson could see that a great crowd of guards and courtiers had taken shelter within the walls of the garden tomb.
Facing the white domes of the Tomb, Captain Hodson stood vigilant with his sword unsheathed, his troops waiting behind him as grim as the dark clouds above. He had already sent Ilahi Bakhsh and Maulvi Sarfaraz inside the chamber of the tomb where the king had lodged himself along with his family. They were entrusted with the message that if the king came out and surrendered peacefully, he and his family would not be harmed.
Inside the spacious chamber of Humayun’s Tomb, Bahadur Shah Zafar was pacing under the spell of agony and disbelief. Suddenly he stopped in his act of pacing, glaring at both men, his eyes shooting coals of accusations.
“You stopped me from going with Bakht Khan.” Bahadur Shah Zafar held Ilahi Bakhsh under the pincers of inquisition. “If the British have nothing to do with me then why are they here to arrest me?” His fever of madness was returning. As Ilahi Bakhsh didn’t respond, hanging his head in shame, Bahadur Shah Zafar darted a scorching look at Maulvi Sarfaraz. “Mullas, for truth, have been the ruin of religions and empires. Go, Maulvi Sarfaraz, tell Captain Hodson that if he means what he says, then he should come to me and tell me the same thing face-to-face.”
“Yes, Zil-e—” Maulvi Sarfaraz couldn’t spea
k, fleeing against the fire of grief and madness in the eyes of the king.
This anguished scene was re-enacted again as Maulvi Sarfaraz at the entrance of the white Tomb entered, followed by Captain Hodson. Bahadur Shah Zafar peering through the door waved away Maulvi Sarfaraz, his gaze piercing the very soul of Captain Hodson.
“Are you Captain Hodson?” Bahadur Shah Zafar asked suspiciously.
“Yes, my name is William Hodson.” Captain Hodson responded stiffly.
“If you are Captain Hodson then I want to hear form you the promise that you delivered to me through Ilahi Bakhsh.”
“Be assured, O King, there is no danger to your life and your family if you come with me peacefully.” Captain Hodson was feeling proud of this glorious lie, adding. “You would not be subject to dishonor or personal indignity.”
“This satisfies me.” Bahadur Shah Zafar almost collapsed with grief and exhaustion. But he stepped out bravely, lowering a command over his shoulders for his queen and princes to follow.
Palanquins were procured for the king, queen and Prince Jawan Bakht and they were escorted toward Delhi under the strict vigilance of the British guards. A wheeled carriage was waiting for the older princes, Prince Mirza Mughal, Prince Khizr Sultan and for king’s grandson Prince Abul Bakr. Well-wishers of the king and a few stragglers had lined up on both sides of the street, watching the king in custody with great sorrow, but dared not lament or protest in presence of the British soldiers armed with rifles. At Captain Hodson’s orders the palanquins had to be at least one mile ahead of the carriage before it could be driven toward Delhi. The carriage too was guarded and yet Captain Hodson had stayed close by lest the princes try to escape.
