Poet Emperor of the last of the Moghuls

by Farzana Moon

  A hoary sunset flanked by luminescent clouds was hovering over the palanquins, wending their way past Lahori Gate toward Chandni Chowk on the road to Red Fort. Captain Hodson had commanded that route so that the citizens of Delhi could see that their king was under arrest. Though, there was virtually nobody to witness this portrait of sorrow. The streets were silent and deserted. There were no merchants sitting in the bazaars. No strings of camels or bullock wagons toiling through the city gates. No passers-by in the thoroughfares. No men talking by the doors of the houses. No children playing in the dust. No women voices from behind the screens. The path was littered with corpses and broken furniture. Ashes were still black by the open hearths and animals were roaming free without their masters. The houses were burnt or shattered by cannon shot and fragments of shells were scattered amidst corpses gouged and scarred by crows and jackals.

  None is left now for you to kill with your coquettish sword

  Unless you bring them back to life and then kill them again

  Bahadur Shah Zafar’s mind, with astonishing clarity was chasing that fleeting memory of tragedy and massacre a century ago by Nadir Shah. Within only a span of few hours Nadir Shah had accomplished the task of such a great massacre that a petitioner had cried before him, reciting that couplet which was now eluding the captive king. Instead he was transported into the time-bubble of his last Flower Walk to the shrine of Qutubddin Kaki in Mehrauli, his soul flooded with the sweetness of Sufi music. Barely noticing that he and his queen and their prince were escorted into the haveli of Zeenat Mahal in Lal Kuan, received by Kendal Coghill as prisoners. Double sentry was posted at the doors of their chamber. Old pig! Bahadur Shah Zafar could not help hear that epithet hurled after him by Kendal Coghill before the door was locked shut after them. This old scoundrel!

  Another epithet was tearing open the rags of his memory which Captain Hodson had grunted under his breath before he was assisted into his palanquin.

  Captain Hodson was now with the young scoundrels, the same epithet which he had flung at the king now swimming in his head, though he didn’t voice it at the princes while riding beside their carriage most regally and haughtily. The streets were still deserted as they neared the city gates, guards surrounding the carriage on all sides while riding jauntily. Delhi Gate was coming into view and Captain Hodson’s mind aflame with the fever of vengeance was suddenly snapped to action, as he commanded over his shoulders.

  “We need to halt right here.” Captain Hodson waved his colt revolver. “Macdowell, stop the carriage and order the princes to get out.” He leaped down from his horse with the alacrity of a young man.

  Against the glow of twilight the princes looked pale as they got out of the carriage, but they were unafraid since Captain Hodson had promised them safety and respectful treatment. Contrary to their trust and belief, the princes were ordered by Captain Hodson to stand by the wall of Delhi Gate and remove their shirts. Their jeweled swords were seized by the guards.

  Though puzzled, the princes could not help but comply against the fiery gaze of Captain Hodson. The twilight appeared to crack on the horizon, carving pink streaks as the princes stood there naked waist up, their jewels throbbing with the pulse of their own subtle breath. A sepulchral silence had fallen over all, the guards standing there vigilant and speechless. Captain Hodson stood facing the princes, his eyes lowering coals of hatred.

  In a flash Captain Hodson poised his colt revolver before him and began firing. Swiftly and precisely he shot point-blank until all princes fell in their own pools of blood. Prince Mirza Mughal was the first one to fall, shot through his heart, blood spluttering out of his chest like a gurgling fountain. Prince Khizr Sultan fell next, shot in the neck, his whole frame shuddering before he fell to the ground with a heartrending groan. Prince Abul Bakr the grandson of the king was the last one to die, suffering the agony of death before another shot could still his suffering.

  “Remove their bloody signet rings and turquoise armlets from their stinking corpses as our reward of victory.” Captain Hodson croaked with great pleasure. “Sever their heads and present those to the old king as our Nazr which he has been missing for the past few years.” He jumped to his horse, riding through Delhi Gate as the king of the winds.

  The rightful, unfortunate king of Delhi imprisoned inside the haveli of Zeenat Mahal didn’t know about the tragic fate of his sons and grandson. He was aware of his own tragic existence though, sitting in a room stripped bare of all amenities with the exception of one coarse sheet between him and the bed. He too was robbed of all his jewels, even his silk robe taken away, replaced with a white robe of cotton. Zeenat Mahal and Prince Jawan Bakht were separated from him in another chamber of bare necessities, their jewels too confiscated by the greedy guards. Bahadur Shah Zafar sat hugging his knees, the trauma of his tragedy holding him impaled to the mercy of shock. Suddenly, the doors to this bare chamber were thrown open and Edward Campbell stormed in, carrying a tray laden with severed heads of the slain princes.

  “Your Majesty.” Edward Campbell mocked, lowering the tray beside the bed on the floor. “This is your long-neglected Nazr we had stopped presenting.”

  “Thanks to Allah!” Bahadur Shah Zafar’s numb senses were awakening to the fire of madness. “The descendants of Timur always come in front of their fathers in this brave way.” He couldn’t take his gaze away from the beloved faces splattered with blood.

  “Your brave descendants, old King, are going to delight us for days.” Edward Campbell laughed boisterously. “We are going to impale these heads over the walls of Delhi Gate as our trophies of victory.” He picked up the tray and stalked out of the room, banging the doors shut behind him.

  Bahadur Shah Zafar sat there stunned, his heart somersaulting in throes of grief wild and excruciating. Slowly and involuntarily, tears began trickling down his white beard, wetting his white robe. He had not ever known such agony before, the lava of pain congealing his anguished heart and the volcanic eruption within his mind hot and searing. His very soul was broken and shattered. Nothing was left of him, but absurdity of illusions. He was drifting into dreams which had nothing to do with him, but with a world alien to his comprehension.

  The king was inside Diwan-i-Khas. Everything was familiar, yet nothing belonged to him.

  No, nothing is familiar.

  Bahadur Shah Zafar’s thoughts were asserting.

  Diwan-i-Khas looked more like a church, some sort of service being conducted there with all due propriety. His dreams were taking him on a stroll through the bazaars of Delhi. Khas bazaar was no more. Kharram bazaar had disappeared. There was nothing left but dust and rubble. Gallows were being erected on Chandni Chowk. Jamna Bridge of boats was destroyed and the path to Flower Walk had disappeared like a dream.

  Dreams were merging into dreams and a tunnel of future was sucking Bahadur Shah Zafar into its awful horrors he had not ever witnessed before. Gallows were not only being erected on Chandni Chowk but everywhere and citizens of Delhi were being herded in droves to be hanged. Actually, it was horrific to watch those men dangling and being kept alive while the British soldiers stood there puffing on their cigars and laughing.

  Pandies hornpipe. We got to see them dance before they die.

  The voice was that of General Theo Metcalfe, watching his soldiers devise means of hanging their victims in figures of eight. Down the street dead bodies were strewn in every direction and the wounded suffering death-throes of agony most pitiful and horrible.

  The white ghost of Bahadur Shah Zafar in dreams was fleeing this horrible scene and seeking the sanctuary of Red Fort. Trooping through the ruined gardens of the palace, he was entering Diwan-i-Khas. Peacock Throne was there and the gilt chairs were occupied by British judges and lawyers, it seemed. Something strange was happening there, Diwan-i-Khas was transformed into a court house and some sort of court session was in progress, it was obvious. He could see an old man lying on a bare bed being prodded ruthlessly. A sudden realization was dawni
ng upon him that the old man was he himself robed in white muslin, no jewels adorning his royal person. Jolted out of this nightmare Bahadur Shah Zafar sat upright on his bare bed. Paradoxically the nightmare was receded into the tunnels of his subconscious. He was awakened by rude noise of the opening and shutting of the doors.

  A British officer on duty had entered imperiously, followed by two English sentries, armed with bayonets.

  “You wouldn’t be needing these.” Edward Campbell tossed king’s gilt slippers to the floor, laughing contemptuously. “Get up, old king, and bow to us, as you used to demand from us.” He edged closer to the bed.

  Bahadur Shah Zafar sat there stunned, his look glazed and uncomprehending. He didn’t know where he was or what was happening.

  “Get up, I say, and pay respects to us with great humility.” Edward Campbell demanded, tugging at the king’s white beard.

  “Where is the buck antelope of my queen, so gentle and magnificent?” Bahadur Shah Zafar whimpered deliriously. “It is time to feed the pet tiger of my Zeenat Mahal. He must be fed.”

  “Bloody interesting!” A volley of mirth escaped the lips of Edward Campbell. “Your niggers are being hanged and fed to the dogs and you are concerned about the pet tiger of your wife.” He staggered away, drunk with the fever of hatred and vengeance.

  Bahadur Shah Zafar was drifting into the bowers of nightmares once again, his head lolling to one side and his lips trembling. He was sighing and groaning as if horrific scenes were unfolding behind the closed shutters of his eyes. A low moan and a slight tremor and something within him were awakening to the poetry in life so brutally ripped apart by the gusts of tragedies. His lips were moving, his voice clear and doleful.

  Not worth narrating is Delhi’s tale

  It will make us weep and wail

  Such palaces have the raiders razed

  Which were a sight to see and praise

  None is left to tell this tale

  Except Zafar, the unfortunate.

  Chapter Fifteen Mock Trial of the Emperor

  Almost bent double over a brass basin, Bahadur Shah Zafar sat retching violently, supported by Ghulam Abbas on his bed with a dirty blanket. He had been imprisoned in this bare room of Zeenat Mahal’s haveli for more than six months now and his health had deteriorated considerably. Since the past couple of months he had been subjected to the rigors of trials under British Law, neither understanding the barrage of charges against him, nor comprehending the mockery of such proceedings. He had grown daft for sure. Paradoxically, he knew that, but he had neither the will, nor the strength to defend himself against base accusations. Occasionally his mind would awaken to inspiration, even during the trial sessions when he would find some comments both absurd and amusing, and his dull eyes would light up with the fire of rage and repartee.

  Right now hunched over his bed in his white muslin tunic and skull cap, Bahadur Shah Zafar was a pitiful sight to behold, though his retching had subsided. Ghulam Abbas wiped the king’s lower lip which seemed to hang down over his toothless gums and his heart lurched with compassion for this old man who was once an emperor. Now an ex-king, not even that but a state prisoner in a wretched state, Ghulam Abbas was thinking. Bahadur Shah Zafar took a sip of water offered by Ghulam Abbas and crashed upon the bed exhausted. His eyes stinging with pain scanned the bare room while his hands stroked absently the wispy white beard almost touching his stomach.

  “Fetch my hookah.” Bahadur Shah Zafar groaned suddenly.

  “It’s being refreshed, Zil-e-Subhani.” Ghulam Abbas could not help but maintain this decorum of speech. His thoughts in perpetual revolt against the appalling conditions in which the king lived and suffered. Considering, the emperor’s ancestors were the ones who had granted boons of free trade to the merchants of London and now the same traders had dared imprison the last of the Moghul emperors, subjecting him to the degradation of poverty and contempt.”

  “Zil-e-Subhani.” Bahadur Shah Zafar repeated wretchedly. “I am but a slave. A handful of dust to be sprinkled over the waters of Ganges. Fetch me something to write with, my mind is swollen with this sudden flood of inspiration.”

  “Would you kindly dictate, Zil-e-Subhani?” Ghulam Abbas requested gently. It would be easier. I wouldn’t miss a word.”

  “You are right, my fingers won’t obey.” Bahadur Shah Zafar conceded. “My arms are eaten up by sores, lack of water and proper bathing. My hands are weak and bony. Are you ready, my devoted Friend? This deluge of inspiration would kill me if I didn’t drain it quickly.”

  “Yes, Zil-e-Subhani.” Ghulam Abbas settled himself on a low stool beside the bed. He dipped his pen in the inkpot, straightening the creases of rough paper with the other hand.

  “Give it to Zeenat Mahal after you have written it. She longs for the feast of poetry. This inspiration once I dreamed in my dream, so very familiar, maybe I did write it somewhere?” Bahadur Shah Zafar’s eyes were lit up with the fever of inspiration.

  “I am no one’s light of love, nor the light of desire in any heart

  Worthless as a handful of dust, no joy I can ever impart

  With no music of hope to share, why should anyone take delight in my song

  My wounded heart cries for love, to that voice of despair in spring I belong

  Separated from my beloved, my youth and beauty despoiled

  I am that harvest of spring which autumn destroyed

  I am not anyone’s beloved, nor a rival worthy of hate

  That ill-starred lover I am whose heart is broken by fate

  Why should one send flowers, or recite Fatihah on the death of this slave

  I have become a tomb of despair, why should one light a candle on my grave.”

  He coughed, pulling close the soiled sheet over his shoulders. A thin smile hovered over his lips as he noticed Ghalib straggle into the room. “I see ghosts and apparitions often. Are you real?” He asked, his gaze bright and dreamy.

  “As real as this tragic world permits me the luxury of appearing and disappearing, Zil-e-Subhani.” Ghalib offered a low curtsy beside the bed, smiling at Ghulam Abbas who procured for him a stool to sit. “Before your last trial I am granted permission to visit you. How many countless times I have tried you could never guess. Even now I am not here and no valid sanction exists. I might be an apparition if that suits the present rulers. Most of them don’t know I am here.”

  “Yes, forty-two times I have counted of my mock trial, which might be real under the auspices of British jurisdiction. Though they have counted these sessions as twenty-one times?” Bahadur Shah Zafar murmured, his look puzzled. “We are having a poetry session, won’t you join?”

  “With great pleasure, Zil-e-Subhani, before I get evicted.” Ghalib began exigently as if afraid to be thrown out of this bare room into the streets equally barren and desolate.

  “Every armed British soldier

  Can do whatever he wants

  Just going from home to the market

  Makes one’s heart turn to water

  The Chowk is a slaughter ground

  And homes are prisons

  Every grain of dust in Delhi

  Thirsts for Muslims’ blood

  Even if we were together

  We could only weep over our lives.”

  “Tears and tragedies. Death and betrayal. Anything else to share?” Was Bahadur Shah Zafar’s nostalgic appeal. He seemed indifferent to his ailment and impoverishment, his gaze dull and unseeing.

  “A tale of love and fidelity, Zil-e-Subhani.” Ghalib began feverishly. “The day British moved into your palace, your favorite elephant Maula Bakhsh and your horse Hamdam refused to take food or drink. A mahout who took care of both these animals reported the matter to Lieutenant Saunders. To test the validity of this claim Lieutenant Saunders ordered rich food for Maula Bakhsh, which he tossed away angrily. Lieutenant Saunders was so dismayed that he commanded the elephant to be auctioned. When Maula Bakhsh was sold to a grocer for one hundred rupees, the
mahout said. O Maula Bakhsh, you had been all your life the emperor’s pet, now as ill luck would have it you have been sold to a grocer. Hearing this, Maula Bakhsh grunted loudly and died. Your horse Hamdam was found dead the same day, Zil-e-Subhani. I heard this from Zaheer Dehlawi.”

  “Poetry in death! We would have poetry session after all in Diwan-i-Khas.” Bahadur Shah Zafar’s eyes were attaining the luster of madness.

  “Many kings of might and majesty have been in this world

  What powerful armies of different kind did they possess

  At last they left this world and departed alone

  Where is Darius, where is Alexander, where is Jamshed

  O Zafar, bearing good deeds which might remain

  Nothing will survive in this world.”

  “The light is gone out of India!” Ghalib lamented suddenly. “This land is lampless. Countless millions have died and amongst the survivors, thousands are in jail. Many of my friends have been killed. I am left alone to mourn for so many. Allah, when I die, not a single soul would be left to mourn for me.”

  “Only Prince Jawan Bakht might be left alive to mourn for me, or maybe Prince Shah Abbas.” Bahadur Shah Zafar intoned with a sudden clairvoyance. “Twenty-nine of my sons shot to death. Even the younger ones, Bakhtawar Shah only eighteen, and Mirza Meandoo who had just turned seventeen this year. Slow, lingering deaths, I have heard. Was it Captain Hodson who took pleasure in making them suffer?”

  “Captain Hodson, I forgot, Zil-e-Subhani. He was just killed today. That’s why I made haste. The main reason, and then looking at you—” Ghalib almost choked with grief, becoming aware afresh of the impoverished state of this ailing man who was once an emperor. “He was killed in action at the Begum’s palace outside Lucknow, but not before he had taken part in looting Lucknow, second only to the sacking of Delhi. Besides amassing great treasures, great atrocities were committed with a sense of gloating. People were dragged out of their homes, stabbed and bayoneted and then thrown into fire to be burnt alive. Rooms after rooms were searched and victims slaughtered until there was no one left to be killed. Begum Hazrat Mahal fled while fighting. No one can find her, she is known to have vanished in the Nepalese wilderness.”