Poet Emperor of the last of the Moghuls
Page 1
Farzana Moon
Poet Emperor
of the last
of the Moghuls
Bahadur Shah Zafar
Editions Dedicaces
Poet Emperor of the last of the Moghuls:
Bahadur Shah Zafar
Copyright © 2014 by Editions Dedicaces LLC
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Moon, Farzana
Poet Emperor of the last of the Moghuls: Bahadur Shah Zafar /
by Farzana Moon.
p. cm.
ISBN-13: 978-1-77076-435-4 (alk. paper)
ISBN-10: 1-77076-435-6 (alk. paper)
Farzana Moon
Poet Emperor
of the last
of the Moghuls
Bahadur Shah Zafar
For Rehana
My Loving Sister
Chapter One Coronation of the Poet Emperor
The East bowed low before the blast
In patient, deep disdain
She let the legions thunder past
And plunged in thought again
If there be paradise on earth,
this is it, this is it, this is it.
Amir Khusrau
These words engraved on the wall of the Diwan-i-Khas across from where Bahadur Shah Zafar sat on his Peacock Throne were a blatant reminder of the Moghul splendor, usurped and fading. Even Peacock Throne was replica of the lost glory since the magnificent Peacock Throne of Shah Jahan was carried away by Nadir Shah of Persia and lost to the world in briny waters of the ocean.
The coronation of the sixty-two year old Bahadur Shah Zafar twentieth in line of the Moghul emperors lacked the pomp and pageantry of the previous emperors since the coronation of the first great Moghul emperor, Babur. But the event was royal no doubt; Diwan-i-Khas with silk friezes, damasked drapes framing the marble walls in motifs of floral designs embedded with jewels. The Peacock Throne dripping with velvets was hosting Bahadur Shah Zafar in royal attire of gold and purple. Bejeweled and crowned, he was wafting the aura of wealth and majesty.
High decorum was lending this state occasion the air of festivity. The emperor alone was the one seated, the rest in attendance were standing, offering felicitations or presenting the written documents of court proceedings for the benefit of royal perusal if the emperor deemed it necessary. Lord Aukland’s secretary of East India Company William Machaghten was standing in the front row to the emperor’s right along with the newly appointed governor of Delhi, Ahsanullah Khan.
Bahadur Shah Zafar sensitive to the observance of etiquette and decorum in his court was happy to notice that his sons were standing most royally. They were impeccably dressed in Moghul style robes of gold, broidered with silk and studded with jewels. Crown prince Dara Bakht was the most handsome amongst his brothers with ropes of pearls around his neck and his turban stitched with agates. Prince Fakhroo standing next to him was no less handsome, a swath of emeralds in his turban matching his green robe was lending his features the glow of sunset. The eldest, Prince Mirza Quaish appeared to tower over his brothers, being the tallest, almost six feet two, gaining a couple of more inches with a large plume in his red turban. The youngest amongst them was Prince Abul Bakr the grandson of Bahadur Shah Zafar.
William Machaghten was mesmerized by the cool stream called Nahr-i-Bhisht—meaning literally the river of paradise, flowing smoothly in the middle of Diwan-i-Khas. Tearing his gaze away from this architectural wonder he was thinking of gaining the king’s attention, but the king was communing with his sons Prince Mirza Mughal and Prince Khizr Sultan as if initiating them into the arena of ceremony and protocol. Makhund Lal—the secretary with his hands folded was standing along with the poets Zauq, Ghalib and Momin, waiting patiently for his turn in announcing the titles of the King. The King was dismissing his sons with a wave of his arm and granting Makhund Lal the permission to speak with his gaze alone.
“Zil-e-Subhani.” Makhund Lal curtsied with a quick sweep of his arm, bending low to the floor. “His Divine Highness. Caliph of the Age. Padishah as glorious as Jamshed. He who is surrounded by Hosts of Angels. Shadow of God. Refuge of Islam. Protector of the Mohammedan Religion. Sultan son of Sultan. Greatest of the emperors. Emperor son of emperor. Offspring of the House of Timur.”
“The House of Timur, Makhund Lal, is no more. It is buried under the dust of zeal and invasions.” Bahadur Shah Zafar’s gaze swept over all slowly and thoughtfully. “The mighty of East India Company who for years begged for trade concessions from our great ancestors are now our masters. I am not the emperor, not even the king of kings, only the King of Delhi.”
“For us you are the emperor incarnate, Zil-e-Subhani.” Shah Nasir—the court poet curtsied thrice with a long sweep of his arm. “Without your patronage our inspiration would expire. No one to string the pearls of poetry into some poem most beautiful.”
“Ah, my tutor knows the art of flattery! Though, the expense of patronage also comes from the rich coffers of East India Company getting richer from land revenues.” Bahadur Shah Zafar waved his consent for the usual privilege of open parlance or discussion.”
“Zil-e-Subhani, the Governor General of East India Compa-ny, Lord Aukland regards you as his Divine Highness and respects your wishes of decorum at the court.” William Machaghten whipped this harmless lie, more so to satisfy his own sense of justice than to mitigate the mettle of harsh instructions heaped upon him by Lord Aukland. “To honor the memory of your father Akbar Shah an eighty-two gun salute was fired from the ramparts of Fort William. You yourself commented, Zil-e-Subhani, that your father died at the age of eighty-two.”
“And with him died the custom of offering gifts—Nazr to the emperor.” Bahadur Shah Zafar suppressed a sigh. “I recall vividly that when I was a prince the Governor General Amherst presenting my father a variety of gifts at his court. One hundred and one trays of jewels. Shawls and robes of silk most exquisite. Also elephants richly caparisoned and horses with velvet trappings. And now even tributary offerings are missing. You stand here empty handed by the orders of Lord Aukland most probably, who deigns not to come and pay his respects?”
“He is afraid, Zil-e-Subhani, that if he came here he would be besieged by some sort of demands.” William Machaghten construed another lie of half jest, half truth. “I have heard Lord Aukland tell his officers, there is no worthy gift for Padishah who is as glorious as Jamshed.”
“I have yet to get accustomed to the shafts of mockery.” Bahadur Shah Zafar closed his eyes. “An emperor reduced to the status of a king can only request, not demand. If I was half as wise as Jamshed with his Jam-e- Jam my only treasure I would lack nothing, but the will to conquer and subjugate.”
“For us, Zil-e-Subhani, you are the Caliph of the Age.” Momin curtsied low. “Without your guidance we would be deprived of the gifts of spirituality and inspiration. No ideation or poetry sessions, but discussions about wars and intrigues if you didn’t guide us in pursuit of love for learning and versification.”
“Poets are the best and the worst of flatterers.” Bahadur Shah Zafar chided kindly. “Best in a sense that they don’t mean what they say and worst because they aim toward staying in the clouds, yet barely rise above the clouds of dust. The era for the Caliph of Age i
s past gone, now only sovereigns in name or tyrants without kingdoms rule in rapport with the needs and greeds of time.”
“By contemplating the past, Zil-e-Subhani, we might be able to tame the tyrants and learn to avoid the mistakes our ancestors made which benefited only the fortune-seekers from lands alien and distant.” Ghalib stole an accusing glance at William Machaghten. “Emperor Akbar consented to the pleas of the English to open trade routes between India and England. After the death of emperor Akbar, his son emperor Jahangir consented to open more ports for free trading. A century later, not until the emperor Farrukhsiyar was constrained to grant eight villages to the British that the troubles began.”
“I was going to appoint you tutor to Prince Fakhroo as his poetry teacher, but you might as well be his history teacher.” Bahadur Shah Zafar commented amusedly.
“Prince Fakhroo’s mentor, Zil-e-Subhani, in poetry as well as politics is his father-in-law, Ilahi Bakhsh.” Ghalib laughed.
“History needs to be rewritten, Zil-e-Subhani. Many flaws which need to be addressed?” William Machaghten commented.
“English history of the Moghul splendor if the author is not imported from London.” Bahadur Shah Zafar arched his eyebrows, his look piercing.
“In any language, Zil-e-Subhani.” Was William Machaghten discomfited response.
“East India Company minting its currency in the name of the King of England and with the English monarch’s image embossed.” Zauq could not help but voice his bitterness.
“Since English has become the official language of our country, I am going to learn it properly and thoroughly.” Prince Mirza Mughal was quick to breathe low his own wish-comment.
“Learning English would be of great benefit to royal princes, Zil-e-Subhani. They would become great mediators between us and the natives of India.” William Machaghten tossed in his own swift appeal-comment.
“If India indeed could stay intact as one nation?” One whiff of a prophecy escaped Bahadur Shah Zafar’s lips, falling into the cauldron of future. “Kabul the Jerusalem of the Moghuls to be torn asunder by the policy of divide-and-rule of the Britons. Lord Aukland himself siding with Ranjit Singh and exiled Shah Shuja to ousted Dost Muhammed.” He eased himself up from his throne as a signal of dismissal. “I am wearied of rivalries and intrigues. Come Ahsanullah Khan, take a stroll with me in the garden.”
The afternoon sunlight glinting over the two bisecting channels of water in the garden of Hayat Bakhsh—life bestowing garden appeared to be shimmering like the confetti of gold. Bahadur Shah Zafar and Ahsanullah Khan strolling over the red-gravel path edged by square flowerbeds of roses in full bloom were lulled to silence by the pulse of warmth and fragrance. Marble pavilions with jets of water fountains were left behind, only serenading of the bulbuls magical and mysterious. Bahadur Shah Zafar’s gaze was reaching out to the gardeners busy pruning topiaries, but his thoughts were dreamy on the verge of a passionate explosion. Since his chance meeting with Zeenat Begum not too long ago at the mansion of her brother Nawab Quli Khan, Bahadur Shah Zafar had sloughed off at least twenty years, feeling young and vulnerable to the charms of this beautiful maiden. Even now his thoughts were brewing a volcano of desires, ravaged by doubts that the lady of his love might never accept his proposal of marriage.
“As many times as I have been married I should be content, but I have fallen in love.” Bahadur Shah Zafar murmured as if to himself. “At my age, for the first time in my life I have fallen in love, truly and hopelessly in love. I need your assistance Ahsanullah Khan.”
“At your service, Zil-e-Subhani. You but command and I obey.” Ahsanullah Khan breathed eagerly, trying his best not to sound too curious.
“I need to request, not command! Especially to the Lady and her parents.” Bahadur Shah Zafar demurred aloud.
“Any lady would be happy to marry the emperor of India, Zil-e-Subhani and any parent honored to claim Zil-e-Subhani as their son-in-law.” Ahsanullah Khan could barely suppress his agog on the verge of delirium.
“Now! I am only the King of Delhi and that too in name alone. Too old to be seeking young brides.” Bahadur Shah Zafar sighed.
“Who is the fortunate bride-to-be, Zil-e-Subhani?” Ahsanullah Khan couldn’t contain his fever of curiosity.
“Zeenat Begum, she is the sister of Nawab Quli Khan and the daughter of Nawab Samsam-Daula.” Bahadur Shah Zafar murmured tenderly as if savoring the taste of her name upon his lips.
“She is beautiful! I have seen her, Zil-e-Subhani.” Ahsanullah Khan declared suddenly, his heart burdened with the weight of envy and presage.
“You are to go to her parents’ home, Ahsanullah. Take several trays of jewels as gifts for her family, and request her hand in marriage for the King.” Bahadur Shah Zafar’s feet were coming to an abrupt halt at the path leading toward the Pearl Mosque.
“I would be honored of the privilege to carry this message, Zil-e-Subhani.” Ahsanullah Khan stopped beside the King, both facing the white marble façade of the mosque in utter silence. “When do you want me to start, Zil-e-Subhani?” He was the first one to break the spell of silence.
“If not this evening then early next morning.” Bahadur Shah Zafar stood admiring three-arched screen over the courtyard of the mosque. “Their mansion is by the Red Well, not very far from our palace. You know that, I am sure.”
“Yes, Zile-e-Subhani, I have had the honor of dining there at one of the Eid festivals.”
“Tomorrow noon then you would go to their mansion with several trays of jewels.” Bahadur Shah Zafar retraced his steps, Ahsanullah Khan following. “With that settled my thoughts turn to Afghanistan. A daring explorer I have heard by the name of Captain Burns has arrived in Kabul. He is no explorer I am afraid, but an agent of East India Company to cause rifts in Afghanistan.”
“This is not his first visit, Zil-e-Subhani.” Ahsanullah Khan Reminisced aloud. “His first mission was six years ago in eighteen hundred thirty-one by the very command of the King of England to make a survey of the Indus Valley. King William 1V had dispatched him with a gift of six dapple gray dray-horses to Maharaja Ranjit Singh to win his favors, addressing the Maharaja as the Lion of Lahore.”
“Now I remember. His intelligence-gathering trip landed him in Kabul, over the Hindu Kush to Bokhara and from there, enroute Caspian and Persia, back to India.” Bahadur Shah Zafar chuckled suddenly. “A great flatterer though, he was proficient in Arabic, Persian and Hindi. It was duly reported to my father that his first meeting with the Shah of Persia he addressed him as the Center of the Universe, saying, what sight has equaled that which I now behold, the light of Your Majesty’s Countenance. O, Attraction of the World.”
“He also wrote, Zil-e-Subhani, that England and Russia would divide Asia between them and the two empires would enlarge like circles in the water till they are lost in nothing. And future generations would search for both of us in those regions as we now seek for the remains of Alexander and his Greeks.”
“Ah, the political imposter posing as tourist must have met the Russian agent Count Simonich in eighteen hundred thirty-four, urging the Amir of Kabul Shah Muhammad to capture Herat.” Bahadur Shah Zafar’s memory was taking a swift stroll down the rungs of immediate past. “Herat—the Pearl City has become a battleground for fortune-seekers, including the British, the Persians and the Russians. Didn’t the Shah of Persia two months ago gather his forces at the borders of Herat? And now Peshawar is becoming the seat of contention. Dost Muhammed appealing to Lord Aukland that if Governor General would help him regain Peshawar, he would break off his negotiations with Russia. He would hold it in fief from Ranjit Singh and transmit the customary presents.”
“Ranjit Singh doesn’t trust Russians either, Zil-e-Subhani.” Ahsanullah Khan began exigently before the king could disappear behind the palace gates. “A young Cossack by the name of Captain Vitkievitch tried to make contact with Ranjit Singh, but he refused to admit him.”
“Maybe he didn’t bring presents?
” Bahadur Shah Zafar commented amusedly.
“Maybe, Zile-e-Subhani, but the presents he got from the King of England years ago didn’t amount to much. The gift of horses which the King sent, one died during the journey and the rest few perished in the stables of Ranjit Singh due to excessive pampering and unfamiliar fodder.” Ahsanullah Khan stood still, watching the King mount the vast steps leading toward the palace doors.
Rang Mahal the southernmost pavilion of the Red Fort Palace was hosting Bahadur Shah Zafar and his royal family in the luxury of its opulence and splendor. Its gilded ceiling with a large chandelier was enhancing the silks and the jewels of the harem ladies seated regally on velvety davenports. Across from them sat Bahadur Shah Zafar on a chair studded with jewels, while his sons and daughters occupied the couches all quilted with beads and brocades. Persian carpets graced the marble floors and tables of ivory and gold were laden with a variety of books and oriental artifacts. The middle of this chamber displayed a large pool fed by the waters of Jamna. It was decorated with fresh floral arrangements, their reflections shuddering deep under the clear waters.
“I have heard, Zil-e-Subhani that after your coronation you bestowed upon Captain Fane and other officers robes and silk scarves. The scarves they tied over their cocked hats?” Ashraf Begum sought Bahadur Shah Zafar’s attention, her eyes radiant like the set of diamonds she wore in her hair and around her throat. “They don’t deserve such favors, Zil-e-Subhani. Remember how William Fraser handed his ceremonial robe to a beggar which your father had bestowed upon him so generously?”
“Ah, my Beauty! The mother of our Crown Prince Dara Bakht.” Bahadur Shah Zafar teased, divesting himself of his jeweled crown and setting it down on the ornamental table beside him. “You didn’t know, my Beauty, but William Fraser was reprimanded most severally by Governor General personally. Greed of East India Company is multiplying, but so far they have maintained respectful behavior in the face of our customs and court decorum. Where is our Crown Prince?” His gaze was fluttering form one face to the other with a searching intensity.