by Farzana Moon
“He has gone hunting, Zil-e-Subhani, along with the eldest Prince Mirza Quaish.” Ashraf Begum smiled.
“Prince Fakhroo should have gone with them.” Taj Mahal Begum shot an apprehensive look at her son who was sitting by the pool. He was drinking while playing chess with his half brother, Prince Mirza Mughal.
“I am glad Prince Fakhroo stayed. A worthy opponent to my son, for he loves to play chess.” Akhtar Begum sang happily.
“Chess and drinking don’t mix well together.” Bahadur Shah Zafar murmured disapprovingly, shifting his gaze from his sons to his wife. “You would be happier, dear Akhtar, if he chose his older brother, Prince Khizr Sultan as his chess companion. Prince Fakhroo, as dear he is to me tends to lose his head while Prince Khizr Sultan keeps his on his shoulders.” His gaze was wandering again. “Our princess’ have learnt the art of discipline and propriety.” His gaze was lingering over his daughters where they sat lolling against the satiny pillows playing a game of cards called Chandal-Mandal.
“I am very good at Chandal Mandal, Zil-e-Subhani, and I am winning too.” Princess Fatima Sultan the youngest of Bahadur Shah Zafar’s daughter chortled with glee. “Can’t wait for next month when we go for a Flower Walk at Mehrauli. The Jahrna at that palace is my favorite to play cards.”
“You would love it more, my Dear, since I have ordered an impressive gate to be erected at the entrance of that palace and now the palace at Mehrauli would be called Zafar Mahal.” Bahadur Shah Zafar indulged cheerfully.
“Every year, Zil-e-Subhani, I have enjoyed that Flower Festival, and it’s just now I am curious to know how it all started?” Rabeya Begum the eldest daughter of Bahadur Shah Zafar ventured forth thoughtfully. “I guess I was not interested until recently with all the rumors floating around that British Resident might stop our yearly excursion of going to Mehrauli.”
“No one has the power to put an end to this Flower Festival, my Dear, as long as I live.” Bahadur Shah Zafar intoned emphatically. “Citizens of Delhi look forward to this festival every year and hold this event in reverence. I would never allow it to be stopped by any British intruders even if they break their pledge of maintaining the kingdom of Delhi. And how they maintain it is from the funds which they receive from the revenues of lands they have purchased or acquired due to internal warfare amongst the rajas and nawabs of princely states.”
“I too am ignorant about this Festival of Flowers, Zil-e-Subhani.” Zamani Begum the younger sister of Rabeya Begum confessed cheerfully. “Could you please tell us how it all started?”
“A long story, my Dear, but I would make it as short as possible.” Bahadur Shah Zafar began reminiscently. “Wonder why any of you never asked about this before?” His gaze was sliding down the marble pillars with floral pietra dura patterns as if cherishing their beauty before commencing. “It all started a long time ago. I was almost thirty-four year old then, a young prince my friends would say. My older brother Prince Jahangir the heir apparent was annoyed one day by the behavior of the British Residents who began asserting their authority by saying that they should be allowed to be seated with the emperor on equal terms. They were becoming rude and interfering as I recall. Dictating as to who should be named heir apparent amongst the sons of the emperor. Not too long ago Hawkins was reprimanded for causing affront to the House of Timur when he refused to present the trays of sweetmeats and turned away the gardeners who brought the offerings of nosegays. Well, I digress.” He sighed, his gaze gathering his sons and daughters in one wistful embrace. “Back to my brother Prince Jahangir, who didn’t get along with Resident Seton and nicknamed him Looloo, meaning dumb. Since Seton didn’t know the meaning of Looloo he didn’t care, but he kept offending Prince Jahangir by not dismounting from his horse while riding through the gates of the palace and Naqqar Khana where royal etiquettes were observed strictly by all as a token of their courtesy and respect for the emperor. As chance would have it, Prince Jahangir one day was standing on the roof of Naqqar Khana and espying Seton riding out of Red Fort without dismounting aimed a shot at him from his rifle. That shot only hit the hat of Seton, but it struck his orderly who was killed. Prince Jahangir was exiled to Allahabad by the orders of Seton. Queen Mumtaz Mahal his mother was grieved beyond consolation and made a solemn vow that if her son was allowed to return to Delhi, she would make an offering of a four-poster flower-bed at the shrine of Qutubddin Kaki at Mehrauli. When the Resident finally relented and recalled Prince Jahangir from Allahabad, Queen Mumtaz Mahal fulfilled her vow by offering an exquisite flower canopy at the shrine of Qutubddin Kaki. To which the local flower sellers added an intricate flower fan. Almost sixteen years since my unfortunate brother passed away, but the Flower Festival is still alive.”
“A great Flower Festival it is, Zil-e-Subhani, lasting seven days of merrymaking!” Prince Fakhroo exclaimed suddenly, placing Prince Mirza Mughal’s queen under check. “Kite flying, cock fights, bull baiting, wresting and swimming. Don’t understand though, what’s the significance of offering flower fan at the temple of Devi Yogmaya?”
“Since the temple is in Mehrauli, my besotted Prince, only half a kilometer from Qutub Minar, my father wanted to honor the shrine of the Hindus in a similar way as honoring the shrine of Qutubddin Kaki.” Bahadur Shah Zafar expounded genially.
“My favorite during those week long festivities is going to the mango grove and sitting on the swing.” Taj Mahal Begum murmured dreamily.
“Now that our princes and princess’ have learnt about the history of Flower Festival, Zil-e-Subhani, it would greatly benefit them if they could learn about your royal lineage?” Mubarak Nisa the youngest of Bahadur Shah Zafar’s wives requested avidly.
“Yes, my Beauty. You probably are keener in refreshing your own memory than anyone else around here.” Bahadur Shah Zafar intoned amusedly. “Yet I want to test my own memory, so I would indulge a little in this charade of names and patrimony. Three hundred and eleven years with eighteen emperors in between separate me from the first Moghul emperor of India, Babur The Great. If I remember correctly, here are the names of the emperors in succession. Babur; Humayun; Akbar; Jahangir; Shah Jahan; Aurangzeb; Bahadur Shah 1; Jahandar Shah; Farrukhsiyar; Rafidud-Darajat; Rafi-ud-Daulah; Neku Siyar; Muhammad Ibrahim; Muhammad Shah; Ahmad Shah Bahadur; Alamgir 11; Shah Jahan 111; Shah Alam 11; then my late venerable father Akbar Shah. I am glad his grave is next to the shrine of Qutubddin Kaki where Flower Walk would lure us year after year as homage to his reign and remembrance.”
“Wasn’t emperor Jahandar Shah the one who suffered a violent death, Zil-e-Subhani?” Prince Mirza Mughal looked deflated after losing chess game to his brother, but his eyes were shining. “I just finished reading the accounts of the Moghul emperors, but I can’t remember the events.
“You are correct of course, my Prince.” Bahadur Shah Zafar’s eyes were spilling compliments. “His rule lasted barely a year since he was defeated by his nephew Farrukhsiyar in a bloody struggle for crown. Farrukhsiyar was the one who sent stranglers while Jahandar was sleeping with his wife Lal Kunwar. The stranglers forcibly separated the husband and wife, then brutally killed Jahandar, and sent his severed head to Farrukhsiyar. Aside from being cruel, Farrukhsiyar is remembered for his folly in granting duty-free rights to the British East India Company in all of Bengal for a mere pittance of three thousand rupees a year. His penchant to please the British and to neglect the interests of his own subjects exposed him to more brutal end than he had concocted against Jahandar Shah. Two Syed brothers deposed him, starved him while imprisoned and then blinded him with needles before strangling him to death.”
“Such a violent history, Zil-e-Subhani. I shudder to think how Crown became the emblem of cruelty and murder.” Taj Mahal Begum shuddered visibly, her features washed by sadness.
“No such violence was present in the beginning of the Moghul history.” Bahadur Shah Zafar was trying to envision the beauty of Zeenat Begum to expel the demons of the past. “Violence became rampant during t
he reign of Aurangzeb. He murdered all his brothers and imprisoned his father. Alas, violence was sanctioned by the sword of victory and released into the ocean of greed, ambition and ignorance. That was the inception of the crumbling of the great empire of the Moghuls.”
“Real blow came to the Moghul empire, Zile-e-Subhani, almost thirty-two years after the death of Aurangzeb when Nadir Shah conquered Delhi.” Prince Mirza Mughal couldn’t resist flaunting his newly acquired knowledge of the Moghul Empire.”
“Yes, my Prince, and a sad time it was when the Persian monarch Nadir Shah gloated over his conquest of Delhi. It has been recorded that he massacred thirty thousand civilians. Not to mention that he carried away the most valuable of treasures, the Peacock Throne and the diamond Koh-i-Noor. Although Koh-i-Noor keeps coming back to India, no one knows how? It was in the possession of Shah Shuja, now Ranjit Singh has it I have heard.” Bahadur Shah Zafar was falling prey to his own sad ruminations. “Later during the reign of Ahmad Shah Bahadur, Durrani invasions cut deep into the roots of the Moghul Empire.”
“India, the golden bird of the world! Though resisting capture, is almost crippled. Its jeweled eyes plucked out of its sockets, its golden wings clipped, and still the greed-mongers hover above to kill and mutilate.” Shah Nasir broke his silence, his look distant and dreamy.
“Ah, the poet of the age speaks!” Bahadur Shah Zafar was startled out of his reveries. Realizing afresh the presence of his poets and musicians in this pavilion of Rang Mahal. “I was expecting to hear couplets, instead I hear laments of the past. A beautiful comment I must admit, but rigged with the poetry of tragedies. What made you say that?”
“I was remembering, Zil-e-Subhani, the most aggrieved of the sovereigns amongst the entire line of the Moghul emperors, Shah Alam 11.” Shah Nasir breathed profoundly.
“How so, my venerable Poet? Refresh the king’s memory?” Bahadur Shah Zafar’s mind was gathering the mists of pain and nostalgia.
“Shah Alam 11 was the most ill-starred heir apparent ever as you know, Zile-e-Subhani.” Shah Nasir obeyed promptly, sensing the emperor’s mood of sadness. “After the assassination of emperor Shah Jahan 111 by Ghaziuddin, the emperor’s vizier Feroze Jung had kept the heir apparent under guard. But Shah Alam 11 contrived escape and went straight to Bengal to recover his territories of Bihar and Orissa, but was defeated at the battle of Buxar by the British who were favoring the puppet king Mir Jafar. After his defeat Shah Alam 11 took refuge in Allahabad, asserting his right as an emperor, but without any means to protect himself. In despair he sought the protection of the British, signing a pact called the Treaty of Allahabad with Robert Clive of British East India Company, which granted British the authority to collect revenue from Bengal, Bihar and Orissa in exchange for annual tribute of six million rupees. After this treaty Shah Alam 11 returned to Delhi to reclaim his lost throne where his loyal friend and vizier Najaf Khan had restored some sort of order against the warring clans of Sikhs and Marathas. But after Najaf Khan’s death, Ghulam Qadir of the Rohilla Clan forced his entry into Delhi palace with the intention of plundering. He was so enraged and disappointed in not finding any treasure in the palace that he blinded Shah Alam 11 just for the sake of brutal pleasure, before fleeing in utter madness. Mahadaji Scindia the close ally of Shah Alam 11, upon hearing this outrage chased and captured Ghulam Qadir, tortured and mutilated his body before killing him. Blind and broken in spirit Shah Alam 11 stayed in Red Fort in utter destitution until the French threat in Europe jolted the British to action. Fearing that the French would overthrow the power of the Marathas and befriend the Moghul Emperor to further their trade and stronghold in India, the British envoys headed for Delhi and came to Red Fort palace to pay homage to the emperor. Though finding him blind and decrepit under a tattered canopy, they decided to restore him to the status of the emperor. New coins were minted in his name and Friday Sermon read in his name at all the mosques in Delhi. The payment of annual tribute to the emperor which was discontinued under Warren Hasting was restored and Shah Alam 11, though he stayed under the surveillance of the British until his death.”
“That ill-starred emperor is also is buried next to the shrine of Qutbuddin Kaki.” Bahadur Shah Zafar sighed without restraint. “Tragedies vast and boundless happen all the time. No refuge against their assaults.” He got to his feet. “Somehow the evening shadows are calling me to the luxury of a solitary walk and solitude. Feasting I might miss, but poetry session till midnight I would surely attend.” He sauntered out of Rang Mahal into the sanctuary of his gardens.
The evening shadows, pale and gossamer were trembling through pipal and poplar trees as Bahadur Shah Zafar promenaded below the terraces. He could hear the gurgling of fountains left behind, still serenading his thoughts as he approached closer to the marble pavilions in the center of Hayat Bakhsh garden. His gaze was reaching out to Bhadon Pavilion gilded by patches of sunshine, but his feet were carrying him toward his favorite pavilion, Sawan Pavilion.
Bahadur Shah Zafar could feel the weight of sepulchral hush in this garden as he drifted along somnambulantly. An overwhelming sense of sadness gripped him suddenly, his heart longing for something pure and subliminal, though he didn’t know what he wanted. Everything around him seemed allusive and surreal. He almost stumbled as he reached Sawan Pavilion, dazed by the shuddering of light-beams in the water-tank, reflecting candles in hundred of niches which were carved into the four walls of the rectangular tank.
How strange and beautiful! I have never noticed the beauty of this tank before. All candles lit to full refulgence—fireflies swimming in a pool? Bahadur Shah Zafar stood fascinated by the ripple and dance of flames in clear waters. But then I have never been in love before. An old man, in love, the height of absurdity. His heart was young, leaping out of his breast to fold Zeenat Mahal in one thundering embrace.
Suddenly, Bahadur Shah Zafar was transported back into the garden of youth, enjoying the carefree days of splendor and opulence with his brothers and sister. He stood watching the play of light in the pool as if trying to divine secrets of the past, but his thoughts were a whirlwind of contradictions. His brother Mirza Nali had fallen out of favor from the ruling elite of British East India Company. Later Mirza Jahangir was exiled to Allahabad due to his own violent behavior. British East India Company had begun exerting their power of supremacy, minting their own coins, replacing the Persian text with English and obliterating the emperor’s name from the currency. They were finding means to diminish the esteem of the emperor by urging Nawab of Oudh and Nizam of Hyderabad to assume the titles of royalty.
Nizam of Hyderabad had refused to do so, but the Nawab of Oudh had complied. Taking the liberty of reminding the emperor that since the emperor was receiving annual tribute from the British East India Company he should allow the British envoys to be received on equal terms, not as subjects to the sovereign. Suddenly, Bahadur Shah Zafar was remembering the anger of his father-emperor at the audacity of that particular request and at this memory his own thoughts were fleeing. He stirred, his heart aching and somersaulting for the love of Zeenat Begum.
This young heart in old body. Bahadur Shah Zafar sighed, bewildered by the urgency of his need to possess the youth and beauty of his newfound love.
The old king with young heart was fleeing his own garden, smitten by the beauty of the sunset, all heliotrope and tremulous. His heart was filled with some longing nameless and for one magical moment of bliss and agony he thought the entire garden had burst open into a shower of wedding songs, welcoming his beloved. The scent of Damascus roses was making him giddy as he glided past the canopy of Bougainvillea. A whiff of breeze and Rat-ki-Rani was wafting its own sweet perfume while Bahadur Shah Zafar sought the sanctuary of his palace.
Zeenat Begum, the houri of this age and I don’t even have to die to possess her. Bahadur Shah Zafar’s feet were guiding him toward his royal library, though he had intended to seek the company of his wives.
The great library with gilt c
eiling and wall-to-wall book shelves all lacquered and illumined was Bahadur Shah Zafar’s sanctuary. He drifted toward his favorite couch and almost flung himself into its cushiony depths. Closing his eyes he surrendered himself to the wildness of his heart.
I must marry Zeenat Begum lest I die of sheer misery and despair. Bahadur Shah Zafar’s heart was a volcano of anguish and hopelessness. Is this my heart? My old body, churning an ocean of agony I have not ever encountered before within me. But then I had not ever loved before. Is this love, madness? Pain supreme and insanity sublime! Oh, torment of my heart, Zeenat, Beloved—
Chapter Two Poetry of Love
Wedded to poetry all his life, Bahadur Shah Zafar now was about to espouse love as his true bride, no other than Zeenat Begum, the newly found cynosure of his sight and senses. He was to be married this very evening, but right now he was seated on his Peacock Throne in Diwan-i-Khas, receiving morning embassies. It had been three years since his coronation and his poetic heart was heavy with a strange mixture of sorrow and rejoicing, lamenting the loss of real power usurped by the British, yet grateful for the luxury of decorum in his court, no matter how empty and artificial. Though, the protocol for decorum today was relaxed in honor of the wedding celebrations. The hall was decked with colorful friezes in anticipation of the royal wedding, but the hearts of the occupants were burdened for the past few years by untimely deaths in the family and by sporadic tides of unrest in Delhi. Bahadur Shah Zafar’s thoughts this particular day were restless, rising in defiance against the authority of the British Resident, so very irksome and arrogant. A sudden stab of grief cut through his wandering thoughts at the recollection of his son’s death the Crown Prince.
Almost a year ago Prince Dara Bakht had died suddenly and the British Resident was still exerting his authority to choose the next Crown Prince. Bahadur Shah Zafar’s thoughts were lifting more shrouds of deaths, but his attention was claimed by his vizier and confidant.