by Farzana Moon
Are famous drain for pride and poverty
For gentlemen deficient in their rents
Always in India turn a longing eye
They talk in England of a precious tree
That, but to shake, brings down its fruit
A pagoda tree of Indian gold and jewels.”
Prince Mirza Quaish sang with the élan of a poet star.
“The same pagoda tree which rains gold coins when shaken as Englishmen believe.” Was Prince Khizr Sultan’s inebriated comment. “And I believe it did exist before the British came. Now stripped naked of its treasures by them, it is shamed into hiding, its beauty ravished.”
“You have just turned twenty-nine, my Prince, and still ruled by myths of the past.” Bahadur Shah Zafar chided mildly. “Reality is not far from that myth though. Under that pagoda tree if one must believe in that, sit the datura poisoners, and the British know nothing about them. Datura poisoners are people bearing the knowledge of a poisonous plant and greatly skilful in poisoning. They are employed as cooks by the Britons, not even suspecting that they can poison their food if offended. Recently, one such woman who was a cook in Indian household just accomplished that, poisoning her master and disappearing with all his treasures.”
“Not half as dangerous as Muslims who are being poisoned by the hateful doctrines of Wahhabis, Zil-e-Subhani.” Prince Mirza Mughal only a year younger than Prince Khizr Sultan, tossed his own merry comment “Wahhabis are busy recruiting young male orphans from the poor families and subjecting them to long periods of intensive and exclusive religious indoctrination, while training them as holy warriors to kill all infidels.”
“Infidels in all of us, my Son.” Bahadur Shah Zafar smiled enigmatically “If we knew its meaning we would kill a part of ourselves most willingly. Infidel in Arabic is Kafir. In Quranic interpretation simply meaning—to cover up the realization of what we are created for. Muslims themselves have forgotten that Prophet Muhammad was sent as a mercy to all nations, that he abhorred war, so how could he sanction killing? The word Umma as the community of Prophet in Medina is derived from the word umm, meaning mother. So Prophet is also like a maternal figure, more like a mother, nursing the infant-like Umma from the breast of his mercy.”
“Fighting is ordained for you, though it is hateful to you. 2: 216.” Prince Fakhroo on the rungs of twenty-seven was quick to flaunt his own knowledge of Islam as if to impress his father-in-law Ilahi Bakhsh.
“At this young age, my Prince, you need a venerable teacher to teach you the interpretations of the verses of the Quran.” Bahadur Shah Zafar began thoughtfully. “At the heart of war and peace is this verse which all Muslims should memorize to avoid the evil of warfare. And fight in God’s cause against those who wage war against you, but do not commit aggression. For surely, God does not love aggressors 2: 190.”
“Eid is the day of joy and celebration, Zil-e-Subhani, and here the conversation is running in rivulets of war.” Zeenat Mahal laughed as Prince Jawan Bakht escaped her embrace and bounded off toward the king.
“Here comes my Eid. My reason for joy and celebration.” Bahadur Shah Zafar cradled Prince Jawan Bakht into his arms after he jumped into his lap. “No more talk of wars, I promise.” He smiled at Zeenat Mahal, his gaze reaching out to caress each one of his wives individually. “Any interesting news that you wish to share with the king, now that even the dancers are taking a siesta, bored by the dullness of our parlance.”
“Strange and interesting, Zil-e-Subhani. Colonel Wheeler married Frances—six months pregnant, gasping for breath while walking down the isle.” Ashraf Begum chuckled merrily.
“All conversation leads to war, my Beauty.” A whimsical smile hovered over the lips of Bahadur Shah Zafar. “Frances, is the widow of Colonel Oliver—her husband who died during the Afghan war. Though he volunteered to fight when all hope of winning was dying. On the battlefield he was heard crying: Although my men desert me, I myself would do my duty. Right then, a sniper’s ball went buzzing through his brain and finished him off. Afghans then chopped his head off. When they couldn’t slip the wedding band off his finger, they chopped his finger too, carrying it along with his severed head.”
“How could she, Zil-e-Subhani, only after three months of her husband’s tragic death marry another man, and a mother of several children?” Akhtar Begum appeared to question her own astonishment.
“Precisely for that reason, my Dear, to support her children.” Bahadur Shah Zafar opined aloud. “Wonder of wonders though. It has been four years since she got married, and you got to know about it recently.”
“Great wonder indeed, Zil-e-Subhani, for it takes years for any news to penetrate the harem walls.” Taj Mahal Begum teased, stealing a glance at her son Prince Fakhroo. “Prince Fakhroo is studying genealogy of the Moghul emperors and he tells me your grandfather Shah Alam wrote a beautiful elegy after he was blinded, do you remember it?”
“Some of it.” Bahadur Shah Zafar murmured. “A great gift of Eid before we go feasting.” He shifted his attention of Prince Fakhroo. “Won’t you recite it, my Prince, since your memory is fresh due to your recent interest in Moghul History?”
“Yes, Zil-e-Subhani. Right away since I am famished and can’t wait any more for the great feast to begin.” Prince Fakhroo let his voice ebb and soar.
“Learn that imperial pride and star-clad power
Are but the fleeting pageants of an hour
In the true crucible of dire distress
Purged of alloy, thy sorrows soon shall cease
What, through the sun of empire and command
Shorn of its beams, enlightens not the land
Some happier day, a providential care
Again may renovate the falling star
Again O King raise up thy illustrious race
Cheer thy sad mind and close thy days in peace.”
“And to think of it, my unfortunate grandfather was blinded by petty, avaricious man by the name of Ghulam Qadir from the tribe of Rohilla Afghans.” Bahadur Shah Zafar’s eyes were closed. “Yes, a great feast awaits us in Diwan-i-Am.” He opened his eyes, becoming aware of Prince Jawan Bakht missing from his lap. “You have given us a great feast by your sweet recitation, my Son and have earned yet a grander feast.” He heaved himself up slowly. “Gifts of jewels and horses, before this day is over.”
Chapter Five Jashni-Holi
Diwan-i-Khas this sultry afternoon was rather cool in comparison with other chambers of the Delhi palace, its velvet drapes and Persian carpets adding the luxury of comfort. Bahadur Shah Zafar was seated on his Peacock Throne in full regalia, flanked by two servants with peacock-feather fans to lend him respite from the weight of crown, jewels and a robe broidered with gold. Time was heavy on his shoulders too, the youngest Prince Shah Abbas now almost seven year old, many moons ahead of the last festival of Eid. At the steps of the throne on either side stood princes, viziers and courtiers with folded hands. This was a small gathering by the express wishes of Bahadur Shah Zafar to assess the past few years of unrest and increased tension between the natives and the British. He had no control over the waves of discontent in India, but he felt he needed to stay abreast of all events in the hope of guiding his people and finding solutions.
“Are there enough vaccines in Karachi to control the onslaught of Malaria?” Bahadur Shah Zafar flung this concern at no one in particular. “I hear many people have died and many more are dying in droves.”
“The worst outbreak ever, Zil-e-Subhani.” Ahsanullah Khan began histrionically. “I am not so sure about the supply of medicines, but people are dying right and left. More so the British since they have less resistance to this indigenous disease. The last count of death-toll I heard was three hundred and eighty-five, including men, women and children from one regiment alone. Sixtieth Regiment I believe.”
“All of us are approaching closer to death, yet sad it is to know that death doesn’t discriminate between young and old.” Bahadur Shah Zafar couldn’t
suppress a sigh. “I can never forget the epitaph written by one young husband by the name of Richard Crust whose wife died suddenly.
For in that Orient land, whose annals show
The price paid yearly of domestic woe
Where many a blooming wife and mother lie
Who left their native country but to die.”
“Many poets, Zil-e-Subhani, have immortalized such women with praise.” Mahbub Ali Khan sought the king’s attention. “One of those poems is worthy of your review though I can’t recall the name of the poet.
The fair Britain’s Isle
When wafted to Indostan’s stand
Amidst the sable nation’s smile
Like angels from a fairyland.”
“Talking about poets, our court poet Ghalib, I hear is arrested for gambling.” Bahadur Shah Zafar’s thoughts were saddened beyond expression. “To me gambling is not a crime. Most of us gamble away our very lives, more to the detriment of our own selves than committing any social evil in the fabric of life, almost always torn to shreds by inherent evils unnoticed by pious judges. Well, when he is going to be released?”
“As soon as cash is procured for his release, Zil-e-Subhani.” Was Zauq’s subtle response.
“Ah, the ills of our society! Bribery and bargain, not to mention tragedy and discontent of our times.” Bahadur Shah Zafar’s gaze was sweeping over his sons as if assessing their character and courage. “Second Sikh war against the British. British emboldened by their victory and Sikhs smarting against their losses. Lord Dalhousie proud and prancing. How he got here and such profusion of warring factions, it’s all so confusing. Refresh my memory, Prince Quaish, since you are the eldest, how it all started?
“Despite our religious differences, Zil-e-Subhani, we all, whether Sikhs, Hindus or Muslims feel that our rights/lands are being usurped by the British.” Prince Mirza Quaish began obediently. “The feelings simmered and the dissentions began when the British thought they would win the affections of all by simply proclaiming to the citizens that they would be ruled by the best laws, while they would be governed by a Sikh governor, who would rule justly since the English would watch over him. But that didn’t win the trust of the general populace. Their skepticism was heightened further when the British Resident Henry Lawrence pressed strict economic restrictions, also reducing drastically the rank and file of the Company forces. Henry Lawrence then went to London to inform newly appointed governor general Lord Dalhousie that there would be peace in India for at least seven more years. And yet under Lord Dalhousie’s strict vigilance troubles began soon after. Mulraj the governor of Multan employed by the administration of Lahore resigned. With his connivance two British officers were murdered, and thus began the tide of great Sikh war. And the rest you know, Zil-e-Subhani.”
“Yes, the great war, Sikhs defeated on the battleground of Gujrat. Raja Dalip Singh signing the document of annexation, Lahore ceded to the British and he becoming a pensioner of the British. In addition to the annexation of Lahore, the Raja had to relinquish Koh-i-Noor to Lord Dalhousie.” Bahadur Shah Zafar reminisced aloud as if astonished by the thin fabric of his own memory. “What did Lord Dalhousie write to the Secret Committee in London before the war? A secret no more which I can’t recall, though. Do you remember Prince Khizr Sultan?”
“A part of it, Zil-e-Subhani. I don’t have as great a memory as that of Prince Quaish.” Was Prince Khizr Sultan’s flushed response. “This is how much I can recall. Lord Dalhousie writing: I have wished for peace. I have striven for it. But unwarned by precedent, uninfluenced by example, the Sikh nation has called for war. And on my word, Sirs, they shall have it with a vengeance.”
“Always on a lookout to start war, Zil-e-Subhani.” Prince Fakhroo commented to hide his guilt in siding with the British secretly. “After the Multan outbreak Lord Dalhousie also wrote to the Secret Committee: I have no course open to us, but to prepare for a general Sikh war and ultimately to occupy the country.”
“Racial hauteur on the part of the British is on the rise and Indian soldiers can feel it, Zil-e-Subhani.” Prince Mirza Mughal couldn’t stay behind to voice his opinion. “When Multan was under fire, Private Ryder tried to calm two frightened sepoys. One of them protested: If a ball strikes me and I am killed, you would say, oh, never mind, it’s only a black man.”
“Racial contempt, I should say, Zil-e-Subhani.” Azad declared passionately. “I have been researching and the word nigger applied to the Indians is appearing in private correspondence amongst the British generals as well as in their private conversations.”
“Where would your research lead you, my young Poet, and for what purpose?” Bahadur Shah Zafar asked wearily.
“Leading back to truth, perhaps, Zil-e-Subhani. And for the purpose of enlightenment to understand the covert designs of the alien rulers while they pretend to be courteous.”
“And what you have learnt so far?” Bahadur Shah Zafar asked with a sudden spark of interest.
“Early impressions of the Britishers, Zil-e-Subhani, caught by the Indian sailors and later recorded.” Azad was happy to empty the quivers of his newly found knowledge. “One sailor wrote about James Walsh as he sailed up to Hughli. He saw flotillas of small rowing boats filled with food sellers and exclaimed: These people are a race of beings seemingly intended by nature to complete the link between man—the image of his Maker and the tribe of apes and monkeys. Lord Hasting when he landed in Calcutta said: The Hindu appears to me nearly limited to mere animal functions, and even then indifferent. Later he wrote in his journal. They seem to possess no higher intellect than a dog, a monkey or an elephant. He also wrote about the sheer number of people on the streets, cooking, eating and defecating in public.”
“Sadly and tragically, carrying arrogance on their shoulders they are sure to fall sooner or later.” Bahadur Shah Zafar prophesied with a sinking heart. “As far as intellect is concerned, if they had even one grain of it they would not deride the loving, non-judgmental Hindus. There are multitudes, I hear, on the streets of Regency London, if they but choose to look. That would be a humbling experience.”
“Gilded with superiority complex, Zile-e-Subhani, they would never know the joy of humbleness.” Mustafa Khan Shefta tossed his own poetic comment. “Despite the heavy losses of their men during the Sikh war, they always confronted the Sikhs as if on a parade with colors flying toward the breastworks.”
“Someone has to remind them of their bull dog fight at Waterloo.” Bahadur Shah Zafar was feeling a hurricane of sadness.
“The British soldiers who won badges of honor at Waterloo, Zil-e-Subhani, have become the envy of soldiers here who are not decorated with any badges.” Ahsanullah Khan smiled. One English poet by the name of Charles D’Oyly wrote this verse to arouse the envy of the Company Veterans.
“The colonel looks at the well-dressed lieutenant
With wonder, and the badge of Waterloo
On his young breast conspicuously resplendent
And sighs that all the battles he’d gone through
Should not have gained him some distinction.”
“We should join the ranks of the ones to envy the poise and the cleverness of the British.” Bahadur Shah Zafar’s features were lit up by a pale smile. “They are skilled in making hostility look like friendship and conquest like a favor. And I mean it in a complimentary way.”
“The philosopher queen of Malwa, Zil-e-Subhani, by the name of Ahalyabhai Holkar thought otherwise.” Azad glowed with youthful pride. “My research goes back more than a century. She warned his people against association with the British, comparing their embrace to a bear-hug. Other beasts, she says, like tigers can be killed by might or contrivance, but to kill a bear is very difficult. It will die only if you kill it straight in the face. Or else, once caught in the powerful hold, the bear will kill its prey by tickling. Such is the way of the English. And in view of this it is difficult to triumph over them.”
“That philosopher queen, my na
ïve poet, derided Muslim conquerors too and in good conscience I am sure. For quite a few of them demolished the holy shrines as divinely ordained duty.” Bahadur Shah Zafar let his gaze sweep over his courtiers, espying Maulvi Wilayat Ali whose eyes were burning with zeal. “Ah, Wilayat Ali, didn’t you and your brother start a proselytizing program?” Was Bahadur Shah Zafar’s astonished exclamation. “Were you both not arrested by the British officers by inciting people to a religious war and claiming that your deceased leader Syed Ahmed is about to be resurrected, again?”
“Not true, Zil-e-Subhani.” Maulvi Wilayat Ali lied blatantly. “Just rumors base and wicked. Even the secretary to the government of Bengal dismissed such rumors with a shrug. However, Zil-e-Subhani, we believe that anyone submitting to the authority of the British has renounced his religion. And anyone failing to heed the commands of God is sure to burn in the fires of hell—“
“Vile teachings of the Wahhabis!” Bahadur Shah Zafar thundered, getting to his feet as if stung. “Hell lies for you outside this hall. Efface yourself immediately before you are dragged into the fires of hell on this earth. And never, not ever step foot in my court.” He waved dismissal, his eyes shooting bolts of lightning.
Maulvi Wilayat Ali fled as if chased by demons. Bahadur Shah Zafar trooped past the courtiers, barely acknowledging their curtsies. He was seeking the sanctuary of his harem, still whipped by the fury of his anger. Astonished once more by the precision of his memory that both Inyat Ali and Wilayat Ali were arrested in Hazara a couple of years ago by Harry Lumsden and sent under custody to Patna to stay there for five years. So they must be ignoring the restrictions and roaming free, he was thinking, his feet guiding him toward Rang Mahal.
Rang Mahal had disappeared somewhere in favor of Zafar Mahal this year to celebrate the festival of Holi—a Hindu festival symbolizing the commencement of New Year and the season of harvest. Almost a year had slipped past since the effacement of Wilayat Ali and since then Bahadur Shah Zafar had not encountered any Wahhabis in his court. This particular afternoon Bahadur Shah Zafar was in an ebullient mood, he and his family and friends were gathered in Zafar Mahal to enjoy a grand feast and to sprinkle each other with colored water or powder as a part of Holi celebration. The marble floor of Zafar Mahal was already a swamp of yellow, purple and crimson since Begums, princes and princesses were freely indulging in dousing each other with colored rosewater since no decorum was observed on this festive day of colors. Bahadur Shah Zafar was stealing toward the window to admire the swath of roses against the avenues of cypresses. Barely had he arrested the beauty of his garden when a loud exclamation from the lips of his wife made him turn around.