Poet Emperor of the last of the Moghuls

by Farzana Moon

  “No one can suspect Nana Sahib of dwindling means as long as he keeps entertaining Europeans with the generosity of Hatim Tai.” Bahadur Shah Zafar began thoughtfully. “Not too long ago he greeted one English attorney by the name of Lang on the road with an escort of eight soldiers, their swords drawn, and four cavalrymen making their horses cavort and prance. Later, Lang was treated to a sumptuous feast. Gratefully, Lang would often tell his friends that Nana Sahib never mentioned his own grievances, but did talk of the sad plight of Oudh affair.”

  “The British though enjoying Nana Sahib’s hospitality, Zil-e-Subhani, are not congenial and quite scornful behind his back.” Abdur Rahman a new courier from Agra was quick to unleash his bulletin of news. “A couple of years ago when they invited Nana Sahib at the opening ceremony of Cawnpore Telegraph Office, they graciously inducted him into the local Masonic Lodge Harmony. But soon after this they didn’t want to be a part of his lavish parties. Whispering behind his back that like all Indian princes he carries the parasitic vestiges of a degenerate past, lazy, dull and useless.”

  “Every man to his own perception.” Bahadur Shah Zafar commented profoundly. “Looking through Azimullah Khan’s eyes, British workers or professionals fare not much better than Indian princes. After visiting London with imminent failure in sight he cried prophetically. If God has chosen Britain to rule the world, why is it entirely populated by shopkeepers, dilettantes, bureaucrats, and their foolish, corruptible wives? I guess he saw the ghastly conditions of English men, women and children working in the mills and the mines. On his way back from London he stopped at Constantinople, contemplating with dread if the Company intended to displace India’s continuity and graciousness and pastoral simplicity with a dark world of gears and roaring engines and blinding fogs, so very thick and poisonous. To allay his fears, he stopped at the battlefield of Crimea, watching the slow return march of tired British soldiers. Wondering this time, where could be the Britain’s brave soldiers, their conquer-ing generals and their inexhaustible supply of armaments? Crying in utter hopelessness. Isn’t it sheer brazenness that this mole on the body of man has almost convinced India that its power is infinite and its armies inexhaustible?And why are you grinning so besottedly, Ahmed Beg?” He asked the newly arrived courier from Mehrauli.

  “Pardon me, Zil-e-Subhani, but a strange snippet of conversation between Lang and Nana Sahib flashed through my mind. Though, it’s not funny.” Was Ahmed Beg’s flustered response.

  “Nothing funny or lighthearted anymore, but we want to hear it just the same.” Bahadur Shah Zafar commanded. “It might fetch a few chuckles if not cheers.”

  “Might, Zil-e-Subhani, I am hoping.” Ahmed Beg obeyed promptly. “One morning Nana Sahib served Lang all English breakfast of Yorkshire pie, anchovy toast, mutton-chop steak, sardines and Forman and Mason marmalade. After breakfast he took him for a drive in Cawnpore in his handsome landau driven by English horses, and guided by two men and five retainers. They had barely driven half a mile when Nana Sahib exclaimed with a sigh. Once I owned a much better carriage than this one, almost worth twenty-five thousand rupees, but I had to burn it and kill the horses. The astounded Lang could only murmur, why? Nana Sahib sighed again, explaining that he had loaned that carriage to a Cawnpore sahib to bring his sick child to Bithoor for a change of air, but the child died. So the carriage was defiled and I couldn’t use it. Lang couldn’t help asking why he didn’t give the carriage to a Muslim or a Christian. To which Nana Sahib simply said. For then the sahib might have seen the carriage in another’s possession and his feelings would have been hurt at having occasioned me such a loss.”

  “The sensibilities of a Brahmin are incomprehensible, Zil-e-Subhani.” Mahbub Ali Khan chuckled just to please the king. “In his harem Nana Sahib keeps a dancing girl by the name of Bhima and is hopelessly in love with a courtesan by the name of Adala, upon whom he lavishes silks and jewels to win her favor. Though, a couple of years ago he married a Deccani Brahmin girl called Krishna Bhai. Imprisoning her as the gossip goes inside a room with mirrors from floor to ceiling with a trio of Bareilly couches.”

  “No wonder Indian morality is considered similar to that of the ancient Greeks. Men enamored by enchanting maidens and gods and goddesses weaving spells of wars and amorous seductions.” Bahadur Shah Zafar’s eyes were lit up with a sudden fire of nostalgic gleam. “During the reign of my grandfather one anthropologist by the name of James Forbes—amazing how I remember this and forget little things of daily occurrence, wrote a report about Indian culture and mannerism. Placing Indians on a far higher plane of civilization than American Indians, praising our native Indians for their accomplishments in poetry, painting and architecture.”

  “Those were the days of the white Moghuls, Zil-e-Subhani, when British soldiers participated in our entertainments of dancing and wrestling, going from village to village and competing with the best chess players of India.” Ahsanullah Khan broke the seal of his silence. “At that time British soldiers could speak our language, attend our dancing parties, went hunting with the rajas and the maharajas, enjoying lavish feasts in their palaces and inviting them to their homes in return. Now the sepoys and the officers can’t help but notice that many British officers speak to them as if obliged and don’t hide their feelings of impatience, dismissing them rudely and as quickly as possible when there is no more need to talk.”

  “They don’t have the time, Ahsanullah, because they are filling their ranks with Sikh and Gurkha soldiers whose fighting skills are impressive.” Bahadur Shah Zafar ruminated aloud. “And yet the fanaticism of the Wahhabis is more noticeable than the rudeness or the indifference of the British. Troubles have been brewing slowly but steadily since the death of Wilayat Ali four years hence. Sittana has become a pothole of Wahhabis where his brother Inayat Ali has assumed the imamship of a Fanatic Camp. His first act of aggression was to seize the fort of Kotla from the king of Amber. Then he started the campaign of preaching hatred against the English whom he calls kafirs—the infidels. News of Wahhabi built-up in Sittana has reached the ears of British authorities in Lahore and Peshawar. Lord Dalhousie before leaving has issued an Act of Amnesty. The fanatics of Sittana are given one month to turn themselves in. If they did so, they would be given ten rupees each to cover their expenses and a safe-conduct back to their homes. If they failed to surrender they should expect no mercy.”

  “That Amnesty Act is backfiring, Zil-e-Subhani.” Azad commenced avidly. “Mullas are angry and defiant since a notice has been issued that any Indian or British subject found in arms would be imprisoned for three years and shackled in solitary confinement. The Mullas have redoubled their propaganda campaign. Circulating the incendiary ode of Niyamatullah which was actually written in twelfth century.”

  “Pitiful and bizarre since Wahhabis hate poetry and have practically banned listening to music.” Bahadur Shah Zafar half groaned, half exclaimed. “What’s the ode which has caught their fancy?”

  “I have read it so many times, Zil-e-Subhani, I can recite it verbatim.” Azad breathed passionately, reciting with great passion.

  “Then the Nazarenes will take all Hindustan

  They will reign for a hundred years

  There will be a great oppression in their reign

  For their destruction there will be a king in the west

  The king will proclaim a war against the Nazarenes

  And in the war a great many people will be killed

  The king of the west will be victorious by force

  Of the sword in a holy war

  And the followers of Jesus would be defeated

  In seventeen hundred forty-five this ode is composed

  In eighteen hundred fifty-four the king of the west

  will appear.”

  “While Wahhabis are still reciting centuries old odes, Zil-e-Subhani, the Britishers have seized the wind and the wave.” Ghalib declared bitterly. “They are sailing their ships under fire and steam. Creating music without the
use of mizrab. With their magic, words fly through the air like birds. Air has been set on fire. Cities are being lighted without oil lamps.”

  “And the fuel of their arrogance is running quicksilver behind the façade of their just laws, Zil-e-Subhani. All beneficial they say?” Ghulam Abbas was ready to attack the guile of the British, equipped with a fistful of rumors. “I hope this is not true, but rumors are rampant that Colonel Frazier has advised Lord Canning that none of the princes should be recognized as heir apparent, least of all Prince Jawan Bakht. He has written personally, it seems, to Lord Canning, that death of Prince Fakhroo five months after the annexation of the rich and independent kingdom of Oudh is a perfect opportunity to prepare Moghuls for the imminent extinction of their line.”

  “They are waiting for my death, that’s quite obvious.” Bahadur Shah Zafar got to his feet. “Time for rest and repast. We would meet tomorrow.”

  “Don’t leave us yet, Zil-e-Subhani.” Ghalib cried suddenly. “Please recite the poem you wrote after Zauq’s death. It would be a talisman to refresh our spirits that we are still the masters of poetry and philosophy, warring with words to win peace, not with swords to woo greed.”

  “So be it, Ghalib. I too wish to refresh my memory with the gentle-presence of Zauq.

  The song-bird of India, my master Zauq

  When he took leave of the garden of earth he took

  The road to the garden of heaven

  If someone inquires about the date of his death, Oh Zafar

  Say that Zauq went to heaven because of God’s forgiveness

  In the year eighteen hundred fifty-five”

  Bahadur Shah Zafar plodded past the ocean of cheers as if sleep-walking.

  The garden was baring its bosom of beauty and fragrance just for him it seemed, as Bahadur Shah Zafar sauntered toward Rang Mahal, but his mind was communing with his late father. His thoughts were reflecting the poem he had inscribed on the tomb of his father. He could feel the gentle caress of breeze, its very lips murmuring that his words were not erased by the neglect of time.

  Akbar Shah who illumines the whole world

  Was displayed by fortune like a moon

  Zafar has told the date of his passing away

  The heaven is the resting place of the noble one

  In year eighteen hundred and thirty-seven

  Chapter Eight Fire of Rebellion

  Diwan-i-Khas at Delhi this particular evening was dimly lit due to oppressive heat matching the heated discussions of the occupants of the court, rather feverish and tiresome. Bahadur Shah Zafar seated on his Peacock Throne was absorbing all with a sense of foreboding. He had grown melancholy and contemplative, barely noticing two royal servants on either side of him, stirring the air with fans made out of peacock feathers. Three steps down the throne on either side stood poets and courtiers. Bokhara rugs and tapestries adorning the walls seemed more vibrant than before since the hall was packed due to the rumors of sepoys on the verge of sedition against the rule of the British. Scribes, lawyers and historians were a part of this court session, eager and discursive.

  “Patna, Lucknow and even in Delhi there are rumors of anger and unrest amongst sepoys against the British. It seems as if the sepoys are ready to overthrow the rule of the Company.” Ghulam Abbas was saying.

  “If those rumors are true, who could be the ones organizing such a venture on grand scale? Bahadur Shah Zafar emerged from his contemplative state with a dint of inquisition.

  “Wahhabis for one, Zil-e-Subhani, have been recruiting and training men to fight the British.” Ghulam Abbas was happy to recount what he had heard. “Then partisans and immigrants of Lucknow who have been simmering in rage since their king of Oudh were exiled. Getting wind of the covert designs of various groups and factions, thieves and scoundrels are waiting to be a part of this joint enterprise.”

  “Wahhabis are the most dangerous of all if the British only knew.” Bahadur Shah Zafar demurred aloud. “Although they can be easily identified by their demeanor stern and intimidating. Strange that lacking both intellect and manners those Mullahs attract hordes of zealots who are ready to kill by a mere whiff of their command.”

  “The Britishers already know, Zil-e-Subhani, since Wahhabis are so vocal about their Sunni Jihad—their mission to kill infidels as they deem everyone else who don’t believe in their orthodox ideology.” Makhund Lal offered his opinion. “Their hotbed of zeal is Sittana where they are constantly in touch with several tribes of Afghanistan.

  “This potbelly of intrigues has picked up speed since the beginning of the year.” Bahadur Shah Zafar intoned thoughtfully. “So many conflicting news reaching here week after week, month after month. In order to make sense of confusing reports, we must glean facts from rumors month by month to gauge the extent of unrest and antagonism. For the sake of clarity let’s explore the month of January, any special events which caused unrest amongst sepoys or general population in India?” He asked of no one in particular.

  “I know of one, Zil-e-Subhani.” Makhund Lal began exigently before anyone else could respond. “Almost four months now. Yes, it was in the middle of January when Raja Kumar Singh of Patna felt slighted, rather abandoned by the Company though he was always loyal to the British generals. He owned extensive estates in the district of Shahabad, but became debt-ridden due to his own extravagance. The board of revenue of the Bengal Government stepped in to manage his affairs on behalf of his creditors. But the new British Residence Halliday issued an order in January to the board of revenue to stop bailing out Raja Kumar Singh. Since then the Rajput followers of Raja Kumar, noticing the plight of their leader, are simmering in rage to repay the Company with a vengeance of their own as heartless as the decision of the board of revenue to stop all funds to Raja.”

  “General Halliday! The name sounds familiar.” Bahadur Shah reminisced aloud. “Isn’t he the one who assured falsely the sepoys of Barrackpore just outside Calcutta that the new cartridges they introduced were not greased with cow and pig fat as suspected by the soldiers? A series of disturbances in Barrackpore due to that, in January I believe. There would have been less objection if the sepoys didn’t have to nip off the cartridges with their teeth so that the charge could be ignited by pushing the cartridge down the muzzle of the rifle. But then that’s how this new Enfield rifle operates. And then again they could have used some other lubricant, avoiding the sensitive issue of cow fat being abhorrent to the Hindus and pig fat abhorrent to Muslims.”

  “None of the sepoys believed General Halliday, Zil-e-Subhani. The word being passed from regiment to regiment about the cartridges being greased with cow and pig fat.” Zakaullah appeared to be flipping the pages of his own memory. “This event is causing friction even amongst the caste-conscious Hindus. Third week of January, I believe, one low-caste laborer at Dum Dum asked a sepoy for a drink of water from his clay jar. That sepoy being a Brahmin, having just secured his clay jar refused, telling the laborer that it would be defiled by his touch. The laborer was angry, exclaiming: You would lose your caste altogether, for the Europeans are going to make you bite the cartridges soaked in cow and pig fat.”

  “Well, the reports about sepoys from Barrackpore and their mistrust concerning the cartridges reached us in the first week of February.” Bahadur Shah Zafar’s thoughts were exploring the heart of next month. “During an evening parade at Barrackpore the sepoys were questioned about their suspicions and misgivings concerning the cartridges. Most of them had answered that they believed the cartridges to be greased with cow and pig fat not only due to rumors, but by the feel of new paper, stiff and cloth-like when they bite it with their teeth.”

  “In March, Zil-e-Subhani, a strange movement started in Barrackpore and now it has reached all over the North-Western provinces and farther and is still spreading.” Mohan Lal the scribe ventured forth to share his own concerns. “It is called Chapatti Movement, but no one is sure what it means. It entails some secret message known only to the ones who distribute tho
se chapattis. Five chapattis exchange hands and the person receiving bakes five more to take those to the nearest village and number of chapattis keeps multiplying from hand to hand, from village to village.”

  “Strange indeed, this Movement has reached Mathura and Agra, I have heard, yet I fail to decipher its message.” Bahadur Shah Zafar’s look was distant and contemplative. “A strange flyer was displayed in March also, if I recall correctly. It was only a piece of paper though, depicting a naked sword and a shield, affixed to the back wall of the Jami Masjid here in Delhi. It was supposed to be a proclamation from the Shah of Iran that British expeditionary force had just suffered a massive defeat in Persia and that the Persian army had crossed the Afghan border and was now marching from Herat to come and liberate Delhi from the rule of the Christians. Theo Metcalfe was the one to find that paper, had ripped it to pieces, but somehow its contents were reprinted in the newspaper Siraj-ul-Akhbar, though I never read it.”