Poet Emperor of the last of the Moghuls

by Farzana Moon

  “March was also the month of madness for one sepoy by the name of Mangal Pande, Zil-e-Subhani.” Ilahi Bakhsh couldn’t be left behind to share his own memory-book of knowledge. “Mangal Pande of Barrackpore regiment seemed to have gone stark mad when he appeared before his quarter-guard with a loaded musket. He was wearing a regimental jacket, but was barefooted and had donned a dhoti instead of trousers. Shouting invectives, he was urging bugler to sound the assembly. Europeans are coming here, he was heard saying. Why aren’t you getting ready? It is for our religion. From biting those cartridges we would become infidels. Get ready. Turn out all of you. You have incited me to do this and now you bhainchutes you will not follow me. When Baugh and Hewson tried to restrain him, he wounded them both. He would have killed them, had not a Muslim sepoy by the name of Shaikh Paltu restrained him, but he had to let him go for no other sepoys came to his help. Mangal Pande then turned the muzzle of his own gun to his breast, which misfired. The muscles on his neck, chest and shoulders were injured and he fell down prostrate. Though he did not die of self-inflicted wounds, he was tried and condemned to death.”

  “Reports from Ambala in April mark that month the worst in arson and sedition.” Bahadur Shah Zafar’s gaze was smoldering with recollections sad and incomprehensible. “The bungalows of European officers in flames. The huts of those sepoys who had used the new cartridge burnt to the ground. Then the tragic events in Lucknow. Hindus becoming more sensitive than ever. When a surgeon Dr. Walter wells at the infantry hospital took a sip from the bottle of carminative without even thinking since he was indisposed, the sepoys raised a cry that this was an insult to their caste since that bottle of medicine had become obnoxious to all Hindu patients. The commanding officer Dr. Palmer rebuked Dr. Walter Wells, smashing the bottle in the presence of sepoys, but that didn’t pacify them. Vengeance came in the evening when they burnt down the bungalow of Dr. Walter Wells, plundering the house, though everyone escaped unscathed. In Oudh too, sepoys refusing to bite the cartridges and threatening to murder their officers. Tragedies vast and fathomless.”

  “The most tragic of all, Zil-e-Subhani, is the recent tragedy of disgraced sepoys at Meerut, all eighty-five of them.” Chuni Lal was sealing the month of April with his own bottled up concern. “Those sepoys had refused to bite the cartridges when lined up for a drill. Immediately they were taken off duty and publicly condemned to imprisonment.”

  “Are they still in the prison?” Bahadur Shah Zafar asked, barely concealing his agitation.

  “I haven’t heard on the contrary, Zil-e-Subhani.” Chuni Lal murmured thoughtfully. “The last I heard was they feel depressed and disgraced. When an officer went to pay their wages, they seemed doleful, rather indifferent. Telling the officer to pay their wages to their wives and the ones not married to some close member of their family.”

  “Degraded and disgraced for sure, Zil-e-Subhani.” Ghalib broke his silence. “I wish it were someone else to relate such sad news. Reports came this afternoon that last evening all those eighty-five sepoys convicted of subordination were brought to the parade-ground amongst other seventeen soldiers as audience. Under a dark sky thick with storm-clouds a sentence was read to them that they were imprisoned with hard labor for ten years. All those eighty-five men were stripped off their uniforms. Their boots were removed and their ankles shackled. Then they were marched off under guard to a new gaol.”

  “It bodes ill for sepoys as well as for the Britishers, since the sepoys are publicly humiliated in front of their garrison.” Bahadur Shah Zafar murmured, his heart somersaulting. “This is not the first time though. Almost a century ago as the history books tell us, on the eve of Buxar Indian sepoys refused orders and were brutally executed by the command of Hector Munro. Then half a century ago before the death of my grandfather Shah Alam, many sepoys revolted at Vellore in Tamil Nadu against a cap-badge of leather—always repugnant to Hindus. Even during the wars in Sind, Burma and Punjab several sepoys protested against the order of traveling abroad, since they firmly believe that they would lose their caste if they crossed the sea. Sad and tragic times ahead. I can smell the reek of danger.”

  “Such invisible dangers lurking somewhere, Zil-e-Subhani, have no affect on Nana Sahib. He is having a ball, rather hosting extravagant balls at Cawnpore.” Azad tried to cheer the king with lighthearted banter. “Just last week he entertained Hildersons and other Europeans to a magnificent ball. Charles Hilderson is a magistrate of Cawnpore and his wife Lydia is an accomplished pianist. Nana Sahib has made a name for himself by entertaining Europeans, who have nicknamed him as the gentleman of Bithoor. He goes riding in Cawnpore, swooning with pleasure when people stop him, praising him for his hospitality to the Europeans.”

  “The same Europeans, probably, who thrash their native servants if they are careless in performing their duties, even cutting half their wages.” Mustafa Khan Shefta scoffed with explicit disdain. “I have heard of one officer who has employed an orderly just for the task of thrashing his other servants. Personally, I have seen two servants sprawled on their mats, covered with plasters and bandages all bloody, moaning without complaint.”

  Since Bahadur Shah Zafar just gazed ahead of him without speaking, Mahbub Ali Khan tossed his own smoldering comment.

  “Inflicting wounds to the servants and treating rajahs with open contempt has become quite common these days. Just last month when an Englishman was leaving for a hunting expedition and was asked if he would wait for the rajah who had offered to accompany him, the Englishman’s response was quick and tart. I should think not. We don’t want the beastly niggers with us.” Mahbub Ali Khan looked shamefaced as if he was the one insulted.

  “Thirty years ago, most of the Englishmen had a semblance of respect for both high and low.” Bahadur Shah Zafar’s gaze was sweeping over the sea of colorful turbans with a keen intensity. “What generated this contempt and arrogance I fail to fathom. Though I too have heard reports of officers under the influence of port and sherry exclaiming. By Jove these niggers are such a confounded, lazy, sensual set, cramming themselves with sweetmeats and smoking hookahs so viciously that one would might as well train a pig.”

  “This subtle change, Zil-e-Subhani, from that of seemingly kind to this of downright arrogance has been slow and gradual, that’s why we have failed to notice it before.” Ghulam Abbas began profoundly. “To them, sepoys have become some sort of inferior animals if not contemptible creatures to be sworn at and treated roughly. I have heard the epithets being tossed around, nigger, saur—pig, the latter being very offensive to the Muslims.”

  Before anyone could speak Basant Ali Khan the eunuch trooped into Diwan-i-Khas, sweeping the floor with his curtsies.

  “Zil-e-Subhani, I am the messenger of happy news.” Basant Ali Khan curtsied again. “Prince Jawan Bakht’s wife Kulsum Begum has given birth to a healthy prince.”

  “Happy news indeed!” Bahadur Shah Zafar’s sadness was replaced by a subtle glow of joy. “Order sweets for everyone.” He got to his feet, waving dismissal. “A delightful excuse for repast and celebration.” He strolled past the courtiers amidst a volley of felicitations.

  The celebration for the newborn prince were not extra-vagant, but fetched a few tides of joy to the occupants of the palace. Small baskets of sweetmeats were purchased from the bazaar and distributed amongst the staff of the palace, including guards and servants. All the royal household had gathered at Rang Mahal, feasting and rejoicing. Dancing girls accompanied by musicians had entertained the royal household till midnight. Bahadur Shah Zafar and Zeenat Mahal had retired to their own sumptuous chamber. It was way after midnight before they fell asleep, but Bahadur Shah Zafar’s sleep was rigged with dreams most bizarre and astonishing.

  Inside the web of his tinsel dreams, Bahadur Shah Zafar was alone and trapped. He could see the waters of Jamna splitting into rivulets of blood and sky raining sparks of fire. Wildfires were raging inside the very heart of Delhi, spreading and swelling into mountains of conflag
ration. His palace was blackened with smoke, slimy and muddied. Delhi was receding into the bloodied waters of Jamna. The silks on his royal person were turned to rags and not a jewel in his possession to barter for a piece of bread. He was famished and impoverished, fresh dreams converging and licking his face with tongues of fire. Loud, strident voices from nowhere were disappearing into nothingness. Suddenly he was sucked into the furnace of fire, witnessing a pandemonium most terrible and gruesome. Startled to awakening, he looked at the sleeping beauty as his beloved Zeenat, the pandemonium in his head still loud and jarring. This uproar was too real to be encased in a dream state, so he got out of bed, donning his silk robe noiselessly. Gliding close to the window of his balcony overlooking the gilded domes, he could barely make out the forms of few men, making gestures and screaming.

  Summoning his personal eunuch Sidi Nasir he dispatched him outside to ascertain the cause of this unusual disturbance. Sidi Nasir returned immediately, informing him that fifteen or twenty sepoys are here from Meerut, very agitated and demanding the King’s audience. Bahadur Shah Zafar himself was feeling puzzled and agitated, commanding Sidi Nasir to summon Captain Douglas, instructing him to tell the Captain that he would meet him in the Audience Hall. Zeenat Mahal was still fast asleep, so Bahadur Shah Zafar got dressed hurriedly and came down into the Audience Hall unattended. Feeling giddy and disoriented, he began to pace while waiting for Captain Douglas. Oblivious to the time and surrounding, he kept pacing in this gilded hall, not even noticing the arrival of Captain Douglas when he finally arrived.

  “You have never summoned me before at the first streak of dawn, Zil-e-Subhani.” Captain Douglas curtsied. “Are you ill? May I call your physician?”

  “No.” Bahadur Shah Zafar’s feet came to an abrupt halt in his act of pacing. “Some sepoys from Meerut. I don’t know what they want? Very annoying noise under the window of my bedroom. I have no idea what this commotion is about? If you would kindly find that out for me?”

  “I would find out right away, Zil-e-Subhani, and would report to you promptly.” Captain Douglas curtsied and made haste, his heart thundering for some nameless reason.

  Bahadur Shah Zafar’s heart too was thundering, rather somersaulting as he resumed his pacing. A few snippets of his dreams were coming alive with such vivid detail that he was literally horrified as if witnessing the onslaught of violence in broad daylight. So appalled he was by this kaleidoscope vision of horrors that he stood still, not even noticing the breezy return of Captain Douglas.

  “No need to worry, Zil-e-Subhani, everything is taken care of.” Captain Douglas breathed unconvincingly. “Some thirty to forty troopers from Meerut. I ordered them to depart since they are disturbing you, the King. I also told them that they are very disrespectful, disturbing the king so early in the morning, so they are dispersed. You go back to sleep, Zil-e-Subhani. I will make sure no one disturbs you any more this morning.”

  “From the window of my balcony, Douglas, those sepoys didn’t look friendly. Might as well send a word to Meerut, asking about details and the cause of their appearing in Delhi so early.” Bahadur Shah Zafar’s thoughts had lips of their own and he didn’t know what he was saying. “While you are at it, request royal troops from Meerut, for we have no army here to defend the palace. And order the city gates to be closed and the palace doors to be locked.” He drifted toward the staircase as if sleepwalking.

  “Yes, Zil-e-Subhani.” Captain Douglas curtsied, departing punctiously.

  Inside the royal bedroom with canopied bed where Zeenat Mahal sat still with satiny pillows propped behind her, Bahadur Shah Zafar paced slowly and deliberately. Thinking aloud to himself at times or quelling Zeenat Mahal’s fears sporadically. The streaks of dawn were now erased by ribbons of gold in sunshine, escaping the latticed windows and accentuating the colors of tapestries on the walls and of the Persian rugs, all silken and exquisite.

  “Those were just dreams you dreamed last night, Zile-e-Subhani, nothing more.” Zeenat Mahal consoled. “A scented bath would drive away all the demons in your head and you would feel refreshed.”

  “What horrors! Nightmares of the worst kind!” Bahadur Shah Zafar kept pacing. “Great atrocities, bloodshed. Pillaging and plundering. Fires everywhere. You can’t imagine, Beloved, such agony and torment—” His dream-world was shattered by the urgency of appeal in the tones of Ghulam Abbas right outside his chamber door.

  “You must come down to Diwan-i-Khas, Zil-e-Subhani. Sepoys everywhere, demanding your audience.” Ghulam Abbas’ voice was choked with dread.

  “How come?” Bahadur Shah Zafar emerged forth dazed and uncomprehending. “Half an hour ago, if I am not mistaken, I sent Captain Douglas with instructions to have the city gates closed and the palace doors locked. He assured me that the sepoys were dispersed before he left.”

  “They had gone away, Zil-e-Subhani, that’s true. But they went to Rajghat and secured a solemn compact with the shopkeepers of Thani bazaar and those are the ones who have helped open all the gates.” Ghulam Abbas offered hurriedly. “Please, Zil-e-Subhani, make haste, they have invaded Diwan-i-Khas with their boots all muddied. An unruly rabble they are, might learn discipline under your royal authority.”

  Diwan-i-Khas, teeming with Indian sepoys and a few royal guards was a rare sight not ever before seen in the annals of history as being invaded by armed, booted, mannerless men with loud voices and rough clothes. Since centuries this hall had maintained its aura of sanctity where decorum and etiquette reigned supreme, next to the king/emperor on the throne. But this particular morning its sanctity was violated by undisciplined, rambunctious men, seething with zeal and anger. Discipline was finally restored as Bahadur Shah Zafar seated himself on his Peacock Throne, wearied and distraught. His appeal for courtesy and silence was met by prompt obedience by the sheer aura of his venerable age and royal bearing. The leader of the sepoys Bakht Khan had taken command, not in the least intimidated by the king’s inquisition.

  “Zil-e-Subhani, you have already heard about the cartridges being greased with pig and cow fat.” Bakht Khan was repeating himself against some flood of feverish refrain. “When the Indian sepoys refused to bite them with their teeth, they were disgraced in front of their comrades by British officers. The ones who refused were stripped off their uniforms, their boots taken off, their feet shackled. They were paraded to the jail and sentenced to ten years of hard labor.”

  “I know that, Bakht Khan, but you have yet not told me why all these sepoys have come to Delhi under your command?” Bahadur Shah intoned patiently. “Have you abandoned your posts? Do the British officers know?”

  “Yes, Zil-e-Subhani.” Was Bakht Khan’s flustered response. “We have come here to seek protection under your royal guidance.”

  “Protection against what?” Bahadur Shah Zafar’s gaze was stern and piercing.

  “Against the British, Zil-e-Subhani.” Bakht Khan stood pondering. “We have suffered enough under the brunt of their new laws, injustice, prejudice, oppression. Our religion is being mocked and our culture destroyed. We want your support and leadership.”

  “You are talking to a king who is more impoverished than a fakir on the streets of Delhi.” Bahadur Shah Zafar’s heart was swelling with the pain of mad gloating at his own state of false pomp and glory. “I have no treasures to assist you. No troops of my own to protect my palace or even my royal household. At least a fakir doesn’t mind begging, I can’t even do that due to the curse of my royal pride and false sense of dignity.”

  “We would fill your treasury with gold by collecting revenues, Zil-e-Subhani.” Bakht Khan began with a sudden spark of animation. “All our troops from Meerut, Agra and other cities would be gathering here under your royal banner.”

  “What exactly happened in Meerut which made you come to Delhi. Tell me the truth, Bakht Khan, or leave my palace.” Bahadur Shah Zafar commanded, his thoughts feverish and gallivanting.

  “You would hear it sooner or later, Zil-e-Subhani, so her
e it is.” Bakht Khan resigned himself to unfold the events of yesterday as succinctly as possible. “The day after our comrades were jailed, we secured their escape at gunpoint. Then some of us set fire to the barracks of the British while they were at church. When they got to know they tried to stop us with threats, but we told them to go away. We didn’t mean any harm to them, but we refused to accept them as our masters. Colonel Fritts was shot dead since he tried to shoot us. After we fled, I heard seven more British soldiers were killed and their families. Women and children too, I am not sure how many?”

  “You have acted wickedly, so I can’t offer you any protection.” Bahadur Shah Zafar was stifling his disgust, but his mind was spinning like a tortured globe. “Leave my palace, and seek pardon from the British whom you have wronged.”

  “Unless you bless us, Zil-e-Subhani, and protect us under your royal banner, all of us are going to be killed by the British.” Bakht Khan cried histrionically. “We are being oppressed by the British, our culture and religion usurped by alien rituals and customs. We would be hounded like dogs simply because we refuse to bite the cartridges laced with cow and pig’s fat. If you don’t help us, we would fall like the flies, our race, religion annihilated. You are our rightful King, Zil-e-Subhani, we would be your obedient slaves, to liberate this country from under the yoke of the British. We proclaim you as our King. Bless us, bless us!” He prostrated himself at the steps of the throne, weeping.

  “Bless us, King of Delhi! Bless us, Zil-e-Subhani.” Several voices chanted. All sepoys making obeisance and waving their arms with frantic appeals.

  Bahadur Shah Zafar was speechless, transported into some world of haze and bewilderment where there were no doors or windows to escape into the light of the universe. One by one sepoys kneeled at his feet and he put his hand over their heads as a gesture of blessing under some spell of daze and self surrender.