by Farzana Moon
“Your Majesty, we have declared Jihad against the Britishers who have oppressed us for so long.” Fazl Haqq appeared beside the shamefaced Bakht Khan like a guardian proud and arrogant. “All Muslims should join in this noble cause of killing the infidels.”
“A lost cause already, since corrupted by falsehood and wickedness.” Bahadur Shah Zafar lamented, overwhelmed by grief inexpressible. “How Muslims have distorted the very essence of truth. Killing is forbidden in Islam. And Jihad is the inner struggle to fight evil within ones own soul, I am getting tired of repeating this over and over again. Christians are our brethren in faith. People of the Book. Muslims tend to forget that Bible is one of our holy books.”
“You don’t know how wicked these Europeans are, Your Majesty!” Fazl Haqq persisted, half puzzled, half flustered. “Haven’t you heard Lord Canning’s proclamation? He is planning mass confiscation of the properties of the ones who don’t obey his orders.”
“Rumors base and groundless.” Bahadur Shah Zafar waved wearily, becoming aware of the trio who had joined them.
“Brahmins are prophesying the annihilation of the Europeans, Your Majesty.” Bakht Khan’s shame was melting against his inner sense of gloating. “It is exactly hundred years since the battle of Plessey and their astrological charts predict the extinction of Britishers from India. Besides, Muhammed Sayyid has already raised a standard of Jihad over the roof of Jami Masjid.”
“That must be removed immediately the king commands.” Bahadur Shah Zafar commanded with a sudden burst of authority. “Report to me that it has been removed when I return from the bazaar.” His regal manner brooked no protests as he sailed toward his elephant with unusual alacrity, the trio following.
Capture of the emperor and his sons by William Hodson at Humayun's tomb on 20 September 1857.
“Ah, Maula Bakhsh!” Bahadur Shah Zafar patted the snout of his elephant lovingly. “You are my only loyal and devoted friend.” He let himself be assisted in his gilded howdah by Abdur Rahman.
The garlanded Maula Bakhsh had left the garden behind and was now padding along the deserted path of the palace grounds toward the bazaar. Inside the howdah Mahbub Ali Khan was seated next to Bahadur Shah Zafar while Ghalib and Ahsanullah Khan were occupying the back seat. A sepulchral silence had settled over all as if the hearts of all were crushed by the events of the past few days and of this recent encounter with the sepoys. Mahbub Ali Khan was the first one feeling discomfited by silence and seeking king’s attention.
“That tragic event at the palace, Zil-e-Subhani, that senseless murder of innocent Europeans has drained you of your will to govern.” Mahbub Ali khan commented as if expecting no response.
“I am being governed by the servants of the devil, by bigots and zealots.” Bahadur Shah Zafar laughed deliriously as if free of all burdens.
“Mrs. Alexander Aldwin with her three children and a native Muslim woman who served them escaped that slaughter, Zil-e-Subhani.” Mahbub Ali Khan consoled, his look puzzled and apprehensive. “She pleaded with the sepoys, telling them that she is a Muslim. Even her children knew how to recite Kalima.”
“Yes, Muslims also reciting the Kalima and slitting the throats of the innocent men, women and children.” Bahadur Shah Zafar’s laughter was loud and hysterical.
“Zil-e-Subhani. In these tragic times of conflicting reports and inexpiable atrocities we fail to see the kindness’ of few whose hearts are filled with love.” Ahsanullah Khan began as if soothing a child. “Here’s a report which reached me two days ago. Mrs. Wood and her friend Mrs. Peile escaped Delhi with the kindness of few natives. Dr. Wood was wounded in the jaw at main Guard and was helped by his wife and her friend to reach Karnaul, but their six day escapade was a mixture of cruelty and kindness. They were often insulted and threatened in villages, but then as often cared for by some kind-heated people who concealed them in their homes, serving them milk, bread and curries. Mr. Peile who had been ill, abandoned his bed one evening without leave, had his own lucky, unlucky escapades. Several times he was attacked by sepoys, but escaped. He was robbed of all he had. Some villagers took pity on him, serving him water and sweetmeats. They gave him native clothes, shoes and turban. On his way to Karnaul he was molested by a group of natives who stripped him naked in front of men, women and children. They found only one rupee on him, returned it to him and let him go. In another village he was joined with his wife and Dr. Wood’s family. There were almost thirteen Europeans altogether and they were served food by the villagers. On the road again they were attacked by Gujars who robbed them of their rings, studs, watches and buttons, but let them go unharmed. Finally, they did reach Karnaul, half naked, half starved.”
“Kindness of few might earn the compassion of many, I am not sure.” Bahadur Shah Zafar murmured under his breath.
“Nana Sahib, I have heard, Zil-e-Subhani, is showing kindness to Charles Hilderson, though I doubt his sincerity.” Ghalib broke his silence. “He is telling Charles Hilderson that his family is not safe in Nawabganj, offering his wife and two children safe refuge in Bithoor. He says he can hardly believe the rapid turn of events which have left him in shock and he is regretful.”
Suddenly, all parlance was truncated. The bazaar teeming with sepoys, merchants, police officers and protestors was coming into view. Abdur Rahman as instructed had started sounding the proclamation that the king is commanding all shopkeepers to keep their shops open and that their safety would be insured. The din of arguments in the bazaar was subsided, though a sporadic burst of complaints were reaching the gilded howdah. The citizens of Delhi loved the king and they couldn’t help but treat him with respect and reverence. Complaints, rather petitions were many and while jotting down, Mahbub Ali Khan’s fingers were working with the speed of a hurricane, though barely able to keep up with the torrent. Bahadur Shah Zafar was rather feeling giddy and lighthearted, so comman-ding Abdur Rahman to drive back to the palace. Watching the elephant ploughing its way out of the bazaar, the crowds were thinning, forlorn and dejected. One old man was edging closer to the howdah and pumping his lungs to be heard.
“O, King! How are we going to keep our shops open for business when sepoys come and plunder all, threatening to kill us if we but ask for payment?”
“Who calls me king?” Bahadur Shah demanded suddenly, his eyes shooting flames. “I am but a retired fakir, searching for a place to rest.” He relapsed into his former state of inertia and lethargy.
“Zil-e-Subhani, compose yourself.” Ahsanullah Khan reached out to feel the royal pulse.
“O King, may I request you grant me a place to stay. Sepoys burnt down my house, accusing me of hiding the Europeans.” One middle-aged man pleaded with heartrending despair.
“You can request, my Son, but the king can’t even do that, that’s his helplessness.” Bahadur Shah Zafar appeared to come out of some sort of stupor, straightening his back. “You are asking for a boon from the setting sun on the sky.”
The elephant had left the bazaar, no more protests to be heard. Once again there was sepulchral silence inside the howdah, all hearts saddened by devastation in the bazaar. Ghalib’s poetic heart was shedding tears of grief, his thoughts whirling back in time.
“Once through the ruined city did I pass
I espied a lovely bird on a bough and asked
What knowest thou of this wilderness
It replied, I can sum it up in two words
Alas, alas.”
Ghalib sang as if his heart was breaking.
“Not bad, Ghalib, not bad! As it was a century ago when Mir Taqi Mir wrote that poem. Delhi devastated by Nadir Shah and its citizens massacred.” Bahadur Shah Zafar reminisced aloud. “I must be very old, centuries are but a few decades to me and all this devastation seems so remote and surreal.”
“Mir Taqi Mir also wrote a sad quatrain, Zil-e-Subhani, after the barbaric invasion of Abdali.” Ghalib recited ruefully.
“There once was fair city
Amongst the cities
of the world first in fame
It had been ruined and laid desolate
To that city I belong, Delhi is its name.”
“Zauq loved Delhi as if it was his Beloved one and only. Once during a poetry session exclaiming: Who would wish to leave the lanes of Delhi and live elsewhere?” Bahadur Shah Zafar’s voice was choked with memories sweet and nostalgic. “If he were alive he would be asking, who would endure to stay in Delhi?”
“As long as Delhi can endure or repulse the assaults of anarchy or invasion, I would live and die here, Zil-e-Subhani.” Mahbub Ali Khan intoned passionately, his gaze welcoming the precincts of the palace with sadness and longing. “Delhi is our home and we need to defend it, heeding the advice of the King of Persia. He has written truthfully, stating: Englishmen planted their feet in India slowly but diligently. Step by step subjugating all the powerful kings, rajas and princes, and now through Afghanistan they aim to establish their sway in Persia.”
“Anarchy is being caused by our own sepoys.” Bahadur Shah Zafar commented, assisted by Abdur Rahman to alight from the howdah. Earlier our sepoys used to complain that they are being harassed by the English soldiers, and now they are the ones harassing everyone, homeowners and shopkeepers, killing and plundering.” He plodded toward Rang Mahal, followed by Ghalib, Mahbub Ali Khan and Ahsanullah Khan. “I have lost interest in money and kingship. If this continues I plan to retire to the shrine of Qutubddin Kaki in Mehrauli and then migrate to Kaaba, spending the last days of my life in Haram Sharif of Mecca.”
“That would bode ill for your family and for your subjects, Zil-e-Subhani.” Ghalib protested earnestly. “May God create a situation in which Delhi is brought to order and may peace return to your court and palace. Earth itself would rise, pleading with the sky if you abandoned us, Zil-e-Subhani.”
“Sky is indifferent to the plight of us mortals, my Poet, and earth can’t raise its hands to touch the sky.” Bahadur Shah Zafar retorted, aiming straight for the gilded doors of Rang Mahal. “Cancel the court session this evening. I need to write some urgent letters.” He disappeared behind the doors unceremoniously.
Seated in his library alone and forlorn, Bahadur Shah Zafar was trying to write a letter to Prince Mirza Mughal. He was seated at his rosewood desk cluttered with his poems and journal entries he had not a chance to look at since two weeks. There were some letters also, not sealed as yet, though ready to be delivered personally within the palace to princes or viziers. The pen poised before him, his gaze was scanning greetings to his son, his fingers moving swiftly as he began to write feverishly.
My valiant and illustrious son, Mirza Mughal, you must devise means to safeguard the life and property of our subjects. Sepoys enter and plunder the houses of the inhabitants on false charges that they have concealed Europeans. Despite my urgent orders that sepoys vacate the palace grounds and gardens, they are still there, loud and belligerent. You must force them to leave. These are the places where not even Nadir Shah, nor Ahmad Shah, nor any British Governor General of India entered on horseback. As to paying wages even to the staff of the royal household, there are no funds left in the treasury. The city merchants having been plundered have no longer the ability to provide loans. Wearied and helpless we have now resolved on making a vow to pass the remainder of our days in services acceptable to God. Relinquishing the titles of sovereignty fraught with cares and troubles—
“Zil-e-Subhani, what means this?” A cry of despair escaped Zeenat Mahal’s lips. She had crept in unnoticed and overlooking his shoulders had read each word he was writing.
“Beloved mine, I am broken and suffering the agony of the living.” Bahadur Shah Zafar pressed his temples, sobbing like a child who would not ever be consoled.
Chapter Ten Fortress of Despair
Rang Mahal once again was Bahadur Shah Zafar’s prison and sanctuary both as he sat writing another letter to Prince Mirza Mughal. It had been a couple of weeks since he had written to him last burdened with grief, and with the flight of time grief had multiplied tenfold. Zeenat Mahal was seated on a davenport against the wall with a gilded painting of Moghul scene depicting court proceedings. She was trying her hand at embroidery, her heart too ravaged by grief and despair. Bahadur Shah Zafar’s back was toward her while he sat at his desk absorbed in writing to his son and oblivious to his surroundings. Though seated in the same room of gilt and velvet décor, they both seemed continents apart, immersed in their individual world of inner torment and anguish. Bahadur Shah Zafar was feeling feverish. Even the tips of his fingers felt hot as if they were on fire, so he paused in his writing, his gaze scanning what he had already written.
My Son! It has been fifteen days since I wrote to you last and sepoys still continue to indulge in their old, vicious habits. I had ordered that they camp outside the city and that no one from the cavalry and infantry should go about the city wearing arms. And under no circumstances anyone should oppress or exploit the inhabitants of the city, but do they heed? One regiment is still residing at the Delhi Gate, a second at the Ajmeri Gate and the third one at the Lahori Gate inside the city walls. They plunder the bazaars day and night on false pretense that some Englishman is lurking inside. They enter people’s private dwellings and rob them of their belongings most shamelessly. They even threaten to kill the royal servants if they refuse to supply them with the provisions. This being the true state of affairs, how can one possibly suppose that these sepoys desire improvement and welfare of this country? Or even if they attempt to show allegiance to our authority—
Feeling a sudden stab of agony, Bahadur Shah Zafar’s sight and senses were caught under some spell of daze and abeyance. For a moment he just sat there pressing his temples with his eyes closed. Zeenat Mahal happened to look up, her heart sinking against the weight of fear and apprehension. Before she could speak, Bahadur Shah Zafar leaped to his feet with unusual alacrity, not consonant with his age and health.
“What clamor do I hear down in our garden?” Bahadur Shah Zafar’s gaze was bright and burning. “Maybe the troops are back from the Ridge, or some ruffians demanding salary. I must go and pacify them.” He darted a feverish look at Zeenat Mahal in an act of turning.
“Please, Zil-e-Subhani, don’t leave. I don’t hear anything.” Zeenat Mahal pleaded, hoping that the noise down the palace garden would subside shortly. “And even if you do hear the noise, you shouldn’t be confronting those unruly horde of sepoys or merchants. Some of them came here yesterday late afternoon trying to unlock the harem doors, obviously intending to loot, but didn’t succeed. Our royal guards who were not there during their attempt to unlock heard about it later and warned me.” Her pallor was accentuated by the soft white pearls dangling down her ears and around her throat.
“They did! Did they?” Bahadur Shah Zafar stood there aghast, unable to move.
“Yes, Zil-e-Subhani.” Zeenat Mahal’s ruby-red lips were parted like a fresh wound, pleading silently with him to stay. “The guards also informed me that they overheard a few sepoys plotting together to kill me, accusing me of favoring the British.”
“They dare! Would they?” Bahadur Shah Zafar was awakening to the pangs of pain and reality. “No, Beloved, that could never be.” He turned to his heels as if stung, fleeing.
Hayat Bakhsh garden with its stately tower Shah Burj looming over the Mulsari trees was softening the glare of the sun as Bahadur Shah Zafar strode past the terraces toward the scene of uproar close to Sawan Pavilion. Even the gurgling of fountains could not subdue the skirling sounds, though the water channels edged by roses looked serene in contrast to the babel of argument from the lips of the sepoys, rough-looking and belligerent.
“Zil-e-Subhani, viziers and merchants have gathered in Diwan-i-Khas, awaiting your arrival.” Mahbub Ali Khan materialized from behind the tamarind trees, his face flushed and his breath labored.
“No court was planned for today due to fighting on the Ridge.” Bahadur Shah Zafar kept strolling without looking back. “What is this uproar abo
ut? Didn’t I issue an order that all palace gardens should be vacated?”
“Yes, Zil-e-Subhani, but this particular group of soldiers have absolutely no manners and understand not the meaning of discipline, a queer lot than the rest of them we have encountered so far.” Mahbub Ali Khan stayed a pace behind Bahadur Shah Zafar. “This uproar is about fighting on the Ridge. They are prophesying victory against the British and embroiled in arguments beforehand as to whom they should elect to govern and to collect revenues.”
“Goondas governing the hooligans and badmashes looting the treasuries.” Bahadur Shah Zafar was appalled by his own vulgar expression, matching the vulgarity of sepoys, though they didn’t hear him, still immersed deeply in their heated arguments.
“Zil-e-Subhani.” Mahbub Ali Khan murmured in utter misery as he stepped beside the king, becoming aware of Bakht Khan, trooping toward them with the arrogance of a war-lord.
“Mahbub Ali Khan! How did you escape my notice? I should have imprisoned you too since you are engaged in secret correspondence with the British.” Bakht Khan declared rudely before turning his attention to Bahadur Shah Zafar. “Zil-e-Subhani, I have arrested your vizier Ahsanullah Khan since he is secretly in league with the English.”
“Release him immediately!” Bahadur Shah Zafar’s voice was one tremor of a command. “You and your sepoys are doing all kind of evil misdeeds. Falsely accusing my royal staff and the merchants of bazaar, even the rich landlords of misdeeds for the sole purpose of looting and tyrannizing. You, all of you have become just like the thieves playing the policemen.”