by Farzana Moon
Bahadur Shah Zafar during his exile by William Hodson. This is possibly the only photograph ever taken of a Mughal emperor.
“The most heinous of crimes where—” Bahadur Shah Zafar’s comment was truncated as soon as he noticed the breezy arrival of Inuzzur who had been staying in Cawnpore since the siege began. “Well, my Friend.” He paused as if wondering about his new mode of expression, friend, which he had adopted lately to address everyone. “How is Nana Sahib comporting after his tyrannous show of great massacre?”
“Celebrating his victory, Zil-e-Subhani.” Inuzzur curtsied low. “A proclamation is sounded with drumbeats in the city of Cawnpore, urging the citizens to rejoice and celebrate. His own camp was illumined with mustard-oil lamps while he received a twenty-one gun salute which the British had denied him for almost twenty years. Nineteen guns were fired for his brother Bala Rao now governor general and seventeen for Jawala Prasad, his commander-in-chief. Azimullah Khan was much praised by Nana Sahib who told him that his wisdom alone brought this victory.”
“Azimullah Khan who dubbed the entrenchment as the Fort of Despair!” Bahadur Shah Zafar opined aloud as if recalling every detail of the siege which was reported to him earlier. “And yet it turned out to be much worse, the Fort of Horror. Did anyone escape the massacre at Sati Chowra?”
“Only four men, I have heard, Zil-e-Subhani, from the party of one lieutenant by the name of Thomson.” Innuzur’s voice was heavy with regret. “They had the energy to swim very far, finding refuge in the domain of an elderly Raja Dirigibijah of Moora Mhow, the most powerful of Rajput clans in Oudh.”
“Has Nana Sahib filled the house of his prostitute Azizah with gold mohurs?” Bahadur Shah Zafar asked abruptly as if trying to jolt his memory to awakening. “He promised her, it was reported not too long ago, that after his victory he would fill her house with gold mohurs?”
“Victory has gone over his head, Zil-e-Subhani.” Inuzzur was quick to share his bag of gossip. “Any spare time that he gets he spends with his concubine by the name of Adala.”
“No distinction between reports and rumors these days.” Bahadur Shah Zafar eased himself up, his gaze espying Ahsanullah Khan who happened to straggle into Diwan-i-Khas, aloof and distraught. “Any news from the Ridge?” He paused at the steps of the throne as if trying to remember something.
“Skirmishes, if not heavy fighting, Zil-e-Subhani.” Ahsanullah Khan curtsied.
“Hopefully, no shells falling on Sawan Pavilion this afternoon. Come.” Bahadur Shah Zafar plodded down the middle isle, beckoning Azad and Ghalib to join him. “I have been longing to sit in that pavilion with my poets and courtiers. Alas, no more poetry sessions.” He drifted toward the red sandstone pavilion, followed by Azad, Ghalib and Ahsanullah Khan.
“Not a safe place, Sawan Pavilion, Zil-e-Subhani, exposed to shells.” Ahsanullah Khan murmured apprehensively. “We should stay close to the walls of the fort.”
“Walls are closing in on us.” Bahadur Shah Zafar intoned indifferently. “We would take a stroll. My need to fill the gaping hole in my memory is much greater than my need for solitude. A short walk, then I must see my Queen. How long since she left, I can’t remember? How my thoughts skip and wander. Was Calcutta also the seat of unrest?”
“A violent outbreak at Lucknow, Zil-e-Subhani, but it was controlled violently also by Colonel George Neill.” Was Azad’s anguished comment than response? “Colonel Neill was quick to erect gallows and hanged hundreds of suspects involved in inciting riots, including young boys who might have taken part in such revolt. In neighboring villages countless hundreds of peasants were hanged from the mango trees. Some corpses were strung in a way to make the figure eight.”
“His atrocities seem to match the atrocities of the sepoys and the sowars.” Bahadur Shah Zafar stopped under the Sisal tree, appalled. “And yet sepoys are cruel even to their own kind. Another gaping hole in my memory which I have not plugged yet! Nunne Nawab went through the ceremony of coronation under the threat from sepoys that he would be killed if he did not agree to the rites of the coronation and to protect rebels under his royal banner. Irony of fates and lies grand! After his coronation, the sepoys proclaimed. The world is God’s. The country is the emperor’s. The Nawab the ruler is in command.”
“Atrocities grand commencing from the side of the British officers too and that’s not a lie, Zil-e-Subhani.” Ghalib couldn’t contain his own bulletin of news. “In Peshawar forty rebel sepoys were blown to pieces from the mouth of cannon. The rest of the sepoys who tried to escape were pursued and captured. Further, thirty rupees a head were offered to any soldier or civilian who would kill or capture the remainder fleeing. One hundred and ninety-two of them were captured, made to march before the firing squad and shot. A couple of hundred more who were captured later met the same fate. In Lahore, two hundred and eighty-two sepoys who had rebelled at Anjala near Amritsar were executed by the orders of a Deputy Commissioner by the name of Frederic Cooper. The captives were locked up in a bastion and brought out in batches of ten to be shot. Forty-five of them were found dead in the bastion, probably dying of excessive heat, fatigue or suffocation.”
“Evil deeds taking root in the soil of all hearts.” Bahadur Shah Zafar lamented, his gaze gathering the sprigs of devastation in his garden where shells had blasted the shrubbery and the flowerbeds. “At least the town of Patna was saved from such tragedies since Wahhabis were arrested promptly. Many British officers were loathe to disarm their sepoys, though fearing rebellion. One of the commanding officer Colonel Spottiswood was so distressed that his soldiers would be ordered to disarm, that he committed suicide to avoid witnessing the dishonoring of his regiment he loved.”
“Gwalior in arms too, Zil-e-Subhani.” Ahsanullah Khan broke his silence. “In the middle of June sepoys from Maharaja Sindhia’s contingent poured out of their huts armed with muskets in response to a prolonged high bugle note. The commanding officer was startled from his sleep. Getting dressed quickly and riding boldly toward the horde of madmen he was shot instantly. Then another commanding officer Major Shirreff appeared on the scene, pleading with sepoys that the Europeans would disarm the sepoys was just a rumor. To prove his point he moved into their lines. His reasoning didn’t even make a dent over the ocean of excitement, so he began retracing his steps holding the hand of his faithful subhedar. Sepoys threatened the subhedar that they would kill him if didn’t let go of the Major. Major Shirreff was shot to death when the subhedar ran away. Four more Europeans were killed that day, including a surgeon and a Chaplin.”
“Amidst this ocean of insanity I search for the crumbs of goodness to nourish my own sanity.” Bahadur Shah Zafar’s feet were guiding him toward the royal stables. “Strange that I am the only one who finds these crumbs in plenty to share with others. More strange that my memory doesn’t fail in that arena, either. Mrs. Irwin the wife of a lieutenant who escaped the murderous rebels of Latifpur was thankful of the compassion of a Brahmin, offering water from his jug while she lay down to rest. Once again she was met by kindness, saying that she would never forget the kindness of people in another village where they offered her milk and fresh chapattis. She met a young boy who sang her a song about his hope that Feringhis would be allowed to live. She was always on the run, finding shelter in the home of one scribe. When she was captured and imprisoned by the retainers of a Raja of Banpur, one woman in the palace, taking pity on her, smuggled to her dried fish and fruit.”
“Feringhis would live to rule after much bloodshed and devastation, I am afraid.” Ghalib commented, addressing no one in particular. “It has been a month since Lucknow riots and somehow details are stuck in my head like a wild creeper most dangerous and overpowering. Muslims pouring out on the streets under the standard of the Prophet. Attacking Christians, grain-merchants and shopkeepers, breaking into their premises, looting and ransacking. Smashing earthenware pots, tearing down mat doors, slitting open sacks of flour and beans and spilling their contents on the floor
. Amongst the mob some superstitious dolts had brought a buffalo head garlanded with white flowers at the gate of the royal palace. And a few others had fetched dolls dressed up as European soldiers, slashed with sword cuts. The same soldiers who were hanged on the gallows near Machi Bhawan. Such insanity and madness!”
“No less insane the efforts of Martin Gubbins while fortifying his house against the rebels.” Azad laughed all of a sudden, a nervous, unhealthy laughter. “He emptied his library shelves to fill up holes in his defenses. Discovering that his Lardner’s Encyclopedia could stop a musket ball after passing through one hundred and twenty pages.”
“A genius I should say!” Bahadur Shah Zafar’s feet were coming to an abrupt halt by the stables where royal retainers groomed his horses. “I wish I can devise a plan to prevent the plundering of Delhi. Just yesterday five men disguised as native infantry of the Company had gone about plundering the homes of the citizens of Delhi. Insanity and madness indeed. I need rest. Well, my friends, go home. I need to see my Queen.” His gaze was already arresting the royal groom. “Come, Allahdad, get my mount ready. I would ride alone to the haveli of my Queen.”
“Zil-e-Subhani.” Allahdad protested. “The streets of Lal Kuan are not safe.
“No place is safe, my Friend, not even one’s heart from the shafts of hatred and vengeance. You may follow me.” Bahadur Shah Zafar waved impatiently, his gaze shifting to his companions. “Don’t look so dejected, you may keep me company too, my poets and vizier.” He let Allahdad help him into the saddle of his Arabian steed.
Evening had descended too quickly for Bahadur Shah Zafar as he sat with Zeenat Mahal in the central pavilion of the haveli called Nagina Mahal. They had just finished their dinner served to them in the private chamber of the Queen with rich tapestries and velvet hangings. Prince Jawan Bakht and his wife had just left to practice archery in the courtyard of Farash Khana. Bahadur Shah Zafar and Zeenat Mahal were sitting together, watching from latticework window the marble fountain, its cascading waters falling like gold beads, polished by dusk. Zeenat Mahal was unusually quiet, but Bahadur Shah Zafar was talkative as if to escape his inner torment lest he be choked with grief. At the moment in response to Bahadur Shah Zafar’s feverish complaint against Nana Sahib, Zeenat Mahal had started talking about the young playmate of Nana Sahib, Rani of Jhansi.
“Rani of Jhansi is no less guilty than Nana Sahib, Zil-e-Subhani.” Zeenat Mahal began placatingly. “Lakshami Bai as she is called has taken up arms against the British, as you well know. Though, after the massacre by sepoys of European garrison.”
“We are all guilty in the eyes of the oppressed and the oppressor, Beloved.” Bahadur Shah Zafar’s thoughts were wringing themselves free from the fever of anguish. “No one really knows for sure what happened at Jhansi. Initially, a battalion of sepoys had captured the Star Fort along with the treasury. The British forces had fled, seeking refuge in the fort. Rani had promised safe passage. The British troops and their families were to be spared in exchange for the Fort of Jhansi. And yet, without her knowledge or consent, the rebels slaughtered the fugitives brutally and mercilessly. Even the well-disciplined troops of Gwalior have risen against the British, while the Raja of Gwalior, I hear, is prostrate with grief.”
“Begum Hazrat Mahal has taken matters into her own hands and is laying siege to Henry Lawrence’s garrison in Oudh, Zil-e-Subhani.” Zeenat Mahal was overwhelmed with fear all of a sudden, spilling out her own bulletin of news with a great animation. “She is mocking the British for their claim to allow the freedom of worship. How can people believe that religion will not be interfered when sepoys are required to bite cartridges greased with pig and cow fat. They are destroying the temples of the Hindus and mosques of Muslims on the pretense of making roads. But they are building churches, sending clergymen into the streets to preach Christian religion. Paying people stipend for learning English.”
“To counter that, Beloved, Wahhabis are adding flint to the seeds of rebellion by their own fire of zeal and ignorance.” Bahadur Shah Zafar appeared to be swept by waves of despair amidst his stormy thoughts. “They are waving the banners of Jihad, martyrdom. The imbeciles, causing rifts between Hindus and Muslims. Jihadis they call themselves. People of Delhi are already disgusted by sepoys within the city walls. Those sepoys are unpaid, hungry and violent, and the citizens of Delhi are in no mood to accommodate several thousand more fanatical, holy warriors. Oh, Beloved!” He exclaimed suddenly, becoming aware of the glints of fear in her eyes. “Why I am talking about this? I came here to comfort you and be comforted. I am old. Trying to fight the curse of senility, that’s it. And yet my heart is young and loving. I fear for your safety. What will happen when I die. Prince Jawan Bakht so young, his son Prince Jamshed Bakht not even a year old and Kulsum Begum pregnant again. What would you do, Beloved? Have you heard the poets of Delhi, the insignificant wretches writing mocking verses?
“The batteries have no strength left
Pray for the safety of life, O Zafar
The sword of India has become cold.”
“No one can harm you, Zil-e-Subhani, as long as I live!” Zeenat Mahal declared with a sudden burst of anger and passion. “I would protect and guard you as long as I live.”
“Ah, Beloved!” Bahadur Shah Zafar held her close, his eyes stinging with tears. “You are my anchor and heart’s desire.” He got to his feet abruptly. “I must rest. Suddenly feel over-whelmed with fatigue.” He hurried out of the chamber lest he bathe her hands with tears.
Inside the solitude of his gilded bedroom, tears flooded freely from the eyes of Bahadur Shah Zafar and he fell asleep quickly, feeling light and cleansed. Beautiful dreams of youth and splendor were soon replaced by nightmares most wild and horrific. He was snatched from his throne and tossed on a bed of straw. No palace, no gardens, no servants. He could hear a cacophony of voices, calling him murderer, then the curtain of hoary silence was lowered. His bed was hoisted up, suspended in the air. He could see Jamna and Ganges the color of blood, vultures flying overhead. Heaps upon heaps of corpses everywhere and men dangling from the trees, some mere skeletons and others with limbs charred or mutilated.
Mercifully, he was transferred to another place, impover-ished, yet tranquil. Lying on a coarse bed with white sheets, he could see Zeenat Mahal squatted on bare floor. She had aged all of a sudden. No jewels adorned her and her dress was as coarse as the white sheet under him. Their eyes met and his heart was caught in pincers of agonies indescribable. The ocean of sadness in her eyes had whipped his very soul to shreds.
Beloved mine, precious love, tell me it’s not true? Where are we? Beloved, pretty Zeenat, my dove, awaken me from this nightmare. He was murmuring in sleep. Where are my sons, our daughters?
Chapter Twelve Festival of Flowers
Sawan Pavilion in Red Fort of Delhi this sultry afternoon was hosting the emperor and his poets and viziers. Bahadur Shah Zafar was bejeweled, his purple robe newly stitched for the festival of Eid-ul-Adha. Though there were no celebrations, only the drone of fears and proposals and recollection of events dark and dreadful. Lately, Bahadur Shah Zafar’s moods had been dark too, but a little light had crept in into his heart where his newly born grand-daughter slept peacefully whom he had named Raunaq. Prince Jawan Bakht now was the proud father of two children, Prince Jamshed his first born and Princess Raunaq the newborn. But his joy and pride were tarnished by the rust of wars and uncertainties. It had been month and a half since Bahadur Shah Zafar had a nightmare at the haveli of Zeenat Mahal and that nightmare appeared to be unfolding day after day in a most uncanny fashion.
“Your ban on slaughtering the cows at least has made our Eid peaceful, Zil-e-Subhani, despite the clouds of war hovering over the Ridge.” Mufti Sadruddin strove to cheer the king who was sinking slowly inside a pool of melancholia.
“The clouds of war are not hovering over the Ridge, my good Friend, but looming close over here.” Bahadur Shah Zafar failed in his attempt to smile. “Though, I am
grateful no cannonballs are falling in my garden today. As to the ban on slaughtering, no one listens to me any more. Since I couldn’t lock up the Jihadis, I had to lock up the cows. I must send a note of thanks to the head of police who offered shelter to all the registered cows in the city’s central police station. Rather you convinced Jihadis, and I am wondering how you convinced them not to slaughter cows on Eid?”