by Farzana Moon
retains its entity
What matters is the substance, not the surface show
If the mirage effaces the wave, it serves no need
We do not see a whiff of breeze, nor a rose-scented sweet
In our days of restlessness, we keep an even keel
What is so surprising if the masks are many-hued
They assume the color and shape, depending
on the sites they see
The object and its qualities thus mutually correlate
As the sun and its rays, springing from the
brightening east
Once again we long to taste music sweet and
rapturous wine
For long we have lived a life of abstinence complete.”
“Food for my soul, this poem of yours, Shefta.” Bahadur Shah Zafar complimented, his gaze arresting Ghalib. “One last poem, Ghalib, and then we all must woo sleep.”
“Maybe the very last, Zil-e-Subhani.” Ghalib laughed histrionically.
“Again the vernal reign arrives
The sun and moon survey the sight
How the earth is beautified
From end to end the earth presents
A challenge to the starry skies
Pressed for space, the expanding green
Turned to moss, no water lies
To see the verdure decked with blooms
Narcissus has been blessed with sight
The air breathes the breath of wine
A stroll, the bliss of wine provides
Why shouldn’t Ghalib, the world rejoice
The saintly king has got alright.”
“Sublime, sublime! Saints and sinners in all of us.” Bahadur Shah Zafar heaved himself up slowly. “Farewell to the night, yet dawn is bidding us to sleep. You all go, seek the comforting abode of Jungli Mahal. I must seek solitude before I retire.”
“One last poem from you, Zil-e-Subhani, before we grant you the privilege of solitude.” Was Ghalib’s nostalgic appeal.
“I have forfeited all privileges, my Friend, already.” Bahadur Shah Zafar’s bruised heart was uttering these words, not his lips.
“What on earth did we see
Dream-like seemed the world indeed
Though man is but a clod of earth
A water bubble it turned to be
Unnumbered beauties though we saw
But none like you on land or lea
Swell thee not, O bloated bubble
Suddenly would burst and cease
The heart before that fatal glance
Is like a victim, arrow-seized
Though we mingled ourselves in dust
The dust of His feet we couldn’t be
Give your heart to none, O Zafar
Faithless is all the world you see.”
Amidst half applause and half protests, poets had retired along with the machalchis. Bahadur Shah Zafar was left alone, grateful that his wish to be alone was honored. He had begun to stroll on the familiar paths, awed by the beauty of sunrise so very fresh and sparkling. The crimson streaks were blending with the purple ones and he thought those were large gashes, big wounds from the hearts of all victims so brutally tortured, mutilated and slaughtered. His own soul was swollen much like a purple wound, and he kept drifting under some spell of peace he had not experienced for so many years. Something noble and awful had touched his soul, had given it strength to embrace his sufferings. Fatigue had left him and he had that uncanny feeling that his old heart was infused with some strange energy which was making him leap and dance, though his senses were suspended in a daze.
The scent of damask roses was in the air and Bahadur Shah Zafar inhaled it deeply, his senses reeling against the onslaught of memories which seemed so real. The path which he had taken toward Jharna edged by neem trees on both sides was decorated with silk pennants, his very sight was playing tricks. He thought he was entering the familiar bazaar of festivities, athletes and acrobats whirling and twirling their Bhutans. Musicians and dancing girls and soldiers in uniforms, all were a part of this Flower Festival. He could feel the shower of silver coins and flowers over his shoulders, the poets and the viziers cheering. Suddenly all music had stopped, the chain of his reveries broken. He stood under the Mulsari tree in perfect immobility. Another spell of dream-reality was invading his solitude, so very alive and surreal.
He was in this garden of the Festival of Flowers, but it was not a garden. He was caught in a whirlwind of mystical journey, his soul entering a realm unknown where prayers of the mortals find fulfillment. And yet again, it was a fragrant garden, its beauty ravished for the sake of offering royal gifts at the shrines of the saints and the pundits. Garlands upon garlands were piled high at the gate of Yogmaya Temple and at the shrine of Qutubddin Kaki. Flowers tracing mosaic patterns on hand-held fans and four-poster bed of flowers decked with intricate designs of roses and marigold was coming into view. His hands were reaching out to touch and feel the vibrant colors in flowers, but he was slumping down, his eyes closed and dreams unfolding in rivulets of blood.
Yes, the mystical journey had ended, the garden was no more. He was the prisoner of time, exiled into an alien world. The face of cruelty, dark as death was everywhere. His sons were killed, his palace ruined, his jewels confiscated. He was drifting deep into mists gossamer where there were no pains and no sorrows. He indeed had taken a last walk in his garden and would never celebrate another Festival of Flowers. Something was wrong in the picture of his dream. He was returning to this garden, his last mystical encounter with loss, grief, disbelief. A light drizzle had awakened him from the dream-state of his nightmares. And yet he was sleepwalking toward Jahaz Mahal, drunk with grief and hopelessness.
Chapter Thirteen Shattered Star
Bahadur Shah Zafar, the ill-starred king of Delhi was seated on his Peacock Throne, alone and forlorn. He was bejeweled and richly appareled. Almost two and a half weeks since his return from that capricious journey to Mehrauli and he was whirled back into the reality of siege and waves of atrocities. Paradoxically, reality had escaped him and he had begun to hallucinate half the time, half mad with grief and shock. Even this particular day, reality had eluded him. He had taken great pains in dressing up regally as if he was getting ready to preside over his court. No court in session and no one attending on him, he had begun writing letters to his sons. He had been writing since hours, not even aware that now it was late afternoon. Princes, even Zeenat Mahal had checked on him now and then, all returning to their private asylums against the weight of their own inner misery and torment.
Prince Mirza Mughal had returned to Diwan-i-Khas with the intention of seeking advice from his royal father, but noticing a clutter of letters over the carpet he had slumped at the foot of the throne dejected and overwhelmed. Bahadur Shah Zafar was still writing, oblivious to the presence of his son, his own form sculpted into gold by chunks of sunlight filtering through engraved arches. This rectangular central chamber itself seemed polished with gold, accentuating maroon carpets against the beams of sunlight. Ironically Prince Mirza Mughal had picked up randomly a letter which was addressed to him and he began reading it, distraught and frightened.
My son, let it be known that when the sepoys first came to me, I told them plainly that I possessed neither soldiers, nor money to help them, but that I would not hold my life dear if it were any use to them. They promised to lay down their lives in the attempt to carry out my orders and in showing me allegiance. So they were permitted to stay here, though they were ignorant and unacquainted with court etiquette. Now many days have passed, but they continue to indulge in their vicious habits. They don’t carry out my commands. I ordered them to encamp outside the city, but I find that one regiment is residing at Delhi Gate, a second one at the Ajmeri Gate and a third at the Lahori Gate right inside the city walls. I think I wrote about this to you several months ago, and yet I don’t know if you received my letter. Well, they come riding on horseback into the palace courtyard improperly dress
ed. Even though whenever an officer of the British Government came into the palace grounds, he dismounted from his horse at the gate of Diwan-i-Am and proceeded on foot. Moreover the sepoys plunder the bazaars day and night on false pretense that some Englishman is hiding inside. They dash into the homes of innocent people and go killing and plundering. They break open the locks and even carry away doors and the shutters. If they do not desist from this shameful behavior and don’t obey my orders, I would retire to the shrine of Qutubddin Kaki and sit there as a fakir. My son, you must not take this lightly on account of my old age and feebleness. I cannot bear all this weight on my shoulders. And it is no easy matter to rule such people and— Prince Mirza Mughal stopped reading, cupping his head into his hands. He couldn’t speak or move, his heart a floodgate of anguish and presage. Unable to contain the flood of sorrow, he exclaimed suddenly.
“Zil-e-Subhani, what are you writing? I have read one letter, it has nothing to do with the present. What you are writing now pertains to four months hence. Right now we are on the brink of annihilation.”
“There is no present, only past and future, my Son.” Bahadur Shah Zafar appeared to awaken amidst some ocean of profoundest deeps, his look wild and piercing. “What was then is now!” His eyes were lit up with a mad glint. “Didn’t the sepoys come to me demanding money? They were hungry they said. I could only offer them forty thousand rupees, but they were not satisfied, clamoring for more. Then I brought out all the crown jewels, even the jewels of the begums, asking them to take those if that would assuage their hunger. What surly lot these men are, steeped deep in violence, yet ashamed to accept pebbles of the earth from the king?”
“What was then, Zil-e-Subhani if you can’t recall was the rain of bullets on the royal palace and on the streets of Delhi. The breeching and cracking of the ramparts. The bombardment over its gates, the battering of its bastions.” Prince Mirza Mughal began with a dithering heart. “Not to mention heaps of dead bodies on the streets and the wounded groaning for medical assistance. Now the British are not far from the gates of Delhi. Now is not then, but now, we the besiegers have become besieged.”
“How very admirable of you, my Son, to remind the king.” Bahadur Shah Zafar laughed hysterically. “The British are already in Delhi. Qudsia Bagh is theirs. They are guarding the Kashmiri Gate, the Lahori Gate—how much blood spilt on the steps of the Jami Masjid?”
“Bakht Khan is still defending the city of Delhi, Zil-e-Subhani. If we don’t fortify our—” Prince Mirza Mughal was distracted by the breezy arrival of Prince Khizr Sultan.
“Zil-e-Subhani, Bakht Khan just arrived. Probably the bearer of bad news. Ilahi Bakhsh wanted to talk with him, but he stormed past him and has shut himself up in his private quarters.” Prince Khizr Sultan’s own expression was one of utter dejection, his gaze shifting from king to the prince.
“Misfortunes upon misfortunes. Since he came here, he has brought nothing but grief.” Bahadur Shah Zafar’s look was distant and feverish. “To feed him and his insolent rabble, even the silver of my howdah and royal plates are minted into currency. Nothing is left, this useless life—” His thoughts were truncated by the arrival of his grandson Prince Abul Bakr.
“The begums are requesting your company at dinner, Zil-e-Subhani.” Prince Abul Bakr appeared to shrink against the feverish glow in the king’s eyes.
“Dinner, no, my Child, we would have a feast tonight!” Bahadur Shah Zafar declared with a sudden burst of animation. “To celebrate life. How often I have offered my life?” He paused, noticing the reluctant approach of Ghalib. “Ah, we would have a poetry session right here. Yes, Ghalib, my sons, they write poetry if you didn’t know. Yet, they pretend I don’t know.”
“Zil-e-Subhani.” Ghalib curtsied with his usual flair for decorum. “Poetry indeed, Zil-e-Subhani.” He abandoned himself at the foot of the throne where all three princes had managed to huddle together. “I have ceased to write poetry since a bomb destroyed the gunpowder factory in Gali Churiwallan, killing five hundred people. Sepoys, in return, as you know, Zil-e-Subhani, are accusing Ahsanullah Khan of treason and have destroyed his mansion.” He sighed, his face ravaged by grief. “How can I forget the great mansion of Ahsanullah Khan which in beauty and ornament was equal to the painted palaces of China? After looting the roofs were torched. The great beams and the inlaid panels of the ceiling were reduced to ashes. The walls were completely blackened by smoke. It seemed, in grief, the mansion wore a black mantle.”
“Do not be misled by the fortunes the skies may bestow
The treacherous skies entangle
In anguish and torment
Those they formerly laid in the lap of love.”
Bahadur Shah Zafar recited this quatrain which invaded his thoughts suddenly, the fever in his gaze abating. “Didn’t you write this, Ghalib?”
“Can’t recall, Zil-e-Subhani.” Ghalib murmured evasively.
“Can’t recall, don’t remember! Mad litany of sad times.” Bahadur Shah Zafar murmured back. “And yet how can one forget facts staring us in the face. No one is interested in defending Delhi, neither Hindus, nor Muslims. They sit in their homes, playing cards or drinking. General Nicholson I hear is shot by a cannonball in the left of his arm?”
“The sepoys fled, Zil-e-Subhani, against the heavy assault under the command of General Nicholson.” Prince Mirza Mughal broke the seal of his silence. “The British soldiers discovered a large stock of wine and got drunk, it was reported.”
“Yes, that was when Captain Hodson lamented aloud, Zil-e-Subhani. Our troops are utterly demoralized by hard work and hard drink.” Prince Khizr Sultan offered his own morsel of news.
“Ah, that cruel, vicious Captain Hodson!” Bahadur Shah Zafar rose from his seat as if stung. “His troops are rightly named Plungers.” A wave of shock passed through his spine like a sharp knife. “Didn’t he burn twenty-five sepoys alive?”
“Who is counting, Zil-e-Subhani!” Ghalib began exigently. “Countless hanged or slaughtered. A just act of vengeance they say, for what sepoys did to the British. Now Earl Ellenborough is suggesting, I hear, that all males of Delhi be castrated and this city named as Eunuchabad.”
“Delhi the beautiful! Its beauty marred and gouged.” Bahadur Shah Zafar lamented aloud, oblivious to the presence of others. “Has it come to such a pass? Is this the end? Delhi in utter ruins, its poets and artisans mocked and mutilated. Would they rather not choose to be blown from the mouth of a cannon than to be castrated? Didn’t the Wahhabis request to be blown at the mouth of cannon than to be hanged on the trees?” He paused, his eyes sparkling with madness as if his heart was on fire. “And all this since sepoys invaded our palace and gardens. Without my knowledge they killed, plundered and wielded the whips of anarchy. Even imprisoning whomever they wished at the dictates of their own whims. Extorting forcibly whatever sums of money they thought fit from merchants and appropriating such exactions to their own private purposes.” His gaze was arresting the slow approach of Bakht Khan who looked haggard, his shoulders sagging.
“Zil-e-Subhani.” Bakht Khan muttered weakly. “The conditions on the Ridge are deteriorating. We are losing ground. Troops are disheartened and leaving.”
“I do not care who goes or stays!” Bahadur Shah Zafar exploded with a sudden burst of anger. “I did not ask anybody to come here and I do not stop anyone from leaving. You were the one who brought destruction over the heads of Nimuch troops through your own sense of pride and your obsession to claim victory all by yourself. Didn’t you?” He demanded.
“Not true, Zil-e-Subhani.” Bakht Khan was transformed from that of a proud general to a lowly suppliant, crumbling against the weight of his own guilt. “Since the siege train came to the rescue of the British troops, they have grown very aggressive and their supply of ammunition is inexhaustible.”
“You should take responsibility for the disaster of Najafgarh, Bakht Khan.” Bahadur Shah Zafar continued relentlessly. “At a critical moment you withheld support
from Sudhari Singh, the commander of Nimuch troops. That’s the reason they suffered defeat. You didn’t accept his suggestion to advance and encamp across the canal. And when the British guns bombarded the grounds where Nimuch troops were encamped, you didn’t come to their defense.”
“Torrential rains demoralized the Nimuch troops, Zil-e-Subhani, but that is in the past.” Bakht Khan shook his head vigorously in an attempt to drive away the demons, it seemed. “I have come with a suggestion. Delhi is be taken in a few days I am afraid. Your life is not safe here. When the British come here they will take all you have and will kill you and your family. Come with me to the mountains. We would rally great forces and defeat the British.”
“I have been wearing the shroud of mourning since you came here and have been always ready to expire. It would be better that you kill me!” Bahadur Shah Zafar’s eyes were sparkling with anger and madness.
“How could you say that, Zil-e-Subhani? You are that candle of universal light which would keep India intact against British invasions!” Bakht Khan declared with a sudden passion and maddening fury of his own state of helplessness. “Your ancestors faced bigger setbacks than this, yet persevered. Padishah Babur often had to escape surrounded by his enemies. Emperor Humayun went into self exile in Persia to insure safety for his life and for his family. And yet the Moghul Empire flourished and the legacy of the Moghuls stayed. Come with us, Zil-e-Subhani, our army would protect and safeguard you and your royal family.”
“I am thinking of going to Humayun’s tomb. If you don’t find me here in the palace, come to Humayun’s tomb and we would talk then.” Bahadur Shah Zafar muttered distractedly. “Now leave, I am tired. Must rest, think.”
“Yes, Zil-e-Subhani.” Bakht Khan murmured as distractedly as the king before plodding out, almost colliding with Ilahi Bakhsh on his way out.
“I overheard what Bakht Khan just said, Zil-e-Subhani.” Ilahi Bakhsh curtsied hastily, his expression flustered. “There is no place Bakht Khan’s troops could hide and put up a fight against the British. I beg you not to heed the offer of Bakht Khan to go somewhere under the protection of his troops already dwindling in numbers. You and your royal family would not withstand the assault of heat and rainy season is on its way. The best way to deal with this situation is to befriend the British. I myself would arrange with the British to secure the promise of safety for you and your family. No harm would ever come to you and your family.”