Poet Emperor of the last of the Moghuls

by Farzana Moon

  A sharp pang of realization was dawning upon Bahadur Shah Zafar of the awful sentence, as he became aware of the haveli with its gate of red Kota sandstone. His palanquin was lowered in front of the iron-studded doors and he could hear the voice of Lieutenant Saunders issuing orders to take him into his lone cell of a prison inside the haveli of his own queen.

  The queen was with him. A reality or phantasmagoric dream? The events were shifting in such a succession with lightning speed that he felt spent and exhausted. The mortal wound of his painful sentence had broken his heart so brutally that it lay within his breast mangled and bleeding. He could see Zeenat Mahal beside his bed, pale and crestfallen.

  “I am exiled, Beloved. I don’t know where they would send me.” Bahadur Shah Zafar could hear his own words as some distant echo from the bottom of a dry well.

  “I would go with you, Zil-e-Subhani. Wherever you go, I go.” Zeenat Mahal consoled bravely.

  “Ah, Beloved, I knew!” A flood of tears was pouring down Bahadur Shah Zafar’s eyes in a torrent. “Remember the first time I set eyes on you I wrote a couplet?”

  “How could I forget, Zil-e-Subhani?” Zeenat Mahal’s own eyes were gathering mists of tears as she recited.

  “Beloved mine, how my heart is robbed of its peace

  That from the prison of beauty it seeks no release.”

  “Ah, Beloved.” Bahadur Shah Zafar kept weeping like a child, nostalgic and brokenhearted. “Our poetry sessions against the marble fountain here and your Nagina Mahal. The huge banyan tree under which we sat and laughed. Drummers announcing your arrival here when your palanquin was brought from Red Fort, and the servants saluting you—” His maudlin tones were truncated by the rude interruption of a British soldier carrying impoverished meal on a steel tray.

  “And now, Zil-e-Subhani. This food, not even fit for the dogs.” Zeenat Mahal’s patience failed after the soldier left. Her voice choking against the burden of wretched grief and misery.

  “Yes.” Bahadur Shah Zafar began knotting the silk scarf between his fingers, an impromptu couplet pouring down his tear-streaked lips.

  “The crow enjoys meat while the Phoenix has to live on mere bones

  What justice, there is no comparison whatever between crow and the Phoenix.”

  His eyes were closing.

  Bahadur Shah Zafar was slipping back into the world of his nightmares where pomp and pageantry of the past was sucked into the furnace of blood and devastation. His features were contorted and his hands clutching the silk scarf. The severed heads of his sons were visiting him again, their eyes bloodshot and their lips trying to form expressions. He was hurled into voids, under him his beloved Delhi burning. One hoary blaze had carried him away to some land alien and inhospitable. He was ill and dying, Zeenat Mahal beside him old and wearing rags. He was sleeping, breathing hoarsely, dreaming dreams.

  Chapter Sixteen Exile to Rangoon

  A spacious room in Nagina Mahal was hosting the royal family for the last time before their journey in exile to Rangoon. No remnants of royalty were visible on any members of the royal household since they were dispossessed of all jewels and rich gowns. Bahadur Shah Zafar was wearing a robe of coarse cotton, his queen too robbed of all jewels was dressed in white muslin. Almost seven grueling months of captivity since the king was sentenced to exile and finally their destination for exile was decided. At first they were about to be sent to Andaman Islands where most of the rebels were exiled, but Rangoon was chosen as a safe and expedient location.

  All members of the royal household, including the servants were assembled in this one room stripped bare of all fineries. A mournful cortege it was, waiting to embark on their journey to a far off land, alien and probably inhospitable. Bahadur Shah Zafar on his bed with thin mattress looked utterly broken, his hookah beside him neglected. Zeenat Mahal was a portrait of sorrow, but maintaining a dignified demeanor so as not to add more despair into the hearts of king’s children and grandchildren. Besides, she was determined to keep her husband as comfortable as possible and to share the weight of his pain and grief with love and indulgence. Already, she was excruciatingly aware of her husband’s frail constitution, his mind on the verge of senility. But she could never deny his bouts of inspiration and introspection and strove toward keeping his genius alive with the pulse of empathy and encouragement.

  Prince Jawan Bakht seemed resigned to his fate, absorbed in playing with his two year old son Prince Jamshed Bakht. His wife Kulsum Begum beside him looked dejected, oblivious to her daughter sleeping in her lap—Princess Raunaq almost a year old. Hafiz Muhammad the tutor of Prince Jawan Bakht sat huddled in one corner on a bare bed made of jute, almost falling asleep. Prince Shah Abbas, utterly devoted to the king, sat close to his bed in case the king needed assistance. Abdur Rahman sat in one corner, totally dejected. Ghulam Abbas was not seated too far from the king on an armless chair, beside him his mother Mubarakunissa, both whispering so as not to disturb the repose of the king.

  Zeenat Mahal’s servants, Ishrat, Sultani and Raheema were sitting on the floor at the feet of the queen, their eyes now and then touching the bare legs of the chair upon which the queen sat, its velvet ripped and discolored. Inuzzur, Bahadur Shah Zafar’s faithful servant stood in attendance by the bed, while Ahmed Beg sat by the door, waiting sorrowfully for the inevitable journey to commence. The number of people waiting for the dark journey was thirty-one, not including the children.

  “Rani of Jhansi is calling me, where is she?” Bahadur Shah Zafar was jolted out of his nightmares. His red-rimmed eyes were searching the faces, lit only by the chill of October this early morning.

  “Alas, Zil-e-Subhani. It has been four months since she was killed at Marur near Kotah-ki-Serai close to Gwalior.” Was Zeenat Mahal’s involuntary response. “She was fighting against the army of Sir Hugh Rose when shot dead by a soldier.”

  “Ah, now I can follow my dreams!” Bahadur Shah Zafar sat up suddenly, Inuzzur supporting his back with a pillow. “I saw her dressed as a Maratha horseman. She was wounded by a trooper of the Hussars. She fired at her assailant, but missed, and he in turn shot her dead. Can still see the glittering of her jewels.”

  “Those jewels disappeared quickly I am sure, Zil-e-Subhani.” Zeenat Mahal muttered bitterly. “As did the jewels of Nawab Jhajjar, in addition to his being fleeced of his riches by Captain Hodson several months before he was killed on a battlefield while still looting.”

  “Brutal Muslims, isn’t that what the British call us?” Bahadur Shah Zafar’s gaze was feverish and unseeing. “Brutal Muslims and sensual Hindus in their mad desire insulting, torturing and raping the English women before killing them?”

  “The enquiries have been made on such charges and British know by now that no English woman was raped or tortured prior to murder.” Ghulam Abbas’ voice appeared to come from the well of his own misery and hopelessness.

  “Innocent people still being hanged in dozens.” Prince Jawan Bakht commented absently. “A soldier from Bombay crying before he was hanged. We are your children, do with us as it may seem best to you.”

  “They have yet to do their best considering what their priests are saying.” Mubarakunissa Begum broke her silence, almost whispering. “I have heard that Canon Stowell speaking from the pulpit cried angrily. This is the revenge I covet that every idol should be cast to the moles and bats, every pagoda changed into a house of prayer, every mosque converted to church.”

  “And the hymns most wholesome floating around!” Prince Jawan Bakht laughed half deliriously, half hysterically.

  “O may their blood by Satan shed

  Our holy watchword be

  In turning by Thy spirit led

  A pagan race to Thee.”

  “No wonder the British let Chunna Mal buy my Fatehpuri Masjid.” Zeenat Mahal lamented low, noticing with relief that Bahadur Shah Zafar had dozed off. “My beautiful mosque Zeenat-ul, Masjid sold to a baker.”

  “That’s not all, dear Mamma, this,
your beautiful haveli of Lal Kuan is going to be occupied by Theo Metcalfe as soon as we leave this very day.” Prince Jawan Bakht could not help but comment as if wading through his own ocean of pain and despair. “He is the one who went on a shooting spree, erecting gallows everywhere he went and hanging any Delhiwallahs who crossed his path.”

  “Why must you remind me that?” Zeenat Mahal declared rather irately. “His name alone strikes terror into the hearts of people. Ishrat heard from someone that one day a jeweler came to offer his wares to Mrs. Garstin, who thinking he charged too much, said, I would send you to Metcalfe Sahib. The man was so terrified that he fled leaving his treasures behind.”

  “Nana’s head! Where is Nana Sahib?” Bahadur Shah Zafar bolted upright out of another nightmare. “I saw Nana Sahib fleeing headless.”

  “He is very much alive, Zil-e-Subhani. Hiding somewhere in Nepal.” Abdur Rahman’s heart was reaching out to the old king in compassion. “A ten thousand rupee reward is set on Nana’s head by Lord Canning. But people are heard saying, no one can set a price on Lord Canning’s head, because his head is empty and worthless.”

  “Azimullah Khan, Tatya Tope, where are they? I was chasing them in my dreams too.” Bahadur Shah Zafar’s look was feverish, his gaze restless.

  “They are hiding somewhere, Zil-e-Subhani.” Hafiz Muhammed commiserated aloud. “Tatya Tope, I hear, is contemplating guerrilla warfare.

  “Hazrat Mahal, fleeing. I see her in my dreams too.” Bahadur Shah Zafar’s voice was but a feeble lament. “I am chasing her deeper and deeper into Nepalese wilderness. Her husband still in exile in Garden Reach? Where are we going—”

  “To the Bridge of Boats, Ex-king.” Charles Saunders appeared suddenly, intercepting king’s low lament.

  “The boat of life over the bridge to death.” Another low lament escaped Bahadur Shah Zafar’s lips, his eyes hermetically shut.

  The morning sun against cool, crisp sky over Delhi was gilding the Moghul arch of Lal Kuan haveli to gold as the cortege of the exiles assembled on the backyard of Nagina Mahal toward Farash Khana. Iron-studded wooden doors of Zeenat Mahal’s haveli were shut forever for the royal family as they were getting ready to commence their journey to Allahabad, then to Calcutta and finally to Rangoon. Bahadur Shah Zafar seemed alert in his palanquin over the bullock carriage, his deep-set eyes reaching out to red Kota sandstone walls with nostalgic desperation of the senses marred by tragedies. His gaze was shifting toward the Banyan tree with sorrow so palpitating that it appeared to envelop the sky and the earth in one anguished embrace.

  Bahadur Shah Zafar could feel that his heart was left bleeding over the steps of Zeenat Mahal’s haveli as his carriage rolled onto the street amidst the mournful cortege flanked by squadron of lancers. He was attended by his sons Prince Jawan Bakht and Prince Shah Abbas. Zeenat Mahal and other wives of the king were in the second carriage. The third carriage hosted other members of the royal family, including servants and the children. Following these carriages were five magazine store carts filled with male and female attendants of the king and the queen.

  Stupor and delirium of the past few months had left Bahadur Shah Zafar in utter hopelessness as his carriage rolled through the Lahori Gate. From his palanquin, his gaze was sweeping down over the ruined city of Delhi as if searching for some signs of life. To his shocked awareness, Delhi was no more, but a desert of charred bazaars, bullet-riddled houses and not a soul to be seen on the streets of devastation. Red Fort was barely visible against the gray structures looking like barracks. Rang Mahal was not there, only brick and mortar with chunks of marble gleaming in between. Hayat Bakhsh garden and Mehtab garden were nothing, but mounds of mud and debris, no flowers, fountains silent and muddied. Gilded domes had disappeared, Red Fort too vanishing like a dream as Bahadur Shah Zafar closed his eyes, the weight of grief his bliss and oblivion.

  A dismal evening scudded by pink clouds in Allahabad was hosting the Moghul exile in their old fort, now captured by the British. It had been more than a month since their journey from Delhi via Cawnpore and they had been treated well by General Ommaney. There was one mishap on the Bridge of Boats though where one of the store carts housing Bahadur Shah Zafar’s ladies of the harem was almost drowned into the waters of Jamna, but saved most skillfully. The rest of the journey toward Allahabad had been comfortable and uneventful. Their bivouacs along the way were amply furnished with strong tents and there was great supply of food and blankets. For the first time they had boarded a steam train, puffing away with a whistle while the band played, the Englishmen on the platform.

  Bahadur Shah Zafar had been ill and distraught on the last stages of the journey. Becoming aware afresh in Allahabad of the ruined and fire-blackened bungalows and the burnt-out police-stations, a grim reminder of the Delhi devastation which had become a part of his suffering savage and bottomless. Even now in this room of the old fort stripped bare of tapestries he lay on his cot in utter misery. Puffing on his hookah occasionally he was watching the royal trio with lacerating compassion, his queen and his sons, Prince Jawan Bakht and Prince Shah Abbas. Suddenly the memory of devastated Delhi was crushing his thoughts into pincers of agony and his lips could feel the scalding downpour of an impromptu couplet.

  “Delhi was once a paradise where love held sway and reigned

  But its charm lies ravished now and only ruins remain.”

  “Delhi might yet be restored to peace, Zil-e-Subhani.” Prince Shah Abbas consoled while ruminating aloud. “At least the wholesale destruction of Red Fort is checked by Henry Lawrence. Both Jami Masjid and palace walls are intact. Alas, too late, he couldn’t save Abarabadi Masjid and Masjid Kashmiri Katta. Sufi shrines, including the shrine of Sheikh Kalimullah Janatabad are leveled to the ground. Beautiful palaces are gone too, as well as the gardens.” He couldn’t continue, noticing a sudden fever of anguish in the gaze of the king.

  “Gardens efflorescent with the buds of death.” Bahadur Shah Zafar commented, his gaze holding and beholding stark torment in the eyes of Zeenat Mahal.

  “Henry Lawrence is trying to amend the situation in Delhi, Zil-e-Subhani.” Zeenat Mahal’s torment was replaced by the light of love and concern for her husband. “He has written a letter to the House of Commons, stating. I have seen things which would make me suppose that instead of bowing before the name of Jesus we are preparing to revive the worship of Moloch.”

  “More so the worship of Queen Victoria, dear Mamma.” Prince Jawan Bakht began caustically, practicing his usual flair for drama and absurdity. “We have been told that this very day, preceded by fireworks, military salutes and thanksgiving services, a proclamation has been read out in every station in India that East India Company is abolished, replaced by British Government in Queen’s name.”

  “By her orders then we drift toward alien shores.” Bahadur Shah Zafar murmured to himself. “All thirty-one of us if I am not mistaken.”

  “Only fifteen are going, Zil-e-Subhani.” Zeenat Mahal murmured back. “Some of the begums and attendants want to go back to Delhi.” She was becoming aware of the slow approach of General Ommaney.

  “Are you ready to travel again, Ex-king, to Calcutta, this time?” General Ommaney asked genially.

  “In my life’s journey I have not traveled that far, my good Friend.” Bahadur Shah Zafar’s voice was toneless. “Now I must journey far to the valley of death. Though, the citizens of Delhi don’t have to journey far to reach there.”

  “Our Queen has offered amnesty to all whoever didn’t take part in killing the Britons.” General Ommaney commiserated quickly. “Also proclaiming that religious tolerance would be observed and ancient customs respected.”

  “The slaves of her will would drift where she commands.” Bahadur Shah Zafar murmured again. “Where we are going?”

  “From here we go to Mizarpur and then take steamer Thames to Calcutta.” General Ommaney intoned promptly, noticing that the king had relapsed into his usual state of oblivion if not self-surrender. />
  Another month of tiresome journey in which steamer Thames due to engine malfunction was replaced by steamer Koyle and the party of exiles had reached Diamond Harbor in Calcutta on one of the December evenings, cold and blistering. Tents were set up as a night bivouac since they were to resume their journey next day early in the morning. Despite woolen robes and Kashmiri shawls, Bahadur Shah Zafar was feeling utterly miserable as if ready to expire. Attended by his sons Prince Jawan Bakht and Prince Shah Abbas, he was craving for more company which came his way by the kindness of General Ommaney. General Ommaney genuinely loving and caring trotted into the tent with the sole intention of offering comforting words to the royal prisoner who was a stranger to such discomforts since all his life he had lived in luxurious palaces, enjoying his palace gardens and poetry sessions.

  “Bloody awful weather, Ex-king, but we would be boarding a ship early in the morning. Hopefully, we would have kerosene stoves at our disposal.” General Ommaney chirped genially.

  “Morning. Wither we go?” Bahadur Shah Zafar’s features were washed by a flood of sadness so propound that his very eyes were turned to beacons of tragedies.

  “Initially, it was decided that we go to Cape, but now Burma, to Rangoon. Only four or five days of journey.” General Ommaney consoled. “You and your family would be comfortably lodged once we reach Rangoon.”

  “How many of my family are coming with me?” Bahadur Shah Zafar seemed to be stuck in the mode of inquisition.

  “Fifteen in all, Ex-king.” General Ommaney murmured thoughtfully. “Thirty-one in all started from Delhi, but half plus one have decided to return to Delhi.”

  “A wretched lot with a wretched king—once an emperor who would dare choose exile?” Bahadur Shah Zafar lamented suddenly. “Is there peace in India? Rani of Jhansi already dead. What is the fate of Tatya Tope, Azimullah Khan?”