by Farzana Moon
“Tatya Tope still fighting a guerilla campaign in Sagar and Narmada, Ex-king.” General Ommaney began with regret and sadness. “A melancholy sight, burnt bungalows, blackened walls, charred timbers, broken gates. Trees knocked down, stripped bare of leaves and branches. Azimullah Khan is on the run since the defeat of Gwalior.”
“What became of Ahsanullah Khan?” Bahadur Shah Zafar appeared to flip the pages of his own memory book.
“Sadly and regretfully, Ex-king, Ahsanullah Khan is lodged in the stables of his own mansion.” General Ommaney offered reluctantly.
“Where is Delhi now?” Bahadur Shah Zafar quoted Ghalib with a cry of agony. “Ghalib wrote to me before we left. Delhi meant the Fort, Chandni Chowk, daily bazaar near Jami Masjid, Jamna Bridge of Boats, Flower Walk. These five things which kept Delhi alive have lost their limbs and luster. Khas bazaar, kharram ka bazaar disappearing in dust. Entire villages, large havelis, razed to the ground.”
“Everything would be restored, Ex-king, reinvented, in time.” General Ommaney murmured evasively. “Too many deaths already and mountains of destruction.” His voice was choked against the fever of misery in the eyes of the king.
“Death is a boon to the ones who suffer.” Bahadur Shah Zafar’s feverish gaze was lit by poetic inspiration all of a sudden.
“I have been so afflicted that I do not fear to die
If I were to die I would be saved from grief
My life, O God, is a heavy burden to me.”
He closed his eyes, his features washed by ghastly pallor.
Morning had arrived much too quickly, bleak and ominous. Conveyed in the Soorma Flat in tow of the Koyle Steamer, the royal cortege was taken on board on ship Meckanzie—Her Majesty’s good ship of war. The main deck was crowded with household furniture, live and lifeless stock in the form of cattle, goats, rabbits, poultry and bags of rice and lentils. Bahadur Shah Zafar was conducted to the deck below, collapsing immediately upon a couch of pillows and cushions which his attendants had arranged for him, swiftly and devotedly.
The ship Meckanzie steamed away down the Hughli toward Rangoon, while Bahadur Shah Zafar drifted in and out of nightmarish reality much like the waves, restless and turbulent. Many deaths were housed in his frail body. Death of kingdom and royalty. Death of intellect and inspiration. Death of hope and heritage. And most painful of his deaths, the death of his soul, still lingering in his body like a ghost of the ages past, gathering a host of demons for one last accolade.
Lies, all lies, Bahadur Shah Zafar’s soul protested feebly. You didn’t love anyone and no one loved you. How stark and painful is this stab of truth. Now can you let this realization dawn upon you that how intensely you wanted to love and how grandly you failed amidst the rocks of rifts, expectations and disappoint-ments? Can you let go of this realization which is holding you in pincers of grief that how passionately your loved ones pretended to love you and how magnificently they succeeded in living this lie, never fearing that one day you would see through their façade of deception.
That day has come, Bahadur Shah Zafar’s soul was dying once again in throes of agony. He was a mendicant, drifting along on the face of this earth without a staff and a beggar’s bowl. Alienated from man and God, he could see nothing but the face of ugliness, its eyes bulging with the light of hatred and vengeance. In his dreams he was journeying back in time, watching Prince Jawan Bakht getting married, remembering with astonishing clarity the news he had received the very same day that British troops along with their regiment of Sikhs had invaded Rangoon.
The entire bulletin of news was impressed in his dreams like an open scroll. After British naval artillery had breached the stockades and the Burmese troops had been driven back towards Mendlay, Prize Agents had been let loose to loot the shrines and to smash the sacred idols to gather gems. Much later it was reported that European artillery-men had sold in great numbers the silver images and jars of rubies that were found inside the shrines. One party of looters had even tunneled deep into the foundations of Shwe Dagon Pagoda, determined to find thick cladding of gems that legend said had been buried there since centuries. Regiments of Sikhs were happy to camp in the desecrated courts of Shwe Dagon.
Now the cousins of Sikhs probably lighting cooking fires in the arcades of Delhi Jami Masjid, Ghalib had written, Bahadur Shah Zafar’s thoughts were a jumble of recollections in dreams.
Bahadur Shah Zafar was jolted out of his dreams by loud voices from the upper deck. The ship was docked at the muddy brown waters of the swampy tidal creeks bordering Irrawadely Delta and into the Rangoon River which had been since the past five days of damp, blistering weather collecting stormy whirlwinds. Carried on a palanquin to the upper deck, Bahadur Shah Zafar could see the great golden spire of the Shwe Dagon Pagoda rising up above the thick tropical greenery of the riverbank.
The shore was teeming with gawkers, a large group of Natives and Europeans waiting to have a glimpse of the royal prisoners. They were to journey toward their quarters prepared by the Commissioner from Pegu by the name of Major Phayre. General Ommaney with great difficulty had succeeded in dispersing crowds from the port fringed with toddy palms and crowded with paddle steamers, rafts of teak logs and junk-like Linow fishing boats with their billowing sails. Yellow-robed Buddhist monks with their wooden begging bowls and peaceful demeanor caught Bahadur Shah Zafar’s attention and a stab of agony ripped through his heart, reaching up to his brain with a fever of stark torment. An impromptu quatrain danced in his head with the fire of vengeance and he closed his eyes shuddering against the weight of misery and fright.
“Oh, I wished to live and die in Medina’s sacred earth
Rangoon becomes my last resort, my hopes are crushed
Instead of Zam Zam water I drink my life-blood
I have a few days to live, come ere my life has fled”
Chapter Seventeen Swan Song of Bahadur Shah Zafar
It had not been a few days, but four years of misery and deprivation and Bahadur Shah Zafar still clad in his death-wish lay on his bed, suffering agonies of the mind, flesh and soul in Rangoon. For the past few months he had been ill and delirious, subsisting on broth. His throat was sore due to excessive coughing and at times he could barely breathe. Today his breath was somewhat normal, his voice returning along with his sense of clairvoyance. This bleak November afternoon his intuition was heightened with a subtle flash of certainty that he was going to die, if not after dusk, then certainly late at night before dawn. After a violent bout of coughing, he was lying down on a bare bed with only a thin sheet under him and an old pillow to support his head. His eyes were closed, his thoughts gallivanting.
For the first and a half year in Rangoon, Bahadur Shah Zafar along with his family and attendants had lived in wretched conditions. Major Phayre was not in the least prepared to receive the royal prisoners. He had secured only two small rooms near the Main Guard in new cantonment of the area just below the Shwe Dagon. One room was allotted to the king and his queen. The other room was shared by the princes and their families. The attendants were housed in tents, outside of which were made cooking arrangements. By the kind persistence of General Ommaney a new house was built for the royal prisoners within a few yards away from the Main Guard. So after one and a half year General Ommaney was able to personally transfer the king and his family to the newly built house. This task accomplished, he had returned to Delhi, leaving royal prisoners under the care of Captain Davis.
Not a big house, but it had four rooms. One for Bahadur Shah Zafar and another for Zeenat Mahal. Prince Jawan Bakht and his family occupied one, and a separate room was assigned to Prince Shah Abbas and his mother Mubarak Nisa. Before leaving General Ommaney had described to Bahadur Shah Zafar the town of Burma with all its manifold features, artifacts and attractions which unfortunately he was never going to see or dream about seeing. And yet he was now dreaming about those sites through the descriptions provided by General Ommaney.
Burmese architecture of the t
own with its tiers of gilded spires and finials and flying eaves. The Buddhist monasteries with their massive bells and winged gryphons, their giant Buddhas and Bodhisattvas. Their carved wooden struts and bamboo partitions and cane latticework. Their stupas and pilgrimage sites. The silken Litamein wraps and sequined parasols of the women and pasoe sarongs of the men. The gold lacquer work and delicate decorative pottery. The strange form of the Lle-yin bullock carts with their finely woven bamboo roots and floral side panels. The music of the street bands. The calm, blue lakes that once belonged to the Burmese kings.
A sudden pang of grief mingled with nostalgic memories pierced Bahadur Shah Zafar’s thoughts with the impact of a sharp blade. He lay awake, bleeding internally in mind and soul. His eyes were still closed and he didn’t know Zeenat Mahal had stolen in, making herself comfortable on the reed mat beside his bed. His thoughts were shaking like reeds, gathering gusts of inclement winds and raising bootless cries amidst hurricanes of tragedies. Something inside him was sundering and splitting, raining tears of poetic inspiration which had eluded him for so many years. One ball of excruciating pain was exploding inside the very core of his brain and he didn’t even know that words were tumbling down his lips in a torrent of grief indescribable.
“In this ruined garden of a world my heart has taken flight
Wonder if anyone can find rest in this transient bazaar of sorrow
A long life of four days I begged as my newly wedded bride
Two passed in longing, two in conflict spent between today and tomorrow Sweet hopes, grant me a last boon, leave this heart of strife
Stricken with grief, no room left for more pangs of agonies grand
How tragic is Zafar’s plight in this prison of life
Even death denies two yards of burial ground in sweet homeland”
“Zil-e-Subhani!” Zeenat Mahal cried hopelessly, feeling his pulse. “May I call Mulla Majasi?” She hastened to jot down the poem lest she forget.
“What need, Beloved?” Bahadur Shah Zafar’s eyes were shot open. “Won’t you stay with me and talk about our beloved Delhi? You still get news, I don’t know how, but you do. What became of Hazrat Mahal? Nana Sahib, Tatya Tope, Azimullah Khan?” He asked painfully, trying hard to expel his feeling of nausea.
“What need, Zil-e-Subhani, I say the same.” Zeenat Mahal tucked the dirty paper under her shawl, the poem lacerating her heart afresh. “And yet to humor you, I must share my news with you. Hazrat Mahal after her defeat in Oudh has taken refuge in Nepal, Bahadur Jang finally giving her asylum. Nana Sahib after his defeat at Cawnpore is disappeared into oblivion. Maybe in Nepal, died of fever, some say. Tatya Tope, I think I told you was arrested a year after our exile and executed. Nana’s nephew Rao Sahib also captured and executed, not long ago this year. Azimullah Khan as the rumor goes, also died a year after our exile, of fever while wandering in the country of the Nepalese Terai.”
“Poor Nunne Nawab, banished to Mecca.” Bahadur Shah Zafar intoned weakly. “Was it last year—” He was gasping for breath amidst a fit of coughing.
“Let me fetch you chicken soup, Zil-e-Subhani.” Zeenat Mahal supported his back, rubbing it vigorously.
“No.” Bahadur Shah Zafar cried chokingly. “Stay, Beloved, don’t leave me.” He pleaded, his cough subsiding.
“You need rest, Zil-e-Subhani, and nourishment.” Zeenat Mahal murmured, helping him lay on his back gently.
“I have been resting for years. Now my soul needs rest. Eternal rest.” Bahadur Shah Zafar lamented low. “I have been famished for news from Delhi. My nourishment is your sweet voice, the sound-smell of Delhi, doleful or heartrending, it doesn’t matter. Ghalib, he writes to Prince Jawan Bakht. When was it that he wrote last? Didn’t he say: A man cannot quench his thirst with tears? You know when despair reaches its lowest depths, there is nothing left but to resign oneself to God’s Will. What lower depths can there be than this that it is the hope of death which keeps me alive. My soul dwells in my body these days as restless as a bird in a cage. Ah, poetry sessions. Red Fort. Where is home?”
“No more, Zil-e-Subhani, no more!” Zeenat Mahal cried distractedly. “Delhi no more, I can’t recount. No use. Much too painful—”
“I would talk about Delhi. Pain is an antidote to pain.” Prince Jawan Bakht who had been listening in the doorway made his presence known, pale and distraught. “Delhi and Ghalib, the only entertainment for Zil-e-Subhani, no matter how stark and painful. Home is no more, Zil-e-Subhani. Red Fort is reduced to grey British barracks. Your Naqqar Khana where the arrival of ambassadors from Isfahan and Constantinople was announced by drums and trumpets is now the quarter of British staff sergeant. Diwan-i-Am is converted to a lounge for officers. Your private entrance is a canteen. And Rang Mahal, whatever is left of it, serves as an officer’s mess. Mumtaz Mahal is converted to a military prison. Lahori Gate is renamed Victoria Gate. This magnificent structure now housing a bazaar for the benefit of Fort’s British soldiers. Our floating pavilion in red sandstone tank is used as a swimming pool for the officers. No flowers or fountains left in Hayat Bakhsh garden, but newly constructed latrines.” His voice was choking, so he began to pace nervously.
“Zil-e-Subhani is ill, growing weak day by day, barely able to even swallow soup.” Zeenat Mahal murmured, watching her son apprehensively. Her gaze was returning to Bahadur Shah Zafar who appeared to be resting, his eyes fluttering open.
“Weak flesh, still holding on to the strength of the soul.” Bahadur Shah Zafar’s feverish gaze was shifting from Zeenat Mahal to Prince Jawan Bakht, following him in his pacing. “I want to hear Ghalib’s voice, what does he say?”
“Alas, my dear boy, Ghalib writes to me and his friends, Zil-e-Subhani.” Prince Jawan Bakht reminisced aloud, still pacing. “This is not the Delhi in which you were born. Not the Delhi in which you got your schooling. Not the Delhi in which I spent fifty-one years of my life. The area between Rajghat facing on to Jamna and the Jami Masjid is without exaggeration a great mound of bricks?”
“How are my people in Delhi? Are they living in peace?” Was Bahadur Shah Zafar’s cry of hope against hopelessness.
“They are driven out of Delhi, Zil-e-Subhani. Living outside the city on ridges and under thatched roofs, in ditches and mud huts.” Prince Jawan Bakht appeared to recite like a parrot, while Zeenat Mahal sat there wringing her hands. “They want to return. Hindus are slowly being readmitted into the city. Muslims are still banned from within the walls. Delhi is empty, grass-grown streets mark the uprooted houses and shot-riddled palaces.”
Prince Jawan Bakht was leaving as quietly as he had entered. Zeenat Mahal was cradling her head into her hands, grieved beyond consolation. Bahadur Shah Zafar was drifting back into his haven of dreams or nightmares. Two hot, scalding tears were rolling down the cheeks of the exiled queen, she too was welcoming the bliss in sleep and oblivion.
A pale smile was hovering over the gaunt, wrinkled features of Bahadur Shah Zafar as if he was having peace-loving dreams. Which in fact was the truth. He was young, admiring his reflection in the full-length mirror in gold frame. Dreamy in dreams he seemed fascinated by his red lips half parted as he kept standing there twirling his mustache, his face clean-shaven. He thought he looked younger than his twenty-nine springs and vulnerable in his full regalia of purple silks with a matching turban. The mirror was catching shafts of sunshine from the large window in the back and the ropes of pearls in his turban and around his neck down to his waist were illumined, vibrant and glowing. He was turning away from the mirror, trooping out of this luxurious room, down into the palace gardens. Hugging the trees, the flowers and the fountains in his thoughts. Happy and carefree, he was standing there, just watching golden orioles and paradise flycatchers. Hovering over the flowerbeds were butterflies in pairs, going in circles as if mating in the air and laughing.
How long did Bahadur Shah Zafar dream happy dreams and when they were merged with fogs of tragedies he had no idea until he felt choked by anguish in d
reams and in reality. Something inside him was constricting and expanding. He was being sucked into a dark tunnel, invaded by all sorts of foul worms and orange scorpions. His flesh was attacked by an army of ants and a cloud of bees hovering overhead were aiming to sting. A loud groan escaped his lips as if he was caught in a whirlwind of death throes.
“Zil-e-Subhani!” Zeenat Mahal was jolted to a rude awakening.
Searching in the dark for a flint to light the lantern, she almost tripped over a wooden stool. As soon as she succeeded in lighting the lantern, she could see Bahadur Shah Zafar laying there ashen and breathing hoarsely. Prince Jawan Bakht and Prince Shah Abbas had just trundled in, bleary-eyed and bare-footed while Zeenat Mahal stood in one spot, motionless and speechless. Both the princes were kneeling beside the bed, Prince Jawan Bakht feeling the king’s pulse while Prince Shah Abbas massaging his feet.
“Water.” Bahadur Shah Zafar could barely speak as if a big wound was slashed open in his sore throat.
Prince Shah Abbas was quick to procure a tumbler of water, out of which Bahadur Shah Zafar could swallow only a few sips, a major portion of it dripping down his chin. The glint of fear in his feverish gaze was dissolving, replaced by some semblance of peace which his loved ones had not ever seen before. A small cough and he cleared his throat, his gaze sweeping over all with a dint of sadness so profound that no words could ever convey such deep silence laden with hopelessness.
“Awful night. What time?” Bahadur Shah Zafar’s eyes were gathering rills of pain, the knowledge of death in there dark and shuddering.
“Way beyond midnight, I am sure, Zil-e-Subhani.” Prince Shah Abbas yawned before returning the tumbler beside the carafe on the lone shelf.
“My last wish, rather request. I want to know if the pulse of poetry and inspiration is returning to Delhi.” Bahadur Shah Zafar’s eyes communing silently with Zeenat Mahal were almost shining with some inner light of foreknowledge he could neither share, nor expound. “What says Ghalib?” His gaze was shifting to Prince Jawan Bakht while Zeenat Mahal lowered herself on one low stool, distraught and apprehensive.