A Dried Droplet

The first gleam of early dawn seeped through the wire mesh of the single window; though its radiance could hardly lift the gloomy obscurity of the tiny chamber. A narrow cot and a clay pitcher with a goblet on top were the only fixtures in the room that emphasised paucity rather than asceticism, patches of dented plaster on the discoloured wall only added gravity to it. On a closer look the waning form of an elderly man came in view lying on the cot listless; he looked almost ghostly with his unkempt beard, faded kurta (long-shirt) and threadbare summer quilt. He was in intermittent slumber, his sunken eyes deep shut in apathetic resignation.

‘Huzoor, it’s time for your Namaz’ a soft melodious voice brought him back from oblivion, he gazed at the delicate form stooped at his bedside; she looked surreal in the soft glow of sunlight. ‘Why are you up so early Jaan?’ unlike the appearance, his voice was strong and articulation elegant. ‘You would have missed your prayer otherwise’. ‘Allah is always in my thoughts, it is him who has bereaved me’ a faded smile appeared on his bony face.

He sat for prayer facing west; his distraught face gradually transformed into magnificence, an hour passed by.

***

‘Shekhu told me stories of Mullah Nasruddin, they are so funny Abba Jaan; do you know such stories too?’ Mirza Shah Abbas, the youngest son sat with his father at times, unlike the other son his beloved Jawan Bakht. Abbas, in his mid-teen was boyish for his stature, lack of opportunity to connect with the outer world could be the reason; like his father his world was also restricted to the enclosure midst an orchard at the outskirt of Rangoon city. ‘I have recently learnt one Son; where a king was tried for treason in his own kingdom by a bunch of intruders; isn’t it funny?’ His eyes shined in unusual spark, Abbas fell into reticence.

Life stood still in this small abode for a group of people tied not only by blood but destiny too; the world outside bore no significance to them anymore. It was a drowsy afternoon of mid-summer; everyone seemed absorbed in lethargic slumber except the old man who was lost in his own thought in his lonely confinement. All of a sudden, he fell into one of his many coughing bouts, ‘Begum Jaan’ he called for a few times couched on a bolster, a brass made hukkah was lying dozed off within hand’s reach. ‘Told you so many times not to smoke; adhi nind angrezo ne le li, adhi aapne (my sleep partially have been snatched away by the British and rest by you)!’ Zeenath Mahal, his beloved Padshah Begum retorted while rushing in. He looked up; they both fell into a stupor as aftermath. She handed him the goblet filled with water silently.

They Kal Jo Apne Ghar Mein Wo Mahman Kahan Hain,

Jo Kho Gaye Hain Ya Rab Wo Ausan Kahan Hain;

Ankhon Mein Rote Rote Nam Bhi Nahin Ab To,

They Maujzan Jo Pahle Wo Tufan Kahan Hain;

Kuch Aur Dhab Ab To Hamein Log Dekhte Hain,

Pahle Jo Ai “Zafar” They Wo Insan Kahan Hain.

(Where is that lodger who once stayed in his own abode? -

the one who is lost in the ruckus, my Lord.

Tears have dried out in those weepy eyes,

Where has the ferocity disappeared of once feisty storm?

People see me in different light now-a-days,

The Zafar of past is lost forever.)

The weary voice of Bahadur Shah II resonated in the chamber like mourning; tears rolled down Zeenath’s young face unconsciously.

***

‘Long live Shahenshah-e-Hind Bahadur Shah Zafar! May his Kingdom last for eternity!’ A boisterous troop of Indian sepoys of East India Company cried out while racing into the Red Fort on the easy afternoon of May 11^th in the year 1857. Slowly a large number of crowd started gathering around; the cry of rebels spread across, making it a mass uproar. The sepoys ultimately halted in front of Dewan-e-Aam; they formally declared the Mughal Emperor their leader, addressing the crowd of locals already incited with anticipation. In the evening, a private audience was arranged between their leaders and Royalty; the eighty two years old Emperor finally faced the rebel sepoys the next day. His mind cautioned him against defying the British, so did Zeenath Mahal and a few confederates, but he listened to his heart and gave his blessings.

‘How can I turn them in for the sake of my own safety? The Taimuri sword has rusted, but my dignity hasn’t’ he reasoned his beloved wife. ‘Do you want to jeopardise the chance of my Jawan Bakht to be your successor?’ Zeneth vented frustration. ‘Life is full of possibilities Jaan. Wasn’t it a chance that this Sufi scholar became an Emperor surpassing the chosen hair?’

For the next four months Delhi was in mayhem with looting, recklessness and mindless killing as the rebels took over Delhi and its surroundings. The Emperor remained a helpless spectator, sincerely disapproving the mass killing of British nationalities including women and children. The atrocity of this slaughter greatly disturbed his poetic mind and Sufi ideology. He engaged into continued prayers in the seclusion of his remote apartments. His heart sank when the sepoys and Royal servants pulled out fifty two British Nationals like shaken lambs from their Palace refuge and slaughtered under a Peepul tree in front of the Palace.

Yar tha gulzar tha baad e saba thi main na tha

Leyaqe-pa-bos-e-jana  kya hina thi main na tha

Hath kyon bandhe mere challa agar chori hua

Ye sarapa shokhi-e-rang-e-hina thi main na tha

Main ne pucha kya hua wo ap ka husn-o-shabab

Hans ke bole vo sanam shan-e-Khuda thi main na tha

Main sisakta rah gaya aur mar gaye farahad-o-qais

Kya unhin donon k hisse mein qaza thi main na tha

Ai 'Zafar' ki par tere, ye daag kaisa rah gaya

Kaun baaqi aadaygi arthi khoda thi main na tha

(In the garden of rose, under gentle breeze lazed my beloved, I wasn’t there

It was the henna dye that kissed her feet, not me.

Why my hands were fastened when the ring went missing?

It was the doing of a mischievous beauty, not me.

‘What happened to your youthful charisma?’ I asked

‘It was the glory of God, not me’, my beloved responded with a smile.

I kept sighing, but Farhad and Qais gave away life

Was death to be bestowed upon those two only, not me?

Hey Zafar, how come your deed remains tainted!

Who would repay the dues, your carcase is buried; I wasn’t there.)

His pen mourned the evasiveness of those blood thirsty mutineers who committed war crime under his name.

By the end of August British regained their foothold in and around Delhi; the Badshah could foresee the avalanche reaching him soon. About mid-September, the disheartened Emperor left Red Fort along with his close family to take refuge in Humayun’s Tomb at the outskirt of Imperial Delhi; none of the rebel troops accompanied him to provide protection. On September 20^th he was brought back to Red fort by William Hodson as prisoner on promise of clemency. His two elder sons Mirza Mughal and Mirza Khizr Sultan and grandson Mirza Abu Bakht were stripped naked and shot dead near Delhi gate the very next day.

***

The palanquin was lowered delicately in front of the trial room; Jawan Bakht helped his ailing father to get down. Unstable and bewildered the Emperor took a long time to reach to the divan assigned to him for sitting. The court room fell into absolute silence for a few moments in secret sympathy witnessing his humiliation; the proceedings started which ultimately continued for two long months. The prosecutor charged the Emperor with Treason; conspiracy and deliberate murder among many other war crimes; the entire arguments took place in English which neither the Emperor, nor his son understood. ‘Guilty or not guilty?’ he was asked several times, he remained silent, not knowing the implication. Days passed by in submission of documents and arguments in support of the charges; the emperor attended the trial every day, most of the time engrossed in his own thought and at times trying to figure out the situation, in vein.

‘Huzuur-e-Alaa, You should present your side too in the court, Angrez do give chance to their offenders’ the Emperor’s physician Hakim Ahsanullah advised. Confined in one of the servants’ quarters of the Palace the Badshah looked ancient and haggard. Hakim took his silence as consent and pursued further, ‘you are a magician with words; just pour your heart out, they will understand’.

Bhari Hai Dil mein jo hasrat, kahun toh kisse kahun?

Sune hain kaun musiibat, kahun toh kis se kahun.

Jo dost ho toh kahun tujhse dosti ki baat,

Tujhe toh mujhse adaavat, kahun toh kis se kahun.

Na mujh ko kahne ki taaqat, kahun toh kya alvaal

Na Usko sun ne ki fursaat, kahun toh kis se kahun.

Kisi ko dekhta itna nahin haqiiqat mein,

Zafar main apni haqiiqat kahun toh kis se kahun.

  

(Whom should I share with my sorrow?

Who would take the trouble to listen to it?

Had you been a friend, I would have shared intimacy with you,

But, you are in enmity with me, how can I share my thought?

Neither I have the energy to talk, nor does he have the patience to listen,

Whom should I confide?

I never bothered to check the reality,

Zafar, how can I divulge the reality to anyone?)

The Hakim left in taciturnity, with anguish of the nazm still hanging in the air.

After a few days, Bahadur Shah submitted a short statement in self-defence written in Urdu where he pleaded himself ‘not guilty’; it hardly helped his case though.

At the end of the trial which proved to be one of the biggest mockeries of legal proceeding in British India, the Emperor was pronounced guilty of all the charges and sentenced to lifetime exile in the city of Rangoon.

***

The chilly northern breeze of late afternoon hinted at the approaching winter, though winter in Rangoon wasn’t anything like Delhi; for that matter nothing of this faraway land reminded him of his homeland. He missed the evening breeze of summer at ‘Shawan Bhado’, warmth of Sun in mystique winter afternoons; above all he missed those night long Mushaiaras (musical soiree) resonant with nazm (poem) of Zauq, Ghalib, Mumin and so on.

The fading light of late afternoon wasn’t enough for his old eyes, he concentrated hard to scribble on the murky wall with a burnt stick; besides claim to the throne, he had lost right to possess pen and paper. The heavy puffing caused interruption, his trembling hands paused frequently; still the excellence of calligraphy was evident from the outcome.

His breathing was barely discernible, as the frail body rested on the cot; air was heavy inside the tiny chamber with anxious faces crowded in. The English doctor looked grim while leaving his patient. ‘What’s his chance?’ Commissioner Davies enquired at the doorway; ‘anytime soon’ the doctor gestured and left.

The pulsing sound of digging surged inside at the hours of darkness, an owl squawked somewhere near; Zeenath Mahal paled in apprehension; shadow of death overpowered the atmosphere. His heavy eyelids slowly opened with immense effort, a dazed smile appeared on the sunken face, Zeenath bent over. He looked at the wall beside, she followed his gaze; the scrawl remained obscure in the feeble light.

The first ray of Sun seeped in, Zeenath dozing in her bedside post woke up with the sound of a deep sigh; the Emperor looked serene in his eternal sleep, as he took his last breath. The Janaaza was carried to the back of the enclosure by his two sons and a servant; a quiet burial in an unmarked grave didn’t leave scope for engraving his Nazm meant for the cenotaph. His longing to be buried near Zafar Mahal at Mehruli remained trapped in the poem forever.

lagtaa nahin hei ji mera ujare dayaar mein

kiskii banii hei aalam-e-naa-paayedaar mein

Bulbul ko paasbaan se na saiyyaad se gilaa

qismet mein qaid likhii tthi fasl-e-bahaar mein

kaeh do in hassreton se kahiin aur jaa basein

itnii jageh kahaan hei dil-e-daaGhdaar mein

ik shaaKh-e-guul pe baiTh ke bulbul hei shaadmaan

kaanTe bichaa diye hein dil-e-laalaazaar mein

umr-e-daraaz maang ke laaye tthe chaar din

do aarzuu mein kaT gayee do intezaar mein

din zindagii ke Khatm huey shaam ho gayii

p'hailaa ke paaoon soyein-ge kuunj-e-mazaar mein

kitnaa hei bad-naseeb zafar dafn ke liye

do gaz zamiin bhii na milii kuu-e-yaar mein

‘My heart has no repose in this despoiled land

Who has ever felt content in this futile world?

The nightingale moans neither about the sentinel nor the hunter

Fate had decreed imprisonment at the outbreak of spring

Tell these longings to go and dwell elsewhere

What space is there for them in this besmirched heart?

Sitting on a branch of flowers, the nightingale rejoices

It has strewn thorns in the garden of my heart

I asked for a long life, received four days

Two passed in longing, two in anticipation.

The days of life are over, dusk has set in

I shall rest, legs outstretched, in my tomb

How unfortunate is Zafar! For his burial

Not even two yards of land were to be had, in his beloved land.’

Note: The Emperor died after four years of exile on November 7, 1862; his immediate family (Zeenath Mahal, her son Jawan Bakht, his child bride Zamani Begum and youngest son Shah Abbas) who were also confined with him were released finally in the year 1867. ‘Zafar’ the pseudo-name of Bahadur Shah II meant ‘Victory’; the defeated Emperor definitely earned victory on billions of hearts with his poetry and compassion. His grave remained lost in deliberate anonymity for almost 150 years, until in 1991 when it was discovered while digging for drainage and later converted into a Dargah. Zeanath Mahal his favourite wife and lifetime companion who died 20 years after his death, was also buried somewhere near his own grave. It was believed that Netaji Subhash Chandra Bose started his “Delhi Chalo” campaign in 1942 after paying his respect to the former Emperor.

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