Moon Poet Emperor of the last of the Moghuls: Bahadur Shah Zafar

1. Auflage 2014
ISBN: 978-1-77076-436-1
Verlag: Editions Dedicaces
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: Adobe DRM (»Systemvoraussetzungen)

E-Book, Englisch, 232 Seiten

This book explores the tragic ending of the last of the Moghuls. Three hundred and eleven years of Moghul rule with eighteen emperors in between separate Bahadur Shah Zafar from the first Moghul emperor of India during the history of the great Moghuls.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Moon, Farzana

Leseproben

Chapter Two  Poetry of Love
Wedded to poetry all his life, Bahadur Shah Zafar now was about to espouse love as his true bride, no other than Zeenat Begum, the newly found cynosure of his sight and senses.  He was to be married this very evening, but right now he was seated on his Peacock Throne in Diwan-i-Khas, receiving morning embassies. It had been three years since his coronation and his poetic heart was heavy with a strange mixture of sorrow and rejoicing, lamenting the loss of real power usurped by the British, yet grateful for the luxury of decorum in his court, no matter how empty and artificial.  Though, the protocol for decorum today was relaxed in honor of the wedding celebrations.  The hall was decked with colorful friezes in anticipation of the royal wedding, but the hearts of the occupants were burdened for the past few years by untimely deaths in the family and by sporadic tides of unrest in Delhi. Bahadur Shah Zafar’s thoughts this particular day were restless, rising in defiance against the authority of the British Resident, so very irksome and arrogant.  A sudden stab of grief cut through his wandering thoughts at the recollection of his son’s death the Crown Prince. Almost a year ago Prince Dara Bakht had died suddenly and the British Resident was still exerting his authority to choose the next Crown Prince. Bahadur Shah Zafar’s thoughts were lifting more shrouds of deaths, but his attention was claimed by his vizier and confidant.  “You have not ceased to mourn the death of Prince Dara Bakht, Zil-e-Subhani, it is obvious.” Mahbub Ali Khan commented aloud. “I can tell by the light of sadness in your eyes. Though, today is the auspicious day of your wedding.” “The happiest in my long life of struggles, ringed by the noose of deaths, tragedies and invasions.” Bahadur Shah Zafar smiled wistfully. “As to my lost Prince, yes, he has been in my thoughts lately. The same year Ranjit Singh died and the war in Afghanistan commenced. A year before that Herat was invaded and a year after Ranjit Singh’s death Kabul was suffering the pangs of invasion. Russia and Britain fighting for supremacy in the land of the Moghuls, or to be precise I should say, in the land of the Hindus. How did it all start I don’t seem to remember? Can’t remember much these days, anyway. Refresh my memory, Mahbub, so I know where things stand.” “A sort of stalemate, Zil-e-Subhani, yet the map of Hindustan is dyed with the blood of the Afghans.” Mahbub Ali Khan began rather histrionically. “Ranjit Singh, may God bless his soul, was reluctant to a  tripartite alliance with the British, but did agree to one alliance urged by the British to ousted Dos Muhammad and to secure the throne for the exiled Shah Shuja. Even the emirs of Sindh were forced to sign a treaty to help put Shah Shuja on the throne, practically losing their independence. Twenty thousand troops by the orders of Lord Aukland marched to Afghanistan. After a great fight and countless casualties Shah Shuja was installed on the throne. Dost Muhammad surrendered and was exiled to Calcutta. Apparently Shah Shuja rules, but everyone knows Afghanistan is being governed by William Machaghten. Ghazni and Kabul were captured too, but then Ranjit Singh died suddenly, the rest you know, Zil-e-Subhani.” “Yes. Kabul, Jerusalem of the Moghuls, ravaged and plundered.” Bahadur Shah Zafar half lamented, half reminisced.  “Ranjit Singh, poor soul, may God grant him heaven as his eternal abode. He did like Shah Shuja I believe, but extracted Koh-i-Noor diamond from him as a price for protecting his life and interests.” “Shah Shuja is not going to last long, Zil-e-Subhani.”  Zauq prophesied, edging closer to the throne and curtsying. “When British Army entered Kandahar, bringing back exiled Shah Shuja, he was confronted with icy indifference by the citizens of Kandahar.  Rumor has it that most of the time Shah Shuja sits idle, watching through telescope the wives and daughters of Kabulis who happen to enjoy fresh air on the flat roofs of their homes. And if he likes any of them, he summons them to his presence.” “Ah, my venerable court poet prophesies, besides indulging in canards!” Bahadur Shah Zafar declared with a sudden whiff of cheerfulness. “Since Shah Nasir has left Delhi, rather abandoned me, you would guide me in realms of poetry and I would become your disciple.” “You are our spiritual guide, Zil-e-Subhani.  You yourself are greatly accomplished in writing Ghazals than any of the poets in your court. I myself would be your slave if you but permit me this great honor?” Zauq sang beamishly, his eyes shining with gratitude. “First and foremost we are enslaved by foreign invaders.”  Ghalib breathed disdain. Envy cutting through his heart like sharp knives since he deemed himself better poet than Zauq. “Zil-e-Subhani, the corpse-strewn gorges of River Kabul tell many tales of wars and tragedies. British troops are comprised mainly of Indian soldiers as we all refer them as sepoys and sowars. And they are the ones dying for killing Indians, a paradox most horrifying. Sepoys dying in droves while the casualties on British side are only a handful.” “Can the pen of a poet mitigate the sting of those tragedies?” Bahadur Shah Zafar challenged. “Half of those reports are not true, Zil-e-Subhani, and the other half exaggerated.” Captain Fane took the liberty of defending his countrymen before Ghalib could respond. “Even half the tragedies in this world taint the minds and hearts of countless millions than millions of lies multiplying every blink of an eye. And exaggeration, paradoxically, tempts all to dig deep into the roots of the truth.” Bahadur Shah Zafar chided.  “William Machaghten thinks that he can win Afghanis over with money, but he is entirely mistaken in this respect for Afghanis are a proud and chivalrous race. The reports are confirmed that after conquering Kabul William Machaghten offered Dost Muhammad’s brother Jubba Khan ten thousand pounds worth of jagir if he would leave Afghanistan and would move to India as an exile. Jubba Khan was incensed by this offer, telling William Machaghten that he felt so insulted that he would spare his brother the shaft of such an insult by not even mentioning this offer to him.” “William Machaghten is inexperienced, Zil-e-Subhani, and is still in the initial stages of learning.” Captain Fane chuckled to conceal his embarrassment. “Muslims should be more wary of Wahhabis than the British, Zil-e-Subhani. Are Wahhabis not the ones who desecrated the tomb of Prophet Muhammad in Medina?” “That was thirty-six years ago. How did you know?”  Bahadur Shah Zafar was impressed and fascinated. “Because I am studying Wahhabi religion, Zil-e-Subhani.”  Captain Fane boasted proudly. “Besides, they are filtering in into Hindustan and preaching hatred and intolerance. Well, Shah Waliullah of Delhi and Al-Wahhab of Nejd were contemporaries.  Both studied in Medina before returning to their native countries to implement radical thoughts.” Bahadur Shah II enthroned with Mirza Fakhruddin. Opaque watercolor, ink, and gold on paper H. 12 3/16 × W. 14 3/8 in. (31 × 36.5 cm) The Art and History Collection Courtesy of Arthur M. Sackler Gallery, Smithsonian Institution, Washington, D.C., LTS1995. “That is correct, Zil-e-Subhani.” Ahsanullah Khan couldn’t stay behind to flaunt his own knowledge of Wahhabism. “Almost nine years ago a Wahhabi by the name of Syed Ahmed started teaching in Bengal the cult of war and hatred. He and his followers were noticed by Hindu and Muslim neighbors by their long beards and plain dress, their women completely veiled in a long shroud called burqa. Syed Ahmed incited five hundred men equipped with clubs to attack a village in the name of Jihad. They killed a Brahmin priest, cut the throats of two cows and dragged them bleeding through a Hindu temple.” “The same Syed Ahmed who died fighting Sikhs in the village of Balakot?  The same one, upon whose death Ranjit Singh fired gun salutes from every fort while ordering that the whole city of Amritsar to be lit up for celebration.” Bahadur Shah Zafar reminisced aloud. “I recall snippets of conversations in my father’s court about Syed Ahmed, how he was distorting Islamic laws, and preaching self-made laws of hatred and intolerance. The most hated of his laws is to declare war on so-called infidels, not even knowing that he himself is an infidel if there is such a thing as being infidel. Deviating from the precepts of Islam where war is forbidden, permitted only in self-defense, or when all negotiations of peace-treaty are foiled.  With his death, hopefully Wahhabi cult would be finished and forgotten.” “Not likely, Zil-e-Subhani.” Ahsanullah Khan pumped his quivers of Knowledge to fullness. “Wahhabi cult is flourishing afresh more than ever before since the disciples of Syed Ahmed are successful in circulating false statements that he was not killed.  Weaving a web of sanctity around his disappearance that he didn’t die, but was lifted up to the heavens. Ascribing saintly virtues to him and saying that Syed Ahmed himself foretold of his disappearance.  He is well and alive, his disciples claim, hiding in a cave in the Buner Mountains. He disappeared because God was displeased by...