Delhi (41 page)
‘
Bibi
, do you use that to pick your teeth?’ asks Natha pointing to her sword. Then he goes up boldly and takes the sword out of her hand. ‘
Bibi
, why do you want to kill us with this?’ he asks. ‘It is easier to do so with your eyes.’
‘Don’t jest with her; she is the age of your mother,’ I tell Natha.
‘
Bhai
, I am a renowned mother-fucker,’ replies Natha.
We have a hearty laugh.
Hodson Sahib rides up and we stop laughing. Natha drags the woman down the stairs and flings her at the feet of the Sahib’s horse. The woman stands up and asks: ‘Do you want to shoot me?’ Not a tremor in her voice.
Hodson Sahib is taken aback. ‘
Aurat
!’ he exclaims.
He guesses what she does for a living. ‘Are you a prostitute? What were you doing in this house?’
‘I am a
jihadin,
’ she explains. ‘I was helping my brothers to fight the
badzat nasara.
’
Hodson Sahib knows Hindustani well enough to know what
badzat nasara
means. To please the Sahib I stick my bayonet behind the woman’s back and warn her: ‘If you don’t keep a rein on your tongue, you’ll see the other end of this bayonet come out of your navel.’
The shameless wretch doesn’t even shudder.
‘Nihal Singh, take her to the camp for questioning. Then you can send her to the paradise she is so anxious to go to.’
We march the woman in front of us. If she slows down, I give her a smack on her buttocks; once I slip my finger in her tail. We have lots of fun on the way.
‘
Bhai
, tonight we’ll polish our weapons,’ says Natha.
‘Good woman! You cool our hot carbines and we’ll cool a bullet in your body,’ says Lehna.
The woman doesn’t say a word. She doesn’t even bother to look at us.
I take her to the Sahib’s tent. He has just put off his helmet and unbuckled his sword. Without saying a word, Hodson Sahib turns round and slaps her hard across her face. He is not very big but he is very strong. The woman reels and falls on the floor. She begins to cry. ‘If you want to kill me, kill me. Why do you torture me?’ she whines.
Hodson Sahib sits down in his chair. He takes out his notebook and pencil from his desk. ‘Name?’
‘Anwar Bai.
‘Where do you live?’
‘Chawri Bazaar.’
‘Who is commanding your troops?’
‘Bakht Khan, the Bareilly General who took over two days ago.’
‘Who made a
namak haram
subedar
into a General?’ demands the Sahib angrily. ‘How many soldiers are there in Sabzi Mandi?’
‘I do not know. I was sent there today to keep guard. Normally I stay in the women’s barracks.’
‘Women’s barracks?’
‘
Ji huzoor
! There are some women
jihadins
. Some like me are with the soldiers; others work in the hospital, or cook food for the troops.’
‘What were you doing in that house?’
‘I have already told the Sahib, I was with the guard. I gave up the profession two months ago when I joined the
jihad
. I hope Allah will forgive my sins.’
Hodson Sahib becomes very
gussa
. ‘You call murder of innocent women and children a holy war?’
The woman does not reply. Hodson Sahib roars. ‘Speak! Is this how you bloody Mussalmans fight a bloody
jihad?’
This woman is not only without shame, she is also without fear. You know what she says in reply? ‘Sahib, I have seen your people thrust their swords into women’s bellies. With my own eyes I have seen children tossed in the air and spiked on bayonets.’
Hodson Sahib goes red in the face. I have never seen him in such a rage before. He cannot even speak. The woman goes on as if she did not care what anyone did to her:’ And Sahib, now with your own hands you are going to spill the blood of a woman.’
She’s a cunning whore. She wants to find out what the Sahib intends to do to her. Sahib remains silent for some time. He becomes cool again. He says to me: ‘When a woman bears arms she has no right to expect to be treated any different from any other soldier. Take her away. I do not wish to hear anything more about her.’
I grab the woman by the arm and take her out.
The sun is about to set. It will soon be dark. I will have her first as I am the Sahib’s orderly. Then I will have some sleep and let the others take their turns. Then I will have her a second time; then a third time. In the early hours, I will take her to the dump and shoot her. We have a saying: first quench your thirst, then spit in the well.
I bring the woman to our tent. The men are munching their
chap
paties
. They resume their bawdy jests: ‘
Makhan pher
! What about it! Will you let us or shall we take you to the police lockup?’
‘
Oi,
oi,
let her be, she is an old
buddhi...’
‘I bet her oven is still warm. We can bake our loaves before putting it out.’
‘
Oi
, she’s a whore. She must have run an army kitchen on her oven...I bet many regiments have passed between her thighs.’
‘Nihalia,’ says one of the youngsters, ‘you scrub your weapon in her first, then we can also get rid of our surplus of semen.’
The woman pretends to be deaf. She turns to me and says, ‘Sardarji, if I have your permission, I would like to say my evening prayer. Then you can do what you like with me.’ She says this as coolly as if she were asking me to cook her an aubergine.
There is a chorus of approval. ‘Nihalia, let her pray to her Allah. If it lightens her heart, she will lighten ours.’
‘All right,’ I reply. ‘But make it quick—
phuta phut.’
I join the others over our ration of rum.
The whore spreads her
dupatta
on the muddy ground and sits down on her knees with her face towards the setting sun. The diamond in her nose sparkles.
‘Who’s going to get her nose-ring?’ asks Natha.
No one answers. ‘She’s also got gold in her ears and on her arms,’ says Lehna. ‘Let Nihal Singh sell them and we can share the money.’
The whore stands up. Her eyes are closed, her lips keep moving. She bends down. Through her muslin shirt I can see her breasts hanging down like over-ripe marrows.
She goes down on her knees, presses her forehead on the ground a few times. Then she sits back on her heels and holds the palms of her hands in front of her as if she is reading a book. Her face glows. We stop making jokes about her. Her eyes fill with tears; they run down her cheeks and on to her muslin shirt. We stop talking. Her lips stop moving. She runs the palms of her hands across her tear-stained face. She turns her face first to the right and then to the left. I know Mussalmans do this to bless people on either side; we are on her right side. She takes out a rosary from her shirt-pocket and tells the beads. By now it is almost dark. She puts the rosary round her neck and stands up. ‘Sardar Sahib, I am ready.’
No one answers. No one even looks up at her. After a while I say, ‘Come inside.’ She walks into the tent. I throw down the flap of the tent behind me. ‘Sit down.’ I thrust three
chappaties
and the lentils into her hands. ‘Eat.’
‘Sardarji, why do you take this trouble if you are going to shoot me?’ she asks casually.
‘Eat! We will talk afterwards.’
She eats a few morsels. I give her my water bottle. She drinks a lot of water. It is quite dark now. I pick up my carbine and order her to get out of the other end of the tent; the nozzle of my gun almost touches her spine.
Sentries challenge me. I give the pass word and explain, ‘A prisoner to be shot.’ We pass the dump heap; the stench is horrible. The woman covers her nostrils with her
dupatta
. We come within musket shot of Sabzi Mandi where we captured her. ‘Can you find your way from here?’
She turns round and faces me. ‘May Allah keep you... May Allah give you and your children long life...May Allah...’
I put my carbine on the ground and touch her feet. ‘Forgive us for the way we treated you...forgive us for the hard words we used...you are like our mother.’
‘Allah is the forgiver of all sins. If Allah can forgive mine, He will surely forgive yours.’
She is lost in the dark. I hear the
shap, shap
of her slippers in the mud. Then nothing. I hear a rebel sentry challenge someone.
I raise my carbine to the sky and fire a shot.
Bahadur Shah Zafar
Bakht Khan was as big and as black as a rain-cloud. His eyes flashed like lightning; his speech was coarse like thunder. He came to Delhi just about the time everyone was praying for rain. Bakht Khan knew nothing of court etiquette. But as soon as he made his obeisance and thrust a couple of rupees into our hands we knew that Allah had answered our prayer. We presented him with a robe of honour. When he reappeared we addressed him as General Bakht Khan.
‘
Badshah Salamat,’
he replied in the rustic accent of Bihar. ‘I am no
jurnail-vurnail
. I am only a
subedar
. But I have ten thousand Ghazis with me. And we ask for nothing more than the honour to shed our blood for Your Majesty.’
It had been reported to us that Bakht Khan had been acclaimed by our troops and citizens both Muslim and Hindu. ‘Bakht Khan, we make you General and Commander-in-Chief of our forces,’ we said to him. ‘May Allah crown your sword with victory!’
‘Arre Bhai, Badshah,’
he said without decorum. ‘Your name is
Japhar
, isn’t it?
Japhar
means victory, doesn’t it? You will be
Japhar
. Anyone can take any bet with me,’ he said putting out his hand in challenge.
With Bakht Khan came the monsoon. A short spring came to the autumn of our garden. For a while we let Bakht Khan take over affairs of war. We spent our days in the monsoon pavilions, Sawan-Bhadon, that we had raised in Hayat Baksh Garden behind Moti Masjid. Between these two pavilions was a large reservoir in the centre of which was another stone pavilion which looked as if it were afloat on the water. We had a small boat to take our guests to it. Our subjects named it after us, Zafar Mahal. Here we used to hold symposia of poets, entertained our friends with song and dance. That year we organized a small
mushaira
in honour of Taj Mahal Begum, younger sister of Zeenat, whom she had persuaded to join our harem. With Zeenat’s consent we did honour to her virgin sister and had her share our couch for several nights.
For some days we did not hear the sound of guns; only the growling of black clouds, the pitter-patter of raindrops and the jingle of dancers’ bells beating time to
tabla
drums. We spent the mornings flying our pigeons.
Then came the Flower-Sellers’ festival. We took our beloved Zeenat Mahal and Mirza Jawan Bakht with us to pay homage to the tomb of Qutubuddin Bakhtiyar Kaki at Mehrauli.
We rode on our favourite elephant Maula Baksh out of Lahori Gate and down Chandni Chowk. We alighted at Ballimaran to pay our respects to our spiritual mentor, Kale Khan Sahib. At the mosque of Begum Fatehpuri we turned left to Lal Kuan where Asad Quli Khan (Zeenat Mahal’s father) presented
nazar
and a basket of mangoes. We passed on through the prostitutes’ quarters in Qazi-ka-Hauz. These ladies sprinkled flowers on us from their balconies.
We went out of the city through Ajmeri Gate. We went past the village of Paharganj and Raisina. At the observatory of Raja Man Singh known as Jantar Mantar, the gardeners of Talkatora orchards, which we had gifted to Zeenat Mahal, presented us with another basket of mangoes. We made a brief halt at the mausoleum of Safdar Jang to inspect the mosque and the
madrasa
. Our next halt was at Yusuf Sarai where we sampled the mangoes presented to us and took our siesta. When we rose the noon was well advanced and the southern horizon was heavily overcast with rain-clouds. Our mahout quickened the pace of Maula Baksh.
When we arrived at Mehrauli it began to rain. We were welcomed by the citizens who had been awaiting our arrival for many hours. They formed a procession led by parties of singers and dancers. We proceeded slowly through Mehrauli’s narrow streets. People showered us with flowers, the heavens showered us with rain. When we arrived at our residence, Jahaz Mahal, fireworks were let off. The waters of Shamsi Talab already pocked by the falling rain burned bright crimson and blue and gold as cracker after cracker exploded in the sky and its embers came streaming down into the pool.
Wallah
! What a beautiful world it was! We slept to the sound of the rain beating on our roof and the gurgle of running water.
*
Next morning the sky was clear. We said our
fajar
prayer at the Auliya Masjid. This little mosque had been hallowed by Khwaja Muinuddin Chishti of Ajmer, Fariduddin Ganj-i-Shakar of Pak Pattan and innumerable other saints who had performed
chillas
(forty days of prayer and fasting) in its cells. After the morning prayer we went to the tomb of Qutubuddin Sahib Bakhtiyar Kaki and said a
fateha
at the graves of many of our kinsmen who were buried in the precincts.
Begum Zeenat who was with us was not allowed near the tomb of the saint. She presented a canopy made of roses and jasmines which was hung over the tomb. Then we watched divers leap eighty feet into a well in the courtyard and rewarded them suitably. We spent the rest of the day riding through the innumerable ruins that surrounded Mehrauli. First we went to the Qutub Minar and the Quwwat-ul-Islam mosque. We said
fatehas
over the tombs of Alauddin Khilji, Altamash and Imam Zamin. Then we rode past the house of Metcalfe Sahib to the mosque of Kamali the poet. The tomb of Emperor Balban was in a state of neglect. We ordered its repair.
We spent the evening in Jahaz Mahal. On the other side of the Shamsi Talab there were umbrella-shaped pavilions. We ordered a party of
shehnai
players to perform in them. The notes of the
shehnai
floated softly over the waters raising ripples as they came towards us. With the slow movement of the
alap
, clouds in the sky began to take bulbous shapes. As the melody went into the next movement, the
gat
, a gentle breeze began to blow. The clouds began to roll over faster as if keeping pace with the
tabla
. What improvization! We heard thunder and lightning and the hissing of the wind. And behold the sky was overcast! It became dark, lamps were lit. And as the
shehnai
moved into its finale in fast tempo, it began to pour. It is truly said that a great master can move the heavens to shed tears and the tapers to light themselves and burn in anguish and ecstasy! We heard the
Raga Megh Malhar
(melody of the rains) and then
Deepak
(melody of the lamps). And we were like one in a daze.
Thus we spent three days free of care. We visited monuments, listened to music and watched Kathak dancers. Sometimes we simply rested our head on a bolster and gazed at the clouds.
When we returned to Delhi, the state of affairs was, to use Saadi’s expression, entangled like the hair of Negroes. The enemy had received reinforcements and siege trains. Our army was short of everything: powder, arms, provisions. Mirza Mughal and Bakht Khan aimed barbed shafts of speech at each other. There were many incidents between the citizens and the soldiers. The citizens taunted the soldiers for their cowardliness, soldiers taunted the merchants for trading with the enemy. Most of our soldiers were Muslims; most merchants, Hindu. And Bakr-Id was approaching. Mirza Mughal and some of the Muslim
omarah
were in favour of taking away the Hindus’ property, because the Hindus favoured the
firangi
.
Bakht Khan was against this policy. We lent our support to him. We forbade the slaughter of cows and ourselves set an example by sacrificing a camel. Bakr-Id passed off peacefully.
Two days after the festival the hand of Satan touched the powder magazine. Vast quantities of gunpowder was lost. Many people were killed and their houses destroyed. The
firangi
took full advantage of this misfortune. He circulated forged letters insinuating that our trusted adviser Hakeem Ahsanullah and our Queen Consort Zeenat Mahal had a hand in the explosion of the magazine. The mob set fire to Ahsanullah’s house. We sent our bodyguard to rescue him and his family. The rabble had the temerity to force its way into the Diwan-i-Khas and make vile accusations of treachery against us. Our firmness saved the situation. We swore that if anyone was found in possession of the
hakeem’s
property we would have his belly ripped open.
Mine enemies assembled in force on all sides
O Ali! All powerful, for God’s sake!
Thou hast sent an unseen army to my aid
It is from Thee I supplicate victory in my prayers.
*
Foul vapours of suspicion continued to float over Delhi. We came to the conclusion that fate itself had loaded the dice against us and we could not win. Delhi was doomed. Prudence dictated that we should try to salvage whatever we could. We sent a secret emissary to Wilson Sahib, commander of the enemy troops, that if our life and those of Zeenat Mahal and our children were guaranteed and our pension restored to us, we would contrive to have the city gates thrown open to his troops. He did not have the courtesy to send us a reply.
We waited for the last grain of sand to run down the hourglass. It took only seven days to do so. On 14 September the
firangi
and his allies, Pathans, Punjabi Mussalmans, Sikhs, Dogras and Gorkhas launched their attack on Delhi. The entire northern side of the wall from Kabul Gate to the river was subjected to incessant bombardment. Cannon balls fell in the Red Fort. Homes of some of the
salateen
were wrecked.
General Bakht Khan fought back valiantly. He was everywhere; at Sabzi Mandi in the morning, at Mori Gate in the afternoon, at Kashmiri Gate in the evening. After sunset he came to the palace to report. The enemy forced his way into the city. The citizens fought them in every street. Even women and children hurled stones on the heads of the assailants. Although age had made our bones brittle we mounted our Arab horse Hamdam and went out to encourage our troops. But Allah willed that we would be taught a lesson in humility.
On 21 September Bakht Khan told us that Delhi was lost. He asked us to accompany him towards Oudh so that we could continue the battle. We asked him to forgive us; our eighty-two years weighed heavily on our frame. As the venerable Saadi had said: ‘We thought proper to sit down in the mansion of retirement, fold up the skirt of association, wash our tablet of heedless sayings and no more indulge in senseless prattle.’
People began to leave the city. We also decided to go. At first we thought of going to Mehrauli where we could be closer to the sacred dust of Khwaja Qutubuddin Bakhtiyar Kaki. But Mirza Elahi Baksh (father-in-law of our late heir apparent Mirza Fakhroo) advised us to seek shelter in the mausoleum of our ancestor Emperor Humayun. Mehrauli, he told us, could not be defended; the mausoleum on the other hand was like a fortress and would be in a position to negotiate with the sahib. We accepted his advice.
The hand of fate struck the drum of departure. Our heart was heavy. We bade farewell to Maula Baksh and Hamdam who had been our companions from the days of our youth. We released all the pigeons in our pigeon lofts and told them to spread the news of our wretchedness. Our palanquins took the Agra Road. Our harem,
salateen
and servants followed in our train. All along the route we passed hundreds of people on bullock carts,
ekkas
, mules and on foot. When we arrived at Arab-ki-Sarai we saw that the gardens around the mausoleum were crammed with people. All our sons, grandsons, nephews, nieces along with their families and relatives were there. That night we rested our weary head at the foot of the grave of our ancestor Emperor Humayun.
Early next morning while people lay like corpses in their shrouds (the nights had turned chilly) we threaded our way to the tomb of Nizamuddin Auliya. No heralds proclaimed the advent of the Badshah Ghazi, the Shadow of God on Earth, the Emperor of Hindustan. After prayer we sat at the foot of Auliya’s tomb and told the beads of our rosary. We said the
fateha
at the tombs of our father, Akbar Shah II, our brother, Mirza Jahangir, Begum Jahanara and the poet Ameer Khusrau. It occurred to us that we too would be soon sleeping among them. We recited the prayer of the
dervish
: ‘O Lord, have mercy upon the wicked, because Thou hast already had mercy upon good men by creating them good.’ We returned to the mausoleum fully prepared for the fate Allah had ordained for us.
Nihal Singh
Thereafter it rained every day. The Jamna rose and the flood swept away the boat-bridge. This was lucky for us as the rebels used to get most of their men and supplies from across the river. There was not too much fighting during the rains—an occasional skirmish in Qudsia Garden or the guns barking at each other.
