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legacy
legacy There is something tragic about endings. And an ending that ends something that thrived for centuries is sadder still. Such was the mighty Mughal Empire, an imperial power that ruled the Indian subcontinent for over 350 years. The empire began in 1526 and at the height of its power in the late 17th and early 18th centuries ruled a region spread over an astounding 3.2 million sq km — extending from Bengal in the east to Balochistan in the west and from Kashmir in the north to the Kaveri basin in the south. This was an expanse so large that three present-day countries — India, Pakistan and Bangladesh, which were part of the region ruled by the Mughals — are among the world’s top 10 most populous nations and in landmass terms among the world’s 20 largest countries! The sun set on this mighty story in 1857 when another set of imperialists, the British, turned the tide and set up the Raj shop that lasted about 90 years and tore up the subcontinent in two but that’s another story for another day. The Mughal era started with the jewel-obsessed Afghan of Central Asian descent Zaheeruddin Babur, who had a fearsome pedigree — his direct ancestors on his father side included Timur Lung and on his mother’s side Genghis Khan. The last in line was Bahadur Shah Zafar, who couldn’t have been more different — a poet par excellence with neither the heart nor the capacity to fight a fight that any king worth his salt must. Many schoolchildren in Pakistan and India — and I suspect in Bangladesh as well — who learn their lessons, are familiar with parts of the poetry of Zafar, the most famous of which is weighed down by sadness, its timeless beauty and emphasis shadowed by his forlorn fate, for he died a lonely death in exile, bereft of the heady grandeur of royalty. It was with these thoughts that I pictured the king who had lost not just his crown but an empire that had lasted centuries, regrets eating away at his heavy heart and his bitterness inking away into his elegant but gloomy poetry. Standing by his silent tomb on a humid August afternoon in the heart of Rangoon, the Burmese capital, I became inexplicably edgy. There were the obligatory incense sticks spewing drugged scent that I’ve always somehow associated with death and the strange kind of peace that comes from being in South Asian shrines of people who have put in a distance of hundreds of years between them and you and thus become beyond malice. But a restive desolation hung heavy by the grave, clad in velvety black-green cloth-spread sewn with verses from the Quran in gold of the last king of a mighty empire, all enclosed in a spare basement dank with the rainy season. Perhaps my mood became somber because of the slabs of white marble on the walls around the king’s grave that bore some of Zafar’s most erudite poetry. Now I’ve never had a soft spot for any king real or imagined but the verses seemed to me to have assumed a haunting poignancy that comes from the effect of your words come to life long after you have departed. It was difficult not to be moved beyond despair at these immortal words, painted in bold on the wall by the grave of a long dead king as he counted down his days: Lagta Nahin Hai Dil Mera Ujray Dayaar Mein Kiski Bani Hai Aalam-e-Napaydaar Mein Keh Do In Hasraton Se Kahin Aur Ja Basein Itni Jagah Kahan Hai Dil-e-Daaghdar Mein Umr-e-Daraaz Mang Kar Laye Thay Chaar Din Dau Aarzoo Mein Kat Gai Dau Intizaar Mein Kitna Hai Badnaseeb Zafar! Dafan Ke Liye Do Gaz Zameen Bhi Na Mili Kooye-e-Yaar Mein He, of course, is lamenting here about him dying in exile and not being even afforded the courtesy of a burial in the land of his ancestors and the kingdom that they ruled — and what ancestors! Dozens were kings themselves including such big names as Babur, Humayun, Akbar, Jahangir, Shah Jahan and Aurangzeb! For several generations of Pakistanis and Indians these verses of Zafar’s have been made immortal principally by two singing greats — from India Mohammad Rafi and from Pakistan Habib Wali. I had last heard Habib singing in my boyhood on PTV when tyrant Ziaul Haq was still alive and building a kingdom of momineen for himself. Reading the verses brought
back Habib to me when my own father was still alive. When you enter Zafar’s
mausoleum, you arrive at a large prayer hall within which there is a room
housing three graves. One is that of Zafar’s wife — and last queen of
India — Zeenat Begum and another that of their granddaughter Ronaq Zamani.
Since his death in November 1862, many had believed the third one was of
Bahadur Shah Zafar. But it was as recently as in 1991 that another grave
further down was discovered and proven to be of the king. A basement was then carved out and designed to serve as a king’s mausoleum must. It is now believed the third grave in the room upstairs — adorned by large pictures and posters of the king and queen and their subjects and with Zafar’s poetry — was that of one of the teachers of the king’s grandchildren — children of their daughters. Apparently the heirs of the king were worried that opponents would vandalise the grave of the king or move him in another place so they buried him elsewhere. Zafar was imprisoned by the British and taken to faraway Rangoon in 1858 along with Zeenat Begum, two daughters and a granddaughter and a grandson. They were humiliatingly put up in a garage attached to the bungalow of a junior British officer till Zafar’s death by natural causes. No one was allowed to meet the family. Zafar died at the ripe age of 87. He was put on the throne at age 60 by his ageing father Akbar Shah. Zafar did not suddenly lose his kingdom. He was the last in a line of the last few Mughal rulers who were weak and presiding over an unravelling empire as the British domination solidified. The British had curtailed the power and privileges of the Mughal rulers to such an extent that by the time of Zafar, the Mughal rule was practically confined to the famous Red Fort in Delhi. Zafar was obliged to live on British pension, while the reins of real power lay in the hands of the East India Company. During Zafar’s reign Urdu poetry flourished and reached its zenith. He himself was a prolific poet and an accomplished calligrapher. He passed most of his time in the company of poets and writers and was the author of four poetry collections. Love and mysticism were his favourite subjects. Most of his poetry is full of pain and sorrow owing to the distress and degradation he had to face at the hands of the British. He was a great patron of poetry and literary work and some of the most eminent and famous Urdu poets like Mirza Ghalib, Zauq, Momin and Daagh were all of his time and promoted by him. It was at the time of Zafar that the War of Independence in 1857 started. In him the resistance forces found the symbol of freedom and nominated him as their commander-in-chief. In the initial stages, they were successful, but later on the strong and organised British forces defeated them. Zafar was overthrown and arrested from Humayun’s tomb in Delhi where he was hiding with his three sons and a grandson. Captain Hodson of the British forces killed his sons and grandson and their severed heads were brought before him. This was the end of the next generation male lineage of the Mughals. A grief-mad Zafar was then
himself tried for treachery and exiled to Rangoon where he lived out his last
five years talking to himself mostly. There are not very many practicing
Muslims in Rangoon but there seem to be enough to fill up the hall above the
basement mausoleum of Zafar every Friday. I saw at least four Muslims with
their trademark skullcap poring over a copy of the Quran each. The caretaker,
a soft-spoken Urdu-speaking person in The caretaker comes from a long line of servants loyal to the king until the end. Along Zafar’s grave is a wall bearing two sets of showcases of photographs. One has pictures of former Indian President Abdul Kalam who visited when president. Money from Indian government in part helps in the upkeep of the mausoleum. The other has pictures of General Pervez Musharraf at the grave, visiting when he was president too, with his wife Sehba. I’m not sure if he walked out humbled and reflecting about the fate of kings both powerful and weak and rulers benign and megalomaniac but I walked out with a heavy heart, the words of my late father Rehmatullah Khan haunting me and helping me better understand the fate of Zafar. My father had told me in one of his unguarded moments that it is very lonely to be the last one in line and to see every member of your family die before you one by one. He said he was glad I was the eldest of his children. My father was the youngest in his family and died the last, in 1998, his last family member — his brother Ibadullah Khan — passing away a full 15 years before him. May they rest in peace — my father, King Zafar, and everyone else who are destined to be the last in line.
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his mid-30s, himself sporting a wiry
white skullcap and wearing a neat white shirt over a sarong, whose name now
eludes my memory, told me that even non-Muslims often frequent the mausoleum
to worship him as a saint-emperor of yore who could bring to fruition the
longings that occupy the minds fill the hearts of lower middle-classes
everywhere.