How quickly news travelled round the palace! As if the walls had ears and the breeze tongues! Zeenat noticed the surprise in our eyes. ‘Your Majesty, I have my own way of finding out what is written in the book of
kismet?
’ she said, tapping her forehead. ‘This is what the great Hafiz has forecast.’ She opened a
Divan
of Hafiz to a page she had marked with a silk tassel and read:
In green heaven’s fields I saw the sickle of the new moon
Remembered by sowing and by harvest,
And said: O Kismet, you sleep and the sun blossoms
The reply: Do not be as hopeless as the past.
She repeated the last line: ‘Do not be as hopeless as the past.’ It pleased us to see her happy and we kissed her cheeks. She blushed. ‘What, in broad daylight ! Has Your Majesty no shame?’
‘You speak of shame? Shame is my renown,’ we replied quoting Hafiz.
During the first two days following the uprising we really felt as if we were Emperor of Hindustan and the
firangi
had taken his caravan out of our domains. But by the third day the veil of illusion that had clouded our vision was lifted. Our son Mirza Mughal had usurped all the functions of a ruler. People went to him for orders. Even our personal servants like the eunuch Basant Ali Khan paid court to the prince.
Prince Mirza Mughal incited the rabble of the city against the Europeans we had taken into protective custody. We argued with him and warned him against lending a ear to ‘men’ like Basant Ali Khan. But it was to no avail. Three days later—we believe it was Saturday the 16th of May—they dragged the prisoners out of the dungeon and slit the throats of thirty-nine of them including women and children as if they were sheep being sacrificed on Bakr-Id. The royal fountain in front of our palace was full of the blood and corpses of these innocent people. We sought refuge in our harem. Zeenat Mahal buried her head in our lap and wept like a child. We could not silence the shrieks of the victims from assailing our ears. And at night the howling of jackals on the riverbank sounded like women wailing at a funeral.
When we reprimanded Mirza Mughal and that impudent, emasculated Basant Ali Khan, they had the audacity to ask us whether we were on the side of the
jihadis
or the infidels. They insinuated that Begum Zeenat Mahal’s father and our physician, Ahsanullah Khan, were in the pay of the
firangi
.
We listened to these calumnies with the expression of one whose ears register no sound. But thereafter our heart was divided. Sometimes we hoped for a speedy victory and the restoration of our empire; at others we wished that the sahibs would make peace with us, recognize us and our heirs as kings of Hindustan and administer the country in our name. In either case we prayed for peace so that we could spend the remaining years of our life in prayer and quiet meditation in some secluded hermitage.
On the evening of Sunday, the 24th May, the new moon was sighted. Our eyes could not discern it because of the dust in the air but Zeenat Mahal pointed to the red sky above the setting sun and assured us that it was there, shining like a silver poniard. The next day we rode on our favourite elephant Maula Baksh through the bazaars and joined our subjects for the afternoon prayer at the Royal Mosque. On our way back we showered coins on the crowds of beggars that milled about the feet of our elephant. By the time we approached Lahori Gate the sun had set. The walls of our palace were lit with oil-lamps. We turned round and saw the whole city including the Jamia Masjid twinkling with lights. Rockets shot their way into the sky and exploded in multicoloured stars. Cannons fired a twenty-one gun salute in our honour.
Id-ul-Fitr has always been a day of rejoicing. The knot of restraint which binds the faithful during the month of Ramadan is loosened. We shut the eye of censure to let people enjoy themselves. But our sons did not know how to take their pleasure without causing hurt to others. At midnight we were roused by the
darogha
who begged us to help him restrain one who had broken into the house of a rich Hindu merchant of Dariba. Another was picked up naked and drunk in the
hijda
quarters of Lal Kuan. A third was embroiled in a fracas in a house of ill-fame in Daryaganj run by a princess of royal blood. So low had the house of Taimur and Babar fallen!
Next morning we sent for our boys and let the tongue of reprimand lash their ears. They heard with their heads bowed. From their bloodshot eyes and waxen complexions we could see that their silence was more occasioned by ill-humour of the body than repentance of the heart.
The men who had taken over the reins of government were like novices on unbroken horses. They knew how to squander but not how to earn. They could not be bothered with accounts and let the treasury become empty. There were so many who wanted to fight in the
jihad
. But no one bothered to train them. They were sent into battle armed with pick-axes, spears and knives against trained men armed with muskets. Five days after Id-ul-Fitr there was an engagement across the river at Ghaziabad. Victory went to the
firangi
; martyrdom to our Ghazis. The same story was repeated a few days later at Badli-ki-Sarai on the Grand Trunk Road.
Dervish
Hassan Askari told us that these reverses were Allah’s warning to us to be better prepared. Our astrologers also predicted that the
firangi’s
rule would end on the 23rd of June which was the hundredth anniversary of the Battle of Plassey. Our Ghazis went out in their thousands and fell upon the enemy who had massed his troops outside the city wall at Sabzi Mandi. Once again Allah granted our Ghazis the houris of paradise but gave the
firangi
and his Sikh and Gorkha hirelings the pleasure of victory.
The reverses at Sabzi Mandi plunged the city in gloom. People lost faith in their commanders. Everyone accused everyone else of treachery and being in the pay of the
firangi
. The hot winds blowing from the desert tried people’s patience. Suddenly merchants began to hide their wares. There was no grain or fodder in the market. The poor were driven to desperation. Many turned to thieving and robbery. We did not know what the outcome would be. Then a strange man appeared in Delhi.
Nihal Singh
All my life I had been hearing of Dilli. When I was a child
Mai
told me of Aurangzeb, King of Dilli, who had cut off the head of our Guru. She called him Auranga and spat whenever she used his name. I also learnt to
thoo
on Auranga’s name. When I was older,
Bapu
told me of the exploits of our ancestors who looted Dilli and brought back saddles full of gold and silver. And of Sardar Baghel Singh who built a gurdwara on the very spot where our Guru had been martyred. When I joined the Punjab police, my friends said ‘If you haven’t seen Dilli you have seen nothing.’ In Dilli, they said, you could get everything; young whores with small mango-shaped bosoms, boys with rounded pumpkin bottoms; and if you did not have money to pay for a woman or a boy, you could have a
hijda
for a couple of pice—and he (she or it) could give you more fun than either. I prayed that something would take me to Dilli.
The Guru who knows the secrets of our hearts answered my prayer. One day when I was home on leave two men came to our village. One went round beating a drum asking everyone to assemble under the big
peepal
tree. The other fellow then told us that the Mussalmans had risen against Jan Company and put back a Mughal on the throne of Dilli. This Mughal was the grandson of the same Auranga who had murdered our Guru. He said if we joined the army of Jan Company and captured Dilli all the gold and silver we could find would be ours. I asked the man to write an
arzi
to the police station asking for more leave, touched the feet of my
Mai
and my
Bapu
and took the road to Dilli.
There were two other boys from my village with me; Lehna and Natha. How hot it was! As if the whole world had been put inside a
tandoor
(oven). The dust blew into our eyes and nostrils and turned our black beards to khaki. We said to ourselves ‘What is heat to Sikh Lions?’ and rode through the burning afternoons. We washed ourselves at wells along the road, rested a little under the shades of
neem
trees and were off again. In two days we reached Ambala.
A big bald sahib with a face as red as a monkey’s bottom came to inspect us. He had already a hundred Sikhs given by the Raja of Jind with him. He picked another hundred from villages on his route. I was in my police uniform and had my own horse, so he took me. He also took Lehna and Natha. Then he spoke to us in Poorabia language. I did not understand everything he said except that we were to fight Mussalmans and that our Guru had told Auranga that the sahibs would come from the side of the rising sun and with the help of the Sikhs overthrow his dynasty. Neither my
Mai
nor my
Bapu
had told me of this prophecy. However I said to myself, what the sahib says must be true because the sahibs are wise people. One morning at parade this sahib whose name I found out later was Hodson, walked down the line poking his finger into the boys’ chests and bellies and feeling their arms. He did the same to me. He looked me up and down from my turban to my shoes. I was taller and bigger than all the boys on the line.
‘What is your name?’ he asked.
‘Nihal Singh.’
‘Nihal Singha,’ he says exactly like a
pukka
Punjabi, ‘Nihal Singha, you will be my orderly.’ Hodson Sahib was like that. He never asked anyone anything. He just gave orders.
The boys were burnt up with jealousy. They slapped me on my back and said
Shabash!
Vadhaaee!
(congratulations!).But when my back was turned they called me the sahib’s
chamcha
(spoon). I did not care. I liked Hodson Sahib. Hodson Sahib liked me. And even though my wage was no more than that of the other sowars, even Sardar Man Singh who was our
subedar
always addressed me politely as
Bhai
Nihal Singhji.
We were given new uniforms; red turbans, khaki shirts, red cummerbunds and khaki breeches: red-khaki, red-khaki. Other sahibs began to call us flamingoes. We were given a new matchlock which could fire very rapidly and had a long knife at its nozzle. We also carried lances.
After a few days of drilling we were on the royal road to Dilli. At Karnal
gora
companies came down from the hills to join us. The
goras
could not stand the sun and the hot winds. So we rode by night and spent the days sleeping under shades of trees. We went through Gharaunda, Samalkha, Race. These towns had turned against Jan Company. They did not dare to make the slightest
choon
before us. We reached the outskirts of Dilli in the pitch dark of the night. We were directed to our tents. The sahibs’
bandobast
was very good.
We had ridden twenty miles through a very hot and still night. The men were tired and fell asleep without taking off their cummerbunds or boots. I was excited and could not shut my eyes. There were twelve men snoring and farting in the tent. So I came out, washed myself and found a flat stone to lie on. I loosened my long hair and let the breeze cool me while I gazed at the sky full of bright stars. I must have dozed off because when I opened my eyes the stars were less bright and the sky had turned grey. My heart grew bigger and bigger till it was as big as the world I beheld. I recalled the words Guru Nanak spoke to his disciple: ‘Look brother Mardana, the miracle of the Lord!’
‘Wah! Bhai wah!’
I exclaimed to myself. ‘The great Guru has certainly raised a wonderful city.’ On my left from where the sun was coming up there was a river as broad as the Sutlej. It went behind the grey wall of the city. This wall was very high and very long. It ran from the river bank right across to the sunset side as far as I could see and was lost behind clusters of trees. It had many bastions and many gates. Behind this grey wall I could see another red wall of a big fort. And domes and minarets and tops of houses. I could not see any signs of battle; not even a sign of anyone living.
*
As the red rim of the sun comes over the river, a cannon fires—
badham
. Thousands of pigeons fly up and crows
kan kan
. I see hundreds of vultures sitting on tree-tops and clustered on carrion like bees on a beehive. Then I notice half-eaten corpses dangling from the branches. Vomit comes to my throat. I go inside my tent and stretch myself besides my companions. I am very tired.
The bugle calls. We are up. I get myself a mug of tea and look round to see how our camp is laid. We are on a high ridge of red rocks. On top of the Ridge is a big house which the cook says belongs to a Maratha named Hindu Rao. It is beyond the reach of enemy guns so the sahib officers occupy this house.
Gora paltans
are encamped on the higher parts of the ridge which are also beyond range. We blacks are closer to the city wall. There are Pathans, Biloches and Punjabi Mussalmans. ‘What are these Mussalmans doing here?’ I ask the cook. ‘They will fight the Hindus on the rebel side,’ he says. ‘And these Gorkhas?’ I ask him. ‘They will fight anyone the sahib tells them to fight,’ he replies. ‘A Gorkha’s skull is made of iron and its inside is stuffed with cowdung. If the sahib says shoot your father, he will shoot his father and mother.’ It is wonderful how the sahibs keep us natives separated from each other. The Guru has given them great wisdom. Also courage. As Hodson Sahib says, ‘One white man is as good as ten blacks.’
It is high noon. Sun right above our heads. I am snoring peacefully under the shade of a
neem
tree when somebody shakes me violently. ‘
Oi
, Nihalia, haven’t you heard the bugle? Do you want to be murdered in your sleep?’ I jump up and wrap my turban round my head. What do I see? Sahibs peering through their telescopes. I look the way they are looking. What do I see? From the extreme right end of the city called Sabzi Mandi enemy cavalry is riding out towards us. Behind the cavalry are troopers on foot. They are in uniforms of the Jan Company. While I am still looking they start letting off fireworks from the city wall as if somebody is getting married.
Bhanh, bhanh
says the cannon;
shanh, shanh
go cannon balls. They crash on the ridge knocking down our tents and killing our horses. You have to admit these villains have good aim. They also know lots of tricks. Just as we get into our saddles, their drums begin to beat and they charge into our flank yelling
‘Har Har Mahadev...Ali, Ali, Ali.’
Hodson Sahib draws his sword and yells ‘
Hamla!
’ We ride full gallop to meet them. As soon as we are within range they fire their muskets at us, wheel, and ride away. While we are counting our dead and wounded their snipers start shooting at our sahibs. One fellow yells at me: ‘O Sardarji, why are you selling your life to the
firangi sooer?
Come over to our side. You’ll get more rupees.’