Delhi (24 page)

My aunt slapped her forehead with both her hands and screamed. ‘
Hai
! I am dead! People, I have become a widow!’ She smashed her glass bangles against the bedpost. Others came crowding round to comfort her. Someone closed the dead man’s eyes and mouth, tied a band round his chin and stuffed wads of cotton in his nostrils. The wailing continued for some time followed by the loud chanting of prayer: ‘There is One God. He is the Supreme truth,’ etc. etc.

It was monsoon time and the sky was clouded. But I dared not sleep alone in my apartment. I had no means of locating Bhagmati and persuading her to spend the night with me. I asked Budh Singh to put my bed out on the lawn behind my apartment as the air-conditioner was out of order. The lawn was overlooked by other apartments and the comforting sound of human voices and lights from the servants’ quarters drifted down to it. I fixed a mosquito net and lay down in the gauzy security it provided.

Despite all these measures I could not shut my eyes. Whichever way I tried I could see the dead uncle’s eyes staring at me. The lights went out one by one. The human voices faded into an eerie silence. A grey moonlight spread over the sky. Owls screeched in the mulberry tree. I saw one flit across, dart down on to the road and carry off a mouse... Of their own volition my eyes had closed and I was re-living the scene of the death in the morning. The dead man came alive. With measured steps he walked across the lawn towards me, parted the flaps of my mosquito net and brought his face close to mine. I was petrified with terror. I lost my voice. Then a gurgle rose in my throat and burst out into a loud moan. The dead man shook me by the shoulder and exclaimed; ‘
Wah Guru! Wah Guru!
It’s only I, Budh Singh. It has begun to rain. Let me take your bed inside.’

I was bathed in a cold sweat. I saw the lights go up in the neighbouring apartment. A voice asked: ‘What’s the matter?’ Budh Singh answered for me ‘Nothing! He was having a nightmare.’

I went indoors, switched on the lights in all the rooms and told Budh Singh to go. I sank down in my armchair and began a silent argument with myself. I felt very foolish. I had made an ass of myself. Now Budh Singh would tell everyone how his sixty-year-old master had behaved like a frightened child.

I resolved to get the better of this stupid, irrational phobia. It was 3.30 a.m. I got into my trousers and walked out into the drizzle, determined to take the dead in my stride. I strolled down the deserted road to Lodhi Park. It had many tombs. I would sit on them I decided and say ‘hullo’ to the chaps lying buried underneath.

First I called on Mohammad Shah, the third ruler of the Sayyid dynasty who died in 1444. Big, octagonal-shaped mausoleum on a high plinth. I told him he had no business to be there because the park belonged to the Lodhis. He didn’t say anything but the bats in the dome replied: ‘He came here first; the Lodhis came later. And that fellow Sikandar Lodhi has even less right to be here because he spent more time in Agra than in Delhi.’

I went out into the drizzle again towards the Bara Gumbad mosque built by Sikandar Lodhi. Beautiful dome! Exactly like the bosom of Kamala, the woman from the south, the land of coconuts: firmly rounded, with its taut nipple poking the sky. I walked round the mosque, sat on a dilapidated grave and examined the Sheesh Gumbad which was a few metres away. Its dome was a little less wanton. The surrounding frills of coloured tiles which looked like lace brassieres in the daytime were not visible in the grey moonlight. From the mosque to Sikandar Lodhi’s tomb. My nerve began to fail me. The fellow was buried inside a square garden with high walls. I could not trust myself in the enclosure at night. What if some ghost blocked my exit?

I went up the steps and down again. I tried twice but both times I failed to go further than the entrance. ‘Taken as visited,’ I assured myself. In any case the fellow didn’t like Delhi and I didn’t have to bother with him. Besides it was his son Ibrahim Lodhi who let himself be defeated and killed by the Mughal, Babar, at Panipat. So no more honour was due to the Lodhis.

By now the eastern horizon had turned bright and the drongos were announcing the dawn. Early morning walkers were striding over the Athpula bridge. An open-air yoga class had assembled on the grass opposite Bara Gumbad. The living world was awake; the world of the dead had retired for the day.

Many years ago, when we shepherded our father’s flocks of goats, ate the bread of humility and slept on a couch of sand we had a dream. We dreamt that from a shepherd we had turned into a fisherman and in our net we had trapped a fish with four horns. A fish, we knew, was the emblem of royalty. We also knew that it was in the nature of an empty stomach to produce illusions of grandeur. Nature provides that a man who slaves all day should spend the hours of the night in a palace full of houris whereas a king who wields the sceptre by day should have his sleep disturbed by nightmares of rebellion and assassination. Thus does Allah dispense justice; to one man He gives pleasure by day, misery by night; to another He gives travail from sunrise to sunset, the joys of paradise from sunset to sunrise.

However, the dream remained embedded in our memory. When we became ruler of Isphahan we consulted a seer who had mastered the science of interpreting dreams. A fish, he confirmed, was indeed the emblem of royalty, and its four horns symbolized four kingdoms. In short, Allah had destined us to rule over four domains. We were ruler of Isphahan and had become
Padishah
(Emperor) of Iran. Afghanistan would soon yield to us. What could the fourth kingdom be save Hindustan?

We were besieging the city of Kandahar when we had a second dream. We dreamt that Hazrat Ali Murtaza came to us and with his own blessed hands girdled our waist with the all-conquering sword,
Zulfiqar
. We pondered this dream. We recalled that when someone had asked him: ‘How far is it from the east to the west?’ The Blessed One had replied: ‘A day’s journey by the sun.’

‘Tahmas Quli Khan,’ we said to ourselves, ‘the road to Delhi beckons you!’ And so it came to pass. A few days later we received an invitation to come to Delhi. It was not from Nasiruddin Mohammed Shah, who was then seated on the throne of the Mughals, but from two noblemen of his court— Asaf Jah Nizam-ul-Mulk, who was governor of the Deccan, and Saadath Khan, who was governor of an equally important province eastward of Delhi known as Avadh. The secret manner in which the invitation was delivered to us, and the way it was worded, convinced us that its authors knew the art of impregnating sentences with more than one meaning. We said to ourselves: ‘Nadir Shah, you have ruled over men long enough to know the art of striking the heads of serpents with the hand of your foe!’

We use the word ‘foe’ for the Mughal because he had shown grave discourtesy towards us. He neglected to maintain commerce between his court and ours, was negligent in answering our letters and had even detained our envoys in Delhi. And what could better describe men like Nizam-ul-Mulk and Saadath Khan who, while eating their master’s salt, were plotting for his downfall than the vile serpent which crawls on the ground but is ever ready to bite the man who stands above it?

On important matters we deemed it wise not to dilute our judgment by watering it with the advice of lesser men. We dipped the pen of diplomacy in the ink-well of our own interests and had the reply written on the parchment of stratagem. We neither accepted nor rejected the invitation; we only enumerated the difficulties we would encounter on the way to Delhi. The deep defiles of the Sulaiman and Hindu Kush mountains through which we would have to traverse, the warlike tribes of the Afghans and Pathans that we would have to contend with, the ill-will that the
subedars
of Kabul and Lahore had against us. We ended our epistle with a reference to the powerful army that the Mughal Emperor was said to have under his command. The reply to our letter would tell us whether those who had invited us were conspiring to wield us as a sword in their hands or whether their fount of loyalty had been so poisoned by their sovereign’s ill-use that they would become pliable weapons in ours.

We did not have to wait very long for their reply. They not only pledged assistance to us but also sent us copies of letters they had addressed to other
omarah
advising them to look upon us as their redeemer. They informed us that their monarch, ‘His Imperial Majesty Nasiruddin Mohammed Shah employs his time in wine and women... The great heritage of the Mughals is being squandered and may soon pass into the hands of the infidel Marathas.’

Reports of Mohammed Shah’s profligacy had come to our ears from other quarters. It had been reported to us that he was seldom without a mistress in one arm and a glass of wine in the hand of the other. He was known as ‘Rangeela’, the colourful monarch. Although he was said to be well-versed in Persian he had not heeded the admonition of Shaikh Saadi: ‘Account as an enemy the passion which is between thy two loins.’

He whose wishes you fulfil will obey your orders

But passion when obeyed will forever command.

We took Kandahar and Ghazni and then the city of Kabul. The whole of Afghanistan, which was nominally a part of the Mughal’s domains, yielded to us. We thought it best of address Mohammed Shah in the following words: ‘Be it clear to the enlightened mind of Your High Majesty that our coming to Kabul, and possessing it ourselves thereof, was purely out of zeal for Islam and friendship for you. We never could have imagined that the wretches of Deccan (the infidel Marathas) should impose a tribute on the dominions of the King of Mussalmans. Our stay on this side of Attock is with a view, that, when these pagans move towards Delhi, we may send an army of our victorious Qazilbash to drive them to the abyss of hell... History is full of the friendship that has subsisted between the Kings of Iran and Your Majesty’s predecessors. By Hazrat Ali Murtaza we swear that excepting friendship and concern for religion we neither had, nor have, any other interest. If you suspect the contrary you may. We always were, and will be, a friend of your illustrious house.’

Mohammed Shah did not reply to our letter. ‘
Ameen
,’ we said to ourselves, ‘but we will not allow an Islamic kingdom to be despoiled by heathens just because it has the misfortune to be ruled over by a man who thinks that paradise is a garden where fountains spout grape-juice and common harlots are as bewitching as houris.’

We sent another letter to Mohammed Shah. In this letter we stated our terms clearly enough to pierce his besotted skull. We told him that we would soon be taking the road to Delhi to put the House of the Mughals in order and to restore the Kingdom of Hindustan to Islam. Our price for so doing would be four crore rupees in silver and the ceding of four northern provinces of the Mughal empire to Iran. Our experience of Mohammed Shah’s earlier conduct persuaded us to append a warning. ‘We expect a reply within forty days,’ we wrote.

Forty days went by. Then the whole year. Not only did we get no answer, but our envoy was not allowed to leave Delhi.

We ordered a general muster. Men were drawn to our ever-victorious standard as moths are drawn to a lamp and they were as willing to sacrifice their lives for us as winged insects are for the love of the flame. There were Qazilbashes and Turks and Georgians, Uzbegs, Afghans, Pathans and Biloches. We enlisted engineers and gunners from Inglistan, France and Italia. Very soon we had 1,25,000 men under our command.

On 6 November 1738, kettle drums were beaten and we started our long march to Delhi. It had already turned cold. In the valleys through which we passed the nights were bitter with frost. The tribes which inhabited the region between Kabul and plains of the Punjab, being robbers by nature, often looted our baggage. We would have liked to have taught them a lesson but the affairs of Hindustan demanded that we quicken our steps.

We arrived at the western mouth of the Khyber. We had been told that this pass was like a trap and that large bands of robbers had assembled on the mountaintops to prey on us. We made a brief halt and joined our men for the
maghreb
prayer. As the sun was about to set we gave orders to strike camp and proceed forward. While the robbers slept in the warmth of their quilts we rode through the fifty miles of the treacherous defile with no light to guide us save that of the stars that twinkled in the clear, cold sky. By the time the robbers were rubbing their eyes to the rising sun we were on the outskirts of the city of Peshawar. We captured Peshawar without any difficulty.

We pressed on. We crossed the broad stream of the Indus after which this country is named and entered the vast champaign of the Punjab so named after the five (
punj
) rivers (
ab
) that flow through it. The land was flatter than any we had visited, but at that time of the year, not unpleasing to the eye. For many marches the snowcapped hills were visible towards the north and the west. How much more beautiful snows appear at a distance than when one has to wade through them!

The skies were as blue as lapis lazuli; the sun as warm as amethyst. The khaki plains were dotted with oases of green wheat, mustard and sugarcane. There was an abundance of game: partridges, peacocks and herds of deer. Many varieties of waterfowl swarmed over the ponds and rivers. We were told that tigers, panthers and leopards were also to be found in plenty. In the middle of these islands of prosperity were villages walled like fortresses. Most of the inhabitants—being Muslim—knew that we had come to save the country from the infidel Marathas and were friendly towards us. For provisions that we took from them we paid in silver and gold. If our men were found taking anything by force we had their heads chopped off; if they molested Indian women we had them castrated and gave their month’s wage and their testicles to their victims.

Zakarya Khan, governor of Lahore, made a show of resistance before he came to us with the shawl of submission over his head. He pleaded that he had misunderstood our motives for coming to Hindustan. We knew he was lying. We recalled the saying of Hazrat Ali Murtaza: ‘Accept his excuse who seeks your forgiveness,’ and allowed him to kiss our feet and offer twenty lakh rupees towards the expenses of our troops.