Delhi (31 page)

The
mushaira
began with the recitations of the Delhi poets. Their compositions were on worn-out themes of moth and flame,
bulbul
and the rose, Leila and Majnun. Not one new idea, not one new turn of phrase. Nevertheless they were dutifully applauded. At long last the candle was placed in front of me. The host announced my name. He said that although I was young in years, I had become a household name in Agra and was appearing for the first time in Delhi. I acknowledged the compliments he paid and said that I had planned to recite an old poem on love which had been acclaimed in Agra but seeing the mood of the audience sought permission to recite one which I had composed in my mind while the wine-flask was going round. (To be truthful, I had composed it one night in Agra when Qamar had passed wine from her mouth into mine as she lay above me).
‘Irshad
!
Irshad
!’
they cried. I recited my poem on drunkeness:

Friends forgive me! you can see I am somewhat drunk,

If you must, an empty cup let it be,

For I am somewhat drunk.

As the flask goes round, give me just a sip
–

Not full to the top, just enough to wet my lip;

For I am somewhat drunk.

If I use rude words, it is all due to drink,

You too may call me names and whatever else you think,

For I am somewhat drunk.

Either hold me in turn as you hold a cup of wine

Or a little way come with me, let your company be mine,

For I am somewhat drunk.

What can I do, if I try to walk I stumble,

Be not cross with me, please do not grumble;

For I am somewhat drunk.

The Friday prayer is always there, it will not run away,

I will come along with you if for a while you’ll stay

For I am somewhat drunk.

Meer can be as touchy as hell when it is his whim

He is made of fragile glass, take no liberty with him;

For he is somewhat drunk.

The audience was enthralled. One nobleman after another embraced me, pressed money into my hands. I was taken to be presented to Nawab Samsamuddaulah. He allowed me to kiss his hand and spoke very graciously to me. ‘
Beta
, I was one of your father’s disciples. Seeing you here in Delhi I presume he has departed from the world. I owe a lot to him and will repay his debt to you. Present yourself at our residence in the morning and we will see what we can do for you.’

I kissed his hand again and took my seat. I had my goblet refilled several times and drank the chilled wine as if it was water. My head was full of noises. I did not hear what the other poets had to say. Before the repast was served, I slipped out of the house. The world forgives a drunkard. I stepped out into a moonlit Delhi. Drunk with Kandahari wine everything looked beautiful: the streets bathed in silver, a deep blue sky with a few stars twinkling. I was a little unsteady on feet but had no difficulty in finding my way from Faiz Bazaar to Jamia Masjid and through the prostitutes’ street, Chawri Bazaar, to the eunuchs’quartersHauz Qazi. I kept thinking about my Qamar and how happy the two of us would have been and how we could have celebrated my victory over the other poets. I stopped by a
pan
-shop. I pushed my way through a ring of clients and ordered; ‘Roll me the best
pan
you have.’ The
panwalla
regarded me for a while before replying : ‘Meer Sahib I’ll make you one the like of which you have never tasted before. Perhaps you will compose a
qaseedah
on my
pan
and include my name in it.’ I was pleased to know he recognized me. ‘How did you know me ?’ I asked. He smiled. ‘Who in Delhi has not heard of Meer’s
kalaam
. It is on everyone’s lips.’

From his brass copper bowl he pulled out a bundle of
maghaee
leaves, selected the smoothest, smeared lime and catechu paste on them, added scented
betel
-nut and tobacco and then a powder of crushed pearls and powdered gold. He folded the leaf, stuck a clove needle in it and wrapped it in gold leaf. ‘In Delhi we call this
palang
tor
(bed crusher). You try it out and if what I am saying is not true, my name is not Hari Ram Chaurasia, the best
pan
-maker of Shahjahanabad.’

I did not like his talking like this to me in front of other people. I gave him a silver rupee and proceeded on my way towards Lal Kuan. I put the
pan
in my mouth. It was strong stuff and brought out the sweat all over my body. I then noticed that one of the fellows I had seen at the
panwalla
’s was following me. I turned round and accosted him: ‘Sir, have you any business with me?’

He addressed me very courteously: ‘Meer Sahib, a night like this is made for love, not for walking through deserted streets. I can take you to the most beautiful girl in Delhi, no less than a princess of royal blood and barely sixteen years old. If she does not give you the time of your life, my name is not Chappan Mian.’

I do not know if it was the wine, the
pan
or the thoughts of my moon-faced Qamar that made me throw away the cloak of caution and follow the pimp through a dark, narrow lane branching off Lal Kuan. He slapped on a mean-looking door. A woman’s voice demanded: ‘Who is it at this hour ?’

‘Open, I have a customer.’

An old woman unlatched the door and let us in. She
salaamed
me and said: ‘Sir it is very late but I will wake up my daughter and get her ready to welcome you.
Huzoor
may give this poor hag something to buy
pan
.’ I gave her one of the gold
ashrafi
s presented to me earlier in the evening. She was obviously pleased with my bounty but being an experienced woman, turned the coin in her fingers and said ‘I had bigger expectations from a gentleman of your rank.’ I gave her another gold coin. She paid off the pimp and took me indoors.

Lamps were lit. She placed a tray of dry fruit before me which I waved away. Some minutes later a girl she called
beti
(daughter) entered the room rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. She was certainly young and beautiful—just as my Qamar had probably been at that age: fair and round-faced but somewhat shy. ‘Be gentle with her, she is only a child,’ said the old woman as she left the room.

I gave the girl a gold
ashrafi
. This is for you. Don’t tell your old woman or the pimp.’ She took it, put her head in my lap and began to sob. I stroked her long hair, then bare back. I slipped my hand in her
garara
and stroked her rounded buttocks. My sex was roused. She undid the cord of my pyjamas. I laid her on the bed and entered her. Was I being unfaithful to Qamar ? No. In this little girl I recreated her and relived the times we had lain together. Drink and the
pan
loaded with aphrodisiac made me stay in for an hour. She climaxed over and over again and was drenched in sweat by the time I spent myself in her.

She washed herself and then with a wet rag wiped my middle. Then he sat down beside me: ‘That Chappan fellow says you are a famous poet,’ she said. ‘Give this maidservant a couplet as a gift.’ I was not in a mood to compose poetry but did not want to hurt the girl’s feelings. ‘Give me a piece of paper, pen and ink and I’ll scribble something for you.’ She tore out a page from a notebook and gave me a reed pen and held an earthen inkpot in her hand. After thinking for a while I wrote:

The season of clouds, a flask of wine too.

Roses in the rose garden, as well as you.

When I got to my home in Fatehpuri, the dawn was about to break. My head throbbed with pain, my mouth was parched. It was when I was changing my clothes that I noticed that all the gold and silver coins I had received were gone. Who could it have been except the sixteen-year-old girl passing for a Mughal princess! Meer, better look after your terrain, this is no ordinary habitation ! This is Delhi!

I was in ill-humour when I presented myself before Nawab Samsamuddaulah. So it seemed was the Nawab Sahib. His nephew Mohammed Wasit pleaded with him to fix an allowance for me. The Nawab Sahib regarded me with his bloodshot eyes and said: ‘Yes, we heard him last night. He is a deserving case. Besides we are beholden to his late father. Let him be paid one rupee a day. Next !’

Before the next supplicant could open his mouth, I presented a parchment before him and said: ‘Nawab Sahib may be pleased to put his order in writing.’ Though young in years, I knew the ways of civil servants who never did anything without demanding proof in writing.

My simple request put the Nawab Sahib out of composure. He snapped in Farsee ‘
Waqt-e-Qalaam Daan ne’st
—this is not the time of the pen-inkholder.’ I stood my ground. ‘Sir, I do not understand the way you have framed your sentence,’ I said. ‘If your honour had said, “This is not the time for signing,” or that “the pen-and-ink-bearer is not on duty,” I would have understood. But to say that “pen-and-inkholder have no time” sounds extremely odd. It is not an animate object and therefore does not have proper or improper times; it can be brought at your honour’s command.’

The Nawab Sahib’s face lightened up with a smile. ‘Meer Taqi, you are a saucy lad. We will gladly put our promise on paper.’ With his own blessed hands he wrote out my allowance, signed and stamped it with his signet ring.

‘Go and prosper. Let your
kalaam
be worthy of your father and bring you name and fame.’

*

How wonderful life was in the Delhi of those days! People thronged to my home to solicit my opinion on their compositions. Wherever I went people recognized me and praised me; there was not a
mushaira
in the city where I was not the star performer. Friday prayers at the Jamia Masjid were a treat by themselves. Although I could hardly call myself a Mussalman and saw no great difference between Believers and Idolaters, I made it a point to join the Friday prayer because of the adulation I received from the congregation after the prayer was over. The people of Delhi loved me; I loved them and their city.

Alas! The days of happiness were not to last for ever. It was reported that the Persian, Nadir Shah, had occupied Afghanistan and was on the banks of the Indus. While preparations were being made to meet the invader, panic started growing in Delhi. Rich merchants began to leave the city. I received several letters from my wife, begging me to return to Agra. She also wrote that the Begum Sahiba had stopped sending food or gifts and had employed another tutor for her sons. People coming from Agra told me that the Begum Sahiba to whom I had sold my soul was enamoured by her son’s new
ustad
and was showering gifts on his family. I did not believe these tales and decided to call on Nawab Rais, who happened to be in Delhi on a short visit before returning to Agra to raise troops to fight the Iranians. He was full of praise for the man appointed as my successor; he was not much of a poet, he said, but a good teacher and his sons were devoted to him. He had become like a member of their household and during Nawab Sahib’s absence from Agra stayed in his
haveli
.

My mind was more disturbed by what was happening in Agra than by the Persian invasion. However, I stayed on in Delhi for as long as it was safe because Delhi provided me sustenance. I said to myself if a woman can be so perfidious it is best to consider her dead and forget about her rather than lose sleep over her. But the more I tried to wipe her from my mind, the more painfully she kept coming back to me. A heart on fire needs a stream of tears to put it out; a drop or two only makes it burn more fiercely. And the betrayal by a woman who my words had made divine and with whom I had exchanged my body and my soul soured me against humanity. I became short-tempered, quarrelsome and morose.

By the autumn of 1737 Nadir Shah had advanced into the Punjab plains. The Mughal army went out of Delhi to check his progress. Amongst the commanders were Nawab Samsamuddaulah. I prayed for a Mughal victory and the safe return of my patron.

One day in the spring of ad 1738 the two hosts clashed at Karnal. Allah granted victory to the Persians; the Mughals were routed. Amongst the thousands who attained martyrdom was Nawab Samsamuddaulah, royal paymaster, patron and protector of Meer Taqi Meer. No panegyric I write in his praise could do justice to his greatness and magnanimity. He was like a rain-cloud of generosity above my head. May Allah rest his noble soul in peace! I was left with no one to shield me from the darts of envious pen-pushers. Neither was there anyone before whom I could spread the apron of my poverty. I was left poor, weak, helpless and alone. It is in the nature of lightning to strike; it has struck your nest O Meer!

No sooner did I hear of the disaster at Karnal, than I hired a horse and took the road to Agra. There was no need to join any caravan as the entire route was one long caravan of people fleeing from Delhi to neighbouring towns and villages. On the way more than the Iranians we feared our own countrymen— Marathas, Jats and Gujars who robbed and killed any man they could lay their hands on and raped any woman who fell into their clutches. It took me five days to reach Agra. By then Nadir’s horde was busy pillaging and looting Delhi. I said to myself: ‘No matter a city can be rebuilt and repopulated but no power on earth can put together a heart that has been shattered.’

Agra was the city of my heart’s ruination. I returned to see with my own eyes the debris that remained. Friend, it is my business to cry, how long will you keep wiping tears from my eyes! I recalled how our liaison had progressed and how we were carried away by our infatuation like paper-boats cast on a powerful stream. Love is an affliction which spares no one, neither the old nor the young, neither married nor single. How in my infatuation I had strewn flowers of homage at her feet; how a woman, who I had at first not thought particularly beautiful, had become the most beautiful in the world to me after she became my beloved. In a
mehfil
of fair women, she had shone like the full moon amidst a galaxy of stars; her smile was like a rose-bud burgeoning into full bloom; her tresses lent their fragrance to the morning breeze; all this she became to me because she was cast in the mould of my desire. That this woman should have proved false to me and taken on another lover was beyond my comprehension.