Delhi (43 page)

Nihal Singh

It took seven days flushing out rebels from the hideouts before we could say Dilli had become the property of Jan Company. All that was left were empty houses and corpses. And dogs, cats and rats to eat them. After a few days the Hindus were allowed to return and open their shops. Mussalmans who tried to pass off as Hindus paid with their lives. We made them take off their clothes. We poked their cocks with our bayonets and asked: ‘How did this fellow get his top chopped off?’ The blood would drain out of their faces and they would start urinating. We knew they had come back for buried silver or gold. So we would march them to their homes, take whatever we could find and turn them over to the sahib judge. He would ask them a few questions and order them to be hanged. They would be brought to the
kotwali
in the centre of Chandni Chowk where our Guru had been executed by Auranga. A dozen gallows had been erected. In the evening after having had their dinner the sahibs would ride up to the place.
Khidmatgars
would lay out chairs and sofas for them and
abdars
fill their glasses with brandy and port and light their cheroots. And the
tamasha
would begin. In batches of six the wretches would be hauled up their hands tied behind them and nooses would be put round their necks. The sahibs would give the signal by clenching their fists with their thumbs pointing down and the planks would be pulled away. The sahibs would lay bets on which one would last longest. It was easy to tell who would die first—the one who struggled most, strangled himself quickest. Their eyes would pop out, blood pour out of their nostrils. Some died quickly; others had to have their legs stretched to finish them off. The sahibs enjoyed themselves laughing and joking, drinking and gambling.

*

Hodson Sahib never wastes his time on this kind of
tamasha
. His mind is on bigger game. One day he goes to Wilson Sahib Bahadur and says ‘Let me go and capture the King of Dilli.’ The
Jangi Lat
replies
‘Accha,
but I don’t want to loose any more
goras.’
Hodson Sahib says ‘I will take my Sikhs.’ He then tells me, ‘Nihal Singha, pick up fifty of your bravest boys and be ready in the morning for the big
shikar.
’

It is the 21st of September. The weather has changed. The nights are getting cool and the dew falls like the drizzle of rain. I pick fifty boys including Natha and Lehna and tell them to sleep round the pulpit of the mosque. I rouse them while it is still dark. We swallow a couple of
chappaties
and drink a mug of tea. We get into our uniforms and ride down the steps of the mosque. Hodson Sahib arrives with two Mussalmans riding behind him. One is that same one-eyed Rajab Ali. The other is dressed like a
nawab
: a big fur cap and a coat of gold kinkob. My Sahib addresses him politely as ‘Mirza Sahib’. (I later discover his name was Mirza Elahi Baksh and that he was the father-in-law of the king’s eldest son who had died some time ago.)

The Mirza says something in the ear of Hodson Sahib and takes his leave. We proceed
clip clop, clip clop
through Faiz Bazaar and out of Dilli Gate. Hodson Sahib rides in front holding his unsheathed sabre on his shoulder. The one-eyed Rajab Ali follows behind him. I am behind the one-eyed fellow leading my fifty sowars. We carry our lances in our hands; our loaded carbines are slung behind our backs. We have two
kirpans
each—one attached to the saddle and the other to our belts. By the time the sun rises we are on the royal road to Agra. On either side of the road are many ancient ruins. They are full of people. The men are armed with guns and swords. But no one dares come near us or say a word.

The one-eyed Rajab Ali rides up alongside the Sahib and tells him about the buildings. Hodson Sahib is not interested, but this fellow keeps talking. ‘That Sahib is a Buddhist pillar on top of the palace of Firoze Shah,’ he says. I ask you what can a Buddhist pillar be doing on top of a Mussalman king’s palace? We pass very high walls of an ancient fort. The one-eyed chap says: ‘This sir, is the Purana Qila—the old fort—said to have been first built by the Aryans and was known as Indraprastha. Inside there is a mosque of Sher Shah Suri and the library of Emperor Humayun.’ Who is to tell the Sahib that there cannot be a mosque inside a Hindu fort! I keep quiet as Hodson Sahib is paying no attention to the one-eyed
tuttoo
. By the time the sun is a spear high we arrive at the gate of a very large building with very high walls. All I can see of the inside is a huge white marble dome. This the one-eyed fellow says is the tomb of Humayun Badshah. The old king and his family are hiding inside.

The one-eyed fellow continues to babble. ‘And this, Sahib Bahadur, is the tomb of Isa Khan and beyond that where the crowd is was once known as Arab-ki-Sarai. Beyond that you can see the red dome of the tomb of Abdul Rahim Khan-i-Khanan, one of the great ministers of Emperor Akbar. And these buildings behind you belong to the mausoleum of His Holiness Shaikh Nizamuddin Auliya. Many kings and queens and princes of royal blood have their graves close to the tomb of the saint.’

Hodson Sahib becomes very impatient. ‘Yes, yes, Rajab Ali, another time you can tell me all about these ruddy monuments! We have more important work on hand. So get on with it
juldi
— I haven’t the whole day to waste!’

Hodson Sahib and the one-eyed fellow dismount. I also dismount to take the reins of their horses. The one-eyed fellow slaps the big gate with the palm of his hand. ‘Who’s there?’ demands a voice from the other side.

‘Maulvi Rajab Ali, emissary of the Company Bahadur. I have an urgent message for His Majesty.’

After a while a small door in a corner of the gate opens. A sentry sticks out his head and sings! ‘His Majesty Bahadur Shah Ghazi, Emperor of Hindustan, King of Kings, Shadow of God on Earth, commands the presence of Maulvi Rajab Ali Vakil of the Company Bahadur. Maulvi Rajab Ali may enter.’

‘Wah bhai wah!’
I say to myself. ‘You hide like a rat in a hole but call yourself King of Kings!’

Rajab Ali disappears inside the little door which is shut behind him.

Hodson Sahib spits on the ground. He begins to pace up and down in front of the gate. He does not speak a word to anyone or even bother to look up at the crowd that is looking down at us from the walls. So many people and not a
choon
! The silence of thousands of people frightens me. All I can hear is horses champing at their bits, neighing, farting and urinating. And crows cawing. Then I hear voices of men quarrelling with each other. And a loud call:
‘Narai Taqbir
!’ And a roar of hundreds of voices yelling ‘
Allah-o-Akbar
.’

More yelling: ‘
Mar dalo firangi ko
(kill the
firangi
).’

What can fifty Sikhs and one
gora
do against thousands? They will make mincemeat of us. But
wah, wah
Hodson Sahib! No one can be like you! He continues to pace up and down pretending he hasn’t heard a sound.

Another hour. My mouth is dry: my tunic is wet with cold sweat. Voices on the other side come nearer and nearer. Hodson Sahib remounts. I tie the one-eyed fellow’s horse to a tree and get into my own saddle. Hodson Sahib takes his pistol out of the holster and cocks it. I clutch my lance. Slowly the huge gates draw backwards. Three palanquins, one behind the other and a mob of wild looking men flourishing swords and carbines. Some women wailing surround the palanquins. They see Hodson Sahib and his Sikh sowars and turn to stone. The one-eyed Rajab Ali comes up to the Sahib and waggles his head. He goes back to the second palanquin and says something to someone. An old man steps out. He is tall, very thin and bent with age. He has a white, trimmed beard. He wears a big fur cap and a long fur-lined coat trailing down to his feet. He hobbles up to the Sahib, looks up and asks: ‘Have I the honour of addressing Hodson Sahib Bahadur?’

‘Yes, I am Major Hodson. You Bahadur Shah?’

‘That is the name by which this unfortunate man is known. Hodson Sahib Bahadur, do I have your word that our life, the life of our Queen Zeenat Mahal and that of our son Prince Jawan Bakht will be spared?’

‘Yes, Wilson Sahib Bahadur, the
Jangi Lat
has promised you your lives.’ There is a murmur in the crowd.

Hodson Sahib holds up his pistol and shouts at the top of his voice, ‘Listen you people! If anyone of you make an attempt to interfere, I will shoot the three people in these palanquins like dogs. Understand!’

What audacity! The crowd shrinks back. The old king ungirds his sword and holds it aloft with his shaking hands. Hodson Sahib dismounts, takes the sword and hands it to me. What a sword! Green jade and gold handle studded with precious stones! Then the badshah’s son, a young chap named Jawan Bakht, steps out from the last palanquin and also hands his sword to the Sahib who passes it on to me. Another beauty! Gold, diamonds and rubies! Hodson Sahib orders the three palanquins to be brought out. Fifty sowars in front, then one palanquin, then my Sahib and I. Behind us the huge mob. We don’t look back lest they think we are frightened of being shot in our backs. I have shivers going up and down my spine and more cold sweat on my body. But Hodson Sahib! Not a trace of fear on his red face! We pass along the battlements of the old fort with crowd still trudging behind us. Thousands of rebel sepoys come out of the old Indraprastha fort. We ignore them and go along at the pace set by the palanquin-bearers. Another half-a-kos and the crowd begins to drop off. And soon we are just fifty Sikh sowars and Hodson Sahib. And we are taking with us as prisoner the Emperor of Hindustan, his queen and their son. It is a miracle of the great Guru!

Instead of going through Delhi Gate we turn sharp left towards the side where the sun is setting and ride past Turkman and Ajmeri Gates. Then we turn right into Kabuli Gate to enter the city. Hodson Sahib wants everyone in Dilli to know that we have their King, Queen and son as our prisoner. But the streets are deserted. Only dogs tearing up corpses pause to look up. Vultures shuffle away a few paces to let us pass. In front of the
kotwali
, six corpses are still dangling from the scaffolds with crows pecking on them. As we pass the gurdwara where our ninth Guru was martyred by Auranga, we unsheath our
kirpans
and dip them in salute. I raise the Sikh battle cry ‘
Boley So Nihal
!’ The sowars shout back ‘
Sat Sri Akal’.

It is still daylight when we draw up outside the Red Fort. ‘Who’s there?’ demands a
gora
sentry.

‘Major Hodson to deliver up prisoners Bahadur Shah ex-King of Delhi, his wife Zeenat Mahal and their son Jawan Bakht.’

The gate opens. Hodson Sahib and the one-eyed Rajab Ali go in with the palanquins.

We ride back to Jamia Masjid.

We slaughter twenty goats. And while they are roasting we drink a lot of rum. We get very drunk and begin to sing. Lehna starts off with a song about a little old man who wanted to copulate with a she-camel. Lehna knows a lot of songs about this
budha baba
. But my
kismet
! The Sahib’s
syce
comes and says I am wanted in the Red Fort. I am very high on rum but I follow him.

I ride to the Sahib’s quarter. When I enter the Sahib is examining the two swords he has been given that morning. Under the light of the lantern the stones in the handle sparkle like stars. What craftsmanship! The Sahib tells me that one bears the name of Emperor Jahangir and the other of the Persian invader Nadir Shah. He is not very happy. ‘That’s all I got from Wilson Sahib Bahadur,’ he says. ‘Not even a
shabash
. I wish I had killed the old badshah and his puppy.’

‘Sahib, if you had given me the slightest hint, I would have severed their heads from their bodies.’

‘I know, I know,’ he replies impatiently. ‘I would have done it myself. But the white man’s word has to be honoured. Now it will be different. I have permission to get the king’s other sons and nephews. They are the
badmashes
who murdered the memsahibs and their little
babalogs
. Wilson Sahib says, “Do what you like but don’t let me be bothered with them.” Tell
Subedar
Man Singh to be ready with a hundred sowars at the same time tomorrow. This may be dangerous work. There’ll be plenty of rum when this is over.’

*

Next morning I had real trouble getting the men ready in time.
Subedar
Man Singh had to shout at them. But Hodson Sahib arrived with another
gora
, Macdowell Sahib, and the one-eyed Rajab Ali. We were in our saddles lined up in front of the mosque. The two sahibs rode in front with Rajab Ali and myself directly behind them. (I was on his blind side so we did not even have to exchange glances). Behind us were our two
subedars
and then the hundred Sikh sowars with the ends of their turbans fluttering in the morning breeze and their spears glittering in the light of the morning sun. Rajab Ali didn’t try his
buk buk
about the ancient buildings of Dilli on me.

We arrived at the northern gate of Humayun’s mausoleum. And as soon as we arrived, a crowd began to collect around us. Some came from Arab-ki-Sarai, next door, some from Nizamuddin. The roofs and walls of buildings were soon full of people. Many men were armed with carbines.

*

Once more Rajab Ali goes in. Once more we hear yells of ‘
Allah-
o-Akbar
’. We can hear them coming nearer and nearer the gate. Slowly the gates open. A cart appears, drawn by two humped oxen, with three men sitting huddled on it and the one-eyed Rajab Ali standing by the wheel. Behind the cart a mob of sullen-faced, evil-looking men armed with carbines and swords. The sahibs mount their horses and ride up to the cart. Hodson Sahib commands: ‘Rajab Ali, identify the three prisoners.’

Rajab Ali puts his hand on one: ‘Mirza Mughal Bahadur.’

The man steps out of the cart and with trembling hands offers his sword. Macdowell Sahib takes his sword.

‘Mirza Abu Bakr,’ says Rajab Ali putting his hand on another. This man also steps out and hands his sword to Macdowell Sahib.