ZAFAR

When times change, how much they change lives...

THE Emperor of India had already slipped out of the Palace two days ago. As the triumphant British broke the siege and marched onto Red Fort on the fateful morning of September 19, 1857, last of the mutinous sepoys deserted their posts melting into the escaping hordes.

Zafar arranged a bullock cart, took his blind mother with him, and set out before dawn in search of a safer hideout. There were not many options. While escaping from destruction all around, the duo had to evade oncoming British, and in the rural surroundings take care not to hit any of the marauding Gujars.The cart took the road to Karnal and was out of Delhi at sunrise.

Having traveled all day Zafar asked the cart-puller to stop and decided to rest on the outskirts of a village for the night. Getting inside the village could have brought some help. But, equally, it might have led to loot and murder. He was not sure whether the village belonged to the Gujars or the more reasonable Jats.

Sleeping without food Zafar got up in the morning to find that the driver had decamped with the bullocks. Doors in the village in vicinity were knocked for help. The Jats obliged with food and shelter.

But not before long the greed for the boxes being carried by the old woman and the young man got the better of the Jat families and they dumped them after robbing them of the heirloom. In the scuffle the blind sister-in-law of the Emperor of India suffered a blow on her head and gave up her life in the jungle.

Zafar looked around, found a dried bamboo pole, and spent whole night digging a grave for his mother. In all likelihood the woman;s remain must have been dug up the same night by wild dogs or jackals and made food of. Zafar again began his furtive journey…this time to south and Mumbai. Of whatever was left with him, he managed to hitchhike on a west bound ship and landed at Mecca in Arabia. For 10 years Zafar lived like a fakir surviving on the alms from pilgrims coming from across the world.

But motherland was India and how could he live in Mecca even if it was the centre of universe? So began his journey via land and Lahore to return to Delhi that was now a British city. No more the capital of India. The proud Timurid would, however, not take an offer of royal pension, working instead as a cart-pusher transporting bricks for railways. Years must have passed before Zafar managed to buy his own cart.

It was a hot summer day in the year that Mahatma Gandhi’s name was rising on the horizon. Delhi was now the capital of India again. A deaf 80-year old Mirza Zafar was pushing his cart on the road between Grand Jama Masjid and the Red Fort. Just a furtive glance to his right to the looming red sandstone structure and Zafar continued his breathless push toward his destination. As he turned toward his left to get into a lane from the Chandni Chowk junction, a Ford convertible swerved past him, its left side grazing the cart and throwing him off the road as he tried to balance the weight of bricks.

Before Zafar could collect himself out rushed a man from the car that came to a screeching halt ahead of the cart. In his late thirties, foppishly dressed, drunk and abusive, businessman Kishan Arora could not countenance any obstruction when in hurry. Not the least when his destination was the terrace garden of lovely Mumtaz.

“You Haramkhor old man, are you supposed to push cart on this big road next to Red Fort? Is this your ancestral property?” Amid the rain of abuses landed a hail of big blows on the face of a still recovering Zafar. The Timurid blood had not faced anything like this since his escape from Delhi in 1857. One big blow in return left Arora with a bleeding nose. .

… … …

The matter went to court. If the judge was amused, he did not show it. The rest of the courtroom laughed. The old man continued unaffected with his harangue. “Only sixty years ago this man would have been my slave and I would have surely banished this man to oblivion for having done anything like this to a poor subject. You all would have been slaves to my orders.”

This story is of Zafar Sultan, a nephew of the last Mughal Emperor of India, Bahadur Shah Zafar. To be more precise, the son of Bahadur Shah’s younger brother Mirza Babur. As narrated in the book “The Last Mughal” by William Dalrymple. Shows how when times change, how much they change lives. Thats why thought of posting this.