Delhi (12 page)

The sultan believed this calumny. He forbade the supply of provisions to the hospice; a police post was established at Ghiaspur to check the coming and going of people.

Strange are the ways of God! Our Khwaja Sahib who was the Sultan of all Sultans, simply wrote the name of Allah on a piece of paper and stuck it on the entrance of the hospice. He announced that the quantity of food cooked in the
langar
kitchen would be doubled. Allah saw to it that we were never short of flour, lentils, salt or
ghee
. Although the
omarah
discreetly stayed away, the number of poor pilgrims to the hospice increased.

This was like a cup full of chillies in the already hot curry of the sultan’s temper. He ordered that the hospice be closed down. But the ways of God are mysterious! He heard of the plight of His Beloved Friend and decided to teach the sultan a lesson. The sinful cohabitation of the sultan and his loverboy bore its monstrous fruit. Boils erupted on the royal penis and blocked the passage of urine. Physicians applied all kinds of unguents but the boils would not heal nor a drop of urine trickle out. What can medicines do against affliction visited by God! And how long can man live without urinating? Within a few hours the sultan was tossing in agony and crying to Allah for mercy. His mother came to Ghiaspur tearing her hair and pouring dust on her head. She clung to the Khwaja Sahib’s feet and would not let him go till he forgave her son. ‘Let your son abdicate and give his kingdom to us,’ said the Khwaja Sahib. We knew the Beloved of God had some other miracle in mind.

The Queen Mother rushed back to the palace. The sultan was in terrible pain and agreed that as soon as he was able to urinate he would give up his kingdom. ‘No,’ said our Khwaja Sahib to the emissary, ‘first abdicate, then urinate. Write the deed of renunciation in your own hand and put the royal seal on it.’

The sultan was almost on the verge of death when he signed the deed of abdication. As he pressed his seal on the wax, his bladder, which was on the point of exploding, emptied itself of its poisonous contents. The Queen Mother carried the jar containing her son’s urine on her head and walked barefoot all the way from the palace to Ghiaspur. Women of the royal harem, eunuchs and guards followed her. She prostrated herself before the Khwaja Sahib and placed the scroll of parchment at his feet. The Khwaja Sahib broke open the seal and read aloud the deed of transfer of the kingdom of Hindustan made by Sultan Qutubuddin Mubarak Shah in favour of Hazrat Khwaja Nizamuddin,
dervish
of Ghiaspur. He then crumpled up the parchment and dropped it in the jar of urine. ‘This is all we
dervishes
care for earthly kingdoms,’ he said and retired to his cell to pray.

When a man’s instincts are evil, repentance has a short lease and brief is his gratitude towards those who have done him good. No sooner had the sultan’s penis healed than he began to misuse it as he had done before. And since the story of what our Khwaja Sahib had done with the deed transferring sovereignty of Hindustan to him had become common knowledge, the sultan’s chagrin got the better of his gratitude. He issued an order reminding Mussalmans they were expected to be at the Quwwat-ul-Islam mosque on the eve of the new moon to pay him homage. He knew that our Khwaja Sahib dedicated this day of the month to the sacred memory of his departed mother. The Khwaja Sahib heard of the order and went to his mother’s tomb to pray for guidance. After prayer he laid down where he was and fell asleep. When he woke he told us that he had dreamt of an enormous bull charging towards him. He had caught hold of the beast by its horns and pulled it down into the dust. We did not have to consult a soothsayer to know what the dream foretold.

Came the fateful day and there was the usual congregation to join the Khwaja Sahib at the afternoon prayer. As the shadow of the western wall spread across the courtyard of the mosque, the Khwaja Sahib took some of us with him to the roof to see the new moon. Just as the lower rim of the sun sank below the battlements of Shahr-i-Nau, we saw the pale, silver crescent of the moon. The Khwaja Sahib said a short prayer, ran the palms of his hands over his eyes and beard and recited a Persian verse which went somewhat as follows:

Oh fox! Why did you not stay in your lair?

Why did you join issue with a lion and bring about your

doom?

We continued to stroll on the roof enjoying the fresh evening breeze. Both the sun and the moon disappeared. The short dusk turned into a dark night. Suddenly the western horizon was aflame. We heard the sounds of horses’ hoofs. It seemed as if an army bearing torches was galloping towards us. Was it the Royal Constabulary sent to arrest the Khwaja Sahib? The
Kotwal
came in person. He had come not to arrest the Beloved of God but to break the news that the sultan had been murdered and that the city was in turmoil.

The next morning we learnt the details of what had transpired. It appeared that the sultan and his Pawar friend had come to a settled arrangement whereby each played the male and female role on alternate days. To heighten their enjoyment they would go through the elaborate charade of a marriage ceremony. One evening the sultan would arrive as a Turkish groom, sign a contract of marriage with the Pawar and then escort him to the royal couch. This was followed by the feast of deflowering (
dawat-i-valima
) for their cronies. The next evening the roles would be reversed. Apparently on the fateful evening it was the sultan’s turn to play the woman and the Pawar’s to bestride him. The sultan decked himself out like a Turkish bride, wearing a spider-net veil over loose- fitting garments of silk. The Pawar rode to the palace as a Rajput bridegroom would, accompanied by a band of musicians. They were married by Hindu rites, going round a sacrificial fire to the chanting of
mantras
. The Pawar then led his Turkish ‘bride’ to his couch and with much banter proceeded to disrobe ‘her’. When the Pawar mounted the Turk, the latter made modest protestations as would a virgin on her first initiation. When the Pawar was fully ensconced he began to play with the sultan’s now perfectly healed penis. People who know about such matters say that this is customary in the unnatural cohabitation of male with male. As the Pawar approached the climax of his passion he withdrew his member and rammed it back into the sultan’s bottom with great violence. The sultan screamed. The Pawar was overcome with an insane frenzy and crushed the sultan’s testicles in his hands. As he was drained of his mad lust, the vapours that had clouded his vision lifted. He acted boldly. He cut off the sultan’s head and had his body thrown down from the ramparts. He proclaimed that he had executed the sultan because the people did not want to be ruled by a degenerate transvestite. Thus ended the rule of the sodomite-catamite Sultan Qutubuddin Mubarak Shah. The year was AD 1320.

Delhi had a new king! One sodomite-catamite succeeded another. The Hindu Pawar Rajput from Gujarat re-named Khusro Khan had himself proclaimed emperor of Hindustan under the title Sultan Nasiruddin Mohammed.

We wondered whether the Divine Maker of Destinies would permit the new sultan to go unpunished after He had reduced his partner-in-sin to dust.

Nasiruddin squandered largesse on the
omarah
hoping thereby to buy their loyalty. He sent robes of honour to the governors of the distant provinces. Most accepted them and sent gifts in return. But one, Ghiasuddin Tughlak, who guarded the western frontiers against the Mongols, kicked the trays bearing the robes. No Turk he said would recognize a double-faced
hijda
as his monarch.

The Mussalmans of India rose against Nasiruddin. He had to turn to the Rajputs and the Jats for help. He invited them to take over the defence of Shahr-i-Nau. The battle was fought on the outskirts of the city. It appeared that just as the Turks were giving ground, the Muslims of the city rose against the Jats and the Rajputs and turned the tide of battle in favour of their co-religionists. Ghiasuddin Tughlak had Nasiruddin torn limb from limb and his torso thrown over the ramparts. Thousands of citizens were put to the sword. Ram Dulari and I spent the rest of the night praying for the safety of our son and his
bahoo
. (But as becomes wise Kayasthas they had locked themselves inside a room, painted the numeral 786 on the door to indicate that it was the house of a Muslim and so escaped the blood-thirsty Turks).

A wise man has said that a subject should not look at the warts on the face of his ruler but only at the nobility of his features. The new sultan, Ghiasuddin Tughlak, was of noble birth. He had taken a Hindu princess as wife and also had his son, Prince Juna, marry into a noble Hindu family. With a Hindu as his chief consort and a Hindu daughter-in-law we expected the sultan to be lenient towards his non-Muslim subjects. Our hopes were belied. Ghiasuddin Tughlak turned out to be headstrong tyrant. Flatterers created mischief between him and the Khwaja Sahib. ‘Is it right that this old
dervish
(Khwaja Sahib was over four score years and ten) should receive the homage due only to Your Majesty as God’s viceregent on earth?’ they asked.

Half-way between Mehrauli and Ghiaspur, Ghiasuddin Tughlak built a new city of gold-coloured bricks with high battlements around it. It came to be known after his tribe as Tughlakabad. He expected everyone to come to pay him homage and praise his handiwork. Everyone did, except our Khwaja Sahib. When Ghiasuddin demanded an explanation our Khwaja Sahib prophesied that the new city would soon be a wilderness inhabited by Gujar robbers.

When this was reported to the sultan, he swore he would teach the Khwaja Sahib a lesson. The foolish man did not know that God spoke through His Beloved Saint, Nizamuddin. God in the role of the Divine Mahout struck the sultan with a goad and made him act like a rogue elephant. He granted him a victorious campaign in his eastern domains and filled him with delusions of invincibility. His courtiers did the rest. ‘O mighty Sultan! You who slice off the heads of thousands of your enemies like a reaper gathering wheat, can you not destroy this insignificant
dervish
?’ they asked. Ghiasuddin Tughlak who was only a few marches from Delhi sent orders that before he entered the capital the hospice at Ghiaspur should be razed to the ground.

The
Kotwal
came with tears in his eyes and placed the royal command at the Khwaja Sahib’s feet. The Khwaja Sahib comforted him: ‘Son, I have seen the coming and going of many sultans. When I first came to Delhi, it was Ghiasuddin Balban. Thereafter there was Kaikobad and Jalaluddin Firoze; then there were Alauddin and Qutubuddin of the Khilji tribe followed by Nasiruddin. And now Ghiasuddin Tughlak. That makes seven. Kings come and kings go. The will of Allah is eternal’

The
Kotwal
did not understand the meaning hidden in the Khwaja Sahib’s words. ‘Beloved of God! You are more to me than my father and mother. The sultan is only three marches from Delhi. What am I to do?’ he wailed.

‘Go home in peace.
Hunooz Dilli Door Ast
! (It is a long way to Delhi),’ remarked the Khwaja Sahib.

As soon as the
Kotwal
returned to Shahr-i-Nau he received the news that the sultan had met with an accident. The next day runners brought the news of his death which had occurred when an archway he was passing under fell on him. This was in AD 1325. Allah is indeed the greatest of plotters and the strength of the feeble! And as the Khwaja Sahib had prophesied, the great citadel that Ghiasuddin had raised was soon deserted; the river Jamna receded from its walls and all its wells dried up. It became the abode of jackals, owls, bats and Gujars. Its once golden walls began to crumble—all that remained intact was the tomb in which Ghiasuddin Tughlak was buried—it was as if Allah wanted him to see what had happened to his dreams of glory.

God is the author of the Book of Destiny in which are written the past, the present and the future. God allowed our Khwaja Sahib to read the chapter on events to come. One day in his sermon the Khwaja Sahib said no one should ever fear death because it was a lover’s tryst with his Beloved. ‘For ninety years I have been separated from Allah,’ he said, ‘but every hour of every day of those ninety years I have longed to be reunited with Him.’

His words cast a gloom over Ghiaspur. I sought audience with the Khwaja Sahib. When I came before him I broke down and wept. ‘If it is for me you cry,’ he said, ‘be assured you will follow us soon. And your wife will not linger in this caravanserai very long after you.’

I cried! ‘O Beloved of God! Take us with you so that we may continue to serve you in paradise.’

I became very low in spirits. Much as I told myself that life was no longer worth living because I could hardly see or walk unaided and that death would be a release from the sufferings of old age, I was afraid of dying. I would prefer being ill and in pain than going into the dreaded kingdom of Yama. I did not desire union with the Beloved; my toothless Ram Dulari was good enough for me.

One day in the month of
Rabi-us-Sani
of the year 725 of the Hijri of the Prophet (peace be upon Him) corresponding to AD 1324 of the Roman calendar, the Khwaja Sahib told us that he could hear the angels singing songs of welcome. But before he left the world he would purge his body of earthly dross by fasting for forty days. We pleaded with him. ‘O Beloved of God!
Hakeems
say that your body needs nourishment and even a week’s fast may be too much for it.’ He rebuked us. ‘Is this all you have learnt from me? Know you not that fasting and prayer are food for a better life than we lead on earth?’

A pall of melancholy spread over Ghiaspur. The Khwaja Sahib sensed our concern. ‘I will be with you till Thursday; on Friday I will depart,’ he told us. ‘Bury my remains in this courtyard. Do not let Khusrau (he was then in Lakhnauti) come near my grave lest I am tempted to defy the laws of nature and rise to embrace him. The message of Allah and His Holy Prophet (may peace be upon Him) will continue to be delivered to you by my chief disciple Makhdoom Nasiruddin. He will be your guide in this dark world, for he is
Roshan
Chiragh Dilli
, light of the Divine Lamp in Delhi.’