Delhi (18 page)

When I asked my B
apu
the name of the badshah who had died, he said ‘What will you do with the badshah’s name?’ None of the sweepers or cobblers in Rikabganj knew his name. Only the Mussalmans who lived in the
sarai
alongside the mosque and the contractor, Lakhi Rai, who lived in a big stone house with his wives, eight sons and their wives knew the badshah’s name. These Mussalmans and Lakhi Rai’s family went about with long faces as if their own mother’s mother had died. Some people feel very big if they can cry over the deaths of big people.

‘What have we poor untouchables to do with kings!’ I remember my
Bapu
saying. ‘They are all the same to us. One goes, another comes,
zulum
goes on.’

I did not know who
zulum
was. When I was a little older my
Bapu
told me that
zulum
was not a man but what the rich did to the poor. We untouchables were the poorest of the poor. No one did anything to us except run away if we came near them. That, said my
Bapu
, was also a kind of
zulum
. It was in our
karma
. We had done bad things in our previous births. That is why we were born black and had to do all the dirty work. My
Bapu
called every badshah a
zalim
. This one who had just died, said my
Bapu
, was a very bad man because he drank more wine than Uncle Reloo who was drunk most of the time. Uncle Reloo told me that the badshah could drink twenty cups of
arrack
and eat
tolas
of opium every day and yet poke his queen and the other women of his harem every night. He told me that his queen had been married before. But when she saw the badshah who was only a prince at the time she knew at once that he would become a badshah. So she put some magic powder in his cup of wine and made him fall madly in love with her. The prince had the husband murdered and when he became badshah he made her his queen. Uncle Reloo said that it was not the badshah but this queen who had ruled over Hindustan.

It was not so much the badshah’s drinking or womanizing that had made my father angry with him as what he had done to our Guru. ‘What is it to us how much he drinks and whose mother he fucks,’ he used to say, ‘but perish the man who raises his hand against our Guru.’ Most of us untouchables of Rikabganj had attached ourselves to the lotus feet of the Guru and begun to call ourselves the Sikhs of Nanak. No one had seen Nanak or the Gurus who came after him to save us. The badshah who had just died had killed our fifth Guru Arjun and put his son Hargobind in jail. So there was no reason for us to beat our breasts on this badshah’s death.

If there was a death in our family we did not light lamps at Diwali or squirt coloured water at Holi for at least one year. But the Mussalmans have strange customs. Three full moons after the death of the Badshah a fellow came from the city
kotwali
and began to beat his drum in front of the mosque. When everyone had collected he shouted: ‘All you people listen to the order of the new badshah.’ Then he gave his name which was as long as the road from Rikabganj to Paharganj— His Majesty Abul Muzaffar Shahabuddin Mohammed Sahib-i-Qiran Sani, Shadow of God on Earth, King of Kings, Monarch of the Universe, Emperor of Hindustan. He told us that we were to light our homes and pray for his long life.

We untouchables had no oil to light our homes and we had no temples to go to say our prayers. So we decided to see how others lit their homes and prayed for the new badshah’s long life.

My mother gave me a clean shirt to wear. Everyone wore their best clothes. The sweepers and cobblers of Rikabganj formed a party. The men in front danced to the beat of the drum; women followed singing as they went along. I took hold of Uncle Reloo’s hand. He was more fun to be with than
Bapu
. Aunt Bimbo was happy. ‘You stick to your
chacha
and don’t let him drink or get into mischief,’ she said.

We drank lots of
sherbet
which was served free outside
nawabs
’ mansions and we ate lots of sweetmeats which were also given free by rich tradesmen. My
Bapu
did not give me any money but I got a handful of coins in the scramble when a
nawab
showered them from his elephant.

The new badshah who called himself Shah Jahan or King of the World was not as
zalim
as his father had been. Although he had killed his brothers’ families when he came on the throne, he did not hurt any one else. But Uncle Reloo who knew everything told me that like his father, grandfather and great-grandfather and others before them, this badshah also liked women. His favourite was a queen whom he kept pregnant from the day he married her. In the fourteen years they were married she had fourteen sons and daughters. She couldn’t take any more and died giving birth to her fourteenth child. The badshah was so sad that he decided to make the biggest and most beautiful grave over her body. This was very good news for the stonemasons of Paharganj. They moved to Agra. It took over twenty years to make. People who came from Agra said it was higher than our Qutub Minar and much more beautiful than the tomb of Badshah Humayun at Arab-ki-Sarai. One day Aunt Bimbo asked Uncle Reloo: ‘When I die, will you make a Taj Mahal for me?’ He replied: ‘You die first, we’ll talk about a Taj Mahal for you afterwards.’

Some years after he became king, this badshah, Shah Jahan, came to Dilli. He liked our city very much and said: ‘I am going to live here.’ He sent for his chief builder, Mukarram Khan, and told him: ‘Make a big fort along the river Jamna, and inside that fort make palaces for myself and my queens. I also want the biggest mosque in the world.’ Mukarram Khan bowed three times before the badshah and replied: ‘Badshah, peace be upon you! If Allah wills I will build you as big a fort as at Agra with as many canals and gardens and fountains. You will also have the world’s biggest and most beautiful mosque. I will build it on Bhojla Hill so it can be seen from Palam and Qutub.’ Then Mukarram Khan asked Ustad Ahmed and Ustad Hira to make maps. When that was done he asked the badshah to come to Dilli. ‘Badshah, peace be upon you! Now put down the foundation stone, so we can get on with work.’

What years they were! Everyone got work. We gave up skinning dead cows and buffaloes and carrying other people’s shit. Lakhi Rai got a contract to supply labour. As I was now old enough, he gave me a job to carry mud and stones.

Dilli began to change. Every day a new building! Every day the city wall rising higher! Every day new minarets and domes rising into the sky! And so it went for many years. When the work was finished we had nine days of
tamasha
. Princes showered silver coins on the crowds. The badshah rode through the city on his biggest elephant and scattered gold coins by the palmful. His courtiers said, ‘We won’t call “Dilli” “Dilli” any more. We will rename it Shahjahanabad.’ But Dilli is Dilli and no king or nobleman can give it another name.

When a person is busy making money he forgets his God. As soon as he has made ninety-nine rupees he wants to make a hundred. For the years I was working in the city I hardly ever thought of my Guru. When my
Bapu
died and I became the head of the family, the Guru’s agent sent for me. I went along with the messenger to the agent’s camp. He reclined against a big pillow set on a big
charpoy
. I thought he was the Guru himself and so I went down on my knees and rubbed my forehead on the ground in front of him.

‘Who are you?’ he asked me.

‘I am Jaita Rangreta of Rikabganj,’ I replied.

‘Are you a Sikh of Guru Nanak?’ he asked.

I told him I was what my
Bapu
had been.

‘You paid nothing for your father’s soul nor on the accession of the new Guru,’ he said.

I replied that I had no money left as I had to feast all the Rangretas in Rikabganj on my
Bapu’s
death. His servant smacked me on the back of my neck and exclaimed angrily. ‘You argue with the Guru’s agent!’ I had to borrow money from Lakhi Rai to pay him. I said to myself, ‘At least I am something—a Sikh of Guru Nanak. I do not know what it means but it is better than being nothing but a Rangreta untouchable.’ Thereafter every year I had to give this agent of the Guru something when he came to Dilli. Although he never allowed me to go near him or even touched my money with his own hands (his servants did that) I felt different. I was told that the new Guru did not like people to cut their hair or their beards. So I let the hair on my head grow long and wrapped a turban over it. I had quite a growth of beard on my face. The Mussalmans did not allow Hindus to wear beards but they did not bother us untouchables. We bearded Rangretas began to look different from other untouchables. And although after the building of Dilli was over I had to become a sweeper again, if anyone asked me who I was I would reply: ‘I am a Sikh of Guru Nanak.’

For some years after the building of Shahjahanabad, the badshah liked Dilli more than Agra. Then he began to like Agra more than Dilli. His visits to our city became less and less frequent. Tradesmen and artisans began to move back to Agra. People began to say that very soon Shahjahanabad would become like the other old cities of Dilli: Mehrauli, Siri, Chiragh, Tughlakabad, Kotla Firozeshah and Kilokheri, the abode of Gujars, jackals, hyaenas and the owls.

I did not earn very much sweeping drains and cleaning latrines and had to borrow money from the Bania and Lakhi Rai. I had to pay interest on their money and when I was unable to do that, they refused to lend me any more. Because of this I was forced to take employment in the executioner’s yard attached to the
kotwali
in Chandni Chowk. This was really dirty work: first I had to get used to seeing a man’s head being hacked off; then see his arms and legs cut off. After this had happened it was my job to put the pieces together and lay them out for the people to see. As I worked I could hear the onlookers avoiding me as if I were a murderer. Every evening there were at least three to four unclaimed corpses to be carted off and dumped in the river or on the garbage mound. What will man not do to fill his belly!

As I said before, I did not like this work. I did not like to shout
dom, dom
whenever I went out with the cartload of corpses. I did not like people covering their children’s eyes against me and blocking their nostrils against the smelly load I carried. Even the sentries at the city gates would draw aside to let me pass. I used to console myself by recalling my
Bapu’s
words: ‘Son, only two people can pass through the gates of Shahjahanabad without being questioned: the King and the untouchable!’

It was on one of his visits to Dilli that Badshah Shah Jahan was taken ill. They tried to keep it secret but within a few hours everyone knew about the sultan’s ailment mainly through the badshah’s doctor who was a gossip. This is how it happened. The badshah had got up at night and complained of pain in his belly. The queen had sent for the
hakeem
who lived in Ballimaran. The
hakeem
told many people of having had no sleep because he had to stay up all night with a patient whose name he could not disclose—which is how news of the badshah’s ailment spread.

When I came to work one of the
doms
shouted ‘
Chhuttee
!’ (holiday). ‘Orders from the palace, no executions today.’ Executions were only stopped on religious holidays or if the king or one of his queens or their princes was ill and desired to earn merit and good health. By the time the sun had risen over the walls of Red Fort people were gathering in groups and speaking in whispers. Butchers were forbidden to slaughter animals;
mullahs
were ordered to pray to Allah to restore the king to good health; priests were ordered to clang their temple bells. Shops closed. People hurried to their homes and barricaded their doors. At night they dug holes under their hearths to bury their gold and silver.

The king it turned out was constipated. The
hakeem
gave him a purgative made of laburnum pods. For two days and nights the king emptied his bowels till there was nothing left in them and he started shitting blood. But big people’s illnesses are always made to sound big. The simple shutting and opening of the royal arse-hole was made to sound as if the world was coming to an end. At first he was said to be dying of constipation; then he was said to be dying of dysentery.

My
Bapu
used to say that when a father hiccups his sons go for his purse. That was certainly true about the badshah’s four sons. No sooner had they heard of their old man’s illness than their hands were on the hilts of their swords. But they wanted to make sure he was really dying before they drew them. So they sent messengers to Dilli with gifts for their father. The old fellow knew these tricks as he had tried them in his own time. He seated himself at the window of his palace so that the crowd could see him. He had prayers of thanksgiving said in the mosques. However, his sons were not fooled and started raising armies to march to Agra and Dilli. The badshah decided to get to Agra and sit on his throne before one of his boys got to it. Despite this, one after another his sons proclaimed themselves kings of Hindustan. First, Shuja who was in Bangladesh from where the sun rises put a crown on his head and said: ’I am King of Hindustan.’ A few days later Murad, who was somewhere in the south, sat himself on a throne and said: ‘I am King of Hindustan.’ Aurangzeb was more clever. He went to Murad and told him: ‘Let me help you to defeat our brothers. Then we will lock up our old man who is now too feeble to rule and you can become King of Hindustan. I will then go off to Mecca and pray for you.’ Dara who was the badshah’s eldest and the favourite son was incensed at the behaviour of his brothers. He said, ‘My father is King of Hindustan. After him, I will be King of Hindustan because I am his eldest son. Shuja, Murad and Aurangzeb are bastards. I will kill them.’

We were not sure which of the sons would make the best king. The contractor Lakhi Rai was in favour of Dara. ‘He is the eldest and the eldest son always succeeds his father. Besides he is god-fearing and treats Hindus and Muslims alike,’ he said. The Muslims did not like Dara. They said he was a
kafir
because he made the stone gods of the Hindus equal to Allah and His Prophet. Their favourite was the third son Aurangzeb.