{"id":29001,"date":"2002-11-13T20:02:00","date_gmt":"2002-11-13T22:02:00","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/localhost\/WP-IMPORT\/?p=613"},"modified":"2002-11-13T20:02:00","modified_gmt":"2002-11-13T22:02:00","slug":"the-fountain-in-the-moonlight-square-2","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.vicsocotra.com\/wordpress\/the-fountain-in-the-moonlight-square-2\/","title":{"rendered":"The Fountain in the Moonlight Square"},"content":{"rendered":"

\n

\n

The Fountain in the Moonlight Square<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

One year ago the Taliban quit Kabul, heading south before the forces of<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

the Northern Alliance and American Special Forces. Tonight Virginia will<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

execute Mir Amal Kazi, the Pakistani who gunned down five CIA employees<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

as they waited at the red light on Route 123 outside the main gate. Last<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

month I found myself in Delhi, at the end of the Great Northern Trunk<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

Road that leads from Pakistan to the town the British made capital of<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

all India. Many people have come down that road to this town, some<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

angry, many with the determination to leave their mark on this place.<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

The Mughals came from that direction. Kabul is only a couple hundred<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

clicks upslope.\u00a0 <\/span>They say there are seven cities of Dehli, eight, if you<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

count the one we were standing in, left behind when the Colonialists<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

decamped.<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

The Lahore Gate of the Lal Qila- the Delhi Red Fort- is part of the<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

seventh city of Delhi, and we were in front of it. It is an imposing<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

structure, rising out of red sandstone walls with turrets and flagpoles.<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

The Mughuls designed it to impress, to intimidate. The Brits tinkered<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

with it, but as with so many things here, they adopted the best and<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

gilded the lily. The Fort is part of the seventh of the eight cities<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

that have sequentially occupied this plain by the Yamuna River. The gate<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

issues out into the great teeming bazaar of Chandni Chowk. In Hindi it<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

means “the moonlit silvery square,” and it was, once. I don’t know what<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

phase the moon is in today, but is not shining on\u00a0 <\/span>Chandni now. It is a<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

mess, and we were headed into it on the back of bicycle rickshaws.<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

This is supposed to be one of the great adventures in this incarnation<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

of an ancient city. I held my breath as we crossed Netaji Subhash Marg,<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

the chaotic boulevard that fronts the dry moat before the Red Fort. The<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

sky was bright blue and the air was alive with sound and smell. I was<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

jet lagged and my nerves were rubbed raw by the near misses.<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

Let me fix you in time, here amidst the confusion and bus fumes. Hold<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

your breath with me. I will try to stitch this together in a single<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

paragraph. <\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

The Aryan tribes who lived by the river adopted Hinduism and ruled the<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

original inhabitants who have lived here since at least 2500BC. They<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

left some of the great epics of Hindu literature, the gitas of Ramayama<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

and the Mahahharata , forming\u00a0 <\/span>the cultural bedrock of India. In the<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

first and second centuries this was the center of a great Buddhist<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

empire, ruled from what is now Pakistan. They left behind the gigantic<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

Buddhas in Afghanistan that the Taliban blew up before the world changed<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

last year. The Buddhists were supplanted by the Rajputs, some of their<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

forts surviving, and their brand of Hinduism was in turn influenced by<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

the bhakti movement, stressing the need for a personal god. The Krishna<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

cult answered the call in the 13th century, just in time for the Rajputs<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

to be overwhelmed by the sword of\u00a0 <\/span>Islam arriving from the hills of the<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

north. That would be 1192, when Qutbuddin Aibak established his Islamic<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

kingdom on the great plain. In the 1500s the Mughals arrived, and three<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

hundred years of Indo-Islamic fusion began. The Mughal Emperors brought<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

spectacle and majesty and a sort of peace and a sort of tranquility to<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

the ancient land. There was a flowering of architecture and art and<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

Hindu temples were ripped down to build the glittering mosques. The<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

Peacock throne stood above the audience yard of the Red Fort and the<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

Mughal Emperor was serene, ruler of all the world. Decorations on this<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

ceiling came from Italy and supplicants on his audience floor came from<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

all across the sub-continent. <\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

There is more, of course, but I have but one breath to tell it. The last<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

of the Mughals was Bahadur Shah Zafar. The glory that had been the Red<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

Fort had faded. The old Shah was a puppet, propped up by the East India<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

Company. Bahadar enjoyed his poetry, and his Pearl Mosque, and the River<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

of Paradise that divided the Imperial apartment, and the remembrance of<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

things that had been. <\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

The Red Fort was at our back as we plunged into the Chandni Chowk.<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

People swarm as dense as bugs here. The Chandni Chowk was once the royal<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

shopping arcade, serving the Emperor on his Peacock Throne, and his<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

wives and his court. It had a canal down the middle and was bordered<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

with decorative trees and grand residences were sheltered by the trees.<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

It was laid out in 1648 by Jahanara Begum, Shah Jahan’s favorite<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

daughter. The Shah drew a lot of water here, and accordingly his Delhi<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

was named Shahjahanabad. There is a print of the scene as it looked<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

before the Mutiny hanging on a first-floor wall of the Imperial Hotel.<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

It is tranquil and serene, colors muted in the old watercolor. The last<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

Mughal Emperor was Bahadur Shah Zafar, wh left here in 1858. I’ll get<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

back to him in a moment. Many of the buildings remain, though the fronts<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

are shabby shops and the sidewalks occupied with peddlers and trash. The<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

trees and the canal are long gone. It is most definitely not elegant<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

this morning, as we proceed up the mobbed street toward the twin spires<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

of the Fatehpuri Mosque. The crowd swirls around us: Sikhs in turbans,<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

Hindus in ties, Muslim tribesmen from the hills, Tibetans and dark<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

southerners, all part of the rich mosaic of the crossroads of Northern<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

India.<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

It is hard to imagine it as it was amidst all the confusion. This day is<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

sunny, not blazing hot, nice for October in the north of the<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

Sub-continent. My pedal rickshaw is following in loose convoy behind my<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

associates. We successfully crossed had set out from the Lahore Gate<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

where the Prime Minister addresses the crowds on New Year’s Day. On this<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

day, with the Hindu festival of lights coming hard upon us, there is a<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

frenzy of shopping. A faux Taj Mahal was erected in the forecourt of the<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

Red Fort. I thought we looked ridiculous perched in he rickshaws,<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

sitting up tall, needing only pith helmets to complete the picture of<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

complacent Westerners. I was surprised. We rarely got a glance.<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

Our drivers stopped unbidden at the beginning of the block. Only one of<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

the drivers spoke decent enough English to communicate with us. We<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

visited the famous Jain bird hospital, located in a temple where we had<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

to remove our shoes We were ushered into the precincts of the temple and<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

up the narrow stairs into the hospital where thousands of birds were<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

held in cages. Our shoes were outside and we walked the galleries in<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

stocking feet, the floors semi-clean. It was weird and impressive and<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

the air was close. We watched the surgeon bandage the wing of a wounded<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

sparrow. Hawks were there, and songbirds, and thousands of injured<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

pigeons. Mostly injured in collisions with ceiling fans, the attendants<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

told us. I burned the socks later.<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

One of the tenets of the Jain faith is a concern for all living beings,<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

so they did not leave empires and forts behind them, only temples. I<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

talked to our Nepalese interlocutor as we walked back toward the<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

rickshaws. His American ball cap was pulled down tight over his<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

impassive face. I asked him if he had heard of the Bob Segar song “I<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

think I’m going to Kathmandu” and he said he had. Then back in the<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

rickshaws and up the main drag past the Svetambara Jain Temple on the<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

left and the cinema to the right, equally worthy of note. My driver was<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

dark and wiry and he would gesture and speak unintelligibly over his<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

shoulder. I rarely could understand what he said, but I had read the<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

guidebook and had a general idea of what he was pointing out. He<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

gestured at the Sisganj Gurudwara temple on the left, where the ninth<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

Sikh guru was beheaded. From the roof of a nearby mosque in 1739 the<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

Persian Chief Nadir Shah watched his men slaughter nearly 30,000<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

residents of this district.<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

My guide did not note the vast cream-colored colonial Town Hall on the<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

right, or the bronze statue of the fakir who had sat in a chair in front<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

of it for thirty years. He did not note the police station on the<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

teeming square, nor mention the iron Victorian-era fountain that stands<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

in the middle of it. Once it had the filigree of the age in relief,<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

stolid black. Now it is painted a garish bright-blue-and-white in<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

vertical alternating stripes. The fountain is special, insignificant in<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

this modern throng, but in its day had been the center of this world.<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

The man who made it so was Major W.S.R. Hodson. There are at least two<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

versions of him. One is a sepia-toned\u00a0 <\/span>Victorian portrait of an earnest<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

and heroic English gentleman, striving to do his best in unsettled and<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

dangerous times. The etchings of the time show him in crisp khakis under<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

a solar topee, insulated against the blazing sun. That is also the<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

Hodson depicted on his tomb at Litchfield Cathedral in green England. He<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

is among the pantheon of Empire heroes, darling of the penny press, the<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

agent of muscular Western civilization among the unwashed heathens.<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

Hodson made the garish fountain in the moonlight square the center of a<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

world and the beginning of a unified India. The Hodson I was thinking of<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

had a different aspect, a manifestation of fury in soiled wrinkled<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

uniform. This Hodson wore a fez as red as the rims of his eyes, fatigued<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

from the wild ride down the Great Trunk road to Delhi with General<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

Nicholson. The rickshaw kept moving without comment.<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

I twisted to look back at the fountain as we kept moving up the crowded<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

street, jammed in a mass of rickshaws, a moving heaving throng, and up<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

to the great mosque that guards the end of the street. We dismounted and<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

followed our guide under the awnings and along the narrow sidewalks of<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

the Khari Baoli, the largest spice market in Asia. Goods spilled out<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

into the street and vendors ground crimson betel to a paste and red<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

splotches marked the expectorant on the street. Everywhere there was<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

motion and I kept my camera pressed to my side, trying not to lose track<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

of my companions. We darted into a dark stairwell and began to wheeze<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

from the pungent scent of cardamom and chilies and cumin and ginger all<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

ground into fine powder. Men were coming and going in the darkness with<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

great bags of saffron and on their shoulders.<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

Coughing and wheezing in the dark, the smell of the spice was an<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

oppressive physical presence. Our guides gestured us up narrow stairs<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

and it became black, claustrophobic. I was thinking this was unwise,<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

suddenly remembering the war too near. Richard Perle was grabbed like<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

this, I thought. Maybe this was a set-up? Part of a general uprising<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

against the West? Suddenly we emerged on a balcony over the courtyard,<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

looking down at the panorama of commerce, spices drying on flat roofs,<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

people bathing and cooking, life happening all around and on each level.<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

Then three more narrow staircases and we were on the roof. Our guide<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

said the building was two hundred years old. Great dented aluminum<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

kettles stood on propane rings in rooms with open walls, kitchens for<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

the workers below. Trash and plates littered the surface. The view over<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

the parapet was extraordinary. I looked down on the river of humanity<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

surging from the Red Fort up into the market district, coursing through<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

the narrow streets like blood through an artery.<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

The roof where we stood was fifty years old when the Sepoys, the East<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

India company soldiers, rose against their masters. The official<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

commencement is enshrined as the 10th of May, 1857, but unrest had been<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

simmering even before the Company deposed the Nawab and annexed the<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

province of Oudh the year before. Strange portents were observed in the<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

country. Chupatis, small loaves of unleavened bread, were sent from<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

village to village in the night. People began to talk of a rising<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

against the English. The ostensible reason for he Mutiny was the<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

introduction of the sealed cartridge for the new Enfield rifle. Muslims<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

told one another that the cartridges were waterproofed with pork-fat.<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

Hindus whispered that it was beef tallow. The cartridge was a plot to<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

defile their faith or break their caste. The British, focused inward on<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

life in their cantonments, were blissfully unaware.<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

When the storm broke, was terrible in its fury. The Sepoys killed the<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

Europeans they found, and surrounded those fast enough to get to their<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

weapons. Rebels swarmed into the Mughal capital and entreated the<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

Emperor to lead them against the Company. Bahadur reluctantly agreed.<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

Delhi rose, and part of the fa\u00ef\u00bf\u00bdade of the Delhi magazine is preserved in<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

the median of bustling Lothian Road. The British blew it up as they fled<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

the city. The telegraphers signaled the revolt from a position just to<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

the north, near the old General Post Office. The women and children of<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

the garrison fled up the Ridge, and waited for relief that never came.<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

Other settlements overrun or surrounded.\u00a0 <\/span>It was summer in north India.<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

At the Residence Lucknow, the beleaguered Europeans endured temperatures<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

that soared to 130 degrees. The epic of that siege is captured in<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

Imperial legend and on etchings hanging on the second floor of the<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

Imperial Hotel. The garrison at Cawnpore did not hold out. The men, all<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

but three, were killed in the river and the women and children chopped<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

up by Hallal butchers and thrown down a well.<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

The Indian Government has been remarkably good about the destruction of<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

the monuments of the Raj. But they made an exception about the Well at<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

Cawnpore.\u00a0 <\/span>After Independence the marble angel upon it was quietly<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

removed, and the Well paved over without a trace.<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

Most of the subcontinent did not rise, but the nearest garrisons<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

remaining in British hands were far to the northwest, toward Lahore.<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

Thirty-five-year-old General John Nicholson organized the Punjab Relief<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

Column and they swept down the Great Trunk Road at twenty-seven miles a<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

day. They came ferocious and angry, and the wild-eyed Calvary swept up<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

the street below me past the Chandni Chowk fountain to the elaborate<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

Lahore Gate. They found it unguarded. Only a few Sepoys remained within<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

the precincts of the Fort and they killed them in a perfunctory manner.<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

That night the officers dined in the Diwan-i-Khas, the enclosure of the<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

Peacock Throne.<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

The Relief Column joined with the troops who remained on the Ridge north<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

of the City. A week of fighting crushed the rebels and the British were<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

triumphant. General Nicholson was killed in the moment of his triumph at<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

the Kashmir Gate, near St James Church, the oldest in Delhi. Hodson was<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

empowered as intelligence chief. His task was to find Bahadur Shah Zafar<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

and bring him into Her Majesty’s custody.<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

Humanyun’s Tomb was where the old Emperor was hiding. It is a mile or so<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

south of the Red Fort, also on the river. I could almost make it out<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

from the roof of the Khari Baoli.\u00a0 <\/span>It is hard to call the place a<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

“tomb,” rather it is a complex of them under one roof. It was<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

commissioned five hundred years ago by Humanyan’s senior wife, who<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

wished to suitably memorialize the second Mughal Emperor. It was<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

designed by the Persian architect Mirak Mirza Ghiyas. The graceful dome<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

of the mausoleum is the model from which several more were built,<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

including the magnificent Taj Mahal. The number of royals interred in<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

the complex has earned the Tomb the nickname of :The dormitory of the<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

house of Timur.” Even the Emperor’s barber has a place of rest. It is an<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

extraordinary structure, cool marble, with intricately carved trellis<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

work. <\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

When they discovered where the Emperor had gone, Hodson took fifty of<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

his wild horsemen, all in a motly of sashes and cummerbunds and turbans,<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

beards and sabers and tall boots. They\u00a0 <\/span>rode pell-mell through the<\/p>\n

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streets, heedless of the refugees and the bullock carts attempting to<\/p>\n

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flee the violence. They pulled up in the forecourt of the garden tomb, <\/p>\n

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hooves clattering and the horses breathing hard. <\/p>\n

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\u00a0<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

Jan Morris describes the scene like this: “One can almost see now in the<\/p>\n

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great dusty square, half an Englishman, half a Sikh, dusty, lithe,<\/p>\n

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ardent, dressed in the haphazard flamboyance dear to irregular<\/p>\n

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cavalrymen down the centuries, the son of the Archdeacon of Lichfield<\/p>\n

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awaiting the submission of the last of the Mughals.”<\/p>\n

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\u00a0<\/p>\n

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Hodson had sworn not to kill the Emperor, thought he did tell the old<\/p>\n

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man on his palanquin that if there was a rescue attempt he would be shot<\/p>\n

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down like a dog. He was as good as his word on that. After all, Bahadur<\/p>\n

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had only been lapdog of the East India Company, then a symbolic<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

lightning rod for the rebels. Hodson had the emaciated Emperor borne<\/p>\n

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through the Chandni Chowk to the Lahore Gate. The British held him with<\/p>\n

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part of his harem in a small cell in the Red Fort, and for months after<\/p>\n

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the last Mughal was a popular tourist attraction. He died a few years<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

later, exiled to Burma. <\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

Hodson had made no promise to preserve the dynasty. He returned to the<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

tomb the next day and arrested Bahadur’s heirs, two handsome young men<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

who represented the future of the Mughals. On their way to the Red Fort,<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

Hodson ordered them from their cart and stripped to their loincloths. He<\/p>\n

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then borrowed a carbine from one of his men, and with great display<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

before the crowd in the Chandni Chowk, personally shot them dead.. The<\/p>\n

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corpses were dragged to the Silvery Moonlight Square and placed on<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

display on the fountain. Morris says they remained there until the<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

stench was too overpowering and they were buried in the interest of the<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

public health.<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

Copyright 2002 Vic Socotra<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

Notes on Hodson assisted by: <\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

Jan Morris, An Imperial Procession, Vol 1, “Heavens Command”<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

Hodson-Pressinger, Selwyn, ‘Hodson’s Memorial in Lichfield Cathedral’,<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

Journal of the Society for Army Historical Research, LXXX, no. 321,<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

Spring 2002, pp. 70-2. <\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

Short note (with one illus.) on the monument (designed by G.E. Street)<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

to Major W.S.R Hodson of Hodson’s Horse (d. 1858) following its recent<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

restoration at the expense of the Hodson Horse Officers’ Association.<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

Flanking the monument and added some years later are lances from the<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

10th Bengal Lancers (Hodson’s Horse) and the Queen’s Own Corps of<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

Guides, and in 1946 the Lucknow Residency Union Jack was added.<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

The Fountain in the Moonlight Square \u00a0 One year ago the Taliban quit Kabul, heading south before the forces of the Northern Alliance and American Special Forces. Tonight Virginia will execute Mir Amal Kazi, the Pakistani who gunned down five CIA employees as they waited at the red light on Route 123 outside the main […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[8],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-29001","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-daily-socotra"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.vicsocotra.com\/wordpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/29001","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.vicsocotra.com\/wordpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.vicsocotra.com\/wordpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.vicsocotra.com\/wordpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/2"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.vicsocotra.com\/wordpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=29001"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/www.vicsocotra.com\/wordpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/29001\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.vicsocotra.com\/wordpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=29001"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.vicsocotra.com\/wordpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=29001"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.vicsocotra.com\/wordpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=29001"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}