When she saw something in her husband’s hand

Something limy, hanging like the lower lip of a hungry man . . .

My ministrations will rouse one asleep but not a corpse.

I was really gussa. ‘What is this buk buk your husband is saying?’ I demanded of his wife. Jawan Bakht tried to be very clever. It did not occur to the fool that I could understand Persian. ‘Aldwell memsahib, this is poetry in praise of youth and beauty,’ he replied with a smirk on his face. ‘You have no cause to be angry. Regarding an angry woman, the same poet, the peerless Saadi, has said . . .’ And he quoted in Persian:

A woman who rises unsatisfied from her bed

Will quarrel and contend with her man

An old man who cannot rise without the aid of a stick

How can his own stick rise?

‘I know exactly what it means,’ I cut him short in Persian. ‘You should be ashamed of yourself. Shall I tell your mother what you have been saying?’ You should have seen the fellow’s face! Yellow as a dry banana-leaf. And squirming like a worm on the hook. His mother turned to me and asked: ‘What are you two quarrelling about?’ ‘You ask your son, Your Majesty,’ I replied.

I left Jawan Bakht’s group and went across the room to speak to one of the girls who had been trying to catch my eye. She wanted to try out the words of English she had learnt. Jawan Bakht also quickly turned away and began to talk to Mrs Scully. I don’t know what he said to her but she suddenly stood up and spoke to Mrs Flemming: ‘Mother do you hear what this young rascal is saying? He says that he will soon have the English under his feet, after that he will kill all Hindus.’ Mrs Flemming was old and very blunt.

‘Did you say that, Jawan Bakht?’ she demanded angrily.

The queen looked very angrily at her son. Jawan Bakht grinned like a monkey with red teeth. ‘I was only joking,’ he replied.

‘What kind of jokes have you been learning lately?’ asked Mrs Flemming. ‘First you are rude to a lady (meaning me) and then to the English race! If there is any trouble in Hindustan, you will be the first to have your head taken off your shoulders.’

‘La haul valla quwwat!’ chanted the maidservants. Queen Zeenat Mahal’s face was flushed with embarrassment. Everyone knew that she had been knocking at the doors of the sahibs wanting them to proclaim Jawan Bakht as the next king of Delhi. And there he was pouring cold water on her hopes, ‘What kind of ill-mannered talk is this? You must apologize at once,’ she said very firmly.

‘Amma Jan!’ whined the lout, ‘I was only saying that there are rumours afloat that the Persians are going to invade Hindustan. And like Nadir Shah a hundred years ago, they will massacre the infidels. Amma Jan, you know very well that I would give my life to protect the lives of the European ladies of Delhi.’