The sun came up bloody red and bloody hot. With the sun came the flies. Alec and the children went downstairs. I was near the staircase when I noticed a cloud of dust on the other side of the river. I stopped to see what it was: It was a party of horsemen galloping over the boat bridge, firing their carbines. ‘Alec, Alec,’ I shouted, ‘Come up and see!’ By the time Alec came back to the roof-top the horsemen had disappeared behind the fort. But another party followed. This lot rode along the wall towards Daryaganj. They saw us standing on the roof and yelled, ‘Maar dalo saley firangi ko—kill the bloody foreigners.’ They were in the Company’s uniforms.

We ran downstairs and had the gates of our bungalow shut.

The Last Emperor

There is a saying that when a sinner goes on fast Allah makes the day longer. So it seemed to us during the month of Ramadan of the year 1273 of our Prophet (Allah’s blessings on Him), corresponding to May 1857 of the era of Jesus the Healer (on Whom be peace). We did our best to observe the injunctions of Islam; but the flesh is weak and often bends the will to its satisfaction. And that year the holy month of fasting fell during the mango season. The best time to enjoy mangoes is between mid-morning and the afternoon. This was forbidden. So be it. If Allah wished to test our faith, we who are King would abjure the fruit which is king among the fruits of our land.

Of late it had been our habit to rise a watch before sunrise and sit on the balcony overlooking the river. We had issued instructions that no one was to disturb us till we had said our fajar prayer. This gave us three to four hours to be alone with ourselves. We used these hours for contemplation. We liked to sit wrapped in darkness and in silence; we liked to watch the light of the waning moon reflected in the Jamna; on moonless nights we liked to gaze into the black heaven with its myriad stars; we liked seeing the silvery brilliance of the morning star fade into the paling sky. We liked to see the sun come up noisily with the screaming of koels. The cool morning breeze never failed to rouse the melancholic muse of poetry in our breast. Sometimes we would light the taper and pen a couplet or two; at other moments we would allow the lines of a ghazal to turn into song in our mind. And there were mornings when we scanned lines sent to us by Zauq or Mirza Ghalib or one of the other poets of our city.