We questioned Mohammed Shah. He told us that the throne had been broken up nineteen years earlier and that he had never seen the Koh-i-Noor. Saadath Khan had however told us that the Koh-i-Noor was in the possession of Mohammed Shah. Instead of wearing it on his arm, as was the custom of his predecessors, he hid it in the folds of his turban. We planned a stratagem by which we would acquire this diamond without betraying our desire to have it.

We assembled a darbar where all the Indian omarah and our Iranian generals were present. First we explained to Mohammed Shah the duties of a king. Then we escorted him to the marble seat of his ancestors and beckoned to one of our servants to bring a crown we had ordered to be prepared for the occasion. We removed Mohammed Shah’s turban and placed the crown on his head.

‘May Allah grant you prosperity and long life!’ we said. The courtiers applauded. We noticed that Mohammed Shah’s eyes hovered round the turban which now lay between us. The speech he made in response seemed as much addressed to us as to his headgear. He said he looked upon us as his elder brother. That made our task easier. As he sat down we rose to our feet and said that we were given to understand that in Hindustan it was customary for men who pledged fraternal friendship towards each other to exchange turbans. We removed the crown from his head and placed our turban in its stead. We bowed our head for him to do likewise. The poor fellow did as he was told. He gave us the Koh-i-Noor with his own hands. We embraced him and dismissed the court.

The diamond was indeed in the folds of his turban. It was the size of a hawk’s egg and so brilliant that it seemed to have captured soul of the sun in its breast. We made no secret of having acquired it and wore it on our right arm.

By the end of April the sun’s rays had become like tongues of flame from the fires of gehennum. Our body was covered with prickly heat and despite Hakeem Alavi Khan’s sherbets we lost appetite for food and female company. ‘Delhi is not the place for you,’ said the old hakeem to us. ‘Ameen,’ we replied. ‘A day in Isphahan is worth a lifetime in your country.’

We spoke truly, for though we had heard so much in praise of Delhi there was little that pleased us about it. We did not like the people or their manners; we did not like their food or their wines. Their watermelons were without flavour and produced wind in our stomach. The mango which had been lauded so much we found too sweet for our taste; besides it soiled our hands and beard. And Delhi’s climate produced only laziness, prickly heat and bad temper.