We ordered that all that had been taken from the city should be loaded on elephants, camels and asses and preparations made for our return to Iran. We made arrangements for the administration of the country. We attached the four subahs beyond the Indus to our empire but the rest we left to Mohammed Shah and Nizam-ul-Mulk. The king was simple and pleasure-loving; the minister cunning and ambitious. If the arrangement did not work, we would have the right to annex the country.

On Saturday, 5 May 1739, we left the capital city of the Mughals. There were only two people with whom we left some of our heart. One was the sharp-tongued Hakeem Alavi Khan and the other the saucy Noor Bai. An Emperor my command anything within his empire except an honest man and a woman’s heart. We could have forced both to accompany us but we knew that the old man would not be able to make the journey and Noor Bai would have cried all the time. We realized that we could take her body with us, but her heart would remain behind in Delhi. And what is a woman’s body worth if her heart not be in it!

We loaded the hakeem with presents and gave Noor Bai her weight in gold and bade them and the city of Delhi farewell.

Bhagmati

Bhagmati has just left. I suspect she was not happy with the previous night’s love-making. But what am I to do? I am old now. I feel morose. The phone rings. The Tughlak Road police station on the line. ‘Am I speaking to Budh Singh’s employer?’

‘Well, sort of, he is chowkidar of the entire block, I pay him a little extra to keep an eye on my flat. What’s the matter? Has he been run over; accident-shaksidant?’

‘No, he has been molesting women.’

I can believe anything about Budh Singh, but not molesting women. There must be some mistake. If the poor fellow has named me as his employer, I must not let him down. I drive to the police station.

Budh Singh is sitting on the floor of the verandah chained to a policeman who is seated on a chair chewing a betel-leaf. Neither of them take the slightest notice of me. I bend down and ask Budh Singh to tell me what happened. He glowers at me without saying anything. I plead with him to tell me what transpired so I can get him out on bail. ‘He’s mad,’ says the policeman spitting betel phlegm on the floor. Budh Singh slowly turns his head, fixes the constable with a baleful look and mutters: ‘You mad! Your mother mad; your sister mad. Who are you to call me mad? Bahinchod!’

‘I told you he is mad,’ says the constable calmly chewing the cud. ‘No use talking to him. Go inside and speak to the inspector sahib.’