For ten long years I went from one city to another like a homeless wanderer. When Shah Alain II returned to Delhi I also decided to return and resume my quest for fame and fortune. I pinned my hopes on Mirza Najaf Khan, the Chief Wazir, who being Iranian was Shiite, a faith with which, because of my mother, I had a close affinity. Mirza was a veritable Zulfiqaruddaulah—master of the sword. He had freed Agra from the Jats and had beaten back Sikh brigands and Rohilla freebooters. Even the Marathas were afraid of measuring swords with him. Would Allah keep his sabre ever victorious?

That, as it turned out, was not Allah’s will. In April 1782 Mirza Najaf Khan died and was buried in a garden facing the mausoleum of Nawab Safdar Jang. The bloodstained dagger of destruction was once again pulled out of its scabbard. Najaf Khan’s nephew, Mirza Shafi, wrested power from the hands of Mirza Afrasiab, the dead ruler’s adopted son. In September 1783 Mirza Shafi was murdered by an assassin hired by Afrasiab. And a few months later Afrasiab was slain by the brother of Mirza Shafi. Not a day passed without someone murdering someone else. No one was safe.

Hunger and insecurity drove me from my beloved city to Lucknow. Here Nawab Asafuddaulah received me kindly and fixed a stipend for the upkeep of my family. However, the Lucknowis, who prided themselves on their etiquette and polished speech, displayed neither towards me. At the first mehfil which I attended, they looked disdainfully at my large turban, my loose-fitting clothes and asked me where on earth I had come from. When the candle was placed before me I gave them a befitting reply:

You men of these eastern region
Knowing my beggarly state you mock me;
You snigger amongst yourselves and ask me;
Where on earth can you have come from?
Let me tell you!
There once was a fair city,
Among cities of the world the first in fame;
It hath been ruined and laid desolate,
To that city I belong, Delhi is its name.