Unlike the other servants in the Nawab’s employ, Kallu was not one to forage for leftovers, however delectable; he had too much self-respec...
Unlike the other servants in the Nawab’s employ, Kallu was not one to forage for leftovers, however delectable; he had too much self-respect for that. His sense of self was simple, earthy, and unyielding. He nodded to his wife in crusty gratitude; he knew it would be a long day, and that he would be hungry. He would eat the roti as he walked to the haveli. No food was available during the day at the haveli during Ramzan. Even Hindu employees like Ramji had no option but to fast, at least in public.
“Who was at the mushaira last night?” asked Ishrat, as Kallu got ready to leave.
“Well, Shahenshah Zafar sent a poem, but he rarely attends any mushairas that are not held at the Red Fort. His older son, Mirza Fakhru, used to do the sadaarat, the job of master of ceremonies, until he passed away last year. Maybe it was done by his other son, Mirza Mughal, or the Nawab himself,” he said. “Ah yes, Mir Anees and Mirza Dabeer came from Lucknow.”
Ishrat perked up. Of all the poets, she loved Anees and Dabeer, for they wrote the marsiyas of lamentation for Muharram. “Who else?” she asked eagerly. Kallu was...
