Fleeing from the apparition of my city past, I stumble upon the entwined D and embark upon the journey of the Last Mughal, through the revolt and annihilation that transformed the city into the graveyard as it exists today. Dalrymple laments on the vengeance wrecked by his fellow countrymen on the city and its denizens through mass killings and destruction. They wiped off the Muslim population, razed several historical monuments to the ground. The emperor of the dynasty that had ruled India for 332 years was sealed by his exile to Rangoon where he died in 1862, but an epitaph was added to his grave only in 1907 followed by strong media protests.
Ghalib, the only poet surviving the revolt, died in 1869, the year when Gandhi was born in Porbandar.
“How transient seems this life, when one sees a man so quickly part with it: few moments and the animated body has separated from that spirit which has gone to appear before its maker.”
Speaking of transience, during rains millions of insects are born out of thin air, flocking the light at night but by morning only their wings flying about are left as vestiges of their existence!!