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unleavened bread made with milk and butter with saffron on top. There was quarma and zarda and a variety of kebabs; biryani, lentils and fried brinjal. Then there were the murabbas, pickles and chutneys – accompaniments to the main meal. For dessert there was rice pudding, sohan halwa, jalebi, imarti and other sweets. And of course, siwaiyaan, without which Eid would be incomplete. There were pieces of meat carved in the shape of birds and placed on platefuls of pulao – it seemed they were pecking at the grains of rice.
    Stealing another glance at Abba Huzoor, Salim was filled with a mixture of awe and pity. He was wearing a new brocade angharka, a heavy gold necklace, a pearl necklace and earrings. Salim could never bring himself to wear jewellery. Too much of a bother. Abba Huzoor, however, always made the most of such occasions. Perhaps it was to convince himself more than anybody else that he was the ruler of Avadh and not a mere puppet in the hands of the Company.
    Salim turned his attention to his little brothers, who were making big plans about their eidi.
    ‘I’m going to buy a hundred marbles,’ boasted little Jamaal.
    ‘I’m going to spend all my eidi on jalebi,’ Birjis Qadir announced as he stuffed his mouth with gulab jamun.
    ‘That’s my marble,’ little Salman wailed.
    ‘I was just looking at it,’ Jamaal retorted.
    Birjis Qadir clapped his hands loudly. A hush fell in the hall and all eyes turned to the little prince, including Abba Huzoor’s.
    ‘Jamaal, we order you to give back the marble to Salman,’ said Birjis Qadir, looking sternly at his cousin.
    Jamaal scowled as Salman yanked the marble out of his hand.
    Salim smiled. He patted Birjis Qadir’s head lovingly as he helped himself to another shami kebab. ‘I think you’re fit to be a king,’ he said to the little boy. Little did he know his prophesy would soon be fulfilled.
    Birjis grinned. He was eleven, the son of Begum Hazrat Mahal, Salim’s stepmother and a woman he openly admired.
    Salim turned towards the entrance as he heard everyone clapping and cheering. It was the head chef. He entered the hall with a flourish. He held a silver tray with the biggest pie Salim had ever seen. As soon as the pie was cut open, a host of little birds were revealed. There was a sudden cacophony of sounds in the hall – the astonished excited chatter of the children, the amused prattle of the grown-ups and the twitter and flutter of feathers, as the birds tried to fly away.
    Looking at all the happy faces, at the sumptuous banquet spread out before him, Salim sighed. Why did lavish preparations like this make him feel as though he was living on borrowed time?

    Salim slouched over Afreen as he and Ahmed trotted along. It was the morning after Eid. The festivities were over and had left him feeling bloated and lethargic. Even the air was still and languid. He looked up at the cloudless sky and groaned inwardly. It was going to be even warmer than yesterday. He felt sorry for the servants who were following them on foot.
    As they neared the parade ground, Salim looked askance at the marching soldiers. Although they looked smart in the Company’s scarlet coats and black trousers, they were sweating copiously. The commanding officer bellowed attention and the sepoys halted in neat rows before the dais, with a click of their heels.
    Salim grinned and shook his head as he watched Nayansukh, who stood right in front of the platoon. He was twitching his nose at the Sikh sepoy who stood right next to him. Must be the smell of the curd they used for their long hair.
    The commanding officer now ordered his men to stand at ease. He then shouted, ‘First company, first platoon, step forward and pick up your rifles and cart—’ He was distracted by a figure approaching him from the west. It was an elderly soldier who was jogging towards the podium, panting.
    Salim sat upright and cupped his right hand over his eyes to get a better view. Why, it was Ramu