My goal was to assure that it all remained. The staff was hurriedly removing belongings from our grand hall. The Wazirs & Dewaans robbing my fathers Darbaar. The English had chosen their own artists and new Nawaabs. We were about to be forgotten.

I rushed into Khan Sahib’s office, my father kept a diary there. The diary was him, his life story, how he thought, and why he took decisions that mattered. His letters, his pen, his signet ring. This was my honor, my pride, and my legacy.

“Kaki, ethon nasja, faujdar ahra na” (Child, run from here, the army captain is on his way!)
Fakir Mohsin, our tutor, wanted me out.

“Giran mehal, te rang pao badsha ta, saada piyo di amanat saadi zubaan ha, ono asi ni chudd sakda” (When palaces fall, then blame Kings, these are our fathers possessions and our tongue, we cant leave them)

The forces were approaching, my mother and her sisters were missing, and my father too was nowhere to be found. Was he dead? Was he alive? I didn’t know.There was something missing, seeking it was paramount but difficult with the Fakir shouting and pulling.

“Oh havelliyaan soniya nahi lagdi, jitha ta putt nas jawan“, my anguish for my brothers, nowhere to be seen whilst they looted my father’s home. (Those palaces don’t look good where the Sons runaway)

“Putt ta hun sada naal nai, par sanu yaad karainda pa na, chal Rani, rehnda” (The Sons aren’t with us, but will remember us as we them, now lets go Rani, leave it)

The Fakir gave me no hope. He gave me warnings. For me, my father’s pocket watch was worth dying for. For if he was dead, we will use this as a symbol for our wrongs. For if he was alive, he’d be glad I brought it back.

A blast was heard, we presumed cannons like those of Babur at Panipat, but these we could feel, those we heard only from afar. They had ruined the fountain that welcomed visitors from Khan Gate. It was a magnificent piece of work done by our local vendors. The swan on top spitting water into the air, just with the right pressure, creating a water veil for when it landed back into its base. Destroyed.
Khan Gate was now covered by men in red, the Deewans and Wazirs hid in the East Acre of the grounds, almost a hundred meters from the fort. I removed myself from my father’s desk, the watch was impossible to locate.

“Maa’h nu lub, fakir, ona da begair ni ja sagda”(Find our Mother O’Fakir, without her we can’t leave).
As I demanded my mother’s whereabouts, the expression on the Fakir answered me instantly. She had fled the night before, knowing they were coming. My sisters too. Their rooms were emptied, and the clothes and jewelry, all were gone. Why? Maybe they took the watch? It couldn’t be true, the painting Khan Sahib made for Gulnaz, my intolerable sister, of her in grand Khanate Jewelry. If that was not taken, then her attachment to the Khan was apparent. I figured they had escaped in the late hours of the night, and I was sure of the route too. The tunnels underneath the Fort, one line would lead to Delhi, one towards Lahore. I couldn’t choose, what if both were under siege? What if they waited for us on the other end?

My cousin, Bahadurwala, resided near the banks of Ravi. Lahore was the only option. Delhi was too difficult to approach. Even if the soldiers were not there, an unknown city, with a tongue not of ours, I won’t be able to prepare myself. Thus, Lahore was my hope. The Fakir had prepared my clothes and boxes, enough for us to carry. We escaped.

Exiting the tunnel, the blinding light disoriented our thoughts along with vision, unaware of which direction we were. Bahadurwala’s guard, Mohand, questioned this surprise visit. We told him of the anguish and betrayal of our people. The Dewaans and Wazirs had robbed us.
Mohand prepared a buggy, sat us, and took us away. The battle had reached Lahore, we were to travel North, Bahadurwala was gone.

Burning in agony. Clinching my father’s diary. Holding back tears, Khan Sahib would not allow his child to weep in front of unknown men. Just inches from breaking into memories. A pain that I couldn’t indulge in for too long, the gunshots were heard. Mohand hurried towards the Belas of Sheikhupura. The Redmen on horseback hurried our way, we traveled on foot and rushed to hide behind the trees once planted by Akbar and Shah Jehan, maybe the prayers of our leaders would save the day. We kept running, till the sounds became silent, and as I turned, no one was to be seen. The Fakir, Mohand, no one. Breathing heavily, I stopped. On a tree some feet away, a red coat hung on one of the branches, a bark with a cross on it, and firewood, put out not too long ago.

I searched for any dagger or sword, rifle or pistol, or knife that’ll protect me.
I pushed, pulled, dragged, swept, and still, no tool for my purpose. Disheartened, I fell to my knees. Maybe my moment to weep. To show my anger to the trees and sky for what they had done to a grand house. To a Khan. As I clinched the mud I lay on, a hard metal object poked me. With bliss, maybe a tool to fight.

it wasn’t a dagger. it wasn’t a gun. It was what was not found in my father’s library. I dug and dug. Only to see and say my last words…
“…Khan sahib”

Maria Khuzari (History, Folklore, Stories at AGC)