Delhi by Khushwant Singh Page A

roared, ‘or we will have your tongue torn out of your mouth.’ And if he confessed he was to have his head cut off.
    ‘Bring the impostor near us,’ he commanded. Siddi Maula was brought forward. The old sultan stepped down from his throne. ‘Son of Satan! You call yourself a saint and meddle in the affairs of kings!’ he shouted as he slapped the
dervish
across the face. Siddi did not flinch. Although his face was black with bruises and his eyes were almost closed because of the swelling around them, the ends of his moustache were still curled up and his mien was as defiant as ever. The sultan hit him again and screamed, ‘Speak, you fruit of fornication!’ Siddi spoke in a clear and powerful voice everyone could hear. ‘Jalaluddin, listen to the words of Siddi Maula, the
dervish
of Allah!’ he said as if he was speaking to a slave. ‘Allah will punish you for laying hands on His servant. At the hands of your own kinsmen will you die. Your carcass will burn in the fires of hell.’ Suddenly Siddi Maula spat out a blob of phlegm and blood which covered the sultan’s face and snow-white beard.
    The old sultan began to rave like a maniac: ‘
Moozi
(blackguard), bastard, son of a pig!’ He turned to his courtiers and abused them, ‘Cowards! You allow your ruler to be insulted by this dog!’ In the hall there was a party of
dervishes
of an order known to hate Siddi Maula. They pounced on Siddi and belaboured him till he was reduced to a bloody mess. They dragged him out into the open where he lay like a sack—alive or dead—I do not know. Then an elephant was brought to crush Siddi Maula’s head under its foot. His skull burst like a coconut spilling blood and butter-like fat. My knees buckled under me; I could not stop my body from shaking. I sat down where I was and began to pray. It took me an hour to recover. My friends helped me get home.
    What a terrible day it was! When Siddi Maula was taken to Shahr-i-Nau, it was a bright, sunny morning. No sooner was he dead than the sky turned as black as charcoal. A vast cloud of locusts descended on the city. Every tree and every bush became a beehive of crawling, hopping, flying insects. Within a matter of moments the trees were leafless, bushes turned to brambles.
    Then followed the worst sand-storm I have ever known. It came like the charge of a phalanx of black elephants smashing walls, uprooting trees, blinding man and beast alike. It was so dark that one could not tell when the sun set and the night came on. ‘It is the curse of Siddi Maula,’ said Ram Dulari to me as we lay huddled together with Kamal between us.
    What Siddi Maula had prophesied came to pass. Sultan Jalaluddin Firoze was murdered by his own nephew, Alauddin Khilji, who was also his son-in-law. I do not know whether the deceased sultan roasted in the fires of hell but we certainly had a foretaste of
gehennum
. The summer’s heat turned Delhi into an oven. The sun’s rays were so fierce that every day twenty or thirty people died of stroke. There was no rain. Wells dried up. Cattle began to die of thirst. Crops withered. There was no flour or rice or lentils in the bazaars. We had to get provisions at an exorbitant price from distant villages. The city was full of starving beggars dying in the streets. Hindus prayed to their gods. Muslims prayed to Allah. We prayed for the return of our Khwaja Sahib.
    Our prayers were answered. One morning a
dervish
returning from the Punjab informed us that the Khwaja Sahib was only two days march from Mehrauli. That afternoon there was a meeting of the citizens at the mausoleum of Qutubuddin Bakhtiyar Kaki to arrange a suitable reception for him.
    When the great day came, citizens in their hundreds poured out of the city gates to welcome the saint.
    The Khwaja Sahib looked pale and tired. That was not surprising as he had walked barefoot over hundreds of
kos
of hot, dusty roads. But he had a smile and a blessing for everyone who got close enough to kiss