Kannada writer P Lankesh’s play in translation: This dying emperor possesses neither army nor throne
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(A dimly lit chamber in one of the Mughal palaces. Shadows loom. Nizam-ul-Mulk, the second Diwan of Delhi, paces like a trapped animal. He gulps wine to steady his trembling hands. The weight of Nadir’s brutality hangs over him; he has heard how the Mughal King was humiliated. Fear sits on his chest like a stone.)
Mulk: Hamid!… Hamid!
Hamid: (off-stage) Huzoor, just a moment! It’s still not roasted!
Mulk: Be quick, or, I’ll throw you into the fire instead!
(Hamid enters, carrying the scent of burnt meat with him.)
Hamid: These rogues sell all the young turkeys to Persian soldiers and leave us the scraps. They refuse to roast evenly! If you want, I’ll serve them halfcooked… but don’t blame me later.
Mulk: Who asked for your useless turkeys! I told you to call Afzal immediately. Did you?
Hamid: I did, Huzoor. He was getting dressed. I told Pasha too; he hadn’t bathed yet, but he said he’d come.
Mulk: (As Hamid tries to leave) Wait. Don’t go. Tonight… I cannot stand myself alone. I even forget I’m a Mughal Diwan.
(He lifts the wine vessel, but his hand shakes violently. Hamid gently takes it and pours the wine. Mulk drinks, but the anxiety stays.)
Mulk: Hamid… do you think Afzal will actually come?
Hamid: Of course, Huzoor. If you summon...