It's been 160 years now when the very last Mughal Emperor had breathed his last while in exile.
From the page of Mad Mughal Memes
Commissioner Davies hesitated for a moment before starting to write about his day in his diary. He held the costly fountain pen close to the new page, but he wasn’t quite sure how to start. Davies had the habit of noting all the daily important events in his diary first, before it went into his report prepared for Calcutta. It acted as a rough draft. And today was too important. Thinking for a bit, Davies started with the date: “7th November 1862. It has been a long day...”
It was indeed a long day. Five hours ago, he was overseeing a Mohammedan burial rite. Though very few people were there – four Burmese pallbearers, four British officers, including himself, two surviving children of the dead man, and one Muslim holy man – the importance of the death was too high, the implication was too big, even for the British Empire. The day began with him waking up to the news of the old man’s death. After the customary mourning hours, which Davies felt were excruciatingly long, the bier was lifted by four local carriers. Davies had, by then, already telegraphed the news to Calcutta, including that his official report would follow soon.
Davies paused. Should he write in detail how the burial went? Reveal his plan? It is better to do so, he thought as he continued to write again. The burial took place around four in the afternoon. Here, the sun sets quite quickly. Davies had known this, so he had bamboo fences erected around the ground marked as what would be the old man’s grave. He knew that the fence wouldn’t last long. Maybe six to seven months, at the most. Davies smiled as he remembered a piece of poetry by the old man, wishing something about being buried in his motherland.
With this thought, Davies concluded his writing. He once checked if he had mentioned everything important – the failing health of the old prisoner, the paralysis of his neck, and his death this morning, He even remembered to note down the fact that this death did not have any effect on the people of Rangoon, except for maybe a few of his own faith. Yes, this would make a pretty good report. He was sure the authorities would laud his decision. After all, it was for the good name of the British Empire. With a smug and satisfied smile, the commissioner wrote the last line for the day, “By the time the fence is worn out, the grass will again have properly covered the spot.” Then, as if to reinforce the impact of his decision, he added “No vestige will remain to distinguish where the last of the Great Moguls rests.”
It was almost time for bed. Davies got up, closed his diary, put his fountain pen back in its holder, and extinguished the candle on his writing desk. With that, he also extinguished the last flickering flame of a three-hundred-year-old empire, once and for all.
— Admin Birbal
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From the page of Mad Mughal Memes
Commissioner Davies hesitated for a moment before starting to write about his day in his diary. He held the costly fountain pen close to the new page, but he wasn’t quite sure how to start. Davies had the habit of noting all the daily important events in his diary first, before it went into his report prepared for Calcutta. It acted as a rough draft. And today was too important. Thinking for a bit, Davies started with the date: “7th November 1862. It has been a long day...”
It was indeed a long day. Five hours ago, he was overseeing a Mohammedan burial rite. Though very few people were there – four Burmese pallbearers, four British officers, including himself, two surviving children of the dead man, and one Muslim holy man – the importance of the death was too high, the implication was too big, even for the British Empire. The day began with him waking up to the news of the old man’s death. After the customary mourning hours, which Davies felt were excruciatingly long, the bier was lifted by four local carriers. Davies had, by then, already telegraphed the news to Calcutta, including that his official report would follow soon.
Davies paused. Should he write in detail how the burial went? Reveal his plan? It is better to do so, he thought as he continued to write again. The burial took place around four in the afternoon. Here, the sun sets quite quickly. Davies had known this, so he had bamboo fences erected around the ground marked as what would be the old man’s grave. He knew that the fence wouldn’t last long. Maybe six to seven months, at the most. Davies smiled as he remembered a piece of poetry by the old man, wishing something about being buried in his motherland.
With this thought, Davies concluded his writing. He once checked if he had mentioned everything important – the failing health of the old prisoner, the paralysis of his neck, and his death this morning, He even remembered to note down the fact that this death did not have any effect on the people of Rangoon, except for maybe a few of his own faith. Yes, this would make a pretty good report. He was sure the authorities would laud his decision. After all, it was for the good name of the British Empire. With a smug and satisfied smile, the commissioner wrote the last line for the day, “By the time the fence is worn out, the grass will again have properly covered the spot.” Then, as if to reinforce the impact of his decision, he added “No vestige will remain to distinguish where the last of the Great Moguls rests.”
It was almost time for bed. Davies got up, closed his diary, put his fountain pen back in its holder, and extinguished the candle on his writing desk. With that, he also extinguished the last flickering flame of a three-hundred-year-old empire, once and for all.
— Admin Birbal
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