Silence of the Cicadas

By M Ramesh

Carefree, work-loving archaeologist Anand’s life takes a dramatic turn when he stumbles upon an ancient letter – written by an Englishman to the then Nawab of an Indian province. The letter apologises for a theft of the Nawab’s jewels – present whereabouts unknown – by the writer’s brother. Anand decides to take it up as his project. He has nothing to go by except the letter. But his brilliant, gorgeous girlfriend, Priya, is determined to see that her lover succeeds in his quest. Anand and Priya have to deal with the devil-incarnate, Imran, who is determined to stop them.
Aided by Priya and his archaeology guru, Professor Rao, Anand reaches a point where he is about to shake hands with success. Then, unexpected things begin to happen.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Notion Press
• Release date: Dec 29, 2015
• ISBN: 9789352063659

Book preview

cocktail.

Prologue

That was Suma’s first encounter with ‘paranormal’. She had never seen a ghost in her life and here seemed to be one, right behind them, within touching distance.

Her shriek of alarm was so loud and screechy that birds on the tree under which they were sitting took flight in panic. A late-luncher on the other side of the park jumped, dropped his spoon, turned his head and looked sharply at them.

Such was the effect the sudden appearance of the old man in their immediate rear.

Mahidhar had been sitting there with his arm around Suma’s shoulders and the old man popped up behind them suddenly out of nowhere, like a blasted apparition. Simply materialised, an instant ‘presence’, and was looking at them with piercing eyes, through those round-rimmed spectacles.

Until a moment ago it had been all quiet and still in the park and the lovers had been enjoying privacy and then, like a light switched on, there he was, sitting upright on the park bench behind theirs, not over two feet from them, giving them a wide-eyed stare.

Mahidhar, in whose cuddle Suma had been nestling happily, drew in his breath sharply and stared at the bespectacled horror behind them in a mix of fear, surprise and confusion.

It was a moment a photographer would have loved. An eerie, desolate park, two garden benches placed back-to-back, an old man of ghoulish bearing staring glassily at a young couple who were looking back at him with surprise and fright. To sharpen the scene, it was a cold day with chilly winds blowing across the park, the sky full of dark grey clouds that were threatening to open up any time and decant a devil.

For a fraction of a second, the man appeared to Mahidhar as though he was made of smoke, an ectoplasmic blur, all ready to gawk, mock and dematerialise. As the eyes adjusted, he saw a scrawny elder with long uncut, unkempt hairs, a shabby, overgrown moustache that covered his upper lip completely and a rough, four-day stubble, sitting so uncomfortably close behind them that they could hear his heavy breathing.

Suma clutched her friend’s arm. Mahi! she cried.

The cry stirred up the old man. He blinked twice and shook his head as though someone had sprinkled cold water on his face, and his moustache-covered lips curved into a weak, embarrassed smile, a smile that was noticeably without mirth.

Sorry, he said. I didn’t mean to startle you. The voice was manly, but very gentle and human, and not an out-of-the-tomb growl that Mahidhar had subconsciously expected. He picked up courage.

Hey! he exclaimed angrily. In this big, bloody park could you not have found another place to be?

The old man stared at him for a moment without saying anything. Mahidhar noticed that his eyes were deeply sunken in their sockets and looked very tired and sad.

Son, the old man said, I was here first. I was here long before you two came here. You didn’t see me because I was lying flat on my bench.

A breeze nipped across and made Suma shiver a little. She snuggled close to her lover boy, clinging to his arm. Unusual weather! It was only afternoon, and yet so chilly. Chennai, formerly Madras, the capital of the southern Indian state of Tamil Nadu, has never been known in history for chilly weather. Well, on some December evenings a Chennai’ite might put on a thick vest before slipping into a full-sleeved shirt, but that was it. But in the recent years, the weather had become rather unpredictable. Chennai was cooling down. Global warming, Chennai cooling! The city was rarely in step with the rest of the world.

The oval-shaped park was a large traffic island. Many centuries ago it had been part of a great forest—the dandakaaranya—but civilisation had eaten into the forest and the surviving patch was the traffic island. A low wall marked it boundary beyond which lay a thin kerb. A road ran all round it, a fly-over passed above one of its corners.

The park was rich in vegetation. In the middle stood a magnificent tamarind tree, and in a little distance from there was a majestic peepul and over there, in another part, was a youngish banyan. Tamil Nadu is banyan country. Chennai is home to thousands of banyans, some of which are said to be over several centuries old. The tamarind, peepal, banyan and the several other trees, home to colonies of green parrots, sparrows, crows, squirrels, chameleons and cicadas, spread their canopy over the park and blessed the ground beneath with a regular shower of leaves, twigs and bird droppings.

Years back, a enthusiastic Corporation Councillor had put a couple of swings, see-saws and a slide in a corner for children to play, built a mound of mud and rocks and planted some cacti on it, but his successors left the park alone, in the care of Nature, and went about minding their other businesses. Lawns were never mowed, bushes rarely clipped. Get inside it, and you could delude yourself you were in interior Congo.

On this afternoon, the park was practically deserted, which was not surprising because it was a weekday. Traffic flowed dull and quiet on the roads around the park and on the fly-over above. Except for the roar of an occasional automobile and the dull, rrrrr..rrrr..rrrr rattle of the thousands of brown cicadas that lived on the tree barks, there was only an eerie silence. It suited the young lovers, for the privacy offered scope for a little amorous cuddle and some liberties with propriety. The only other man present was a middle-aged construction worker, who was having a late lunch, sitting under a tree at a little distance, looking, perhaps discreetly, the other way.

The sad, old man put his hand into the side pocket of his worn-out, reddish-brown kurta and pulled out a watch. The watch had no strap. He screwed his eyes and looked at the time. Then he drew in breath, inhaling slowly and noisily and addressed the couple.

Again, I’m sorry. It is only 4 pm and I will rest here for some more time.

Mahidhar, already annoyed by the intrusion, raised himself on his heels and was about to tell the old man he would do nothing of that sort, and that a man of his years should have the basic decency to keep away from the immediate neighbourhood of young lovers. But before he could speak his girlfriend sensed his mind gave his arm a hard tug.

Mahidhar gave her a ‘let-me-handle-this’ look, but the girl was firm. Let us leave move out of here, she said. She felt a little scared of the old man.

A word zipped through her mind. Paranormal !

There was something about the old man that made her uneasy. He looked like Alladin’s uncle.

There was a strange darkness in those eyes, behind the round-rimmed spectacles. Suma caught an incongruence. The spectacles looked fairly expensive, the strapless watch the man had pulled out of his pocket didn’t look very cheap either, yet he was wearing an old, faded kurta that noticeably had some buttons missing, and a small hole near the breast pocket. It was obviously an old piece of garment. This man was evidently not a beggar. He certainly could afford better dress. Yet he was wearing this!

Yes, paranormal!

Suddenly, the old man laughed. It was a mirthless string of discrete guttural sounds delivered through slightly parted lips.

I am not a magician, miss, he said. I am not anybody like Alladin’s uncle.

Suma froze. The old man had read her mind clearly.

Mahi! She shrieked, petrified.

Mahidhar looked at her, shocked by the alarm in her voice.

Run, she said. This man is not normal. He can read minds.

Oh, no, said Mahidhar nonchalantly. He is just a…just a….

Clumsy old beggar, completed the old man. Those were the very words that Mahidhar was about to speak.

That the old man was a mind reader was clear to both but it struck each of them differently. It got Mahidhar terribly interested. If this old man was a mind-reader, he could have some fun with him.

Suma was scared. What if old man suddenly morphed into a wand-in-hand magician, bedecked in multi-colour robes? Instinctively, she wanted to run away, and she even put a foot backwards for that purpose, but an alarm rang in her mind and she stayed motionless—could the magician snap his fingers and turned them into rocks?

She furtively looked around herself. A few rocks were lying near the cacti mound. They made her uneasy and she thought she even detected a strange movement in one of them. Were they rocks, or humans turned into rocks, waiting for release?

The old man laughed. Relax, girl. I mean no harm to you.

There! Once again! Amazing how clearly he read her mind! She pulled Mahidhar’s arm to signal him to move away. But Mahidhar stood firm.

Suma looked at him anxiously. To her, her lover boy, while being brilliant in particle physics and all that, was at times a woollen-headed idiot, just the type who would mistake a lounging crocodile for a log. The three stood there, silent for the moment, but Suma was about the shatter the silence with a stinging thesis on Mahidhar’s fatuousness, when the tension in the atmosphere was broken by the incursion of a tea vendor.

The chai-wallah walked towards them carrying a stainless steel tea-drum with a spigot at the bottom. Under the drum was a chamber with holes that had tendrils of grey smoke coming out of them. Red embers glowed within and kept the tea hot. The shady, breezy park was a good spot for a short nap and the man had walked into the park to like down for a while, when he saw the three people.

Tea?

Buy me tea? the old man said.

The request increased Suma’s unease. The man did not appear like he could not pay for his tea, yet here he was, asking complete strangers to buy him a cup. The inconsistency bothered the girl.

Mahidhar put an arm around Suma’s shoulder because he sensed her shivering slightly.

Don’t worry, darling, he said to her. Uncle won’t harm us. The old man had graduated from ‘beggar’ to ‘uncle’.

Tea? the tea vendor asked again.

Mahidhar was keen on a chat with the old mind-reader. How does one read minds, he wanted to find out. Are there techniques, methods open for anyone to follow, or is the talent inborn? He was all for settling down for a longish chat over tea, even if it meant lesser time cuddling Suma. He found the unexpected supply of tea a happy augury, an ominous sign.

Yes. Three cups, he said. The brown beverage was served in 4-inch paper cups and the vendor moved away to some other bench, to lie down.

Another strong wind blew across. The tree-tops swayed. The birds began to chirrup even more loudly, sensing impending rains. The two men and the girl sipped the steaming liquid. In Chennai, they make tea with a liberal dash of ginger and cardamom and the hot concoction almost corroded Mahidhar’s tongue obliging him to fold it into a canal, and draw in cool.

Good tea, said the old man, gulping the liquid down, which surprised the other two because the tea was so hot and was sure to scald anything of the drinker’s insides that was not made of Thermocol. But Mahidhar was in no mood for any tea-talk.

Are you a mind reader? he asked, coming straight to the point.

The old man closed his eyes to enjoy the descent of the beverage down his gut, as he let the question sink in. He took a few moments to respond.

I don’t know that myself, really, he said, looking honest and innocent. But sometimes I do seem to know what other people are thinking.

Are you a magician? asked Suma, more for reassurance than anything else.

The old man laughed again, mirthlessly. Of course not, he said.

You are scary. You suddenly appeared behind us from nowhere, said Suma.

Miss, as I told you earlier, I had been lying on this bench.

But you told us exactly what was going on in my mind, pointed out Mahidhar.

The old man removed his glasses to give them a polish with his kurta. Without the glasses, the naked eyes revealed more. There was an unmistakable tinge of sadness in them, a deep, blue despair, cloudy vestiges of a troubled past. Now the man didn’t look evil at all. He looked like one who could do with some help.

The old man put his spectacles back. He said: Ever since I had that fall, I seem to have acquired some extra sensory perception ability. Sometimes I know what is going to happen in the next few hours. Often what I think is going to happen, happens. Not always, though. Sometimes I can hear voices of people even if they don’t speak. Not always, though.

There was silence as the two stunned youngsters mulled over what the elder just said, which struck them as strange. They wouldn’t have believed him if he had not read their mind so precisely.

A ‘fall’? asked Suma, knitting her eyebrows. You fell?

Many years back.

When? What happened? Suma couldn’t contain her intrigue.

Before the old man could reply, Mahidhar cut in.

But who are you? he asked.

I am an archaeologist.

Wow ! said Suma.

Archaeology evokes instant interest. Some professions are like that. Nobody asks a doctor about his latest surgery, or a teacher about his latest class but everybody wants to how the detective caught the criminal. Tell them you are a pilot, you will elicit a wow. Same for deep-sea divers. Ditto for archaeologists.

I’m a retired archaeologist, said the elder.

Like Indiana Jones? asked Suma, a die-hard fan of Harrison Ford.

The archaeologist sharply raised his head to look at her, and kept staring at her, wide-mouthed. She noticed that his eyes were welling up. She realised that something she said had plucked an exposed nerve, had ripped open the sluice gates that had been holding back a reservoir of grief.

Yes, he said. A tiny rivulet of tears slid down his left cheek. I am India’s own Indiana Jones, he said. Sorry, he continued, removing his spectacles again and wiping his eyes with the lower part of his kurta.

Mahidhar and Suma were a bit taken aback because they didn’t know what had upset the old man. India’s own Indiana Jones, eh? thought Suma. The phrase had a nice ring.

There was a pause as the three drank their tea.

Then Mahidhar spoke.

Have you done things like digging-up long lost cities… old civilisations… etc, yeah?

Oh… no… no…no… ho ho… laughed the archaeologist once again without mirth. But I have had my share of adventures.

But have you done excavations? asked Suma.

Some. But a great part of an archaeologist’s work is at a library desk.

Have you found lost treasures? asked Suma, rather childishly. Ever since old Bob wrote Treasure Island, no grown-up has been fully adult.

The old archaeologist did not reply immediately. He remained thoughtful, and didn’t say yes or no. His eyes were upturned, glassy and once again tears were filling in them.

At length, he spoke: "This place could be hiding treasures."

Which place? asked Mahidhar.

This park, the archaeologist said, pointing his index finger to the ground below.

What!!!

Yes. Right here. This traffic island could be a treasure island.

Please tell us what exactly you mean, said Mahidhar.

It is a long story.

Mahidhar looked at Suma. Mom said she’d come here at 5.30 to pick us up to go to the concert. We have an hour. Suma nodded. She was a lot more relaxed now, the fright had left her, but she was kind-of hypnotised by the man’s revelation that he was an archaeologist and that they could probably be standing right there on a treasure trove.

Tell us your story, Mr Archaeologist, said Suma, flashing her sweet smile.

Ok. Let me first come over to your side. Sitting here…its straining my neck.

The archaeologist came over and sat with them, rather than behind, Suma noticed that there was nothing evil about him. He looked more avuncular, with his somewhat rotund, endomorphic built. She also noticed that he looked less unhappy, somewhat relieved, like a lame man who found his lost crutches.

The man’s profession, his vague sadness, his fall, were all indications of a good story and the two youngsters looked at him with burning expectation, waiting with savage eagerness for the story to pour out.

Hmm… How do I begin? murmured the archaeologist,

Well… why not with ‘once upon a time’, as usual? said Suma.

Okay, said the archaeologist. Once upon a time… once upon a time… the old man sighed, wiped his damp brow, fumbled for words. Once upon a time, he continued very, very slowly, his voice almost a whisper, I was a happy man. A very happy man.

A pause. Tears flowed down his cheeks. This time he didn’t bother to wipe them off. He ignored them, let them drip to the ground and cleared his throat to address his audience.

Once upon a time I was a happy young man. Today, I am an unhappy, old man. I am 66 years old. He looked considerably older than that.

‘My name is Shyam Anand, he continued. Dr Shyam Anand! Friends call me Anand."

What is your story, Dr Shyam Anand? asked Mahidhar.

The archaeologist cleared his throat again and began.

****

A distant ring of a temple bell sliced through the almost tangible silence that reigned in the small, closed room in which sat three men.

Swami Satyananda Theertha folded his hands and bowed in the direction of the sound. Taking a cue from him, the two others did the same.

It was late evening. Darkness was swallowing the suburb. The bell indicated that it was time for closing the main door of the Varaha temple a quarter mile away from the Mutt, where the Swami was temporarily in residence.

The saffron-robed god-man closed his eyes for a moment and then opened them to look at the man sitting cross-legged, in front of him.

The ring of the bell right at this point of time supports my view, the Swami told the man. I would advise you to give up your project.

The man, whose name was Shyam Anand, looked hurt. But, Swami, he pleaded, I have been working on the project for three years. And only this morning I found a good lead.

The Swami sighed. What did you learn? he said.

I was looking into some archived records of the British East India Company. The records list a gold statuette of Lord Krishna among the articles the Company gifted to a muslim king in the South.

Lines of worry appeared on the aged Swami’s forehead. He was an old man. He had been ordained into asceticism at a tender age of 14, that was 75 years ago. His face had a million wrinkles but it also shone with a divine gloss, a result of years of deep meditation.

Give up, Anand, he said. Getting no response from Anand, he shook his head resignedly and said, Anand, let me repeat what I have been telling you for three years. Our first Guru, Madhwacharya, was given the idol by the God himself. After, worshiping it for over a decade, Madhwacharya passed it on to his disciple, Narahari Theertha.

Eight hundred years ago, interjected Anand.

"Yes, 800 years back. Then the vigraha was stolen from the Mutt."

All I want to do is to restore it to the Mutt, said Anand.

The Swami shook his head again. "It is not necessary. Narahari Theertha has clearly said that the idol will resurface on its own when the world is about to end, and nobody is to go in search for it. Whoever goes hunting for it—‘sa yaati dhukham druvam’. He will come to grief."

The third man in the room, a disciple of the Swami called Praveena, cleared his throat deferentially and spoke gently to Anand. Don’t do it Anand-sir. I’m afraid for you.

Anand turned to reply to him. Since it was not the aged, venerable Swami but only the young disciple, he brought a little force into his voice.

Praveena, the prophecy of Narahari Theertha applies to one who hunts the statuette for keeps. My intention is to turn it over to your Mutt. I don’t see why such an honest intention should bring retribution. Besides, said Anand, turning to the Swami, I have the confidence that your blessings shall protect me from any harm.

He prostrated, touching the Swami’s feet. Sighing yet again, the Swami picked up a few grains of vermillion-coated rice from a plate and dropped the grains on to Anand’s head—the Mutt’s traditional way of blessing.

The Will of the Lord shall prevail. What is your next step?

I intend to go to the Palace to conduct further researches.

The Swamiji sighed for the third time. Then, he raised his hand and mumbled a blessing. Anand bowed and left.

Praveena turned to his master. Swami, do you think Dr Anand will succeed?

No. He will not, said Swami Satyananda Theertha, sadly. His mind will get deflected to other matters. His mission will lose its way. But still I fear that since he has begun the sacrilegious quest, he is going to get into trouble, big time.

1

Nawab Zulfiqar Mohammed Khan Wallajah surveyed the man seated opposite to him with an amused eye. The eye was giving his guest’s milky-white shirt a detailed run-through.

I always believed that nobody in this dusty city of Madras could wear a whiter dress than mine, he said, with a cocky gleam in his eyes. "But, my dear Anand, your shirt gives my kurta some close competition."

"Oh, come on, Khan Sahib, you know very well that my shirt has won the competition hands down. Your kurta is no match for it."

The Amir-e-Azambad, or the Nawab of Azambad, studied his guest’s shirt once again. The resplendent shirt was spotless, and it slid gracefully into the khaki trousers without a single wrinkle. The crease on the sleeves stood out like a ridge and the small blue-and-red patch-on on the breast pocket provided a nice relief. In contrast, his own kurta was ever-so-slightly smudged at the pocket and was wrinkled at the armpits. He was obliged to admit defeat.

He smiled at his guest. Hmm! You are right, but only temporarily. The situation is going to change very soon, he said. He turned his head towards the interior of the palace, he bellowed the name of his servant.

Ismail

Ismail, the aged domestic help appeared and the Nawab addressed him. Ismail, go to the kitchen and get some black soot. Mix it with water and throw it on Anand’s shirt.

Ismail grinned.

Anand, who had been yearning for a nice cup of tea, seized the opportunity to ask for one. He raised his hand and said, Ismail-bhai, by ‘black soot’ Khan Sahib means ‘nice hot tea’, you know?

The Nawab’s face lit up. He beamed like a hunter who had trapped his quarry. Alright, Ismail. Get some nice hot tea and throw it on Anand’s shirt. He smiled triumphantly at his guest.

They both laughed, each happy over his little victory. Ismail, who knew well of the affection between his master and the researcher, grinned toothily.

The Nawab turned to the servant. Okay, Ismail, he said in a serious tone. Now go and bring tea for the two of us. Wait! he said, as the servant began to move away. And some snacks too.

"What snacks shall I make, sahib?"

The Nawab groped for an answer. "Bajji, he said. Onion and chilli bajji. Be quick."

They were sitting on the huge, cushioned armchairs, made of Burmese teak wood, the best furniture wood in the world. The chairs were elegant pieces of classic furniture, whose smooth surface shone with deep brown colour, and the seat was a liberal three feet in length, gently curving downwards, acquiring depth as they went from the front edge to the backrest. The back was ribbed, for massage effect and the top of it was cupped in the middle for the sitter’s neck to settle into. They were magical chairs. You don’t ‘sit’ on them. You sink into them, and they take you over, relax you and buoy you to the heavens.

It was a warm, breezy afternoon and there was no need to switch on the ceiling fan. There was plenty of land breeze blowing through the large arched windows into the visitors’ room, one level above the ground, on one of the four square towers of the Amir Palace. The desk in the corner had a bunch of papers and the solid glass paperweight on them was a respectful tribute to the free-blowing breeze, a kind of breeze that would close upon you like a blanket and put you to sleep. That exactly was Anand’s fear too—he feared that sleep might overtake him even as his host was talking to him—an alarming lapse of etiquette, even if the Nawab was a friend enough to take liberties with. That was also why he demanded tea, for tea is a good sleep-fighter. He hoped Ismail would fetch the tea fast.

Tell me, Anand, the friendly Nawab continued as soon as Ismail left them. When are you going to find the Krishna statuette?

"No luck as yet, but I will find it."

The Nawab held his palm-fit Qur’an up in the air and said a quick prayer seeking Allah’s blessings to help Anand in his mission. Then he addressed his guest.

Tell me, dear Anand, began the Nawab with a mischievous gleam in his eyes. How is it that a devout Madhwa brahmin like you has no qualms about eating in a Musalman’s house?

The bold, direct question, which stood on the very edge of political correctness, would have staggered a typical guest, but Anand was no typical guest. He knew only too well the Nawab’s penchant for bowling such googlies at friends. The Nawab’s question was a throw-back to the times, in the deep past, when rules of religious orthodoxy forbade some sections of the society from having food with people of some other sections of the society. ‘Breaking bread’ was governed by the master list of eligibles, and violations could result in ex-communication. Castes were the deep fault lines in the society, nevertheless they were lines that kept communities intact and well-knit, and transgressions invited horrendous retribution.

Anand knew that the Nawab didn’t mean the question seriously. The Nawab was a light-hearted, amicable man and loved to put his friends on the defensive, loved to see them squirm, so that in the end he could put a friendly hand around their shoulders and have a good laugh.

Fine man, this Nawab. A poet and a scholar and a patron of arts, in short, a man of class. Just take a look at him and you would know. Dress—simple, yet immaculate. Manner—elegant, stylish, but never overbearing. Taste—the collection of antiques said it all, especially the clocks—especially the one that stood in the corner, its body beautifully carved in wood and the Roman numbers and lettering in creamy ivory, which chimed a different Beethoven clip each hour. And the furniture! The palace was filled with vintage furniture, and the Nawab himself slept on an elegant, American Renaissance ebonized and gilt-inlaid bed made by Herter Brothers in the 1870s. The study even had a Chippendale cabinet—one could smell that extremely agreeable odour if he went sufficiently close.

The Nawab was also deeply religious and was never without his palm-fit volume of the Qu’ran and his prayer bead-necklace. Nevertheless, he was a grand secular in his views, as were his illustrious forefathers, and the rare combination religiosity and secularism was a trait hard-wired into the family’s DNA. Above all, the Nawab was a playful man, with a propensity to pull legs to the point of amputation.

Now, Anand considered the question thrown at him. How could he, a devout Madhwa brahmin, even consider partaking of food in a Muslim’s house?

Khan Sahib, you know something? There is such an incredible congruence of Madhwic thought and Islam.

Really?

Yes. Both are dualists, we believe in the eternal distinction and superiority of God from all else, animate or inanimate. Dualists are fine. Monists—those who say we are versions of God - are our enemies.

Then why do orthodox brahmins hesitate to eat in a Muslim’s of a Christian’s house?

That is because you cook meat in the same kitchen. Don’t forget that we are strict vegetarians.

We have a separate vegetarian kitchen in our house. And, the Nawab said with a genial smile. And yes, you are right. We are staunch dualists too. We also believe in the permanency of dualism.

Khan Sahib, I am a devout Madhwa and I follow my faith as scrupulously as possible. But I have no hesitation to say that Muslims are among the finest people in the world.

Thank you, the Prince of Azambad said, genuinely touched, because he knew Anand was not saying it merely for the sake of political correctness. The word ‘Islam’ means ‘peace’ and there is no scope for intolerance. The Holy Qur’an obliges us to protect everybody alike, he said. It is those who commit sacrilege and blasphemy that we are against.

Yes, your ancestors have been given generously to the Sri Rangam temple, Anand said.

The Nawab nodded. Yes. The tradition continues, in the true spirit of Islam.

I would like to go through the records of your donations.

No. Never said the Prince austerely. We never like to publicise what Allah may have caused us to give. Those records are out of bounds, even to my friend Dr Shyam Anand.

Anand laughed. Okay, okay, he said, and silence reigned for a little while. Karim, Ismail’s son, entered the room carrying the tray bearing an ornate, porcelain tea jar, a couple of cups, a bowl of sugar, a plate of hot chilli and onion bajjis that were still steaming, and two bowls of spiced, coconut chutney sprinkled liberally with fresh coriander and curry leaves. Karim laid the tray on the round tea-table and departed with a bow. The men began to help themselves to the refreshments.

How do you intend to carry out your research today? asked the Nawab.

Anand couldn’t reply immediately. He had just bitten into the chilli snack. The green chilli that resided inside the deep-fried batter was a particularly wicked one, its juice viciously corroded Anand’s tongue.

Well, I intend to look into your archive library with a hope of finding some reference to the statuette, he said, hissing loudly, as he drew air through his lips. There has got to be something.

The tender green chilli stung again. Anand took a sip of hot tea trying to wash down the sting. Tea flowed over tongue. Temperature-hot mixed with spice-hot and the combination exacerbated the sting and Anand felt as though someone had cut the tongue with a razor. Anand relished it. Green chilli bajjis ought to make the eater’s eyes water, or else what good are they? In a few seconds the pain eased into a dull burning sensation that was really the pleasure of the chilli bajji-hot tea combo.

I hope you do find some reference, the Nawab said. And then, will it involve excavation or something like that?

Anand smiled. When people think of archaeology they think of digging, excavation, skeletons, scarabs, pottery and beaded necklaces. Archaeology is not always so romantic and excavations are not always necessary. Even when they are, they are just the crowning moment. A lot of boring desk work necessarily precedes any digging. But that’s what tells you where to dig.

Nawab sahib, there may never be an excavation, Anand said, still smiling. I’ll probably find the statuette in some long forgotten box in your own palace.

Well, if you do, you can keep it, the Nawab said seriously. But what exactly are you looking for in the archives?

Anand thought for a while, trying to formulate an answer. Then he said: My researches have led me to a guess that soon after the Second Carnatic War, your great ancestor, Muhammed Ali Khan Wallajah, was given a gift of artefacts by the British for his support to them against the French, Anand said.

Oh, I see! said the Nawab, getting the point.

He wondered if there was some way he could help Anand, but couldn’t come up with any idea. The problem flummoxed him and he decided with an air of resignation to leave it to professional archaeologists. He wished Anand success and made a mental pledge to offer him every support.

It is going to be a tough job tracing your Krishna idol from Ali Khan’s days to wherever it may be at present, he said.

Anand shook his head. Perhaps not. he said. Not if I find some record of it somewhere in your archives.

The Nawab nodded encouragingly.

They talked about random things - politics, the Imam of Jama Masjid, sufi poetry and its impact on India-Iran relationship, of china antiques and China’s antics, and women in Indian industry like Kiran Mazumdar Shah, India’s leading pharma lady, a.k.a

‘Auntie-biotics’. They talked and talked till it was time for the Nawab to go for his prayers.

The Nawab stood up and ran the base of his palms over the wrinkles that had formed on his kurta. "Now, I must go.