I was led to the grand hall where my father, Bahadur Shah Zafar, awaited me. The room was filled with the fragrance of fresh flowers, and the light from the oil lamps danced across the ornate walls. My father, despite his age, held an aura of majesty that commanded respect. As I entered, he looked up from his scrolls, a warm smile spreading across his face. (After some time, I thought he was not smiling for me but for his favourite wife.)
After a heavy breakfast of halwa and paratha, my father finally asked, "Has your brother told you about lessons?"
I excitedly replied, "Yes, Abbu, but can I please add some numbers to my lessons?"
He told me to calm my horses, but then he agreed to ask the tutors to include some math in my lessons.
After breakfast, I planned to get some exercise in, even if I wouldn't be doing it today. I needed to find a good spot. After searching through the garden, I found the ideal place at the edge of the fort, thankfully near my living quarters. If I had asked my khidmatgar, I wouldn't have needed to search so hard.
Once I finalized the spot, I decided to ask my khidmatgar to retrieve the books I would need for my studies from the royal ustads.
He headed toward the living quarters of the royal tutors.
While he was getting the books, I figured I'd do some exercise. I was only six years old, so I didn't want to overdo it. First, I decided to test my limits. I managed to do five push-ups, though it was tough. Pull-ups were out of the question without proper equipment.
For squats, I pushed myself and did twenty (a bit too much; I ended up with major muscle cramps later at night).
After a light jog for ten minutes, I stopped as I saw my khidmatgar approaching with some books in hand.
He told me the ustad had only provided the Hindi book, and the mulvi would bring the Urdu and Arabic books later. As for English, I didn't even ask; I knew there was no way an Englishman would meet a khidmatgar, considering their status.
Going through the Hindi book, I felt confident—lessons would be a breeze.
My khidmatgar also brought a slate and chalk for my lessons. It was already time for the next meal. After eating, I saw various children playing in the garden (the children of the people living in the Red Fort). I don't know what happened, but I got so immersed in the play that we were stopped by the Maghrib azan.
As evening approached, I shared dinner with my mother and elder brother. The meal was filled with delightful dishes, and my mother's stories about our ancestors were always captivating. Each tale deepened my sense of identity and purpose, reminding me of the legacy I carried.
After dinner, I retreated to my chambers, my mind racing with thoughts of the day. Sleep came quickly, but I awoke the next morning with renewed determination.
Next was to follow my ultimate fitness challenge (Saitama-style), so I did ten push-ups, ten squats, and ran for ten minutes at my max speed (I know, not exactly Saitama training, but so what? I'm six years old!).
Once I finished, I enjoyed a simple breakfast before diving into my first lessons. The first was Hindi, and my ustad was an elderly man, around the age of my father.
As the lesson started, I absorbed the language easily, much to his surprise. He scrutinized me with a glint of admiration, and after the lesson, he suggested I add Sanskrit to my studies.
"Your mind is sharp, young man," he said, nodding approvingly. "Sanskrit will deepen your understanding of our culture."
I agreed wholeheartedly. The more knowledge I gained, the better equipped I would be to lead.
Next came my Urdu and Arabic lessons, taught by the imam of the Jama Masjid. He was a kind man with a gentle demeanour, but his expectations were high.
"Bring a brush for your writing next time," he instructed, noting my struggle with the script. "Your potential is evident, but the details matter."
After these two lessons, there was a two-hour break. I relaxed, ate a meal, and took a short nap.
My servant awoke me and led me to the area where my English teacher would teach me.
As I approached the area, a sense of unease settled in. The teacher, an Englishman with a stern expression, looked up from his desk, his eyes narrowing with obvious disdain that made my stomach twist.
The way he was sitting, with two servants blowing fans for his comfort, already helped establish a poor impression.
"Today, we will cover basic counting," he announced in a clipped tone. "Numbers are fundamental, even for those of… your background."
I sensed the subtle insult in his words, but I forced myself to focus. As he began to write on the chalkboard, I kept my expression neutral, deliberately mispronouncing a few words and stumbling over numbers.
"Very good," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Keep it simple, shall we?"
I held back a smile. My deliberate mistakes seemed to frustrate him further, and I found a strange satisfaction in that.
As the lesson progressed, Mr. Thompson shifted to vocabulary. Each misstep drew a sharp sigh from him, and I could almost hear his thoughts: another native who struggles with English.
"Your pronunciation leaves much to be desired," he remarked, tapping his pencil against the desk. "But let's not get ahead of ourselves. Focus on the basics."
I nodded again, keeping my expression humble and compliant. I could see the flicker of frustration in his eyes, and I knew I had succeeded in my plan to downplay my abilities.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the lesson came to a close. I released a quiet sigh of relief as I stood to leave. "Thank you, Mr. Thompson," I said, my tone respectful.
He merely nodded, his gaze still critical as I walked out. I felt the weight of his judgment lift slightly as I stepped back into the warmth of the afternoon sun.
As I strolled through the garden, I reflected on the day's lessons. The morning had been fruitful, and my afternoon of deliberate simplicity had helped me avoid drawing unwanted attention. I had to be strategic, gathering knowledge without letting anyone perceive me as a threat.
That evening, I shared dinner with my mother and elder brother. The table was filled with delicious dishes, and my mother's laughter echoed through the room. As we ate, I felt a sense of comfort and belonging, despite the challenges that lay ahead.
After dinner, I retired to my chambers, my mind still buzzing with thoughts of the day. Tomorrow would bring new lessons, new opportunities to learn, and perhaps new ways to further my goals. With that in mind, I drifted off to sleep, ready to face whatever came next.
The next day was more of the same, but I received simple praise from my father based on the reviews he got from my ustad and maulvi. He also asked me to pay more attention in English class.
Later that day, I started my Sanskrit lesson. The maulvi made me draw some sand with him and encouraged me to write in it with my fingers, explaining how it would help me maintain control later.
My lessons continued like this for the next 8 years but with a steady increase in load.