Indeed, while Malcolm and Chumru and their new associates were wandering through the streets and making the circuit of the western wall, there was another incipient riot in the fort. Delay in issuing the promised rations enraged the hungry troops. A number hurried again to the Diwan-i-Am, clamored for the king’s presence, and told him roundly that he ought to imprison his sons, who, they said, had stolen their pay.
“If the Treasury does not find the money,” was the threat, “we will kill you and all your family, for we are masters.”
This later incident came to Malcolm’s ears while Chumru was persuading a grain-dealer to admit that he had some corn hidden away. The sight of money unlocked the man’s lips.
“Would there were more like you in the King’s service,” he whined. “I have not taken a rupee in the way of trade since the huzoors were driven forth.”
It was easy enough to interpret the unhappy tradesman’s real wishes. He was pining for the restoration of the British Raj. Every man in Delhi, who had anything to lose, mourned the day that saw the downfall of the Sirkar.[22]
“Affairs go badly, then,” Malcolm put in. “Speak freely, friend. We are strangers, and are minded to go back whence we came, for there is naught but misrule in the city so far as we can see.”
“What can you expect from an old man who writes verses when he should be punishing malefactors?” said the grain-dealer, bitterly anxious to vent his wrongs. “If you would act wisely, sirdar, leave this bewitched place. It is given over to devils. I am a Hindu, as you know, but I am worse treated by the Brahmins than by men of your faith.”
“Mayhap you have quarreled with some of the sepoys and have a sore feeling against them?”
“Think not so, sirdar. Who am I to make enemies of these lords? Every merchant in the bazaar is of my mind, and I have suffered less than many, for I am a poor man and have no family.”