A flight of 150 steps rises
from the river, and above that flight, on the river's brim and at the
foot of the hills, there stands a solitary marble palace. Around it
there is no habitation of man--the village and the cotton mart of Barich
being far off.
About 250 years ago the Emperor Mahmud Shah II. had built this lonely
palace for his pleasure and luxury. In his days jets of rose-water
spurted from its fountains, and on the cold marble floors of its spray-
cooled rooms young Persian damsels would sit, their hair dishevelled
before bathing, and, splashing their soft naked feet in the clear water
of the reservoirs, would sing, to the tune of the guitar, the ghazals of
their vineyards.
The fountains play no longer; the songs have ceased; no longer do
snow-white feet step gracefully on the snowy marble. It is but the vast
and solitary quarters of cess-collectors like us, men oppressed with
solitude and deprived of the society of women. Now, Karim Khan, the old
clerk of my office, warned me repeatedly not to take up my abode
there.
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