The Last Lamp of Delhi

The year was 1857, a time when the old world of India trembled beneath the boots of rebellion and empire. The Mughal capital, Delhi, stood not only as a city of bazaars, mosques, and minarets, but as the fading shadow of a once-mighty throne. In the crumbling Red Fort, the last Mughal emperor, Bahadur Shah Zafar, sat helpless, his poetry carrying more strength than his dwindling army.

Amid this turbulence lived Arif Khan, a twenty-year-old calligrapher’s apprentice, who spent his days in Chandni Chowk etching verses onto delicate scrolls for scholars and nobles. Though his craft kept him close to books, his heart was restless, pulled toward the storm gathering at Delhi’s gates. Rumors spread like wildfire—sepoys of the East India Company had mutinied in Meerut, and they were marching toward Delhi.

Arif’s master, the calligrapher Mir Hashim, warned him:

“Stay with your ink, Arif. Empires rise and fall, but words endure.”it words, Arif knew, could not protect his city.

The Arrival of the Rebellion

On a hot May morning, the sepoys entered Delhi. Their cheers of “Din! Din!” echoed across Jama Masjid. The people of Delhi, long suffocated by foreign taxation and humiliation, poured into the streets. Suddenly, the fragile old emperor was declared the leader of the revolt. The sepoys begged him to take up the sword of his ancestors.

Arif, swept away by the crowd, found himself standing in the courtyard of the Red Fort, staring at Bahadur Shah Zafar. The emperor’s frail body seemed too weak for the role of a warrior, but his presence lit a fire in the hearts of thousands.

That night, Arif made a choice—he would join the sepoys, not as a soldier but as a scribe, recording the orders, the proclamations, and the fiery verses the emperor dictated to keep hope alive.

Delhi in Flames

Days turned into weeks, and Delhi became a city of blood and smoke. The English responded with brutal force. Cannons roared outside the city walls, while inside, shortages of food and water began to choke the rebellion. Arif saw once-busy markets reduced to ashes, noble houses turned into makeshift hospitals.

In the chaos, he grew close to Fatima, the daughter of his master. She was bold, carrying water and medicine to the wounded despite her family’s protests. Together, they read the emperor’s poetry by the dim glow of an oil lamp:

“Lagta nahin hai dil mera ujray dayar mein…”

(My heart no longer finds peace in this ruined land…)

The words were no longer verses—they were the lament of a dying empire.

The Betrayal

Not everyone in Delhi believed in the cause. Some saw opportunity in betrayal. Among them was Mirza Illahi Baksh, a distant relative of the emperor, who secretly sent word to the British, guiding them through weak points in the city’s defenses.

One evening, Arif overheard whispers in the market—Illahi Baksh had met with British officers outside Kashmiri Gate. The rebellion’s backbone was about to snap.

Arif ran to the Red Fort, desperate to warn the emperor. But the court was drowning in confusion, with nobles arguing and soldiers deserting. His voice was lost in the noise.

The Fall of Delhi

In September, the British stormed Delhi. Cannons tore through the city walls, and the streets ran red with blood. Arif fought not with a sword but with ink—scribbling urgent notes, recording the last commands, and trying to preserve the story of Delhi’s final stand.

When the Red Fort fell, Bahadur Shah Zafar was captured and later exiled to Rangoon. The emperor who had once ruled over a subcontinent was now a prisoner, stripped of his throne, his court scattered, his dynasty extinguished.

Arif barely escaped with his life, carrying nothing but a bundle of scrolls—the records of the uprising, stained with smoke and blood. Fatima, however, did not survive; she was struck by shrapnel while helping the wounded. Her loss left Arif hollow, yet determined to keep the memory of those days alive.

The Last Lamp

Years later, Arif wandered as a forgotten man, working as a scribe in distant towns. One evening, in a quiet mosque in Lucknow, he lit a small oil lamp and unrolled the fragile scrolls he had carried since Delhi.

He began to copy them again—every order, every verse, every fragment of hope. His hand trembled, but his heart burned steady.

As he wrote, he whispered to himself:

“Empires may fall, but their stories must not. I will be the lamp that carries Delhi’s last light into the future.”

And so, in the ruins of defeat, Arif became the keeper of memory—the last lamp of Delhi.