last of the line

He was one of the last survivors of the Old Royals. And to hear him tell it, those times, when his family had ruled over the lands, those were splendid times. The old ‘uns nodded knowingly. They had been splendid times. The young ones listened with disbelief and against their better wishes, hope. Those times sounded so much better than these, that they almost sounded like a fantasy. To him though, they were a dream. A dream that was slowly trickling from his cupped hands. Hands that he was doing his best to fortify so that not even one drop of the dream would escape. So he could retain it all in memory.

The city was huge. It had once been a center of culture, not just in the country, but in the globe. Only the purest Urdu was spoken there. Some of the greatest poets, his family had surrounded themselves with. Literature, arts, architecture. You name it. The city had been a bastion of prosperity. The last bastion in this area, perhaps. At the very least, for the next hundred years. The city was huge. Rickshaws whizzed along narrow roads. Tyres on bicycles turning endlessly as their riders made their way to their respective destinations. Motorcycles holding entire families: a father, a mother, three, four, sometimes impossibly, even five children. Buildings in various stages of decay and derelict.

Back in the day, as he told it, this skyline had been one of the greatest in the world. Now, moss was creeping up buildings left untended. Back in the day, to hear him tell it, the gardens had been some of the lushest. The elders would nod, eyes sparkling with the glee from memories that they so badly wanted to live in. Now, barbed wires surrounded husks, mere shells of those. Left untended, the gardens had not evolved into wild lawns. Left untended, the grass had burned by the heat of the subcontinental sun.

He always came in at the same time. There would always be people waiting. To hear him talk. He spoke in the purest Urdu, lilting, melodious, bringing joy to those who heard it.

He was a proud man, but he was not arrogant. He always wore a loose robe, like that of the residents of the old city. He kept his stomach flat, he was in shape. He always ordered one cup of tea, one biscuit. Then he would begin to tell his stories. Head held high, weary, but high. Eyes firm and resolved. All that had happened to this city, and to the keepers - his family - would not bring him down.

He always came in at the same time. He was always there. Then one day, he wasn’t. The next day, he did not come either. A third. And on the fourth, his neighbors complained of a terrible smell from his apartment. The police were brought in. When they kicked down the door, they found his body lying on a straw bed. No blankets. No possessions. He had, it seemed, sold everything he owned. He had died, it would later come out, from starvation.