I have watched from this frame for more than two centuries. My turquoise paint, once vibrant as peacock feathers, now bears the gentle scars of monsoons and summer winds. 

In the early days, I watched Maharajas in silk and gold, their jewelled turbans catching the morning light as they passed beneath my gaze.

Elephants swayed by, carrying royalty to ceremonies I could only observe. The sound of their footsteps on stone, the rustle of expensive cloth, the low murmur of servants - all of it filtered up to me, the silent witness.

I have seen British officers in their pressed uniforms, maps clutched in white-gloved hands, crossing my threshold with the weight of Empire on their shoulders. Their polished boots echoed differently from the soft leather of local sandals. Some paused at my sill, gazing out at gardens that stretched beyond my view, perhaps wondering what stories these ancient walls could tell.

Seasons turned to decades. Independence came with its own parade of politicians, their faces grave with the responsibility of a new nation. Children flying kites across the courtyard below while their parents discussed the future in hushed, urgent tones.

Now, in this quieter age, I watch different travellers. Some carry cameras instead of swords, wonder instead of conquest in their eyes. They pause beneath me, looking up, and I wonder if they sense the weight of all I have witnessed. Do they feel the whispers of those who came before?