The Tahniyat Mahal where grand receptions were held is scattered with period furniture used by the sixth and seventh Nizams. I ignore the glassy-eyed stuffed tiger and turn my attention to an English bracket clock that is about to strike the half hour. Like its Salar Jung counterpart a scene plays out on the clock face. A turbaned caliph smokes a hookah and his bobbing head keeps the seconds. He is flanked by two men who fan him. Every hour a curtain rises and a toy band saunters in playing a tune before the time keeper in the upper deck emerges to strike the hour with a gong.

Frangipani trees give out a heady aroma — I am tempted to rest but I still have three centuries of costumes to glance through. The Aftab Mahal showcases mannequins in golden silk robes sprinkled with roses, and flared kameezes set alight by pink dawns, bright with crescent moons. Almost every garment from court dresses to riding breeches is labelled and spotlit — and every piece is a looker.