The Candle and the Flame

by Nafiza Azad

  Fatima thinks about the women in her life as she walks the narrow streets to work. The women she loves, respects, and seeks to please: her sister, obviously, and Laali, their adopted grandmother, and her boss. Achal Kaur is a woman in her sixties, gruff until you prove yourself to her. Fatima remembers the first time she met the woman. Fatima was twelve, used to the streets on which she and her sister lived. Sometimes they spent nights in empty houses, sometimes in corners of Bijli Bazaar. They spoke the language of the streets: a language of desperation and survival. That day, Fatima was fleeing from bullies and not cognizant of anything except a desire to be safe.

  She had bumped into Achal Kaur, and the woman had fallen. Horrified, Fatima had stared down at her, not knowing whether to stay and help the old woman up or to keep running. She had stayed and her life was changed.

  Over the years, Fatima has learned much about the woman who has become so important to her. Achal Kaur fled terror, war, and cruelty with her extended family. In Noor, Achal Kaur lost her eldest son to Ghuls, her husband to illness, and her sleep to nightmares. In return, she grew a messenger business that found success beyond anything anyone had ever expected from her. She showed people that business acumen is not solely the purview of men. Achal Kaur employs both girls and boys, usually from the lower spectrum of society. She told Fatima once that she remembers hunger very well.

  Fatima hastens her pace, calling out a greeting to the trash collectors. Achal Kaur’s haveli is located in the Dewar District of Northern Noor. The haveli doubles as a residence for her extended family, who are scattered throughout the many rooms of the second and third floor. When Fatima enters through the front gate of the haveli, she spies Achal Kaur sweeping the area in front of the main entrance.

  “Shubh Deepavali, Beeji,” Fatima calls out with a cheerful smile. Achal Kaur is imposing in her magenta shalwar kameez with a sheer dupatta in the same shade covering her impressive bosom. Though Achal Kaur is flirting with seventy, no one who knows her would call her old.

  “You too, chanda,” Achal says fondly. “Make sure you go upstairs and get your share of the mithai. Rupi has a box ready for you.”

  “Will do.” Fatima beams. The best part of Deepavali is the sweets. “Where am I delivering today?” Fatima asks.

  Achal pauses and gives Fatima a long look before a smile lights up her plump face. “Bijli Bazaar.” She knows how much Fatima adores the market. “We are done at twelve today, so you can go home and celebrate with your sister after.”

  “Thanks, Beeji.” Fatima feels like if she smiles any wider, her lips will split.

  Achal Kaur reaches out and pats her cheek. “Don’t forget to get the mithai from upstairs. Go off, then.”

  Fatima keeps a calm face on the first floor, where her fellow messengers are finding out about their own routes, but she cannot quite suppress the skip in her step as she heads to collect her box of Deepavali sweets from Rupi, Achal’s youngest granddaughter.

  Bijli Bazaar is located in the center of Northern Noor and is purported to be the oldest market in the entire city. In fact, Fatima has heard rumors contend that Noor was built around the market. The name comes from an old lightning-struck tree in the middle of the market that clings to life despite its age and the dust around it. Initially the market was simply wooden beams driven in the ground with sheets of tin as roofs to provide bare protection from the elements, but as the market grew, it gained walls and a wooden roof with frequent gaps on the portions above corridors and walkways to allow for light and air. The market expanded outward in twists and turns until it resembled nothing so much as a rabbit warren. Mithai stores with their mounds of laddoo, peda, barfi, jalebiyaan, and other sweets do brisk business during festival times, as do stores selling saris, shalwar kameez, and other fancier, more sparkly sorts of clothing. Near the clothes stores are stores selling jewelry, shoes, and other accessories. Henna artists are available in one alley as are other beauticians who do everything from makeup to hair styling and arrangement.

  Deeper into the market are the more esoteric stores such as apothecaries, chemists, candle makers, perfumeries, and rug sellers. Some vendors have closed off their wares with three walls; others have laid out their choicest pieces in the open in the hopes of attracting customers. The air smells like cardamom or cinnamon in one alley, leather in another, and perfume in yet another. A hundred scents compete for attention, as interspersed among the stores are food vendors who sell everything from kebabs to pani puri, spicy noodles and fried dumplings, lassi and coconut milk.

  To the outsider, Bijli Bazaar would be impossible to navigate. The labyrinthine passages have the power to confuse even the most directionally confident person, but Fatima survived her years on the streets by running wild in the market. She makes deliveries to various vendors in Bijli Bazaar before stopping at Mahmoud’s, the baklava stall; he gives her a box for her final client, who is not located anywhere near Bijli Bazaar.

  By the time Fatima finishes delivering all messages, it is nearly noon. Firdaus’s bookstore is located on Kalandar Street, which is about three kilometers from Bijli Bazaar. She buys herself a glass of chilled coconut water from a store and settles down outside the bazaar under the shade of an awning to enjoy the drink. Once she is refreshed, she grabs the boxes of baklava and Deepavali mithai, adjusts the oud hanging from her shoulder, and sets out in the heat. Kalandar Street is full of booksellers and bookbinders. What sets Firdaus’s bookstore apart from the rest of its ilk is its business practices. Firdaus does not seem at all inclined to sell any of his books—a fact that sits ill with his competitive neighbors who cannot understand how Firdaus can afford to make no sales and still remain in business. No, not only does he remain in business, the store is flourishing.

  The first time Fatima found her way to the store with the dirty glass windows and the shelves full of books with faded pages, she had been thirteen and on her first outing as a messenger. The old man to whom she was delivering a book had appeared in front of her, and Fatima had immediately known that Firdaus was no man. She knew it the same way she had known her blood would repel the Shayateen eight years ago. Fatima identified the old man as one of the Ifrit, a member of the Djinn clan that had been saviors of Noor City eight years ago. What surprised her was the kinship she felt for the grumpy old Ifrit—that she still feels for him.

  Firdaus taught her the pleasure of reading. First in Arabic, then in Hindi, and when she mastered Urdu, he taught her Qadr, the language of the Djinn. She learns mathematics and science from him; she reads histories and literature in the books he gives to her. When the heat is too intense for reading, she sits in a chair in the inner room surrounded by volumes of poetry and fiction, with a jug full of minty sharbat, and plays the oud. Usually Firdaus is content to listen to her playing, though occasionally he brings out the nay and they play a taqsim.

  In all the time Fatima has been frequenting Firdaus’s bookstore, she has never seen a customer enter or leave the store. Today is no different. Fatima escapes the sun’s persistent attention in the cool, if musty, confines of the bookstore, and slips into the back room, hoping to surprise Firdaus.

  The Ifrit, who for all intents and purposes looks like a human man in his seventies, glances up from the book he is reading and smiles. “I thought I heard you.”

  “Assalaam wa alaikum, baba,” Fatima says with a little chagrin.

  “Wa alaikum ussalaam,” Firdaus replies.

  “Your baklava and a box of mithai from Beeji,” Fatima says, putting the sweet boxes on Firdaus’s desk.

  “Shukraan.” Firdaus opens the box containing the baklava. The aroma of sugar and butter fills the air. “Let’s feast.”

  Ten minutes later, both boxes are empty and their fingers are sticky. Fatima washes her hand with water from an urn in a sink at the back of the room. Wiping her hands and lips with a handkerchief, she turns to a cart containing the newest books bought by the bookstore. She peruses the titles, picking up a book here and there to read more. Firda
us has returned to his book. All of a sudden he raises his head.

  “It is time for Zohr.” Before he finishes speaking, the azaan for Zohr sounds. After they pray, Firdaus beckons Fatima to the desk, and they go over Baheri, the language of the Bayars.

  On a break, Fatima comments, “You got new books, baba.”

  “Yes. I got them for you, actually. Since you scorn the classics …”

  “The classics are singular narratives focusing on those privileged enough to know how to read and write,” Fatima retorts.

  “But surely you cannot deny the beauty of the rhetoric?”

  “I don’t trust that beauty, baba,” Fatima says, and directs her gaze at Firdaus. “You taught me not to trust that beauty.”

  “Indeed I did. But I did not intend for you to eschew the great literary works in favor of—”

  “Works by the common people? These works may not have wondrous prose, baba, but the experiences they write about are theirs, which makes their stories so much better than those who live in gilded cages and write about the world outside. These writers don’t have the luxury of ennui, you see.”

  “Ah.” Firdaus puts his pen down and pulls on his white beard, as is his habit when he is thinking. His shaggy brows draw together as if captive to some particularly trenchant thought. Then he rises to his feet. “I have to see Mohiuddin about that edition of Ghalib’s poetry that I am having him rebind. Will you stay here until I get back? We can continue our discussion then.”

  “Of course!” When Firdaus leaves, Fatima makes herself comfortable on the chair she usually sits on. It has been a long day, and fatigue demands recompense. After about fifteen minutes of reading, Fatima’s eyes flutter closed and her head falls back.

  She doesn’t know how long she has been sleeping when her eyes snap open. A whisper of caution makes her sit up, and the book she was reading falls off her lap to the ground. Disquiet hisses in her ears and presses into her skin. Fatima looks around for the source of these feelings. When she identifies him, her breath escapes her all at once.

  Standing in the doorway of the back room of the bookstore is an Ifrit. He, too, looks entirely human, but as with Firdaus, Fatima is able to identify his Djinn nature immediately. This Ifrit is dressed in a red vest that leaves most of his arms, chest, and abdomen bare. He wears black Patiala shalwar and what looks like a sheathed scimitar hangs at his hips. Fatima raises her eyes to his face and is captivated by the beauty of it.

  A red turban is wound around his hair and his eyes are kohled, very much like Fatima’s. He has high cheekbones, pursed lips, and gold eyes. These gold eyes are currently trained on Fatima.

  He takes a step into the room, and Fatima jumps to her feet.

  The temperature in the room rises; Fatima’s breath gets shallower. Twin impulses pull her in opposite directions. The first one urges her to flee: some innate instinct warning her that this Ifrit has the ability to hurt her in ways people don’t usually recover from. The other impulse urges her to stay. Staying would mean something she is not sure she has the words for right now. The Ifrit walks farther into the room, and Fatima tenses, her gaze unwillingly drawn to his face, to his hollow cheeks and his narrow forehead. She looks a minute too long at his high cheekbones and his full lips. Her eyes collide with his and finds in them curiosity and a surprised interest. A blush stains Fatima’s cheeks. She immediately looks away.

  “What impudence,” the Ifrit says, his voice deep and slightly rough.

  “Because I looked at you?” Fatima asks, her voice higher than usual.

  The Ifrit looks startled at her response. His eyes narrow, and he takes a step closer. “Who are you, sayyida? What are you doing here?”

  “I don’t believe I have to answer your questions,” Fatima mumbles, trying to move past him. As she does, he rears back as if she has stung him. His hand is on his scimitar, and he is radiating a menace that was missing not a moment ago. He looks ready to cut her down. Fatima freezes, wondering if she has unwittingly broken some sacred Ifrit rule.

  “Why do you smell of fire, human?” he growls.

  “Fire?” she repeats, utterly confused.

  “Zulfikar.” The voice is calm, soft even, but the command in it is undeniable. The Ifrit looks at the door where Firdaus is standing with a vexed look on his face. When Fatima sees Firdaus, she sighs with relief; he will know how to make sense of this Ifrit’s questions.

  “Your business is with me. Let Fatima pass.” At Firdaus’s words, the Ifrit turns to look at her. He looks displeased by Firdaus’s command. Fatima’s cheeks heat again at his continuing regard; she ducks her head.

  “Zulfikar,” Firdaus says again. This time with a warning in his voice. The Ifrit—Zulfikar—relaxes his hold on his weapon, though the frown remains like a thundercloud on his eyebrows. Fatima moves past him, banging her hip on Firdaus’s desk in her haste. She cries out in pain.

  “Calm yourself, ya binti,” Firdaus says. “You will be fine.”

  Fatima takes a deep breath and releases it. She will be fine. She is fine.

  “You may go now.” Firdaus passes Fatima the oud she had left on his desk and smiles. “I will see you soon.”

  “Allah hafiz, baba,” Fatima says to Firdaus. With one last wondering look at the Ifrit, Fatima walks out of the room.

  The Ifrit, Zulfikar, watches the girl leave and fights the insane urge to chase her. To bring her back and make her answer all his questions.

  “Why does she have Djinn fire, Firdaus? She’s human, isn’t she? Who is she?” he asks the older Ifrit, fighting the urge to shake the answers out of him.

  “A messenger,” Firdaus replies shortly. He pours tea from a copper teapot into two matching copper cups. He offers a cube of sugar to Zulfikar, who shakes his head.

  “That is not what I meant, and you know it,” Zulfikar says, his voice tightly controlled.

  “But that is all I will tell you.” Firdaus takes a sip of his tea, grimaces, and drops another sugar cube into it.

  “You are protecting her!” Why this should surprise him so much, Zulfikar isn’t sure, but it does. To think, the great Name Giver of the Ifrit would lower himself to protect humans.

  “Astute of you to realize that.” Firdaus smiles, though his eyes remain cool and watchful. “Now what business does the Emir of Noor City have with me? Don’t you have half a city to run? No conflicts to resolve?”

  At the question, Zulfikar’s thoughts shift focus. There will be time enough later to think about human girls with Djinn fire. “The Raees plans to come to the human world.”

  Firdaus has lived long enough that the world rarely surprises him. This news, however, is unexpected and beyond anything he could have predicted. “Zafirah is coming to Noor City, you say? I haven’t heard anything about this. The last time she crossed over was when the Wazir was injured in a fight with the Shayateen … How long ago was that?” He looks at the young soldier in front of him and frowns. “What are you not telling me?”

  Zulfikar looks at the older Ifrit and wishes he didn’t have to be the one to convey this news. The leader of the Ifrit and the Name Giver of the Ifrit have a long history. “She has been ill for a long time, sayyid. The healers say it is the taint.”

  The color drains from Firdaus’s face. A full minute passes before he can give voice to his new question. “How?”

  “We do not know yet,” Zulfikar says tersely.

  “She cannot stay in Tayneeb.” Firdaus sits down abruptly on the chair behind his desk and steeples his hands to hide their shaking. “Staying in the city will present a danger to all.”

  “Yes. That is why she has decided to come to Noor … but, sayyid, there is a danger that Naming her will taint your fire too,” Zulfikar tells Firdaus.

  The room seems just a little darker than it was a few minutes ago. “True though that might be, Zafirah continuing to stay in Tayneeb … on Al-Naar is not a feasible option. If the taint spreads … Did they not teach you of the Horror of Zubed?” Zulfikar winces.
Of course he was taught of the war started by the Ifrit man in whom the taint spread unchecked. Thousands died in that war. The city of Tayneeb was laid to waste.

  Firdaus is looking at Zulfikar bleakly. “It is a risk I will have to take.”

  Zulfikar nods. He expected no other reply from the Name Giver.

  “When does she plan to shift planes?” Firdaus asks abruptly.

  “At noon, on Juma, two weeks from now.”

  “I will be ready,” Firdaus says. He gets to his feet and walks over to a shelf, perusing the books on it as if in search for something in particular.

  Zulfikar understands the dismissal and makes his farewell. His cup of unsweetened tea remains untouched.

  The heat peaks at two p.m. on the desert side of the city of Noor. The afternoons offer relief to those who search for it under the shade of the infrequent khejri trees. The desert nights, however, are cold enough that scorpions burrow into the sand for heat left over from the day. When Zulfikar steps out of the Name Giver’s bookstore, an indulgence of the older Ifrit’s, the clock has just struck two in the afternoon. He pauses for a minute outside the bookstore’s doors and puts a hand on his chest, wondering why his heart feels like it is readying itself for a race. He looks around; the street is deserted. Most humans avoid being out of doors at this time of the day. Zulfikar walks easily, at home with the heat; he is, after all, made of fire.

  His subordinates, two from the Amir clan of the Djinn, await him at the junction of Kalandar and Main Streets. Among the six Djinn clans in existence, the Ifrit and the Amir clans are most closely allied, having the same desire for order. Their clans have close trade alliances in Al-Naar and the Djinn army in Qirat has several Amir soldiers. Zulfikar’s subordinates don’t know who he went to meet, though they know who the Name Giver is. They may even know what he looks like; the Name Giver is always present the first time a djinni shifts planes. The secrecy is necessary to keep the Name Giver safe; history boasts of several attempts made on his life. Zulfikar mounts his horse, and they ride through the city at a leisurely pace. The streets are mostly empty, but if you know where to look, there is a tremendous amount still to be seen.