by Nafiza Azad
Aarush nods and leaves the pavilion.
Fatima is almost sure she is dead. Or perhaps she is dying. She is lying on the charpai, her wet hair hanging over its edges, feeling very much like her bones have been swapped for jelly. After her encounter with the Ifrit in Firdaus’s bookstore, an event her brain has cataloged under Dangerous and refuses to examine in any great detail, Fatima felt the need to seek out Niruthan and ask for a lesson. She had forgotten how excessively enthusiastic Niruthan is about teaching.
Achal Kaur requires her messengers to be versed in one or more martial arts so they can protect or defend themselves should the need to do so arise. Among the teachers she employs is Niruthan, a kalaripayattu teacher, who fled his home and country with his sister, Luxmi, after his love affair with the village chief’s son was discovered.
Learning the art of kalaripayattu requires commitment and desire, a fact that Niruthan has been trying to impress upon Fatima since he took her on as a student two years ago. Fatima has the commitment, but she lacked the desire to learn—until today, when that Ifrit impressed upon her the whole extent of her helplessness.
Fatima grimly endured every minute of the two hours of training, then limped home, where she took a shower, washed her hair, and climbed into bed for a nap, waking to pray Asr and then some hours later, Maghrib. She has just flopped down on her bed again when three sharp knocks sound on the door. Fatima briefly considers pretending she isn’t at home.
“We know you are home,” a sweet voice calls out. Fatima recognizes it as belonging to Azizah, the youngest of the Alif sisters.
“Anu saw you coming home.” That is Amirah, the middle sister. Fatima thinks unsavory thoughts about Anu, the building’s nosy neighbor who keeps account of the comings and goings of its residents.
“It will be less painful if you open the door yourself, you know,” Adila, the oldest sister, adds. She is eighteen, Fatima’s age, and, supposedly, her best friend. “Sunaina Baji left us a key. Don’t make us use it.”
Grumbling, Fatima drags herself to the door and pulls it open. She is greeted by three unrepentant smiles on three almost identical faces. The Alif sisters, so called because of the first letter of all their names, are Fatima’s oldest and closest friends. Fatima looks them up and down, noting the different shades of the blue shalwar kameez they are wearing. They wear their dupatta around their heads with gold and silver jhumars pinned to the side to give them a celebratory sparkle. Amirah is wearing ring bracelets on both hands while Azizah has chunky silver bangles around her wrists. Adila, predictably enough, has a simple watch around one wrist while the other one remains unadorned.
Azizah, the youngest at sixteen and, in Fatima’s opinion, the bossiest, sweeps into the apartment and looks Fatima over from head to toe. She turns to her sisters, who have followed her inside, and says, “I told you she wouldn’t be ready!”
“It’s only five o’clock!” Fatima protests weakly. She rubs her eyes and stifles a yawn.
“Only five o’clock, she says,” Amirah mutters. She is seventeen and only a smidgen less bossy than Azizah. She, too, looks at Fatima, then sighs loudly.
“Now, now,” Adila says in a conciliatory tone. She is used to keeping peace. She leads Fatima to the chair in the living room, pushes her down on it, and grabs one of the clean towels hanging on a rack in the washroom. “We have an hour yet,” she says, and proceeds to give Fatima’s hair a brisk rubbing.
Fatima resurfaces a few minutes later, bemused, and asks no one in particular, “One hour to do what?”
“Dress you up!” Amirah chirps, taking items out of the chest of drawers. “Sunaina Baji gave us permission to use her cosmetics.”
“But why are you dressing me up?” Fatima asks, feeling a little desperate.
“Here, put on this petticoat and blouse,” Azizah commands, pushing the clothes at her. Her tone brooks no argument.
Fatima obeys a little sulkily. Adila expertly dresses her in a pale gold sari. She folds the cotton material into pleats and tucks them into the front of the petticoat. The pallu she brings over Fatima’s shoulder, drapes it over the front, and pins it into place. Fatima endures the ministrations quietly, bewildered by the suddenness of the storm that has descended upon her.
When she has been dressed in the sari, the sisters stand in front of her, arms crossed and lips pursed. Fatima fights the urge not to flinch under their stares.
“I will do her hair,” Azizah says decidedly.
“Then I will do her makeup!” Amirah nods happily. “I love Sunaina Baji’s concoctions. Do you think she’ll make me some if I ask extra nicely?”
“You can try asking,” Adila replies.
“Why are you doing this?” Fatima is almost teary now. She wouldn’t have skipped out of going to the maidaan tonight, but she had envisioned going dressed in the most comfortable clothes she owns.
Adila takes pity on her best friend. “We have it on good authority that Bilal is going to be at the maidaan tonight.”
“Since we are good Muslim girls, we will stare at him from afar and hope he stares back,” Amirah continues.
“And to help him stare back at us, we are all going to sparkle!” Azizah concludes with a flourish.
“Wait, are we talking about Bilal the muezzin?” Fatima holds up a hand, thinking of the boy she saw earlier that morning.
“Yes! He can call me to prayer anytime!” Azizah says. The other three fall silent for a bit and stare at the youngest girl with varying degrees of amusement in their expressions.
“I am rather impressed by how illicit you made that sound,” Adila says to her youngest sister. Fatima feels a grin tug at her mouth, the day’s fatigue easing. She starts to learn forward, and Amirah raps her on the shoulder.
“Don’t move!”
“But are we really dressing up for a boy?” Fatima doesn’t like the idea.
“No, of course we aren’t. We are just joking … well, Azizah wasn’t. But we don’t often get the chance to dress up, do we? And there is nothing wrong with a little halal romance.” Adila smiles, her eyes bright with mischief.
“Halal romance, huh?” For some reason, Fatima thinks of the Ifrit and wonders if she needs to go see a healer. Something is obviously wrong with her if she associates romance with Ifrit men who are offended when you simply look at them. If Fatima had a face as pretty as his, she would want people to look at her. “I don’t think I’d want to be present when a boy comes to ask Ali Abbu for your hand.”
Adila, who is unsnarling chains in Fatima’s box of costume jewelry, pauses for a minute and says, “I don’t think Abbu would be too happy if a boy came for you either, you know. He likes you better than us anyway.”
Fatima smiles, though Adila’s assertion is blatantly false.
“Do you think this yellow eye shadow is more seductive or this orange one?” Amirah holds up two pots.
“The eye shadow has the most important job?” Adila asks Amirah, raising an eyebrow.
“Yes, since none of us has any idea how to seduce anything or anyone,” Amirah replies.
“I’m pretty certain I could seduce a tree,” Azizah says, giving Fatima’s coiffure one last pat.
Once again they all look at her silently.
“What?” she asks.
“The yellow one, I think,” Fatima says, thinking it easier to judge an eye shadow’s seductive properties than make sense of Azizah’s thoughts.
After ten more minutes of primping and refreshing, the Alif sisters are finally satisfied with how Fatima looks.
“Let’s go!” Azizah commands.
The sisters look at Fatima expectantly.
“What?” Fatima asks a bit fearfully. “I’m going, aren’t I?”
“No, you have to lead,” Adila explains.
“And why is that?” Fatima demands, smiling a little. All of a sudden, the night feels brighter and full of possibilities.
“You are wearing yellow,” Azizah says seriously.
“What do
es that have— Actually, I don’t want to know.” Fatima grins at the youngest Alif’s pout. “Let’s go!”
The flames of tiny clay diya undulate on windowsills, doorsteps, footpaths, and storefronts. Wooden barges filled with lit diya and candles are pushed off into both the forest and the desert arms of the River Rahat. The air smells of smoke, ghee, and food. The aroma of hot jalebiyaan, halwa puri, ras malai, and various kinds of laddoo tantalizes the tongue.
In Southern and Northern Taaj Gul, the buildings are too close together and fire too dangerous a risk to allow for a proper expression, a full celebration, of Deepavali. For the poor who have no space, there are the maidaan. These are empty grounds that are usually venues for weekly vegetable markets. On occasions such as Eid and Deepavali, the maidaan transform into festival grounds where people gather and celebrate. There are two maidaan in Noor City: one in Northern Noor and the other in Southern Noor.
The affluent celebrate in courtyards lit by the flicker of diya placed in and around dry fountains. Candles placed on stone fences add sparkle and shine to a night rapidly losing its hold on darkness. The royalty celebrate with the grandeur expected of them. The maharajah’s side of Aftab Mahal, Southern Aftab, is lit up like the day at noon. Multitudes of diya light the front courtyard. Out on the grounds, the fountains have been turned off and candles flicker like fireflies in the darkness.
Southern Aftab is a whirlwind of courtiers who arrive dressed in their most expensive clothes: silk and brocade saris and jewel-hued ghagra choli for the ladies, and sherwani or jama for the men. People from all sorts of backgrounds come to pay respect to the maharajah and his family during Deepavali; religious denomination means little during festivals, though economic status is of paramount importance.
Bhavya lingers in front of a mirror in her apartment on the fifth floor of Southern Aftab. She is dressed in a blue ghagra choli embroidered with pearls and gold thread. A matha patti sits regally on her head, a kamarband glimmers at her hips and a long pearl haar gleams around her neck. Even her hair dazzles with a gold hair chotli attached to the long braid that ends in the belled tassels of a paranda.
She takes a deep breath, musters her courage, and meets her eyes in the mirror. Immediately, she flinches and looks away. Why is it, she wonders, that no matter how much jewelry she puts on, she can never see the reflection she wants to so desperately? It is easy to love herself in parts: She likes her lips, her hands, and the daintiness of her feet. But she cannot meet her eyes in the mirror without feeling the weight of all she is supposed to be judging her for all she is not. She cannot look at her body without looking at her faults.
“Do I tell you that you look beautiful, or will prostrating myself in your shadow suffice?” A very dry voice comes from the doorway to her inner rooms.
Bhavya turns to face the owner of the voice.
“You’re late,” she says. She looks over at the girl standing in the doorway, noting her bright silk sari, jewelry, and the sweet-smelling gajra she wears in her hair. She is the kind of beautiful Bhavya hungers to be.
Ruchika shrugs and glides into the room. She is well acquainted with her grace and her every step is like poetry. She is the daughter of Sanchit Goundar, one of the leaders in the maharajah’s government, and has been foisted on Bhavya for as long as she can remember. Bhavya doesn’t even have the freedom to choose her friends.
“It takes time to get ready,” Ruchika murmurs, looking around the room. Bhavya wonders if the canopied bed, thick rugs, and other items denoting wealth and luxury make for a fitting cage for a rajkumari of Qirat.
“Did my plan work?” Ruchika asks Bhavya abruptly.
Bhavya turns away, color flooding her cheeks when she remembers the fool she made of herself earlier that day. “This morning was mortifying.”
“Come, now. If it leads you to a meeting with the Emir, surely the embarrassment of the morning will be inconsequential. You ought to thank me. It is my source in Northern Aftab who sends you a message every time the Emir asks to meet the maharajah,” Ruchika says, patting her hair in the mirror.
“It is easy for you to be flippant. You weren’t the recipient of the scolding my mother and aunt gave me,” Bhavya replies, her lips thinning at the memory.
“It’s done, so there is no point dwelling on it.” Ruchika lowers her voice. “Sushila Mausi assured me that the Emir will be at her party. Do you really want to let the chance to meet him go to waste?”
“I have to go and talk to Amma first,” Bhavya says. If she could only meet the Emir, if only he would look at her once, things would happen. Things would change. Bhavya knows it.
“Shall I accompany you, O grand and glorious rajkumari?” Ruchika makes a show of obeisance.
“That will not be necessary, Ruchika.” Bhavya’s smile is not kind. “The Rajmata does not meet with outsiders on Deepavali.”
She leaves Ruchika with instructions to await her on the first floor and makes her way through the mahal to the Rajmata’s apartments on the fourth floor in the right wing of Southern Aftab. She is conscious of the eyes on her, the way gazes linger on the swell of her hips and the shine of her lips. She is conscious of being consumed visually and fights, as usual, to keep her lips smiling, her eyes cast demurely down, and her pace sedate. The morning’s hoyden was an exception and not the norm.
Bhavya stops outside her mother’s rooms and waits for the guards standing outside to announce her. She is ushered inside to a living room by one of her mother’s maids. Rajmata Ekta, dressed in a white brocade sari with her gray hair tied in a bun at the nape of her neck, is sitting on a divan. Seated beside her is Jayanti, her dead husband’s elder sister. They are looking at what seems to be a letter in the Rajmata’s hands.
“Amma,” Bhavya says, smiling back at her mother. She turns to the other woman and her expression cools. “Bua.”
“You look beautiful, beta,” the Rajmata says, her eyes filling with sudden tears. Bhavya knows that Deepavali, ever since her father and brother died in the Shayateen Massacre eight years ago, is difficult for her.
“Indeed you do, niece,” Jayanti says, smirking as though Bhavya’s beauty is a personal triumph. “Sundar Singh, the son of Rathod Singh from Khair, expressed a desire to meet you—”
“Amma, I am going to attend Sushila Mausi’s Deepavali party,” Bhavya cuts off her aunt.
“Absolutely not!” Jayanti is on her feet and shaking her head. “What will people say if we send you out during Deepavali?”
“Amma.” Bhavya kneels on the floor beside her mother’s seat. She takes a deep breath and tells the truth. “I can’t bear to stay here. Everyone’s talking about this morning.”
“And whose fault is that?” Jayanti sneers and seems poised to say more. The Rajmata glances at her, and the woman subsides into silence. Bhavya witnesses this little exchange avidly.
When she realizes that her mother is looking at her, Bhavya ducks her head, fresh embarrassment staining her cheeks. “I am sorry for behaving as I did, but, Amma, Baba taught me that you can’t passively wait if you want something. You have to go and get it.”
The Rajmata’s face softens at the mention of her husband while Jayanti’s face grows stonier.
“You blame your father for your disgraceful behavior?” her aunt hisses. “You thank him for his teachings by dragging his name through mud? You think your infatuation with the djinni is love?”
“Jayanti Bua,” Bhavya says, her voice gentle, “only those who know passion, who have felt passion, can understand the degree to which it can drive their actions. Those who don’t, those who haven’t, can only wonder and judge.”
“That’s enough, Bhavya!” Ekta says sharply. “Jayanti, could you ask Roshni to send up some dahl chawal, please? I am a bit hungry.”
The woman leaves the room, though reluctantly, and Bhavya sighs with relief. She cannot stand her aunt and her perpetual insistence on finding fault with everything Bhavya does and is.
“Bhavya, adab! How many times mus
t I tell you to respect your elders?” Ekta says as soon as the door closes behind Jayanti.
“I apologize, Amma,” Bhavya says, and she is sorry, not for what she said to her aunt but for losing control in front of her.
“We are the raj, Bhavya. People will always expect more from us than from others. We cannot ever let go of grace and behave commonly.”
Bhavya hangs her head and accepts the scolding. “I am sorry, Amma. I really am. Please don’t make me stay here among people who are laughing at me. People who are mocking me. I know I deserve it for the way I acted this morning. I know I was foolish.” Bhavya’s voice wobbles. “I won’t ever do it again, Amma.”
“All right,” Ekta concedes with a sigh. “But you must be back in two hours and you have to take the guards assigned to you.”
Bhavya’s tears vanish and she beams. “Thank you!” She gives her mother a hug and turns to go, when a thought occurs to her. “Who is the letter from?” she asks, indicating the letter lying on the seat beside Ekta.
“Aaruv,” the Rajmata says with a fond smile. “Your brother says that he will be back this Friday.”
Bhavya pales at the news, wishing she hadn’t asked.
“What is it?” her mother asks, and Bhavya shakes her head.
“Nothing, Amma. I’ll be going now.”
Twenty minutes later, she is in a richly outfitted carriage drawn by a team of thoroughbred horses and accompanied by four guards. The darkness inside the carriage is broken by an oil lamp placed in a corner.
“Akaash is madly in love with Hye Joo,” Ruchika suddenly says, breaking the rather tense silence in the carriage.
Bhavya leans forward, inviting more tidbits.
“His mother is terrified she’s going to end up with a foreign daughter-in-law.” Ruchika giggles, pleased with the attention Bhavya makes a show of giving her.
She launches into a series of gossip that Bhavya feels safe tuning out except for the odd acknowledgment here and there. She directs most of her attention outside. Bhavya spends her life sequestered in the mahal, and on the rare occasion she is allowed out, she is accompanied by guards who are supposed to protect her life, but who, Bhavya thinks, are more concerned with keeping her chaste. Every minute of her life is accounted for. What she eats, what she wears, even her friends are chosen by her mother. For a long time, Bhavya accepted this as her lot in life, but recently, her cage, for all that it is gilded, seems suffocating.