The Candle and the Flame

by Nafiza Azad

  Her sister is already up and cooking if the sounds coming from the other room are any indication. Fatima Ghazala grabs a light blue tunic and shalwar, pairing them with a red rectangular cloth that she wraps around her head. She eschews the breast binding; her femininity is no longer a weakness she has to hide. She performs her ablutions in the rickety bathroom and gets ready for the day ahead. Fatima Ghazala feels a keen sense of anticipation, as if the day is a ripe fruit just waiting to be picked. It is a feeling she does not remember having before. Fatima was cautious of shadows and corners. She was scared of many things though she pretended not to be. Fatima Ghazala flexes her fingers, and once again feels the strength in her body. No, Fatima Ghazala isn’t afraid.

  Wiping her face on a threadbare towel, she finally ventures out onto the battlefield. Sunaina is, as is her practice, making rotis for their morning meal. She has some eggplants roasting in the chulha fire, which she will later use to make baingan bharta.

  Fatima Ghazala pours herself a pyali of chai. “I won’t need lunch today.”

  Sunaina gives her a guarded look. “And why is that?”

  “I’m meeting Adila at Lazeez Muhalla for lunch.” Fatima Ghazala sips her chai with pleasure.

  Sunaina finishes making the last roti without responding, removes the eggplants from the flames, and quenches the fire. Her movements are jerky, and she keeps glancing at Fatima Ghazala.

  Fatima Ghazala puts down her pyali of chai. “What is it, didi? What have I done wrong this time?”

  “Last night,” Sunaina begins, stops, and swallows. She tries again. “Last night I saw you …” She stops again and takes a deep breath. “You … you were covered with smokeless fire … why?”

  “Ah,” Fatima Ghazala says. It was inevitable. “I suppose wishing you wouldn’t find out was too much to ask for.”

  “Find out what?” Sunaina’s voice is shrill.

  “To be honest, didi, I don’t quite understand what has happened to me,” Fatima Ghazala says. “In the simplest words, from what I understand, I have Djinn fire.”

  Sunaina rears back at Fatima Ghazala’s words, her hand losing its grip on the plate she is holding. The roasted eggplants splatter on the floor.

  “You are a djinni?” Sunaina says slowly, disbelievingly. “You are one of the creatures that killed Amma and Baba?”

  Fatima Ghazala looks at her sister, and her anger stirs faintly. “I don’t know if I am a djinni, didi. I suspect not. I am certain, however, that I am not a Shaitan. I wish you would not blame the entire species for the actions of a specific few.”

  Sunaina barks out a laugh. “Look how quickly you defend them. After all they did to us!” Her eyes flash. “This just proves you are not human!”

  “And what right do you have to judge my humanity?” Fatima Ghazala says, truly angry now. “You who forget so easily the reason you are even alive right now.”

  “Oh? So you think you did me a favor by saving me from those monsters? I wish you had let me die! That way I wouldn’t have had to see you turning into one now!” Her last words are a scream that echoes in the silence that immediately follows it.

  “I am a monster?” Fatima Ghazala laughs. The alternative would be to cry, and she refuses to give her sister the satisfaction. “I understand. I won’t come back here,” Fatima Ghazala says, her hands squeezed into fists, her heart quite possibly entirely broken. She retrieves her oud from their bedroom, slings it over her shoulder, and leaves without once looking back.

  The road to Achal Kaur’s haveli is long, and at this time of the day, very few carts travel in that direction. Fatima Ghazala walks slowly, navigating the early morning crowds without much effort. A few angry tears escape her, and she brushes them away brusquely. She will be fine. Perhaps not right now, but eventually, she will be fine. She doesn’t know what has happened to her, but Fatima Ghazala is certain of one thing: She feels more like herself than she ever has before. Whether that means her real self is a monster, she doesn’t know.

  Her stomach growls, and she thinks of the breakfast she didn’t eat and the chai she left unfinished. She purchases a glass of chai from one of the many chai wallahs along the way, and two steamed buns, stuffed with red bean paste, from a cart at the end of Rootha Rasta.

  When she finally reaches the haveli, her boss is standing outside talking anxiously to a messenger. Fatima Ghazala feels a wave of fondness for the matriarch. Adila told her how worried she had been. Would her boss consider her a monster too? Fatima Ghazala grimaces at her thoughts. She will be fine. Fixing a smile on her face, she walks forward.

  “Good morning, Beeji. These are for you.” Fatima Ghazala hands her boss a superbly straggly bunch of daffodils she bought from a little girl and marches inside. Achal Kaur follows as rapidly as her girth allows.

  “Why the flowers?” Achal Kaur asks, blinking in the dimmer light inside.

  “For two reasons. The first is to apologize for missing work yesterday and causing you unnecessary worry. The second is because we are both alive, and that is a splendid thing.” Fatima Ghazala beams determinedly at Achal Kaur.

  “What’s wrong, puttar?” the matriarch asks, and Fatima Ghazala shakes her head, unable to keep her smile from wilting.

  “The man who died …” Achal Kaur starts, and trails off when Fatima Ghazala stops resisting her tears. Without another word, Achal Kaur pulls her into a hug, and Fatima Ghazala allows herself to be enveloped in the affection and love she needs so desperately.

  Sunaina is welcomed back to Sushila-ji’s haveli with open arms and not a little relief. Rajkumari Bhavya is waiting for her cosmetics, and no one wants to keep the princess waiting too long. Sunaina is shown into a large dimly lit room at the back of the haveli. The room is located on the ground floor, and the tiny windows of the room look out into the narrow alley separating Sushila-ji’s haveli from the one beside it. One large wooden table, empty but for knives and other essential utensils, takes central position in the room. In the cupboards and on counters that stand against the three walls of the room are all the ingredients Sunaina could ever need to create any and all the cosmetics she desires.

  Buckets filled with different flowers—from the decadent saffron to the fragrant gardenia—fill the top of one cupboard. Packets of ginseng roots, bowls of red beans and green mung bean to make into facial scrubs are strewn over the top of another cupboard. Also present are fresh peonies to extract oil from. Another counter is piled with packets of coconut flakes, cocoa both fresh and crushed, dried lavender buds, beetroot powder, turmeric, honey, and fresh cinnamon sticks. A basket full of jasmine flowers teeters dangerously at the edge of yet another counter. The bounty in this room is easily worth more than what Sunaina would be able to earn even after working for a decade.

  “We purchased everything you asked for,” Maya, her employer’s eldest daughter, says. “If there is anything else you need, let me know right away.”

  Sunaina nods, and the girl smiles brightly. “Thank you, Sunaina. Rajkumari Bhavya couldn’t stop asking about my eye shadow. It felt nice to have something she didn’t for once.” When Sunaina doesn’t respond, Maya looks at her worriedly. “Did your sister come back? I’m sorry, I should have asked about her first.”

  “Oh, no, Maya-ji.” Sunaina shakes her head, her hands curling into fists. “You don’t need to apologize to me. My … sister came back safely.”

  “I’m glad to hear that. I hope you scolded her for worrying you so much! Could you make some things quickly? My cousin and I are going to visit Aftab Mahal today, and we need something to present to the rajkumari.”

  Sunaina nods once again, and after thanking her, Maya leaves. Sunaina stands for a moment, overwhelmed by the room and the things it contains. The temptation to sink into her work and forget everything is immense, and she almost yields to it. However, in the fragrance of the flowers are the whispers of a sister she may have lost forever. Fatima of the flowers, their father used to call her. Sunaina had often resented the love her parent
s lavished on her adoptive sister. There were times when her jealousy made her exclude the younger Fatima, times when Sunaina felt secure being harsh, knowing her discordant words would be heard without consequence. Fatima never spoke back; she didn’t know how.

  Sunaina sits down at the table and with shaking fingers starts removing the orange stamens from the saffron flowers.

  Her sister is gone, and in her place is this being, this Fatima Ghazala, who is made of fire and bladed words. Anyone would think her a monster, but only a sister would call her one. Alone in the room full of flowers, Sunaina rests her head on her arms and cries.

  Lazeez Muhalla stretches all the way from Northern Noor to Southern Noor, though not always in a straight line. The street is full of food vendors, restaurants, teahouses, and other establishments concerned with food and eating. No carts, horses, or camels are permitted, to allow for better use of space. Tables and chairs are set out on the sidewalks, sometimes spilling over onto the road itself. Some restaurants have small tents in front of them with low tables and cushions on the floor to seat their customers. Teahouses are frequent, one of which belongs to Sunaina’s friend Ruka’s family. Fatima Ghazala arranged to meet Adila at one of the better-known teahouses at half past noon. She is late when she arrives, her face flushed from running the last mile. The proprietor of the teahouse, a pleasant-faced Han man, looks at her curiously. Fatima Ghazala mops her face with a handkerchief and returns the proprietor’s look with a regal nod. She looks around the teahouse and sees Adila sitting at a table set against a wall fitted with unlit fluted lamps. She is immersed in a book and fails to notice Fatima Ghazala’s approach. She looks up, startled, when Fatima Ghazala drops into the chair opposite her.

  “Oh, thank goodness!” Adila says. “I was afraid you wouldn’t come.”

  “I don’t break promises,” Fatima Ghazala says, a tad offended. Fatima would have laughed off Adila’s comment, but to Fatima Ghazala, her word is her most important possession.

  She notes the flutter of surprise that crosses Adila’s face, but then the other girl laughs. “I know you don’t, but things have been strange recently.”

  “That is true. What were you reading?” Fatima Ghazala gestures to the book Adila is returning to her bag.

  “About Moinuddin Chishti,” Adila replies.

  “Ah, the Sufi saint?” Fatima Ghazala asks. Adila nods. “And so? Do you agree with his philosophy?”

  “That God is in giving? That worship is best done by easing the pain of others less fortunate than you? Yes. Don’t you?”

  Fatima Ghazala shrugs and stands up. “I don’t not agree.”

  They leave the teahouse and emerge into the busy street, blinking at the intensity of the heat outside. Fatima Ghazala breathes deep of the enticing aromas and announces, “I am starved, Adila.”

  Adila catches hold of Fatima Ghazala’s sleeve. “You are behaving strangely.”

  “Because I am hungry?” Fatima Ghazala looks away from her friend’s too-perceptive eyes and makes an attempt at levity. “Well, I am a different person now. I am no longer the Fatima you knew.”

  “You are still her. Just … more,” Adila replies.

  “Maybe I am a monster,” Fatima Ghazala mutters, remembering Sunaina’s words.

  “Are you really all right?” Adila seems truly worried now.

  Fatima Ghazala grimaces at the question. “Adila, you are so grown-up away from Azizah and Amirah.”

  The other girl seems to realize the futility of questioning Fatima Ghazala any further. “I should hope so,” she answers tartly.

  “Are Azizah and Amirah still at the madrasa?” Fatima Ghazala asks with a grin, imagining the outrage when they discover they missed out on this outing.

  “They are if they know what’s good for them,” Adila says grimly.

  “All right, I really am hungry. Can I choose where we eat today?” Fatima Ghazala asks, looking around in anticipation. When her friend agrees, Fatima Ghazala steers both the conversation and the direction they are moving. Lazeez Muhalla is always crowded, but during lunchtime it becomes especially congested. Fatima Ghazala is unaffected by the sheer number of people and easily slips between the crowds like water, pulling Adila in her wake.

  They pass stalls selling jiaozi stuffed with beef and vegetables, a restaurant specializing in mahaberawi, several dosa places, a quaint little place selling sato, another serving tagine. Plates of polow tempt them, as do the bowls of laksa being slurped from little containers by the hungry of Noor City. They finally stop outside a worn restaurant with a sign peeling so badly that decoding it is impossible. The interior is just as shabby as the sign suggests. Fatima Ghazala and Adila seat themselves and await attention from the lone waiter currently serving the only other customers in the restaurant. Adila looks around dubiously.

  “Don’t worry! Mandeep, that’s Achal Kaur’s grandson, promised me this place has great food. The chef is from Kashgar, an Uyghur man.”

  Fatima Ghazala and Adila feast on hemek naan, sprinkled with sesame seeds and garlic, and topped with salty and sweet onion. Following that is laghman made with hand-pulled noodles and a ragout of peppers, onions, garlic, and eggplant. Accompanying the noodles are meat-stuffed samsa. Fatima Ghazala and Adila manage one of each before washing down the food with black tea flavored with cardamom and cinnamon.

  “We ate like queens.” Adila pats her tummy. “But why the sudden benevolence?” she asks Fatima Ghazala when the latter returns from paying the bill. They linger in the dim restaurant, loath to exchange its shabby but cool interior for the heat outside.

  Fatima Ghazala shrugs. “I simply wanted to.”

  “So Fatima has become Fatima Ghazala?” Adila muses.

  “Yes.”

  “How?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe I always was Fatima Ghazala and just didn’t know it.” Fatima Ghazala lifts a shoulder, feigning nonchalance.

  Her friend isn’t fooled. “Do you feel different?”

  “I feel like I spent the last eighteen years of my life as a charcoal drawing. And then I was filled with color.” Fatima Ghazala smiles fully for the first time. “I feel alive.”

  “Then I am glad you are Fatima Ghazala even though I loved Fatima well.” Adila returns her smile. “Ah, Abba brought back a rishta for me.”

  Fatima Ghazala’s eyes round. “Rishta? From who?”

  “Someone in Khair,” Adila says, naming a forest province in the east. “He was in Noor last Ramadan and saw me at an Iftar party. Apparently he liked me enough to want me as a wife for his eldest son. I said no, of course.”

  “Thank goodness!” Fatima Ghazala flops back in her chair. “I was terrified you would say you’d accepted!”

  “I won’t leave Noor, you know that. Everyone I love is here. Though, to be honest, I wouldn’t mind my own house and a husband to snuggle with.” Adila glances at Fatima Ghazala and catches her with a contemplative look on her face. She pauses and looks at her friend suspiciously. “What?”

  “Is there anyone you want to marry?” Fatima Ghazala asks. She remembers harmless flirtations here and there but never anyone she thought she could spend her life with.

  “No,” Adila admits. “But I am leaving it to Abbu to find me someone I can live with. I trust his choice.”

  “Don’t you want to choose your own husband?” Fatima Ghazala asks. She cannot imagine letting anyone else make the choice.

  “Not particularly. I know you think that’s weird. We’ve already had this conversation.” Adila grins.

  “Have we?” Fatima Ghazala frowns, searching through her memories. “I don’t remember it at all.”

  “You didn’t want to talk about boys at all. What has you so interested in husbands anyway?” Adila’s smile turns sly. “Are you interested in anyone?”

  Inexplicably, Fatima Ghazala thinks of the Emir. Her face flames. “No! Of course not!”

  “Ooh, very suspicious, Fatima Ghazala. Will you tell me who it is, or will Azizah have to tickl
e it out of you?”

  “There is no one, I promise. I am not exactly in a position to think about husbands anyway. Didi threw me out of the apartment today. She thinks I’m a monster,” Fatima Ghazala confesses. Saying it out loud makes it real. It hurts.

  The color drains from Adila’s face. “Why have you waited so long to tell me?”

  “It would have ruined our lunch! You look sick already. Calm down, I’m all right. I am sad, yes, but strangely enough, I am also relieved. I am fiercely relieved, you know. It’s as if I have been trying to occupy a space I do not fit for so long; I have been trying to be someone I am not. Now I have no reason to contort myself, no reason to pretend. It is a glorious feeling actually.” Her words sound hollow even to her.

  “Baji loves you, Fatima Ghazala,” Adila says, her eyes warm.

  “Didi loves Fatima, yes, that is true. She loves the version of me she defines, Adila. When I draw my boundaries myself, she no longer recognizes me,” Fatima Ghazala says flatly. “She called me a monster.”

  Adila looks troubled. “You are staying with us, then.”

  “I was thinking of sleeping on the roof.”

  “Absolutely not. Ammi would throw a fit, and I don’t even want to know what Abbu would say to that. You are staying with us.”

  Fatima Ghazala smiles tremulously. “Thank you.”

  The afternoon court gathers under the shade of several peepal trees located in a corner of the vast grounds of Southern Aftab Mahal. The Rajmata complained that she felt suffocated inside the mahal, so Maharani Aruna requested that arrangements be made to take tea outside. The courtiers sit on cushions scattered upon thick rugs placed on the grass under the trees. Birds are singing, and a gentle breeze makes merry with the leaves on the trees and the bright dupattas on the women. Chai, flavored with the Rajmata’s favorite cardamom, is poured into china cups, another of the Rajmata’s indulgences, while platters of delicacies are passed around by the maids. The conversations are pleasant, and during the lengthier pauses, someone sings beautifully.