by Nafiza Azad
“Thank you for the warnings.”
Indra shrugs, and her grin turns wicked. “I will fight you for the custard apple.”
Fatima Ghazala smiles back, just as wickedly. “I will win.”
After the morning puja is finished and breakfast eaten, the men of Bhavya’s family disperse: the rajkumar to find fitting entertainment, and the maharajah to tackle the weighty job of administrating half a country. The Rajmata and Jayanti Bua leave for their weekly session at an ashram just outside the city where they will feed the gathered poor and listen to the lectures of the many pujari who lecture there. Many of the court ladies, eager to be in their good graces, join the Rajmata and Jayanti at the ashram.
The women left in Southern Aftab are younger in age and seek more secular ways to spend their time. Bhavya is especially looking forward to the day, as Ruchika and her cousin, per her demands, will be bringing the cosmetics chemist to the mahal.
Bhavya strolls down to the first floor, trailed by her maid, and into a spacious receiving room, where the royal women usually entertain visitors. With the large windows open to let in the sunshine and whatever breeze there is, the room presents an inviting and cool place to while away the hours. Carefully groomed indoor plants decorate the room with trailing branches while fresh flowers, arranged artistically in ornate vases, sit atop the sideboards and side tables. On this day, the divans and other chairs have been removed from the center of the room, and rugs have been placed on the ground in their place. The removal of the furniture allows the room to admit a lot more people than it would otherwise. The only chair remaining is a divan at the very front for the rajkumari and the maharani. Bhavya, suddenly filled with good cheer, beams at the maids arranging things. They, in turn, look bemused by the unexpected sweetness.
“Are they here yet?” Bhavya asks her maid. The harried woman gives a quick shake of her head. “Go remind the maharani that she is expected,” Bhavya orders. Without waiting to see if her maid obeys, she sits down on the divan. In front of her is a low table and beyond it the rug where other women interested in cosmetics will sit.
Bhavya waits and soon other women start arriving. Courtiers, cousins, all women born to wealth and boredom, all seeking ways to alleviate the unchanging panorama of their days. Ruchika and her cousin finally arrive and are shown into the room by Bhavya’s maid. Accompanying the girls are servants loaded with various bags and containers. Also walking a few steps behind Ruchika and the cousin is a petite woman dressed beautifully in a modest sari that, though cheap, manages to convey both dignity and elegance. She has no jewelry on except for a nose ring that glints in the light. Her tikka is a small black dot, and her hair is a long braid down her back. She has the restrained sort of beauty that Bhavya often longs for.
Ruchika looks like she indulged in a few lemons before coming, and the cousin looks proud, being the employer of the cosmetics chemist who attracted the rajkumari’s attention. The servants unload their burdens on the low table and disperse.
“We have been eagerly waiting to see what wonderful things you have brought us, Ruchika,” Bhavya says, deliberately sounding as magnanimous as she can. Hot, sweet glee fills her at the wary look Ruchika sends her. “Do introduce me to the person who makes these amazing concoctions.”
The cousin calls forward the woman dressed in the gray sari. “This is Sunaina.” The woman brings her palms together.
“Namaste,” she says respectfully.
Bhavya draws back, surprised. The woman’s eyes are opaque, the emotion in them difficult to read. After being surrounded by obsequious courtiers, it is disconcerting to find someone who doesn’t pretend to be impressed by her. Bhavya opens her mouth to interrogate the woman further, but at that moment, the maharani sweeps into the room followed by five of her companions. The women present immediately fall over themselves greeting the maharani, all except for the cosmetics chemist who stands frozen, her eyes unmoving from one of the maharani’s companions. Bhavya follows the woman’s gaze and frowns at the new face. The girl the cosmetics chemist is looking at is exceedingly pretty, with eyes the same color as the Emir’s. She is looking back at the cosmetics creator with such hurt in her eyes that Bhavya feels her eyes smart.
“Sunaina, you haven’t greeted the maharani,” Maya admonishes. The woman blinks and drags her gaze to the maharani, who sits beside Bhavya with her companions standing behind her.
“Namaste,” Sunaina says again.
Aruna looks at her kindly. “I am quite anxious to see what you’ve brought for us today.”
From the whispers filling the room, so are the other women. Sunaina gives a wan smile and kneels at the side of the low table that bears all the containers and bags the servants carried in. Bhavya doesn’t miss the proprietary way the cousin looks at Sunaina. Bhavya’s lips curl.
Sunaina uncovers little ceramic dishes, displaying the contents and explaining the use and ingredients of each. She shows facial scrubs made from ginseng root, red bean, green mung bean, and sponge gourd. Some of the dishes contain freshly concocted lotions made from cucumber or watermelon juices and infused with oil from scented plants to make them fragrant. There are little vials of cosmetics oils made from sunflower seeds or cabbage seeds or castor oil plants.
“Peony oil will make your hair shine.” Sunaina demonstrates on her own hair.
Eye shadow made from beetroot powder is a particular favorite, as are the ones made from dried lavender buds. The orange eye shadow that initially attracted Bhavya’s attention is shown to Aruna, who pronounces it an instant favorite. But the concoction that evokes the most excitement is the rouge made from saffron and honey with a small extract of orange peel to plump the lips.
Bhavya takes another look at the cosmetics chemist, who, having finished her explanation, sits with downcast eyes. The despair on the woman’s face annoys her. “This is all very impressive. Where did you learn to make them?”
“My family spared no—” the cousin chimes in.
Bhavya cuts her off coldly. “I am asking Sunaina.”
At her name, the woman looks up. Her gaze immediately goes to the companion before returning to Bhavya. “I had a Han friend, Jung Sori. Her mother taught me the recipes when she saw how interested I was in learning them. They returned to their country but left me a book containing the recipes.”
“You know the Han language?” Aruna asks, and Sunaina answers in the affirmative.
“My father traded with the Han people quite extensively.”
“Where are you originally from?” Bhavya asks, her curiosity piqued.
“I am from Noor City, Rajkumari.” Sunaina smiles humorlessly. “I have lived my entire life there.”
At her words, all voices stop, and people look closer at the woman.
“You mean you are one of the three survivors?” Aruna asks, sitting up at the unexpected revelation.
Something dark shifts in the woman’s eyes. “I don’t know if I would call it surviving, sahiba, but yes, I am.”
Bhavya nods somberly. Now for the part she has been waiting for. “I have decided,” she says, and turns to the maharani. Aruna inclines her head; the maharani will support the Bhavya’s decision.
“Decided what?” Ruchika asks suspiciously, and Bhavya stifles a grin. Oh, this is fun.
“I will have Sunaina create her concoctions for the royal women first, the courtiers second, and the rest of the world third. She will work from Aftab Mahal,” Bhavya announces with a flourish, and gives in to the urge to beam.
“But, Rajkumari Bhavya!” Maya stands up to protest.
“Tell me, Maya, did I sound like I was asking for your permission?” Bhavya says, her eyes bright with malice. The cousin blanches. “How much did you pay Sunaina for her creations?”
“W-w-well, we provided the materials …” the girl stammers.
“In other words, nothing.” Bhavya shakes her head. “Tch, so cheap. I expected better from your cousin, Ruchika.”
Ruchika goes scarlet, her emb
arrassment robbing her of speech.
“Sunaina, you will move into the mahal as soon as you can. Someone here will help you with the details,” Bhavya says, waving her hand vaguely. Aruna nods at one of her companions, and the woman comes forward to talk to Sunaina.
“Go ahead and try the cosmetics,” Bhavya urges the women present, and they surge forward, not needing any more encouragement.
Fatima Ghazala looks at her sister and wonders if she should try, once again, to approach her, but the hurt from their last confrontation still lingers. The word “monster” crawls under her skin, trying to make her into the thing she was accused of being. No, Fatima Ghazala decides, she will not be the one making conciliatory overtures. Not this time.
“Do you know the cosmetics chemist, Fatima Ghazala?” the maharani asks, and Fatima Ghazala realizes she hasn’t been very circumspect with her expressions.
“She’s my sister, sahiba,” Fatima Ghazala says softly with a glance at Sunaina, who is answering questions from the court ladies. The admission costs nothing except a twinge in her heart.
The rajkumari turns and looks at Fatima Ghazala.
“Her parents adopted me and brought me up as Muslim,” Fatima Ghazala elaborates at the look on the rajkumari’s face.
“Does this mean you are a survivor too?” the rajkumari asks.
Fatima Ghazala feels her lips twist humorlessly at the word. Survival hardly encompasses the entirety of their experiences. What word should they use to describe nights full of nightmares? What words will properly articulate the feeling when you turn a corner in a neighborhood you have lived in your entire life and all you can see are the ghosts of people you used to know? “I guess you can call it surviving,” she says to the rajkumari.
“What about the third person? Do you know her?” Aruna asks.
“Her name is Laali. Yes, she was with us at the time, sahiba,” Fatima Ghazala answers. She feels a pang of guilt as she realizes that she left Taaj Gul without once visiting the grandmother she is so fond of.
A footman comes forward carrying a message for the maharani, and a cousin calls Bhavya to join the rest of the women trying out the cosmetics. The moment is broken, but the words spoken echo, weighting the atmosphere with a reminder of all they have lost.
The maharani gestures Fatima Ghazala closer. “The Emir asks that you attend him in Northern Aftab. Indra will show you how to leave without being seen,” Aruna says in a low voice.
Fatima Ghazala nods and leaves the room with one last look at her sister. She follows Indra through large airy rooms and wide corridors and turns a corner only to almost bump into someone traveling at full speed in the opposite direction. She avoids him, neatly stepping aside at the last moment.
“Fatima Ghazala, hurry it up!” Indra calls sharply. Fatima Ghazala spares one look at the person she almost bumped into, nods her head at him, and runs after Indra.
Indra shows Fatima Ghazala a little dark room in the pantry where she can change into her usual uniform of tunic, shalwar, and turban, and walk out with no one giving her a second look. A half hour later from the time the Emir called for her, Fatima Ghazala makes her way to Northern Aftab through the corridor that connects the two palaces, wondering if she is supposed to simply march inside and demand to be taken to the Emir. It turns out she needn’t have worried, as Zulfikar is waiting for her in the courtyard in front of the entrance. He smiles when he sees her, and Fatima Ghazala forgets to breathe. She had forgotten how beautiful he is. He is dressed in the usual Patiala pants and vest that is the uniform of the Ifrit soldiers. Fatima Ghazala lets her eyes linger on his bare arms and chest. She clears her throat and ducks her head, her cheeks hot.
“You asked for me?” she asks, deliberately keeping her eyes turned from him.
“I received word from my superiors earlier today. They told me that I may take you into confidence and ask for your help,” Zulfikar says.
At his words, Fatima Ghazala immediately forgets her not-very-halal desires. “What kind of help?” she asks.
“We should probably talk about this in a more private place. Please follow me.”
Fatima Ghazala hesitates. “The Wazir isn’t around, is he?”
“No. The Wazir spends most of his time moving between the desert cities of Qirat that are ruled by the Ifrit. He also patrols the Silk Road to ensure the caravans can travel it without fear of attack from Shayateen and other less savory creatures,” Zulfikar says. “Right now he is tracking the merchant who delivered the book for Firdaus.”
Fatima Ghazala follows Zulfikar to a small room on the third floor. Books and other paraphernalia are arranged on bookshelves that stand against one wall. In the middle of the room are three chairs arranged around a coffee table. This is the humblest room Fatima Ghazala has seen on either side of the mahal.
“Take a seat and give me a minute. I will be back.” Zulfikar leaves, and Fatima Ghazala wanders around the room, peering at the books on the shelves. They all deal with military strategy. On the table is a shatranj game paused in mid-play. Fatima Ghazala is peering at the board, trying to make sense of it, when Zulfikar returns carrying a tray full of desserts and a coffeepot.
“Do you play?” he asks, shifting the game over and placing the tray on the table. Fatima Ghazala shakes her head. “I’ll teach you someday,” he says casually. Fatima Ghazala frowns. Does he envision them being in the kind of relationship where he would teach her things? Would Fatima Ghazala mind? No, she answers herself honestly, she wouldn’t mind being taught things by the Emir.
“Dessert?” Fatima Ghazala says, looking at a plate piled with gulab jamun, kunafeh, and baklava.
“Don’t you want any?” Zulfikar helps himself to a gulab jamun.
“I always have room for dessert,” Fatima Ghazala says. She pours thick, bitter coffee from the coffeepot into a cup and adds two cubes of sugar to it. She hands it to Zulfikar. “But right now I am more interested in what you have to tell me.”
“Ah.” Zulfikar takes a sip of the coffee. “You may have heard me mention her before, but the Ifrit leader is called the Raees. She holds the position because she has the strongest fire of us all.” Zulfikar takes a deep breath. “The Raees got infected by the taint and is, at this very moment, internally battling it as it tries to take over her fire. Firdaus was supposed to Name her into being this coming Juma. It is imperative that she leave Al-Naar.”
“Otherwise she’ll destroy your cities and kill your people? Like that other Ifrit did?” Fatima Ghazala asks.
“Yes. She will try to resist it, but you cannot hold back a mountain determined to fall.”
“Won’t the taint affect humans?”
“Not that we have seen. But we do not know. There might be effects that we have not foreseen.”
“And you want me to Name the Raees into the human world?” Fatima Ghazala asks incredulously.
“Yes,” the Emir says.
“But I don’t know how.” Fatima Ghazala is not sure she fully understands what Naming is either.
“We will tackle that problem later. I can only move forward if I have your agreement.”
“I promised Baba that I would write his tale. If this is what he meant by that, I have to try, don’t I? I gave him my word.”
“It might be dangerous, so think twice.”
“I am not afraid of dying, Emir.” Fatima Ghazala looks at him and shrugs. “I have cheated death so many times I feel that if I die this time, it will be deserved.”
“Don’t say that. Don’t think it. I am afraid of you dying.” A moment arcs between them, electric and consuming. Confusing. The Emir looks away first.
“Sayyid!” An Amir soldier appears in the doorway. Fatima Ghazala breathes out, relieved by the interruption. The soldier looks at Fatima Ghazala, then walks over to Zulfikar and whispers urgently in his ear. Zulfikar is rising from his seat before the soldier finishes speaking.
“A Qareen haunts one of the apartments in Taaj Gul. I have to go and try to resolve
the situation immediately.”
“I’ll go with you,” Fatima Ghazala says promptly, not realizing the note of command in her voice.
“As you wish,” the Emir says.
Ten minutes later, Zulfikar, Fatima Ghazala, and six other Ifrit soldiers are making their way rapidly to Taaj Gul. It is a little after one in the afternoon, and the heat is gaining intensity. Their destination is an old apartment building that still bears scars from the Shayateen attacks. Zulfikar and Fatima Ghazala dismount from the horse as do the soldiers.
An atmosphere of gloom envelops the place, as if even the stones of the building have private sorrows. The surrounding buildings also seem abandoned, though Fatima Ghazala is sure they are fully inhabited. People of Noor City know very well how and when to disappear in the woodwork. The silence surrounding the entire area feels unnatural. Fatima Ghazala keeps thinking that it will be broken by a child’s scream or laughter, but the quiet persists.
“The building has been evacuated, and the occupants moved to the maidaan to wait until the situation has been dealt with,” an Ifrit soldiers says. His Name is Mansoor, Fatima Ghazala reads, of unswerving loyalty, humor, and luck. He gives her a look but does not comment on her presence.
“Get me all the information you can about whoever died in the apartment,” Zulfikar says. Mansoor nods and moves to do his bidding.
“Qareen are a diminutive clan of Djinn. Every human has one bonded to them. Their express purpose is to record your deeds, good or bad,” Zulfikar says, correctly reading the question in Fatima Ghazala’s eyes.
“Every human does? Do I have one?”
“They only show themselves under extreme circumstances. Well, books contain reports of Qareen manifesting to their child hosts. I … don’t know whether you have one or not, but since you are … I can’t call you entirely human, can I now? I am not sure whether you do.” Zulfikar grimaces through his explanation.
Mansoor returns with a couple following him. Both the man and woman have the glassy-eyed appearance of those whose emotions have been taxed two shades beyond endurance.