by Nafiza Azad
“A boy child died in the apartment late last night. These are his parents, Nazim Ali and Razia Buksh.” Mansoor gestures to the couple.
“May Allah grant your child paradise,” Zulfikar says, and Fatima Ghazala echoes the customary consolation.
The parents bow their heads silently. “Could you tell me exactly what happened?” Zulfikar asks gently.
“He has been sick his entire life,” the mother says, and her voice breaks when she realizes that the present tense no longer applies to her child. “We thought he was getting better. Everyone says that, don’t they? But we really did. He went outside and played. I made him chai and gulgula. He ate dinner. Told us he loved us. I should have known when he thanked us for being his parents. I should have known something was terribly wrong, but I thought he was just expressing his love. When I went to check on him during the night, he was gone.” The woman breaks down and weeps. Her husband puts his arm around her, supporting her weight.
“We buried him this morning,” the husband continues. “When we came home, the creature was in his bed. It looks so much like Imran that for a moment I thought I had been having a nightmare and my child had been returned to me. Then I looked into its eyes and saw a monster staring back at me.”
Fatima Ghazala flinches at the word. Zulfikar thanks the parents, and they leave.
“Well, it is time for me to go face the Qareen,” Zulfikar says heavily. “It’s the most difficult when they take on the guise of children.”
“Is it dangerous?” Fatima Ghazala asks. Her eyes are wet. She brushes away her tears quickly.
“No, right now the Qareen is most likely simply grieving. The attachment is strongest when the human is a child.”
“Are Qareen hauntings common?”
“All Qareens are attached to their humans,” Mansoor answers Fatima Ghazala, much to her surprise. The other soldiers pretend that she is invisible. “When their human dies, some cannot handle their grief and manifest themselves in the appearance of their humans. They are what humans usually call ghosts.”
Fatima Ghazala nods a thank-you to the soldier for his explanation.
“Will you remain here?” Zulfikar asks Fatima Ghazala.
“Can I not come with you? I know a thing or two about grief. Maybe I could help?” Fatima Ghazala cannot explain the sudden compulsion that tells her she must see this incident through, but she is not about to question it.
Zulfikar gives in after a slight hesitation. “Very well. Mansoor, which apartment is the haunted one?”
“The first one on the third floor from the east, sayyid.”
“Follow me with two soldiers. I do not expect violence, but nonetheless, be wary. Fatima Ghazala, stay with the soldiers, please.”
Fatima Ghazala nods. The climb to the third floor is eerily quiet. The sounds of their footsteps seem magnified. A light coating of pale pink dust covers all surfaces—and even in these circumstances, Fatima Ghazala feels a sense of home. As they get nearer to the apartment, the oppressive atmosphere of sadness grows stronger until Fatima Ghazala can barely breathe for the lump in her throat and the press of tears in her eyes.
Mansoor gestures to the apartment with the front door ajar. Zulfikar holds up a hand. He enters and gestures for them to stop at the doorway. Fatima Ghazala looks inside the apartment and reads of a life interrupted in the way a pile of laundry lies on a table, pieces of chalk are scattered on the floor, drawings are pasted on the wall.
Zulfikar takes a deep breath; in the next moment, his body is enveloped by his fire, an orange sheen rising from the surface of his skin. “Qareen,” he commands, “show yourself!”
For a few moments, there is no response, but then comes the giggle of a child. Fatima Ghazala steels herself.
“Qareen, I command you on the ninety-nine names of our Creator, show yourself!” Zulfikar says, his voice thundering.
“I no longer believe in this Creator,” a little boy’s voice says. The creature that walks into the living room of the apartment has the appearance of a child not more than six years old. He has tousled curly hair and flushed, sunken cheeks. But his eyes—ah, his eyes are the dark of sorrow. A dark that Fatima Ghazala knows very well. “Why would He create me for this child and force me to witness his pain? Why would He leave me behind and take only the child? Why wasn’t I given the same relief? What about my pain? What kind of Creator does that?”
“You have your own life to lead, Qareen. This is the way of your kind,” Zulfikar says firmly though not unkindly.
“Life?” The Qareen gives a short bark of laughter. “I have spent all of my time tethered to Imran. I don’t know what life is without him.”
Fatima Ghazala stares at the creature, and her vision grows hazy. She sees silvery pieces glowing in the region of the Qareen’s chest. They are like puzzle pieces, straining toward each other, trying to form a whole but being kept from unification by a viscous matter that to Fatima Ghazala’s eyes looks very much like grief made tangible. Without considering the consequences, Fatima Ghazala reaches out and touches one of the silvery pieces.
The Qareen shudders, and his eyes flame blue. He turns to Fatima Ghazala and snarls.
Fatima Ghazala’s mother used to say that each moment is a universe, infinite in its possibilities. The moment the Qareen looks at Fatima Ghazala and realizes her presence in the doorway is one such moment, one such universe.
“You— What did you do to me?” The Qareen speaks in Qadr, the language of the Djinn. The words sound as if they were torn from his throat.
Fatima Ghazala remembers her dark days, remembers the time when the city died and echoes were all that was left. Echoes of footsteps, people, and peace. “It hurts, so you cry. You miss them, so you cry. You scream. Sometimes you bleed,” she says to the Qareen, her voice a whisper. “You do not give in to the grief. You never give in to the grief. Doing so shames both you and your dead.”
“What do you know of death? Of grief?” the Qareen hisses.
“I know better,” Fatima Ghazala says coldly, “than to dress my grief up in tears and parade it around like a circus.”
The Qareen’s hold on his assumed appearance slips. He rapidly devolves into a coiling mass of blue flames. After some obvious effort, he regains a face, a shadow of the one he had previously assumed. He keens, a piercing sound that rattles the glass in the window and the cutlery in the kitchen cupboards. “Why will you not let me grieve?” he screams at the gathered Ifrit and Fatima Ghazala.
“It is not your grief we are asking you to keep contained, Qareen. It is your obsession,” Zulfikar says, and Fatima Ghazala starts. With a jolt she realizes that she has been so immersed in looking at the silver pieces of the broken word in the Qareen’s chest—or well, where his chest used to be—that she can’t even remember stepping into the apartment. She retreats.
The Qareen seems unwilling to listen to any reason. He growls, and Fatima Ghazala’s eyes slide back to the silver pieces. She watches the black matter grow and spread till it covers almost all the silver.
“Zulfikar,” she warns, still in Qadr, “you are losing him.”
The Qareen turns to Fatima Ghazala: another moment, another universe. Too late, Fatima Ghazala realizes that though she knows a lot about grieving, she knows almost nothing about comforting. Should she open her arms to the monster approaching her? Would the monster within her, the monster her sister is so convinced she is, consider it an invitation to step outside?
“Qareen, reconsider,” Zulfikar says. He still maintains his calm though his control illustrates itself in the white-knuckled grip he has on his scimitar. “If you harm her, you will lose any chance of a life beyond your grief.”
The Qareen relinquishes all attempts at a human appearance and becomes a small ball of roiling blue flame. Fatima Ghazala tenses as the flames approach; the heat rises exponentially. Before the Qareen can cause her any real damage, however, Zulfikar moves. He intones a few words, grabs the flames, tangible in his hands, and stuffs it
into a glass jar. He closes the jar, screwing the lid on tightly, before handing it to Mansoor. The speed at which all this occurs leaves Fatima Ghazala feeling slightly dizzy.
“Keep it safe. We will search for the local population of liberated Qareen and hand them this one. They will know what to do with him. You may leave now,” Zulfikar says to Mansoor, looking unruffled.
Mansoor takes the jar carefully, nods at Fatima Ghazala and Zulfikar, and leaves. The other two soldiers follow him. Fatima Ghazala sags against the door, feeling entirely drained of energy. She wishes she had eaten some of Zulfikar’s desserts. She turns to him and finds him looking at her with a frown on his face. She flinches and turns away, presenting him with her back.
“I’m sorry. I thought I could do better,” she says over her shoulder. “Instead, I provoked him. I … thought everyone felt grief the same way, grieved the same way. Arrogant of me, huh?” Fatima Ghazala wonders what expression the Emir has on his face, but she feels too nervous to check. The idea of disappointing him makes her feel like a road full of muddy puddles.
“Fatima Ghazala,” he says, and she turns around miserably. She looks up unwillingly and is surprised by the expression on his face. He doesn’t look angry. He looks … kind, which, in Fatima Ghazala’s opinion, might be worse. “Will you show me around Northern Noor?”
Of all the things Fatima Ghazala expected the Emir to say, this was not one of them. “Now?”
“Unless you would rather return to Southern Aftab—” Fatima Ghazala is shaking her head before Zulfikar can complete the sentence.
“I need to go visit someone first. Is that all right? She lives in Taaj Gul, not far from here in fact.” Zulfikar agrees readily enough.
A question occurs to Fatima Ghazala as they descend the stairs to the first floor. “What happens to the Qareen after their humans die? You said something about liberation?”
“They are long-lived; sometimes their lives span three times that of a human’s. After their service is over, they are free to live as they please. They live a nomadic life in the desert,” Zulfikar says over his shoulder.
“The Qareen just now has a name, you know.” Fatima Ghazala thinks of the silver pieces. “I couldn’t read it, though. If I hadn’t been here, do you think you could have talked him out of haunting … ?”
“You can’t talk someone out of grief.” Zulfikar suddenly stops and turns around. Fatima Ghazala comes to a startled stop before she crashes into him.
“Ha. I should know that better than anyone.” She bites her lip. She meets his eyes and looks away quickly. “I really am sorry for exacerbating the situation.”
Zulfikar starts walking again. “I don’t think you need to apologize. Not to me anyway.”
Fatima Ghazala allows his words to make her feel slightly better as they emerge from the building. She waits while Zulfikar talks to his lieutenants, appreciating that he is taking time he doesn’t have to be with her. Twenty minutes later, they are on their way.
“I need riding lessons,” Fatima Ghazala says, patting Zulfikar’s horse. “I don’t like being carted around by you like that sack of rice you think I am.”
“I don’t know,” Zulfikar says. “I have a feeling it will become impossible for you to remain in the mahal once you know how to ride and have access to horses.”
“What if I promise to be good?” she answers him over her shoulder, and he makes a disbelieving sound. They are moving slowly through a busy road, and Fatima Ghazala takes in the cacophony of a thousand voices speaking perhaps as many languages with pleasure. Her good cheer begins to reassert itself as they get nearer to her building. She has Zulfikar stop at a mithai shop; no one ever visits anyone else in Noor City empty-handed.
Zulfikar remains outside with the horse while Fatima Ghazala goes to visit the Alif sisters, who aren’t home, and then Laali. She pauses outside Laali’s door and takes a deep breath. She hasn’t seen her adopted grandmother since she became Fatima Ghazala. Will Laali be able to recognize Fatima Ghazala as a fundamentally different person from the one she knew?
She knocks, and a familiar, though more querulous, voice bids her enter. Fatima Ghazala knows something is wrong as soon as she enters Laali’s room. For one thing, the curtains are drawn and the room is dark. For another, Laali is wearing an old nightdress and lying in bed. Fatima Ghazala cannot fathom how a woman so rigid about the way she dresses can endure being seen in this state of dishabille.
“Laali?” Fatima Ghazala touches the old woman’s forehead gently with the back of her hand. She doesn’t have a fever. Her skin is soft to the touch. Fatima Ghazala squints in the gloom of the room and frowns. Laali is glowing a faint blue. “Laali?” she says a bit more urgently. She reaches out to touch the old woman, scared suddenly, and the blue crackles. She retreats a step, thinking furiously. Is the blue Djinn fire? Why does Laali have fire?
The old woman opens her eyes and peers into the gloom. When she realizes it is Fatima Ghazala who stands above her, she struggles to a sitting position. “I told your sister quite a while ago to tell you to come see me,” Laali complains agitatedly.
“She must have gotten busy and forgotten,” Fatima Ghazala says with some discomfort. She doesn’t want to speculate about Sunaina.
“It was important I talk to you,” Laali frets, pulling at her uncombed hair.
Fatima Ghazala catches the woman’s hands in her own, not caring that the blue flames sting her slightly. “I’m here now, Laali. You can talk to me now.”
Laali suddenly wails and starts struggling. “I see blood, so much blood. Death and disaster. I see death!” she cries out.
“What do you mean, Laali?” Fatima Ghazala asks, and the woman grabs her hands tightly.
“The only reason I survived the Shayateen was because I knew you would keep us safe. I Saw it. So I came to find you.”
“What do you mean you Saw it, Laali?” Fatima Ghazala frowns, sensing that her adopted grandmother is telling her something of significance but unable to quite understand.
“I should have told people to run. I should have. I did! No one listened, and they all died. Now it’s my turn!” Laali starts crying loudly, rocking back and forth as if she is in great pain. Fatima Ghazala stands frozen, not knowing what to do.
“Is she at it again?” Laali’s door opens, and Anu comes bustling in. “She has been wailing about death, dying, and blood these past few days.” Anu clicks her tongue. “Poor dear is losing hold of reality. Run along, Fatima. I’ll help her bathe and change her clothes. It’s almost time for chai too.”
Fatima Ghazala nods slowly, unable to take her eyes off the frail old woman. Her blue glow is faint but constant. She tries to tell Laali she is leaving, but the old woman has drifted too far into her nightmares to comprehend. Fatima Ghazala places a box of mithai on a table on her way out. The reality of Laali and the inevitability of the end weigh upon her shoulders. Her expression is somber when she returns to Zulfikar.
“Is everything all right?” he asks, helping her mount the horse.
Fatima Ghazala shakes her head. “No, but I don’t want to talk about it.” Why was Laali glowing blue? What does she mean, “Saw” it? What did she see? She glances at Zulfikar. What if Laali’s glow means she is part djinni? Fatima Ghazala remembers the Wazir’s assertion. What would he do to Laali? She’s already so ill.
“Fair enough,” the Emir says easily. “So now where will you take me?”
“First”—Fatima Ghazala looks at the remaining box of mithai in the bag she is carrying—“I need to go to Beeji’s haveli.”
Zulfikar obliges, and half an hour later, they are at Achal Kaur’s haveli. After a teary meeting with the old matriarch that culminates in a long hug, Fatima Ghazala is finally ready to show Zulfikar the sides of Noor only she knows. She asks the Emir some questions as they ride away from Achal Kaur’s haveli, their pace slow in the honeyed heat of the day. “How long have you been in Noor?”
“Four years,” Zulfikar replies.
“In Al-Naar, I lived in the city of Tayneeb.” The Emir falls silent until Fatima Ghazala nudges him. “Sorry, I was just remembering. Tayneeb is …” He pauses again. “Different. Especially the architecture in the city. Our houses are made of marble. Sounds improbable, doesn’t it? But in Tayneeb, every domicile is an expression of the matriarch’s pride in her family, in her Name. People use only the best materials and the best architects to create their houses. We live in extended families of thirty to forty people, so imagine multiple buildings the size of Aftab Mahal. We do not have kings or queens but a Raees, the Ifrit with the strongest fire, and among us, that’s always a woman.”
“Why did you leave?” The longing for his home is apparent in the words the Emir speaks.
He is quiet for such a long while that Fatima Ghazala thinks the Emir is not going to answer. But finally, after a short laugh that has nothing to do with humor, he says, “I got my heart broken. It hurt too much to stay in the same city as her. To watch her create a life in which I would be less than a bystander. So I left. The farthest I could run to was here.”
“I see.” Fatima Ghazala mulls for a second. “Will you never go back?”
“I am scared to,” the Emir confesses in a whisper. Fatima Ghazala twists in her seat in front of him and tries to look at him, but he makes her turn around again.
“So it still hurts.” Fatima Ghazala feels a peculiar sting in her own chest at the thought. She wonders why people fall in love when all it ever ends in is pain.
“I suspect it always will.” Zulfikar laughs again. Fatima Ghazala can tell he is embarrassed by all he has told her. “Where exactly are we going?”
“The public stables.” At Zulfikar’s expression of surprise, she elaborates, “The Noor I know, the Noor I want to show you, is not a city to be seen on a horse.”
The Noor Fatima Ghazala knows is not one that is easily visible to those born in wealth and privilege. It never was. She remembers exploring the city with her adoptive father, her small hand held snugly in his much larger one. “Noor,” Jagan told her, “means light. But not just any light. Noor means heavenly light. The kind of light you see in a mother’s face the first time she sees her child.”