by Nafiza Azad
The Noor Fatima Ghazala walks in now is vastly different from the Noor she grew up in. Firdaus taught her that no city is ever a simple sum of its streets and buildings. Neither is Noor. The city of Noor is a harmony of her people and her places; Fatima Ghazala intends to show the Emir this.
She takes him through colorful alleys composed of narrow walks and tiny shops selling everything from candles to jewelry made of blue beads and silver pieces. They walk through a street that is perfectly ordinary except for the rioting of hot-pink bougainvillea flowers on the walls between the houses and the sidewalk. Along the way she shows him the poetry, sometimes written, sometimes drawn, on doors and doorsteps, on the walls and in hidden alcoves. Love letters to the city from the people she shelters.
She takes him to a Buddhist temple on a leafy hill in Southern Noor where cats gather after dark. A grove of date palms in Northern Noor that yield the sweetest Medjool dates. They eat sugarcane and drink coconut milk. From a grizzly vendor wearing an ambi-patterned kurta, they buy naan stuffed with roasted meat and vegetables, which they wash down with glasses of sikhye they purchase from a Han vendor.
Their final stop is Bijli Bazaar.
“This is my favorite place in Noor City,” Fatima Ghazala tells the Emir as they stand in front of one of the many entrances to the market. “Do you have a place similar to this in Tayneeb?”
“We do have markets, but nothing this chaotic.” He grins. “Is there a reason this place is so special to you?”
Fatima Ghazala leads him inside, breathing deep of the air that is scented with ittar and spices. As it is late in the afternoon, the market isn’t too crowded. It will close its doors at eight in the evening. “For six months after the massacre, my sister and I lived in a shelter provided by the Emir at the time. We were too shattered to care for ourselves.” Fatima Ghazala shudders slightly, remembering. “But as time lessened the intensity of our losses, my sister decided we could no longer accept the charity of the Djinn. We didn’t have anywhere to go, so we took to the streets. It was okay. Noor had people again. It was no longer a graveyard.”
They start walking down an alley populated by spice vendors. Barrels of black, green, and red chili powder, nutmeg, ginger powder, star anise, cardamom, turmeric, and many other spices vie for their attention. Fatima Ghazala feels like she is in heaven. “We spent our nights at several places: the masjid, synagogue, mandir, gurdwara, wherever we could be safe. But sometimes we would secretly spend the night locked in here. I would explore while my sister slept. I would peer into the stores and make up wild stories about the merchants and the merchandise they sell. I spent a lot of time running around this place, tiring myself so I could sleep even when I was hungry.” She smiles at the Emir. “The bazaar with its twists and turns became a place to call home.”
When they finally retrieve Zulfikar’s horse and return to Aftab Mahal, it is late in the evening. Fatima Ghazala is exhausted and wondering if she can make it to Southern Aftab without succumbing to the demands of sleep.
“Thank you,” the Emir says before they part.
“I should be the one thanking you,” Fatima Ghazala replies. “This was your way of distracting me from the incident with the Qareen, was it not?”
The Emir looks away but not before Fatima Ghazala sees his smile. She stands transfixed, her heart a bit wobbly. Then she shakes herself free and takes her leave of him.
Fatima Ghazala makes her way to the dark room in Southern Aftab where she swiftly changes clothes. The kitchen is deserted, as are the hallways. Fatima Ghazala assumes that the majority of the mahal inhabitants have retired for the night. No sooner does she have the thought than someone steps directly in her path. Fatima Ghazala moves aside very quickly, avoiding collision at the last minute.
“You really do have excellent reflexes,” the man who stepped in front of her says.
Fatima Ghazala turns to look at him. His likeness to the maharajah is such that Fatima Ghazala can only conclude that the man before her is Rajkumar Aaruv, the man Indra warned her about. He is currently evaluating Fatima Ghazala much like one would livestock; his eyes linger on her lips, her chest, before traveling down. His very gaze is a violation. Fatima Ghazala stiffens, gives him the barest of nods, and starts walking away.
“I haven’t given you leave to go yet,” the rajkumar says.
“I do not answer to you, Rajkumar Aaruv,” Fatima Ghazala replies as calmly as she can.
“It is not fair that you know my name and I do not know yours,” the rajkumar says, falling into step with her.
“Life’s not fair. Shouldn’t you know that by now?” Without waiting for an answer, Fatima Ghazala hastens her pace and walks away, leaving the rajkumar staring after her.
Dust motes float in a ray of sunlight that has slipped through a crack in the shutters sealed over the windows in the bookstore that used to belong to Firdaus. Now it has no owner and is, to Zulfikar at least, just the scene of a tragedy that he will hold close all his life. The air inside the bookstore smells musty and, if sorrow has a smell, sad. Zulfikar asks a soldier to light a lamp and the answering illumination reveals the chaos in the bookstore clearly. Zulfikar sifts methodically through the books; though a large number of them are beyond repair, some of them may yet be salvageable. He wonders if Fatima Ghazala would be interested in the task.
It has been two days since he accompanied Fatima Ghazala around the city, seeing Noor through her eyes. Thanks to her, his appreciation of the city and her people has increased. Zulfikar hasn’t been able to stop thinking about the new Name Giver, remembering suddenly the shine in her eyes when she talked about living on the streets, her infectious enthusiasm for mangoes, and the way she ate that made him hungry for whatever she was enjoying. Zulfikar recognizes the feelings unfurling within him. He has felt them before, and he’ll be damned if he yields to them this time. There are no other worlds he can run to anymore.
Today, after resolving a conflict between the shopkeepers’ union and some Silk Road merchants, Zulfikar was readying to go back to the mahal, when it occurred to him that he had not yet been back to Firdaus’s bookstore. If the Name Giver had any writings pertaining to the Naming process, they would be at the bookstore. So here he is, neck-deep in books. Zulfikar spies a stack of books pinned underneath the Name Giver’s desk and pulls them out. He recognizes the writing on the first page of the topmost book; in fact, he feels the recognition like a blow to his stomach. The old man and Zulfikar had never had much of a relationship beyond what their respective positions obligated them to, but the Name Giver was the Name Giver. You do not need to make friends with the walls around you to know that they are there.
The memory of the old man is so strong that it feels like he has left an indentation of himself carved in the air. Zulfikar looks through the book at the very top of the stack and realizes that it is Firdaus’s journal. In fact, all the books in the stack are journals Firdaus kept. Zulfikar closes the journal and absently rubs the cover with his fingers. A scent of mitti ittar fills the air; the scent Firdaus used to wear. Zulfikar picks up the pile of journals and strides to the door. Fatima Ghazala has more right than he to read the old man’s words.
When Zulfikar gets to Northern Aftab, the Wazir is waiting for him right in front of the entrance. Zulfikar moves past the Ifrit without speaking a word to him. That does not deter Anwar, who simply follows Zulfikar all the way up to the library. Zulfikar places the stack of journals on a table, sits down on a chair, and gestures to the Wazir to sit. “When did you return?”
Anwar sits in the indicated chair; his face is tense, but his expression is a shade smug. Zulfikar raises his eyebrow at his so-called advisor. “An hour ago. I traveled to Baaz”—the Wazir names another desert city—“and apparently it, too, suffered from Ghul attacks.”
“I see.” Zulfikar frowns. The Ghul have not returned to Noor, and Zulfikar doesn’t know what to make of their attacks. “What about the merchant who supplied Firdaus with the tainted book?”
“I haven’t had any reports from the soldiers I set on his trail. I’m going to give them another two days before I go after them,” the Wazir replies a bit too neatly.
“We also have to look for the tainted Shayateen. I have had Mansoor prepare blooded blades for the soldiers,” Zulfikar says, mentioning the tradition of covering sword blades with Ifrit blood so any Shaitan struck with one would immediately burn. “And the man who held the children hostage? You said you were looking into him?”
“He hails from Khair. He arrived in Noor last week and immediately made his way to the schools. From what I learned, he was tasked with recruiting fifty new soldiers for the rebel army.” Anwar smiles slightly. “What did the rajah say when you told him about the man and the army he was recruiting for?”
“He doesn’t believe in the rebellion,” Zulfikar replies tightly. “He thinks it is a rumor.”
“Let it be, then. You cannot make him believe what he doesn’t want to. If war comes, and it will, we will be there spilling the first blood.”
Zulfikar looks sharply at the Wazir, disturbed by the eagerness in the Ifrit’s voice.
“I have a question for you, Emir,” Anwar says, abruptly changing expression.
“What is it?” Zulfikar replies warily.
“Do you know how Fatima Ghazala survived the Shayateen attacks? Oh, I see by your face that you do. Does she have Ifrit blood?” The Wazir leans forward, his glee apparent.
“I am not sure. Perhaps she does. What does it matter?” Retaining a veneer of measured calm is becoming difficult, but Zulfikar manages.
“What do you think the Raees will say when I tell her that her favored Emir is harboring an abomination?” Anwar sneers, his mask slipping slightly. Zulfikar sees the Ifrit’s true feelings glance out at him.
“I don’t think she is going to say or do anything at all, Wazir,” he replies slowly. “At least nothing like what you are expecting her to.”
“And how can you be so sure of that?” Anwar demands.
“You haven’t asked me who the new Name Giver is, Wazir,” Zulfikar says pleasantly.
The blood drains from Anwar’s face. “Impossible,” he whispers.
“Not at all, as Fatima Ghazala has readily proved with her powers.” Zulfikar rises to his feet. “Even the Raees will hesitate to execute a Name Giver, don’t you think?”
Anwar responds by leaving the room, slamming the door on his way out. When he is gone, Zulfikar broods. While it is true that the Raees needs Fatima Ghazala right now, what happens when that need has been fulfilled and Fatima Ghazala is no longer essential? Will her life be forfeit then? And what about the Wazir? Zulfikar does not foresee the Ifrit ceasing in his attempts to gain control of Fatima Ghazala. If what he saw in the Wazir’s face is any indication of the strength of his obsession with the Name Giver, the greatest danger to Fatima Ghazala will be from him. Zulfikar gets to his feet. He has things he must do.
After breakfast with the other companions, Indra, the unofficial leader of Maharani Aruna’s companions, leads half the ladies to guard the maharani while she breaks her fast with the rest of the royal family. Fatima Ghazala would have asked to remain with the half left to run errands, but Indra refuses to hear of any alternatives. They stand on one side of a dining room fairly dripping with wealth and splendor. The maharajah’s guards line up on the other side. Still, the situation wouldn’t have been unendurable except for the fact that every time Fatima Ghazala looks up, Rajkumar Aaruv is staring at her. Fatima Ghazala keeps her face blank and her gaze on the floor to mask her growing irritation.
The conversation among the royal family isn’t scintillating, so Fatima Ghazala allows her mind to wander. A particular thought makes her look up, and as usual, the rajkumar has his eyes on her. She immediately averts her gaze.
“Bhabhi, who is this new face among your companions?” the rajkumar asks suddenly. The Rajmata and Jayanti also turn to look at Fatima Ghazala.
“She is one of the survivors of the Shayateen attacks,” the maharani says sweetly. “Her name is Fatima Ghazala.”
At the maharani’s words, all attention falls, like a hoe on a clod of earth, on Fatima Ghazala. She forces herself to look up. The Rajmata, imperious in her white sari, examines Fatima Ghazala and clearly finds her wanting. Jayanti, the late king’s sister, keeps her emotions cloaked. The rajkumar is clearly pleased that Fatima Ghazala has no choice but to keep looking up. Only the rajkumari seems uninterested in all that’s happening. She is poking at her food without actually eating any of it.
Then she perks up as if a thought has just occurred to her. “Bhabhi, will you lend me Fatima Ghazala just for today? Her sister, remember the cosmetics chemist? She is moving in today. Fatima Ghazala can help her settle in.”
“Fatima Ghazala is not an object to be lent or borrowed, Bhavya,” the maharani chastises gently. “You can ask her directly if she wants to help.”
Bhavya raises an eyebrow at Fatima Ghazala. “Well?”
Fatima Ghazala wants to say no. She wants to be left to her own devices. Why would she want to see someone who called her a monster? But the truth is, Fatima Ghazala is not her sister. She cannot suddenly stop caring about someone she thought of as family. “Yes,” she finally replies to the rajkumari. “I will help.”
“Count me in too, kaddu,” the rajkumar says a beat later. “I am mightily curious to meet this cosmetics chemist you talk so much about.
Sunaina’s life is a glory of ghosts. Her dreams are haunted, the streets she walks on are haunted, and now her apartment is newly blessed with her sister’s ghost. Not that her sister is dead, but she might as well be. Sunaina shocks herself with that thought. She is standing outside the apartment building waiting for a carriage from the mahal to pick her up.
Does she really think Fatima Ghazala would be better off dead? A horror awakens in the pit of her stomach. What is she turning into? When she saw her sister in the mahal, Sunaina felt actual pain—can grief hurt like a wound? Of course it can. Hasn’t Sunaina felt this hurt before?
The carriage finally arrives. Sunaina climbs into it, and they set off. She doesn’t look back, not once, as the carriage trundles away. She doesn’t want to say goodbye to anyone; she doesn’t want to tell anyone she is leaving. Sunaina knows better than to form attachments to people anymore. Her life has more than enough ghosts in it. Breaking up with the man she had almost married relieved her. While walking away from him, leaving him coated in the brief twilight, she had finally conceded, though begrudgingly, that Fatima Ghazala had been right. She had never wanted to marry him.
The carriage deposits her at the entrance of Southern Aftab, and a servant shows Sunaina to a suite of rooms on the first floor very near the kitchens. Rajkumari Bhavya is standing outside the rooms along with someone who has enough familial resemblance to Bhavya to be her brother. Sunaina’s expression falls when she sees the other person with them—Fatima Ghazala. She manages to compose herself before her discomfort becomes apparent. She keeps her gaze firmly on the rajkumari though she glances at the rajkumar once in a while.
“Strange, I thought you would be more pleased to see your sister,” Bhavya comments while unlocking the door to the rooms. They enter the first room, and Sunaina is saved from having to respond. She does glance at Fatima Ghazala and finds her face shuttered. No emotion in her eyes or smile on her lips. The girl who used to be her sister has retreated somewhere inside herself. In her place is a person, a creature, Sunaina doesn’t recognize.
The room they are in is empty except for one large worktable; the setup is almost identical to Sunaina’s previous workshop. The familiarity makes her feel more at ease.
“Make a list of all you need, and I will have everything purchased for you. Furniture as well,” Bhavya says. She casts a critical eye over Sunaina’s clothes. “You will also need a new wardrobe.”
Sunaina’s lips thin at the rajkumari’s presumption. “I like my clothes,” she says stiffly.
“Ooh, look
, kaddu, your cosmetics chemist actually talks,” the rajkumar says. Sunaina flushes and dares a glance at Fatima Ghazala again. However, Fatima Ghazala is now standing with her face turned away from all of them.
“I don’t want Ruchika to imply that I can’t keep you in fashion,” Bhavya, ignoring her brother, says to Sunaina.
“She’s your employee. You are her employer. She is not an object in your possession,” Fatima Ghazala says in a low voice.
Sunaina refuses to feel gratified for the defense and looks, instead, at the rajkumar. She finds him looking at Fatima Ghazala with a repulsive degree of lust in his eyes. Against her own wishes, Sunaina finds herself getting bristly for her sister. She has seen other men stare at her sister in that way. She has been on the receiving end of such looks. She knows how disgusting it feels to be objectified.
“I know that!” Bhavya says hotly. “I just mean that as my employee she needs to have a certain appearance. Anyway, Sunaina, I will have the tailor over in a couple of days, and she will take your measurements for blouses and the like. I have some saris that will look perfect on you.”
Sunaina nods. What else can she do?
“Your monetary compensation will be …” Bhavya names an amount that raises Sunaina’s eyebrows. “You can also keep whatever money you make selling your products to the other court women.”
“Is there anything you need me here for?” Fatima Ghazala asks suddenly.
“No … I just thought you might like to spend time with your sister …” Bhavya says with some confusion.
“I appreciate your thoughtfulness, but as we are currently estranged, it is rather uncomfortable being here. I will be leaving first.” Sunaina grimaces at her words and pretends a fascination with her hands.