by Nafiza Azad
The rajkumar moves to intercept Fatima Ghazala. “Oh, come now, you cannot simply leave, not after I made the time to be here.”
Sunaina notices Fatima Ghazala tense. The rajkumar continues. “I am especially interested in your views on the Djinn.” The question is abrupt and completely unexpected, but it doesn’t make it any less dangerous.
The tension in the room rises, as if the very walls are holding their breath.
“Do you not hate the Ifrit? How can you not after being through the attacks?” Aaruv says. His tone is sympathetic. “In fact, I would be surprised if you didn’t hate them.”
“I will be leaving, then,” Fatima Ghazala says, and leaves the room without even looking at the prince.
“What is wrong with you, Aaruv? Can’t you stop spewing hate every chance you get? Why would Fatima Ghazala hate the Ifrit?” Bhavya rages. “Your logic is skewed—the Ifrit were the ones who saved Noor City. They are the heroes!”
“They are Djinn,” Aaruv says as if that is enough. “I have neither the time nor the desire to discuss this matter with a superficial fool like you.” The rajkumar stalks out of the room.
“I hate him,” Bhavya mutters. She glances at Sunaina. “I hope you do not share my idiot brother’s narrow-minded opinions.”
“They are Djinn,” Sunaina says carefully.
Bhavya exhales. “Listen, Sunaina, if we follow Aaruv’s reasoning, we would have to execute an entire city just because one among their number is a murderer. Does that sound right to you?”
“You weren’t there during the attacks, Rajkumari Bhavya. You don’t know what it was like. I lost everything. Everyone,” Sunaina says flatly. She knows she should not be speaking out of turn. That she should pretend not to even have opinions, but she can’t. Not on this matter. She cannot keep her silence.
“You have your sister, don’t you?” Bhavya asks. “You have your life.”
“You do not understand.” Sunaina shakes her head. What could a spoiled princess like Bhavya know about grief? About terror? She has spent her entire life being cosseted.
“My brother came home in pieces—at least we think the pieces were our brother. My father didn’t come home at all, not even in pieces.” Bhavya’s voice is hard. “I am certain I do understand.”
Sunaina looks at the rajkumari, feeling tears threaten.
“You can’t judge an entire population of a people by the actions of a select few. You can’t use your grief and your sorrow to justify your hate and your discrimination. My father taught me that. Didn’t yours?”
Sunaina has no response to that question.
Her rage demands a reckoning, but Fatima Ghazala forces herself to walk away. The rajkumar’s gaze lingers like a particularly repugnant aftertaste, making her feel dirty. The way he looks at her makes her feel like a stranger in her own body. The rage persists even when she prays Zohr; she pours her heart out to her Creator and yet …
Does the rajkumar think she ought to feel flattered by his attentions? Or does he think she will automatically reciprocate his dubious affections? Because he is the rajkumar and she a mere servant, does he think he has the right to treat her without the respect that is her due as a woman, as a citizen of the country his family rules? How many others has he pursued to this point? Does he think submission to his attentions the only viable action available to her?
Fatima Ghazala’s rage becomes complex; it develops layers and depth. Deciding she cannot stand to be in her room one more second, she changes into a pink tunic embroidered with green and blue flowers and a matching shalwar and dupatta and steps out of the room, only to bump into Indra, who was coming by to get her for lunch.
“I don’t want food,” Fatima Ghazala tells the older girl. She can feel her fire react to her rage, simmering under the surface of her skin. “Is there a place I can … I don’t know, hit things?”
“You want to hit someone?” The maharani’s companion looks contemplative.
“Not just anyone. The rajkumar. I want to hit him rather badly, but I gather that won’t be too acceptable to your employers,” Fatima Ghazala says seriously.
“Come with me,” Indra says. She leads Fatima Ghazala across the mahal grounds and through a narrow path between two bushes lush with purple bougainvillea until they emerge into an open space containing a wooden building. Female guards wearing wicked scimitars stand at the entrance to this building. Indra nods at them, and they move aside to let Fatima Ghazala and her pass.
The building is one large hall, sparsely furnished. Wooden floors with some mats for meditation purposes are spread out on the sides. Some of those mats are occupied. Faces Fatima Ghazala recognizes as fellow companions are crowded around one man who is also familiar to her.
“Niruthan?” Fatima Ghazala says, and the man looks up at her. He immediately breaks into a beaming smile and walks over.
“You know our asaan?” Indra asks.
“Yes, he is my asaan too. I have been learning from him for the last two years. Does he teach you kalaripayattu too?” Fatima Ghazala asks. Nirthan is a muscled but slender man a few years older than Fatima Ghazala. The kindness in his face and eyes are at odds with the brutal precision with which he practices his martial arts.
“I teach them silambam too,” Niruthan says, hearing Fatima Ghazala’s question. He gives her a hug and a smile. “Why haven’t you been back to the practice hall, Fatima?”
“It’s Fatima Ghazala now, Asaan. Many things happened. Life got complicated.” Fatima Ghazala shrugs. “How’s Luxmi?”
“Eh, my sister, you know how she is. Busy as always. She and Jun are expecting a child,” Niruthan says with a fond smile.
“Give her my congratulations,” Fatima Ghazala replies, beaming at the news.
“Do you want to spar with me?” Indra asks Fatima Ghazala.
Fatima Ghazala agrees immediately.
Niruthan shakes his head. “Fatima Ghazala is still a beginner. She will be too easy to defeat for you, Indra. You need more of a challenge.”
“I think I am offended,” Fatima Ghazala grumbles. “You will be so surprised when I defeat Indra.”
“You? Defeat me?” Indra snorts.
Fatima Ghazala glances at Niruthan. “She’s been practicing a decade longer than you, Fatima Ghazala. I wouldn’t advise sparring with her,” he says.
Fatima Ghazala grins wickedly. “Let’s fight, Indra.”
Rather than using kalaripayattu to fight, they decide to use silambam; stick fighting that both Fatima Ghazala and Indra are somewhat good at. Kalaripayattu, at least the sort they are trained in, uses marma adi, the art of striking at pressure points to effectively disarm and disable the opponent, sometimes fatally. Niruthan hands a bamboo staff, the usual weapon of choice, to each of them. Indra, who has changed into a tunic and shalwar, and Fatima Ghazala take their positions in the center of the now-empty room. The high ceiling means they can wield their weapons without hitting any obstacles. People gather around the room, a safe distance away from them, in anticipation of the fight. Fatima Ghazala is sure bets are being made with the odds stacked against her.
She rolls her shoulders, stretching to warm up. Indra does the same.
“To win, disarm your opponent,” Niruthan says from the side of the room. He will be refereeing the fight.
“Scared?” Indra taunts.
Fatima Ghazala smiles. A strange peace fills her, as if she has been at the start of a fight many times before. This moment of calm just before the storm hits is dear to her. No, not to her, but to Ghazala. Suddenly, Fatima Ghazala feels the Name hot in its place above her heart. She breathes in deeply.
Fatima Ghazala and Indra circle each other, whirling their staffs, gauging the other. Indra attacks first; Fatima Ghazala reads her intent in the sudden stiffening of her shoulders. She defends herself, pulling up her staff, hitting back but not with her entire strength. Soon, the only noises in the practice hall are the hiss of the air as the bamboo staffs cut it and the slap the staffs
make on contact. Fatima Ghazala springs closer and tries to jab at Indra but is driven back by the other girl. They are moving at an incredible speed; approach, jab, retreat, and repeat. Fatima Ghazala feels flushed with life and happiness. She could probably fight at this speed and intensity for hours. Indra, on the other hand, is flagging; she is an extremely skilled fighter, but she’s a human one. Fatima Ghazala feigns a move, pointing her staff toward Indra’s abdomen. Indra spins to avoid the hit, and Fatima Ghazala uses the moment to hit Indra’s staff, this time without holding back on her strength. The staff falls from Indra’s hand and onto the floor with a loud clatter. Indra stops moving, looking from her empty hands to her staff with a bewildered expression on her face.
“What was that?” she exclaims. “How did you move so fast?”
Fatima Ghazala shrugs. She is not even breathing hard. How else has the Djinn fire changed her? “I guess I am better at fighting than the asaan gives me credit for,” she says with a grin. “That was fun. Let’s do it again soon.”
“We certainly will! I am not resting until I beat you!” Indra huffs.
Other companions converge on them, asking Fatima Ghazala to demonstrate moves she isn’t even sure she made. Fatima Ghazala glances toward Niruthan and finds him looking at her with a puzzled look on his face. Fatima Ghazala’s euphoria dims. She remembers Sunaina’s accusation; the word “monster” stirs in her consciousness. As soon as she can, she extracts herself from the company of the women and makes her way to Northern Aftab.
When Zulfikar returns from a meeting with the lieutenants of the Ifrit army, he finds Anwar waiting for him in the small room he uses as an office. The rage that animated the Wazir’s face the last time Zulfikar saw him is not evident. Instead an atmosphere of gloom envelops the Ifrit. Zulfikar settles down in the chair in front of the standing Wazir and prepares himself.
“The soldiers found Taufiq Kadir … or what remains of him,” Anwar says. Zulfikar rises to his feet in shock.
“What exactly do you mean by that?” he demands.
“They found the remains of his caravan and his body a little ways from the Silk Road near Sabr,” Anwar says. “I traveled to the scene myself before coming here, and indeed, there is little left of the man.”
“I have to examine the scene as well,” Zulfikar says. It is his right as Emir.
“Do you not trust my words, cousin?” Anwar says softly. Zulfikar narrows his eyes. The Wazir has never evoked their kinship before.
“No,” Zulfikar replies. “In case you have forgotten, Wazir, your word has no meaning anymore.”
The Ifrit’s face shutters. “I’m afraid the man’s remains have already been removed. It is apparent that he was killed by a Shaitan. I will be returning to the desert to continue my search for the Shayateen responsible for the Name Giver’s death.” He turns and leaves without another word.
The front of Northern Aftab is deserted so Fatima Ghazala decides to try her luck in the mahal. She walks into the entry hall only to be faced with Anwar, who to all appearances is getting ready to go out. She immediately averts her eyes from him, but that’s not enough. He affects her to such a degree that she cannot endure being in the same space as him. It feels like her aversion to the Wazir is increasing each day she spends as … whatever she is.
Fatima Ghazala attempts to walk past the Ifrit without paying any attention to him, but he stops her with a hand on her arm. She flings his arm away, shuddering at the contact. A sudden memory assails her: the Wazir holding a child. Shuruq. Fatima Ghazala frowns; this memory is not hers. If Ghazala was Shuruq’s mother that means … Fatima Ghazala recoils. “Don’t touch me. Don’t speak to me. Don’t even look at me,” she tells the Wazir over her shoulder.
“I know Ghazala is somewhere in you. I am very patient, sayyida. I will get her. One way or another.” The threat in the Wazir’s voice should have terrified Fatima Ghazala, but instead it angers her. She turns around and meets the Ifrit’s eyes.
“You know, Wazir, I have nightmares. Ever since I can remember, I have dreamed of blood, fire, and sometimes, if I am lucky, the desert. But ever since I became Fatima Ghazala, I dream of a girl child. She has round cheeks, brown hair, and, when they are open, gold eyes, like yours, like mine. Sometimes in my dreams she is alive, but mostly she is dead. Her name is … was? … Shuruq. Do you remember her?”
“What do you know about Shuruq?” Anwar demands an answer from Fatima Ghazala. A pulse beats furiously in his throat, and his eyes shine.
“Nothing … except her name and that you killed her.” Fatima Ghazala turns her back on the Wazir once again, unable to endure seeing his face. “If the fire I call my own is indeed Ghazala’s, then the pockets of memories she has left in them will eventually be mine. What will these memories reveal, I wonder?” Fatima Ghazala leaves the Wazir standing at the entrance and makes her way to what she privately thinks of as the Emir’s office.
She finds Zulfikar there, brooding. When she knocks on the open door, he looks up. The smile with which he welcomes her unsettles her so she is gruff with her greetings. “Is anything the matter?” the Emir asks her, waving her to a seat.
“Ghazala and the Wazir were married, yes? They had a child, Shuruq, yes?” Fatima Ghazala asks without hesitating.
In the gloom of the room, she sees the Emir flinch at the questions. “How do you know Shuruq?”
“I dream about her,” Fatima Ghazala replies. “I always have nightmares, Zulfikar. I can’t remember one night I haven’t had one since the massacre. Before I used to dream about the Shayateen and the screaming; now I dream about a sweet Ifrit child dying. I know her name is Shuruq. I know she is dead.” Her eyes sting so she squeezes them shut. Tears escape anyway. “And every morning when I open my eyes, I realize the truth of her death over and over again. What happened to her?”
Zulfikar takes a deep breath and rubs his forehead. “I was young when this happened, so I am not certain of the details.” He frowns as though trying to find words. “From what I have heard and been told, the Wazir was … his love for his wife bordered on obsession. He even begrudged his child the attention his wife lavished on her. I think people indulged it, thinking him devoted, but his devotion was dark. He took Shuruq, their child, out, saying he was going to take her for a walk, but they ended up in the desert, where they were attacked by a band of Shayateen. Later he would tell his wife that the Shayateen were present in too great numbers for him to attempt fighting them.” Zulfikar stops and swallows. “Shuruq was killed by the Shayateen. The Wazir escaped unscathed.
“Even though the Wazir denied that he had planned to leave Shuruq to the mercy of the Shayateen, the circumstances were suspicious … and there was a witness. A camel herder who got hurt trying to save Shuruq and ultimately perished. The Wazir was acquitted, but he lost Ghazala, who would never look at him the same way again. She divorced him and then, some months later, disappeared. That is Ghazala’s story.”
“A tragedy,” Fatima Ghazala whispers.
“That remains to be seen,” Zulfikar replies.
The sun is out, and the birds are singing. His wife is wonderful, and their son is a miracle. Aarush is relatively sure he is going to have a wonderful day. Of course this feeling lasts only until he steps into his office and is told of the meetings and responsibilities that await him. He has lunch with foreign dignitaries from Darsala, the country they share borders with on the eastern front of Qirat and also the country that Maharani Aruna was born in.
Among these dignitaries is a woman his mother’s age who is present as the queen of Darsala’s representative. Aarush finds the woman a bit intimidating; he doesn’t think she has ever forgiven him for marrying the wrong princess.
“Maharajah Aarush, we may as well get to the reason for our presence here,” the woman says as soon as the meal is concluded.
“Surely it can wait until we move to a more private place?” Janab Jamshid says, but the woman gives a stern shake of her head.
“We do no
t have the time to linger here any longer than necessary.” At her words, Aarush sucks in a breath and wishes he hadn’t eaten so much of the dahl makhani.
“Let us wait until the dishes are cleared at least,” he says politely. The servants move quickly, and soon the table is empty.
“We have heard that Qirat plans to oust the Ifrit presence from her soil,” the woman says without preamble. “Our queen wants to know the truth of this and asks that you consider how this move will affect Qirat’s alliance with Darsala and other countries. You also know that doing this will make Qirat vulnerable to the Angrez.”
Aarush listens, trying not to betray the slightest emotion on his face. He knows it is useless; he has never been able to hide his emotions. When the Ifrit answered his father’s call for help, Qirat did not just gain powerful allies that saved her from the Shayateen but also recognition from other sovereign countries for the strength of its two armies. Countries that would have otherwise overlooked Qirat sent dignitaries in order to form alliances. The countries they had enmity with, the countries in the West, tried to sign peace treaties. Rumors of a civil war in Qirat will gain attention from far and wide. If the Ifrit leave, those in power will see Qirat as a country vulnerable to invasion and exploitation. Aarush knows all of this.
After the woman has finished talking, Aarush clears his throat. “I appreciate you traveling all the way here to bring me your queen’s message. I am sure the journey was difficult. But I am afraid it was also an unwarranted one. Qirat, at this point in time, indeed as long as I am alive, has no plans to cease our alliance with the Ifrit.”
The woman frowns, and then her expression shifts to something close to pity. “I don’t know what is happening with your intelligence gatherers, Maharajah, but apparently they haven’t been giving you the latest reports. Word among the soldiers along the border on our side is that there is a mass recruitment taking place: Qirati men are being asked to fight for their country.”