The Candle and the Flame

by Nafiza Azad

  “Can you handle the consequences of harming the rajkumar of Qirat?” Sunaina asks.

  “Listen, didi— Ah, my apologies, I can’t call you that, can I? Not anymore. You do not need to pretend to care about me. In fact, please don’t. I will try not to burden you with my monstrous presence.” Fatima Ghazala turns to leave.

  “I’m sorry!” The apology bursts out from Sunaina’s lips.

  Fatima Ghazala turns around, a wary look on her face. “Sorry for what?”

  “Sorry for calling you a monster. Sorry for making you leave … I’m just sorry. I was—am—scared. Of the Djinn. And the idea that you are one terrifies me. But you are the best person I know. And you may be a djinni … I am not making much sense, I know. I’m just sorry.” Sunaina winces her way through her apology, aware that she sounds inept but unable to help herself. “Will you forgive me?”

  “I don’t know,” Fatima Ghazala says. Her eyes are very large on her face. “I will try.” She leaves.

  When Fatima Ghazala returns to Northern Aftab, it is close to eight; she is an hour early. Zulfikar sent her a message late in the afternoon. His superiors from Al-Naar are going to send someone she can Name. Fatima Ghazala is shown to the library, where she finds the Emir absorbed in reading reports. On the desk in front of him are a cup of coffee and a plate of gulab jamun. Fatima Ghazala greets him, steals some of the dessert, and takes a seat on a divan by the window. She brings her knees to her chest and rests her head on them, staring down at the river outside. She should be thinking about the upcoming Naming, but she keeps on reliving her meeting with her sister. Sunaina’s apology confuses her. Does it mean that her sister no longer considers her a monster? Does her not thinking of Fatima Ghazala as a monster make her any less of one? If she forgives Sunaina, does that mean she’s only making herself vulnerable to hurt the next time her sister gets angry?

  What about the rajkumar? How far does he intend to take things? Is he doing this because he likes her? Do romantic feelings make his actions acceptable? A wave of revulsion sweeps over Fatima Ghazala, and she shudders. No, they most certainly don’t. What the prince is doing is not an expression of romance but rather an attempt at control. Fresh anger has Fatima Ghazala clenching her fists. She looks up to find the Emir observing her with an inscrutable expression on his face.

  “What are you thinking so hard about?” he asks curiously.

  “Nothing I want to talk about,” Fatima Ghazala replies, flushing. She can hardly tell the Emir she is currently entertaining thoughts about murdering the rajkumar.

  “Very well. Give me just a minute and I will be with you,” the Emir says. Fatima Ghazala nods. She observes the Emir while he reads. Some may find his physical presence intimidating, but she likes how solid he is. She likes his longish curly black hair, his eyes framed with long eyelashes that curl slightly at the tip. The way his lips purse when he is concentrating. The way he listens with all his attention. His inability to refuse gulab jamun. Everything Fatima Ghazala learns about the Emir feels like the pieces to a puzzle she could enjoy putting together.

  “What do you think about love?” the Emir asks, suddenly looking up. His cheeks are red, as if he knows what Fatima Ghazala is thinking about.

  “Love?” she echoes. There is no way he has access to her thoughts, she tells herself. But the question is a strange one.

  “Yes. Why do you think people fall in love?” Zulfikar comes to sit in the chair in front of the divan.

  “You will have to ask people that,” Fatima Ghazala replies carefully.

  “Have you never fallen in love?” The Emir seems more interested in the answer than she would have thought.

  “No.” Fatima Ghazala thinks. “At least I don’t think so.”

  “Not even once?” the Emir persists.

  “What does it matter?” Fatima Ghazala frowns.

  “It doesn’t but …” The Emir sighs. “Listen. I have a confession to make.”

  Fatima Ghazala straightens, prickles of unease marching down her shoulders.

  “When … the first time we met, you lost control of your fire, so I absorbed some of it. All I intended was to keep you from hurting yourself. But your fire bonded with mine.”

  “What does that mean?” Fatima Ghazala asks, not liking the look on the Emir’s face or the tone of his voice.

  “This bond … among the Ifrit, this bond only exists between married couples and for good reason.” The Emir rubs his cheeks, which are redder than Fatima Ghazala has ever seen them. “Through the bond I can feel what you feel, know where you are. It may cause me to behave like I am in love with you.”

  “How do we break it?” Fatima Ghazala asks immediately.

  “We can’t. Only the Raees can.” The Emir won’t meet her eyes.

  “You didn’t need to tell me any of this. You could have kept quiet, and I wouldn’t be any wiser. Why did you confess?” The answer is obvious. “Ah, so I don’t misunderstand? So I don’t think that you … love me.” A thought occurs to her, and Fatima Ghazala takes a deep breath. “So all your kindnesses, all your words, were because of the bond? That time we spent in Noor.” She laughs slightly. “What did I think? Why would the great Emir spend time with me unless compelled to by a bond?”

  “That is not true,” Zulfikar protests.

  “No, it is quite fine. You do not need to say anything more. I appreciate that you told me before I made a fool of myself. More than I already have, I mean.” Fatima Ghazala’s eyes smart. Her face feels hot, and the last place she wants to be is here before him. “Please excuse me for a bit.”

  The Naming is to be conducted in front of the fire pits behind the barracks—Zulfikar usually sends and receives messages from Al-Naar through the fire there. At a quarter to nine, Zulfikar and Fatima Ghazala have made themselves comfortable on the wooden benches in front of the fire. The soldiers are either sleeping or on patrol. The Wazir hasn’t returned since the afternoon. A silence—thick and new—makes its place between Fatima Ghazala and Zulfikar. It is full of the things neither of them wants to talk about.

  Fatima Ghazala takes a deep breath and empties her mind—she would much rather think of anything else right now than how much she embarrassed herself in front of the Emir. She looks into the fire burning in the pit and sees within it the promise of a city. Her consciousness expands until she can feel the night beat like a pulse in her throat. Suddenly she feels a tickle in her mind. It is quite possibly the most loathsome sensation in the entire world. Shuddering, Fatima Ghazala turns, her vision blurring as she stares into the darkness. She sees before her a column of smokeless orange-red flame, and within its depths, the golden pieces of a name. These pieces are in motion but still as if sensing her attention when she looks at them. Then, as if taunting her, they begin to move at a greater frequency, almost in a frenzy, within the boundary presented by the column of orange flames.

  Firdaus taught her that in the natural order of things, the world moves toward entropy, toward chaos. Order and structure are unnatural so it makes sense that the golden pieces do not want to connect. Fatima Ghazala plunges her hands into the fire and struggles to catch the golden pieces. The fire stings, but it doesn’t burn her. As she comes into contact with the pieces, their meaning becomes clear to her. The first piece means ambition, and connected to this piece is a flurry of memories; the second piece means pride, and once again Fatima Ghazala is treated to memories that are associated with this word. She sees Tayneeb in all its glory in the memories of the Ifrit woman she is Naming. She sees the Ifrit who look much like they do in their human forms but more perfect somehow, more defined; their flaws reduced. The final piece of the name is the most elusive. Fatima Ghazala struggles to grasp it. The heat of the flame is hungry and snaps at her.

  When she finally catches hold of the last piece, she is so surprised by the memories associated with it that she nearly lets go of it again. The piece means desire and the memories of the Ifrit woman that describe this word all feature Zulfikar in som
e way. He is laughing, running, talking, fighting. He is the Emir in a way Fatima Ghazala has never seen him; Zulfikar with all his soft sides revealed, his face unguarded and affectionate. Whoever this Ifrit woman is, she means a lot to him.

  Fatima Ghazala brings the three golden pieces of the Name together and joins them as one would a jigsaw puzzle. They fit together easily. Once joined, the golden pieces read Tali, the name of the Ifrit woman. Fatima Ghazala takes the Name, presses it into the column of the flame, in the region of the heart, and steps back. Her vision returns to normal, and she immediately turns to the Emir. But he is not looking at her. He is gazing at the Ifrit woman with a look of pure wonder and delight.

  Fatima Ghazala turns around and starts walking away. Her steps are shaky, but she is determined. For reasons she doesn’t want to think of too closely, she does not want to stay and watch the two Ifrit reunite. Dimly she hears Zulfikar calling her name, but Fatima Ghazala doesn’t stop. If dignity is all she has left, she will cling to it with everything she is.

  The chai is extra sweet today. Bhavya takes a sip and feels it warm her all the way through. Breakfast with her family in the ostentatious dining room is always a stilted affair. Being the only meal the family eats together, conversation is expected. However, more often than not, the only people talking are Jayanti and the Rajmata. Today is no exception.

  “You are a fool, Aarush. You had no reason to alienate the landowners,” the Rajmata is saying. “You need to indulge—”

  Her brother puts down the cup he was holding, and the Rajmata stutters to a stop. Though she is his mother, calling the maharajah a fool in front of the guards and other servants who will hear and gossip is not done. Even Bhavya knows this.

  “Amma, I appreciate your concern and am, as always, thankful for your advice,” her brother says, even though it is clear he is not at all thankful. Aarush has dark circles under his eyes and a stiffness to his movements that are worrying. Bhavya loses the little appetite she had and pushes away her plate. Her brother continues. “However, you and the landowners seem to forget one pertinent thing: My father, Maharajah Arjun, was the one who signed the deal with the Ifrit. By advocating for those who want the Ifrit gone, you effectively make his word false.

  “I refuse to indulge rich men who foment rebellion in order to add to their already overflowing coffers. Amma, you are asking me to topple this country into war. A war we might never recover from. A war we might not live to see through. I shouldn’t have to spell these things out.” Bhavya watches her brother drink some water and wipe his lips on a napkin. He stands, squeezing his wife’s shoulder. She smiles up at him. “If you will excuse me, I have half a country to run.”

  The maharajah leaves a strained silence behind him. Bhavya is much too scared to glance at her mother. This is the first time Aarush has spoken back to the Rajmata, and Bhavya does not want to attract her attention and ire.

  “Bhabhi, I haven’t seen your new companion around recently,” Aaruv says, breaking the silence.

  Aruna looks surprised by the question. “She has been a bit unwell.”

  “Oh, I am sorry to hear that.” Bhavya can hardly believe her ears. For Aaruv to express concern for anyone other than himself is deeply suspicious. She glances at him, but he has a benign smile on his face. What is he planning?

  “Bhavya, your aunt and I have been talking, and I think that she is correct,” the Rajmata says. “It is about time you get married. From now on I will be considering all the rishtay I get for you more seriously.”

  Bhavya looks at her mother, the wind knocked out of her sails. Of all the things she expected at breakfast, the announcement of a lifetime of punishment was definitely not it.

  “What if I don’t want to marry? You can’t simply make me wed someone I don’t want to.” Her voice trembles, and Bhavya feels panic threaten to override her senses.

  “You are a rajkumari of Qirat. You have duties and responsibilities.” Marriage is a duty?

  “What else are you good for but marriage, kaddu? Don’t worry, we will find you someone who doesn’t mind your ugly face.” Aaruv snickers.

  Bhavya waits for her mother to remonstrate Aaruv for his words, for Jayanti Bua to scold him. When it becomes apparent that neither of them is going to say a word, Bhavya gets to her feet and leaves the breakfast room. She walks slowly, taking deep breaths as she does, reminding herself that she is a rajkumari and rajkumaris don’t cry in public. Somehow Bhavya manages to reach Sunaina’s workshop on the first floor; it has become her refuge of late. She pushes open the door and enters.

  “You wouldn’t believe …” Bhavya trails off when she realizes Sunaina is not alone. “Aren’t you supposed to be sick?” she asks Fatima Ghazala, who is curled up in a chair, pulling the petals off different types of roses.

  Fatima Ghazala glances up from her work, gives Bhavya a blank look, and returns to her task. “I’m visiting my sister.”

  “Weren’t you estranged?” Bhavya looks to Sunaina for confirmation.

  “We are in the process of reconciling,” Sunaina replies shortly.

  Bhavya frowns; she feels like her only haven has been invaded. “You are not welcome here during working hours.”

  Fatima Ghazala puts down the rose she had just picked up. “All right.”

  “You don’t have to go, Fatima … Ghazala,” Sunaina says. “Rajkumari Bhavya, I trust that you will understand when I say that I cannot work in an environment where someone else dictates who I can and cannot welcome in my own space.”

  “I’m your employer!” Bhavya protests.

  “Which is why I’m being polite,” Sunaina replies evenly.

  “It’s fine, didi.” Fatima Ghazala gets up and pushes her chair back. “I wanted to go see Laali anyway.”

  “What’s wrong with Laali?” Sunaina asks, frowning.

  “Didn’t you visit her before you left?” Sunaina shakes her head, looking guilty. “She was sick when I visited her about five days ago.” Fatima Ghazala picks up her oud.

  “Wait, I will go with you,” Sunaina says, pulling off her apron.

  “Hold on a minute!” Bhavya holds up her hands, trying to gain control of a situation that’s rapidly moving beyond her. There is something unbearable about feeling like you are on the outside looking in. The two turn to face her with the same questioning expression on their faces. “I will come with you,” Bhavya mumbles.

  “No way.” Fatima Ghazala immediately rejects her. “You are a rajkumari.”

  “Thank you, I had no idea,” Bhavya says. “Look, I feel like there’s a caged bird inside my chest. If I don’t get out of the mahal, I’m going to go mad.”

  Sunaina and Fatima Ghazala exchange a long look. Just when Bhavya is afraid they’re going to leave her behind, Sunaina turns to her and says, “We’ll take you with us, but you will need to wear one of my saris.”

  “What? No way!”

  “Then you can stay behind,” Sunaina says. “We can’t take you to Taaj Gul dressed as you are. You would stick out like a …”

  “Laddoo on a plate of pedas,” Fatima Ghazala finishes. The other two stare at her. She shrugs. “I might be hungry.”

  “So will you change?” Sunaina turns back to Bhavya.

  Bhavya bites her lip and then, after a minute, nods.

  She changes into a rather shabby brown sari with a matching blouse and does her hair into a simple braid without dressing it up in any accessories. As a result, she walks out of Southern Aftab without attracting a single glance from either the courtiers or the mahal guards. Bhavya wonders if being a rajkumari of Qirat is a performance with the appropriate costumes and lines. What if she stops performing? Will she no longer be a princess expected to behave in a certain manner and do certain things? If she is not a princess, then what is she?

  She notices that people, men and women both, turn to look at Fatima Ghazala, whose manly getup attracts attention rather than deflects it. The contrast of her startling gold eyes against her dusky skin is comp
elling enough, but pairing it with the almost liquid way in which she moves—as if each step she takes is a dance move—makes her more beautiful than a symmetrical face would. Fatima Ghazala could wear a sack or the most opulent clothing and people would look at her the same. Does that mean she is not performing her role? Or is it that her beauty defines her?

  Fatima Ghazala notices her staring and raises an eyebrow in question.

  “Is your beauty a burden?” Bhavya asks her.

  “You think I’m beautiful?” the girl asks, surprised.

  Bhavya frowns. “You don’t have to pretend to be modest,” she bites off, turning away.

  “She’s not.” Sunaina comes to her sister’s defense. “Fatima Ghazala doesn’t look in the mirror unless absolutely necessary. It is very irritating.”

  “There are so many other things to look at, didi. I already know what my face looks like. It’s not like looking in a mirror will change it,” Fatima Ghazala tells Sunaina. Bhavya hears the echoes of an old argument in those words. She wonders how it feels to not care what you look like.

  “If we walk fast enough, we’ll be in Taaj Gul in about two hours,” Sunaina says over her shoulder a few minutes later.

  “Wait a minute.” Bhavya is certain she heard wrong. “What do you mean walk?”

  By this time they have reached the bridge that connects Northern Aftab to Northern Noor. They keep their heads down and walk swiftly over the bridge. It is a busy area with Neem Ghat and the flower market located not very far away. Carts trundle past on the road, and the sidewalk is crowded with pedestrians lugging bags and other burdens. Bhavya hastens her pace and tries to keep up with the sisters, but they are moving too quickly. Finally, she comes to a stop. “Wait for me!” she calls loudly. People look at her, and belatedly, Bhavya remembers that she is in the middle of an escape attempt.

  The sisters stop and wait until Bhavya reaches them, panting slightly. Fatima Ghazala takes one look at her and pulls them off the sidewalk and into an alley where they can stand and talk without presenting an obstacle to anyone.