The Candle and the Flame

by Nafiza Azad

  That is the question they most want answered and the one question Zulfikar cannot give them an answer to. He turns to Fatima Ghazala, and she shrugs. She won’t help him out of this one. In fact, Zulfikar wonders if she isn’t taking some pleasure at seeing him flounder.

  “Is the question that difficult to answer?” Sunaina asks, her tone hostile.

  “I apologize. I don’t know how to talk about these things.” He clears his throat. “I want to marry Fatima Ghazala because she is the only one in either world that I want to spend my life with,” Zulfikar says, and looks down to hide his hot cheeks. At this point, that is the truth. Whether this truth will change, he doesn’t know. What he is sure of is that even if there were a choice, he would still choose her.

  “And you, child, are you sure you want to marry the Emir?” Ali asks Fatima Ghazala.

  Fatima Ghazala turns and looks at Zulfikar for a long moment. “Yes.” It is a sad admission, lacking the exuberance one would expect in someone madly in love. Sunaina frowns, and Zulfikar looks down at his hands.

  The Alif parents exchange another look. Finally, Ali turns to Fatima Ghazala and Zulfikar. “If you really want to marry him, Fatima, you have our blessings.”

  “Thank you, Ammi and Abbu. Didi?” Fatima Ghazala looks at Sunaina.

  “If he makes you happy, then I, too, have no objections.” The permission is grudgingly given.

  Zulfikar looks from the Alif parents to Fatima Ghazala to Sunaina and back again. “Does this mean my suit has been accepted?”

  “You won’t try to take her away, will you?” Amirah asks from the doorway.

  “What about your parents? Will they mistreat her?” Adila asks.

  “Of course not! To all of your questions!”

  “It will take about three months to plan a wedding,” Azizah announces.

  Zulfikar feels as if he has walked into a whirlwind. “I’m afraid we have to marry within a week. Before next Juma to be precise,” he tells the youngest Alif.

  Azizah shrieks, an earsplitting sound. Everyone starts talking at once.

  Since no one answered his question, Zulfikar assumes he has been given permission. He grabs Fatima Ghazala’s hand and weaves his fingers through hers.

  One week is not enough to prepare for a party let alone a wedding, as Azizah complains loudly to anyone who will listen. However, she is a general in the making and more than willing to take on the challenge. As the ceremony is going to be discreet, it will be held in Northern Aftab, eliminating the tradition of a baraat. Amirah is miffed because she, as she confides to Fatima Ghazala later, had expectations of a grand procession with dancers and musicians. However, the delicate nature of the agreement between Fatima Ghazala and Zulfikar is not exactly conducive to public celebration. Rather than being a community celebration, the wedding feels like an exclusive event only a few have been chosen to attend.

  Azizah, with the Emir’s blessing, and with her father as a chaperone, works with the domestic staff of Northern Noor to organize the food and venue for the wedding. Fatima Ghazala’s previous boss and adopted grandmother, Achal Kaur, insists on purchasing for Fatima Ghazala a wedding outfit she would never have chosen for herself. A wedding gift Achal Kaur insists on and one Fatima Ghazala accepts with tears in her eyes.

  “A bride must shine, chanda,” Achal Kaur says. “Shine so even the stars take notice.”

  Four days before the wedding, Fatima Ghazala finds herself receiving a visitor she never would have expected. The maharani, clad in a rich silk sari in green and gold and a haar that would have ransomed a sheikh, is wildly out of place in the Alifs’ living room. Accompanying the maharani are five of her companions, Indra among them. The living room is crowded with the maharani sitting and her companions arranged like a peacock’s tail behind her. Fatima Ghazala sits opposite the maharani with a table between them.

  “First, I must beg your forgiveness and extend the same plea on behalf of my husband. We gave our word to protect you, and we failed.” The maharani’s words are heartfelt, and all Fatima Ghazala can do is nod an acceptance. It is not them she blames for her experience with the rajkumar. “Second, I offer my congratulations on your upcoming wedding to the Emir.” Aruna nods at her companions. They each pick up a box they brought with them and place it on the table. The boxes are opened, and Fatima Ghazala’s jaw drops open. Jewelry of all kinds, made with precious gems and gold and silver, entice from the velvet boxes. “Please accept these,” the maharani says.

  “Sahiba, I like shiny things as much as any other woman, but surely you understand why I can’t accept these. If you mean them as a way to assuage your conscience, please, you do not need to bother. I hold neither you nor the maharajah responsible for the rajkumar’s actions,” Fatima Ghazala says.

  “Can I tell you a story?” the maharani says, seeming unmoved by Fatima Ghazala’s protestations. Fatima Ghazala gestures for her to go ahead. “This is not common knowledge in Qirat, but I grew up in a place much like this one. In Darsala, the city of my birth, the slums are made of wood, and every few years, a fire swallows them whole. We always build anew. I was the king’s concubine’s child and a girl at that. When he died, my mother and I were cast out of the palace without a penny. The rani hated us both and with good reason perhaps; I, too, wouldn’t want to share my husband with any other woman.” Neither, Fatima Ghazala thinks, would she.

  The maharani continues. “The slums weren’t pretty or comfortable like the mahal I grew up in, but goodness, they were liberating. We no longer needed to watch our words and our actions. We were hungry sometimes, but even that is easier to endure when you have your dignity.”

  She pauses and smiles, her eyes misty with memories. “I met Aarush when he came to my country, to my city, to marry one of my half sisters. He got lost wandering around the city, and I was walking home from the seamstress’s shop where I worked. All it took was one look into his eyes. Anyway”—the maharani clears her throat, her cheeks pink—“he was determined to marry me, and as you can see, he succeeded. I had no money to buy myself any jewelry, and there was no way I was going to take his. The night before my wedding, my father’s wife, the rani, visited me just as I am visiting you. She told me that she didn’t like me and she never would because I was the physical proof of her husband’s infidelity but as a woman, as the rani of Darsala, she had certain obligations. One of which was this.” The maharani gestures to the jewelry. “She gave them to me just as I am giving them to you. Maybe someday you can pass them on to someone else.” The maharani gets to her feet, and Fatima Ghazala stands up too.

  “Do not refuse me in this, please.” The maharani smiles sweetly. She takes her leave a little later, and Fatima Ghazala, bemused, finally understands why the maharajah is so devoted to his wife.

  Two days before the wedding, Sunaina and Fatima Ghazala go out and visit their favorite places in Noor City. Things between them have changed, irrevocably perhaps. The bond remains, but the strength of it has changed. Sunaina is particularly aware of her sister as someone who is more than the sum of her experiences. Her sister is a universe, one of those ephemeral moments; she is both a choice and the consequence of a choice.

  They smell the flowers in Jalandar Baag, shop at Bijli Bazaar, and eat gyozas on Lazeez street. After getting mithai from their favorite store, Fatima Ghazala insists on taking Sunaina to a new shop she claims to have discovered earlier that year. Sunaina goes along, though not without protestations. She is battling the unwelcome realization that her sister will no longer be hers alone.

  Fatima Ghazala takes Sunaina to an apothecary called Jung’s. The store sells mostly herbal medicine, but a corner of it is devoted to cosmetics. Tending the corner is a young woman around the same age as Sunaina.

  Sunaina’s eyes widen when she sees the woman. “Is that … ?”

  “Yes, your friend Jung Sori. I was going to tell you about her, but everything happened and she slipped my mind. I only remembered her when you mentioned her in Southern Aftab
that day,” Fatima Ghazala explains. “I recognized her immediately when I saw her. She hasn’t changed much, has she?”

  The Han woman looks over at that moment, and her face creases in a frown when she sees Sunaina. It has been a long time since they saw each other so Sunaina doesn’t think Sori will recognize her. However, recognition lights up her features, and the woman steps forward with a cry. Sunaina takes Sori’s hand and realizes that her cheeks are wet. She had thought she would never see her friend again.

  Later, as they are walking home to Taaj Gul, Sunaina takes out a paper bag and hands it to Fatima Ghazala. Fatima Ghazala looks inside and finds two vials of ittar. She throws Sunaina a questioning look before uncapping one and sniffing at the contents.

  “Gulmohar ittar. It’s your favorite flower, isn’t it? Since the flower is in season right now, I made you a batch. One is for the Emir if he cares for it.”

  “Thank you, didi.”

  “I love you, you know,” Sunaina mumbles to cover her embarrassment.

  Fatima Ghazala’s smile is gentle. “I know you do. Even when you try very hard not to, you do. I love you too.” They walk in silence for a few minutes.

  “The men following us are soldiers, right?”

  “Yes. Zulfikar thinks I need men to keep me safe,” Fatima Ghazala says with some disgust.

  “He is silly over you,” Sunaina admits, and watches as her sister’s smile turns sad. She frowns. “You don’t think so?”

  “No, I think he truly does feel something for me.”

  “Isn’t that supposed to make you happy? Don’t you want him to love you? Don’t you love him?” Sunaina demands.

  “Ah, I don’t love him right now. But I will love him soon. That’s what scares me.”

  “Fatima—”

  “I also don’t know what to say to the rajkumari, didi,” Fatima Ghazala confesses. “After all I said to convince her, how do I tell her that I’m marrying the Emir?”

  When Bhavya receives a message from Sunaina asking her to meet her in the workroom, she is pleased. She has questions she wants answered. For instance, she wants to know how and where Fatima Ghazala is. Is Sunaina’s sister an Ifrit? If not, how does she have fire? She didn’t seem more than human all the times Bhavya interacted with her. Bhavya also wants to thank Fatima Ghazala for humiliating Aaruv. Seeing her brother reduced was a pleasure.

  Bhavya pulls the door to the workroom open and sails in only to stop short when she realizes Sunaina is not alone. Fatima Ghazala stands beside her sister, sniffing a perfume Sunaina distilled. They both glance up at her entrance. Bhavya looks at the younger girl closely, wondering if she can sense some difference that gives away her otherness, but there is nothing.

  “I am so glad to see you!” Bhavya says, knowing she is being uncharacteristically warm but unable to help herself. Anyone who hates her brother is a friend.

  “Rajkumari,” Fatima Ghazala says softly. She clutches Sunaina’s hand briefly before turning to face Bhavya.

  “What is it?” Bhavya smiles brightly.

  “Look, I’m sorry. Before I say anything else, please know that I wish things were different.”

  “You don’t have to apologize for burning my brother. If anything, I think you were too light on him!”

  “I’m not talking about your brother.” Fatima Ghazala swallows, as if the words she wants to say are stuck in her throat. “I’m marrying the Emir in two days.”

  The smile on Bhavya’s lips wilts. There is a roaring in her ears. She feels a flash of pain so intense that she half expects to find herself bleeding. “What? You said that you and the Emir don’t have that sort of relationship.”

  “We don’t. We didn’t.” Fatima Ghazala’s eyes are full of tears.

  Bhavya considers. She can give in to the tantrum she feels simmering beneath her skin or she can gather what remains of her dignity. She chooses the latter and reminds herself that the rajkumari of Qirat doesn’t cry in public. She affixes a bright and obviously false smile on her face. “I see. Should I say congratulations?” She laughs. Fatima Ghazala winces. “Congratulations. Thank you for letting me know.” The smile still glittering on her lips, she turns around jerkily and walks all the way back to her room.

  She feels like a fool. Did they laugh at her? Of course they must have. No … the Emir isn’t even aware of her existence. How could he laugh at someone he doesn’t know? She was the only one wearing her heart out for the entire world to see and mock. Would it hurt less if the Emir at least knew her name? Would it hurt more?

  Bhavya becomes conscious of crying in the middle of a sob. What grieves her most, if she is honest, is not the Emir’s wedding but what it means for her hope of escaping the fate her mother seems determined to consign her to. His marriage makes the bars of her impending prison more visible. If she had been the Emir’s bride, she could have easily forged a new destiny for herself. A thousand different destinies.

  The scent of jasmine reaches her, and Bhavya raises her head to see her sister-in-law looking at her with compassion in her eyes. Bhavya cries harder. Aruna slips her arms around Bhavya, holding her as she weeps.

  The night before the wedding, the Alif family plus Fatima Ghazala eat an early dinner. After Maghrib, Asma Ammi and Adila lead Fatima Ghazala to the rooftop, which has been decorated with candles, diya, and shimmering dupatta. They have arranged a henna night for her. All the ladies in the building are invited, though none of them are explicitly told about the upcoming wedding. Some may have guessed, but all of them have tasted enough of life not to ask questions when celebrations are offered. Even Laali is having a rare lucid day. She is wrapped in blankets and placed in a chair with the women feeding her mithai and otherwise cosseting her.

  Someone plays a dholak, and someone else sings. Someone dances while someone pretends to grab the stars from the sky and lay them at Fatima Ghazala’s feet. Anu puts henna on Fatima Ghazala’s hands and arms first and then on her feet up till just past her ankles. She makes intricate designs, delicate as filigree, and much later when Fatima Ghazala washes the henna off, she finds that rich orange red has bloomed underneath.

  Asma Ammi does not allow the festivities to continue for too long so they’re all in bed and asleep long before midnight arrives to bid them good night. When Fatima Ghazala’s eyes open just before Fajr the next morning, she finds herself alone in the room she shares with the Alif sisters. The lamps are all alight. She can hear Ali Abbu reciting the Quran in the living room, the Alif sisters and Asma in the kitchen. She sits up and is rubbing her eyes when Adila walks into the room.

  “Oh, you’re finally up,” her friend says. She has a pile of folded laundry in her hands. She pulls open a drawer from a chest in the corner of the room and starts fitting the clothes in.

  “Adila,” Fatima Ghazala says a bit anxiously.

  “Hmm?” Adila replies without looking over.

  “I’m getting married today, aren’t I?” Fatima Ghazala whispers.

  The eldest Alif turns. “Do you want to make a run for it? Just say the word.”

  Fatima Ghazala wonders if she dares. The idea is more than tempting when she thinks of the rajkumari’s shattered face. But then she remembers her baba and her vow to him. She sighs and shakes her head. “No, I’ll go through with it. I’ll marry the Emir.”

  Zulfikar stands on the marble steps of the entrance of Northern Aftab and breathes deep of the morning air. A peculiar sense of an ending fills him. It is not exactly a poignant feeling, just one akin to finishing a particularly lengthy book. The soft morning light infuses everything with a glow; the world at this moment is awash with possibilities.

  He hears the sound of footsteps and turns to see Tali emerging from the mahal dressed in the white caftan and trousers she crossed over in. He walks over to her and greets her. He even manages a smile.

  “She will never understand what it means to be Ifrit, you know,” Tali says without preamble. It is obvious who she is talking about. And why.

  “
I will never understand what it means to be human,” Zulfikar replies easily.

  “I would have loved you. Made you happy.”

  “I know that,” Zulfikar says. He knows he should leave things be at this point, but he cannot resist. “You were young back then, but so was I. Why didn’t you tell me about your insecurities?”

  “Would it have made a difference?” she asks.

  “We will never know,” Zulfikar replies. He doesn’t feel regret. How can he? It is his wedding day. But that sense of ending resonates deeply.

  “I am returning to Tayneeb, Zulfikar. I cannot remain here and witness you becoming someone else’s,” Tali says, her tone shifting to something more formal. “I will report to the Raees if she is able and to her advisors if she isn’t. I sincerely hope the fire bond makes the Name Giver stronger. Do not forget the reason you are marrying her.”

  “I am not marrying her because of the Raees, Tali. I am using the Raees as a reason to marry her. There is a difference,” Zulfikar corrects her, and the Ifrit woman flinches.

  “I will be going now,” she says brusquely.

  “Safe travels, Tali,” Zulfikar says as she begins to walk away.

  She stops and speaks to him over her shoulder. “I cannot wish you happiness, Zulfikar, not when it comes at the expense of mine. Forgive me. I will not see you again.” She walks away and Zulfikar watches as her form shimmers and disappears.

  A little later, he walks over to the barracks, thinking to look in on the soldiers still abed. Those not on patrol duties have been invited to attend his wedding.

  “Sayyid, should you not be preparing for the wedding?” a young soldier calls cheekily when Zulfikar enters the barracks.

  Zulfikar gives him a mock glare before his smile slips out. “Has anyone seen the Wazir?”

  “Not since yesterday, sayyid,” a soldier named Hamid replies. “I saw him in Southern Noor late in the evening.”