by Nafiza Azad
Outside, the air still has the chilly flavor of a desert night, though orange streaks in the horizon warn of the approaching heat. The sizable amount of foot traffic on the streets belies the early hour. The city of Noor never sleeps. As one of the more profitable stops on the Silk Road, a steady stream of caravans enters or leaves the city at all times of the day or night. The merchants do not just bring goods to be traded but also people who either want to visit the city of the Djinn or who want to live here. The Bayars, dressed in stately robes, jostle for space on the same sidewalk that the Han people in their white hanboks do. From the melodic Urdu to the breathy Nihon-go, the cadence of a thousand different languages fills the air. The city of Noor brings people of all colors, ethnicities, and religions together and takes from them everything they do not always want to give. Fatima has seen people pay more for the city’s grace than they ever thought they would have to.
She walks quickly, cleaving to the shadows, not wanting to be recognized by friends or drawn into conversations by acquaintances. Not that any friend of hers would be out on the streets at this time of the night. But just in case, she keeps her head down and her feet swift. She passes a group of boys returning home from praying Fajr at Jama Masjid, and her eyes snag on Bilal, the muezzin, whose voice is more familiar to her than her own.
Away from residential Northern Taaj Gul, the foot traffic decreases, allowing Fatima to hasten her pace. She takes the Rootha Rasta and emerges onto a main road that connects Northern Taaj Gul to the more affluent areas of the city. A ride hitched on a mule-pulled cart deposits her by a line of beautiful houses that come complete with courtyards painted in pastel shades and paved with intricately decorated tiles. Fatima follows a haphazard path through the row of houses and ends up in Chameli Baag, named for the flowers that no longer grow there. It is not much of a garden; the land became desert a long time ago. A number of khejri trees still wage war with the elements, though, surviving one day to fight again the next.
Gardens on the forest side of Noor City are explosions of green, embarrassingly lush after the dearth of natural bounty on the desert side. Fatima has traveled to Southern Noor carrying messages or packages from one side of the city to the other. Sometimes she lingers over the rosebushes in the gardens there. At other times, her work takes her into courtyards spilling over with trailing vines and other wanton greenery.
Two distributaries of the River Rahat section Noor into three parts. Aftab Mahal, the palace shared by the royal family, the Emir, and the human and Djinn armies is located in the middle of the city on a tract of land separated from the rest of the city by the two distributaries.
It takes Fatima three-quarters of an hour to reach Neem Ghat, the riverside port in Northern Noor. She comes to an abrupt stop under the neem trees that grow in a line along the river a few meters from the steps leading down to the river’s edge. Time is of the essence, yet Aftab Mahal, luminous in the waning darkness, commands her attention. Dawn has tender regard for the palace’s domes and spires. The carved stonework on the palace walls is said to be exquisite—not that Fatima has ever had the pleasure of looking at them herself. A muted shout from a man piloting a wayward boat reminds Fatima of her errand. She takes one last glance at Aftab Mahal before hurrying down to the river’s edge, where several boats laden with flowers are already in the process of docking.
A number of dockworkers walk around with lamps dangling from long sticks. Because it is Deepavali, the port is more crowded than usual. Fatima looks at the flowers on offer and is, as always, taken aback by the opulence of the blooms. There are coy nargis, delicate lilies, jewel-colored gladiolas, and haughty orchids. Vying for equal attention are irises, roses, poppies, buttercups, hollyhocks, and flowers whose names are mysteries to Fatima—mysteries she’d very much like to solve one day.
Fatima breathes deeply of the floral bouquet and looks around for a familiar face among the flower sellers. She finds him securing his boat on the far side of the port and hurries toward him. The flower seller, Niyamat Khan, has a kind face with eyes that shine with the smiles he has yet to give the world. Though he is in the twilight of his life, he has a wiry body and a thirst for life that is evident in the care he takes of the flowers he sells. The last time Fatima bought flowers, it was from him. She hadn’t been able to afford many, so he had gathered the leftover and rejected flowers into a bouquet and presented it to her. Fatima smiles at the old man, at his blue cotton shalwar kameez that is not wrinkled even after a night on the River Rahat, and at the taqiyah that sits straight on his head. Niyamat Khan’s face lights up when he catches sight of Fatima.
“Assalaam wa alaikum, baba,” Fatima greets him. “It has been a while since I saw you.”
“Wa alaikum ussalaam, beta,” Niyamat Khan says, beaming.
She helps him unload his boat and waits patiently while he deals with the porter he contracts to transport his flowers to the market. Finally, he turns to her and smiles.
“Do you have them, baba?” Fatima asks.
As an answer, Niyamat Khan goes back into his boat and drags out a basket he kept separate from the rest. The basket is heavy with the blooms of damask roses in several colors: many shades of pink, red, yellow, white, and maroon. Fatima looks at the roses and, to her horror, feels her throat grow thick and her eyes sting. She swallows and blinks before taking out the money she has been saving for a month. She pays the flower seller, thanks him, and picks up the basket of flowers, flinching at the weight.
Carrying it all the way back to Northern Taaj Gul would usually be a daunting task for Fatima, but luck is on her side. She runs into Amrit, an acquaintance who raises camels for their milk, and begs a ride home on his cart. In return, she listens to him complain about the human servants in the mahal who take the milk he delivers daily without so much as a thank-you.
In about an hour, and before the clock is able to strike six, Fatima, with her precious basket of flowers held close, is carefully easing open the front door to her apartment.
The air inside the apartment smells of dried marigold petals with notes of orange. Through the window on the wall opposite the front door, Fatima can see the morning sun assert a brilliant mien, a fitting prologue to what promises to be a blisteringly hot day. Incense sticks burn at Sunaina’s altar to the goddess Lakshmi. A silver tray has been set in front of the altar next to the chest of drawers with offerings of mithai and flowers on it. Also on the silver tray is a clay diya with its wick still burning.
Sunaina is in the right-hand corner of the room, in the area designated as the kitchen. She sits on the floor in front of the chulha: a cooking stove with a pipe attached to the back that extends up the wall and through the window. The smoke from the wood and other fuel flows through this chimney of sorts so the air inside the apartment is breathable. A stack of rotis have been placed on a plate beside the chulha with the last roti still cooking on the tava. The room should smell of incense or roti or even the smoke, yet when Fatima takes a breath, all she smells are marigold petals and oranges.
Sunaina sees Fatima and abruptly removes the last roti from the tava, adding it to the stack, which she covers with a clean kitchen towel. She gets to her feet and brushes herself off. The tired red shalwar kameez she usually sleeps in has charcoal smudges from the chulha.
Fatima knows she is in trouble when Sunaina turns stormy eyes her way and stands with her arms crossed. Her short stature takes nothing away from her imposing presence. Fatima steps farther into the apartment and closes the door behind her. She takes off her shoes at the entrance, thinking fiercely about the best way to appease her sister. They are only five years apart in age, but the difference may as well be an eternity for the way Sunaina treats her. When their parents were alive, the spaces and the silences between them were full of warm memories, shared anecdotes, and a sisterhood that, though not borne of blood, was strong and resilient.
However, their parents are gone, and their relationship has been tainted by memories of blood, smoke, and the ways
in which Fatima is different; the spaces between them are emptier and the silences longer.
Sunaina looks at the basket of flowers Fatima is holding. “You went to Neem Ghat,” she says flatly.
“The damask roses are not available anywhere in the city. I promised Laali—”
“How much did you spend on them?” Sunaina cuts her off.
“I saved—”
“Your shoes are falling apart! And when was the last time you bought yourself new clothes?”
“The flowers are important to her, didi.”
“The flowers will wilt and die before sunset tomorrow!” That the rebuke is whispered does little to lessen its intensity. The walls are thin.
Fatima places the basket of roses carefully on the lone chair in the room. She goes to the chest of drawers and opens the bottommost drawer and takes out a package wrapped in coarse brown paper before returning to stand in front of her sister. She holds out the package, and Sunaina, still frowning, takes it. Giving Fatima a suspicious look, she opens the package and freezes when she sees what it contains: a hair chotli Sunaina had admired at a jewelry store in Bijli Bazaar months ago. Gold-coated metal flower pins with garnet centers linked with delicate gold chains to attach to the long braid that is Sunaina’s one vanity. Sunaina had walked away from the hair accessory, judging it too expensive, too frivolous, too everything that she couldn’t have and shouldn’t want.
“Shubh Deepavali, didi,” Fatima says, and smiles. Two dimples pop into existence.
Her sister looks at her for one long, pregnant moment before bursting into tears. Fatima watches Sunaina sniff and wonders if she has weathered the bulk of the storm for today. “Is there any chai?” she risks asking.
Sunaina wipes her eyes with the edge of her sleeve and sniffs loudly. She stomps to a kettle on the counter, pours chai into a copper cup, and hands it to Fatima, who accepts it gratefully. Fatima glances at the clock on a wall and sits down cross-legged on a mat in the middle of the room, deciding she has time to enjoy her chai.
Sunaina glowers at Fatima but doesn’t say another word. Instead, she busies herself dishing out jackfruit curry and roti on a plate. She presents the food to Fatima with another glower; Fatima accepts the plate meekly.
“Are you going to the mandir this evening?” Fatima asks between bites of roti wrapped around the jackfruit curry, enjoying each spicy mouthful.
“Yes. We’ll come to the maidaan straight after. I had better see you there.” Yet another glower punctuates her words. Sunaina buzzes around like a bee in a field of sunflowers; she washes dishes, packs food into a thali, and sweeps the room around Fatima. “Hurry up and eat. We need to give Laali the flowers you wasted money on before work.”
“Work? But it’s Deepavali!” Fatima protests. “You never work on Deepavali!”
“Sushila-ji is having a Deepavali party tonight. Gossip says Rajkumari Bhavya is going to make an appearance, so the household is in an uproar.” Sunaina works as a maid in one of the more affluent houses in Northern Noor. “Sushila-ji says she will double the pay for whoever works today.”
Fatima listens without comment. She wishes she could tell her sister that money is not important, but that would be a lie. Money is important, perhaps more to her sister than to her. She swallows the last morsel of food and asks instead, “Aren’t you meeting Niral today?”
Sunaina flushes and turns her back on Fatima. “We are going to the mandir together,” she mumbles.
“Ah,” Fatima says noncommittally.
“What?” Sunaina whirls around, her eyes flashing. Fatima decides to keep her counsel to herself and shrugs.
“Are you finished?” At Fatima’s nod, Sunaina grabs the empty plate and cup and washes them in the sink. While Sunaina changes her clothes, Fatima gets up and goes into the tiny bathroom to freshen up. She washes her face and blinks at herself in the cracked mirror on the wall. Next she retrieves an oud that is hanging from a nail on the wall in the bedroom. The oud is the only connection Fatima has to her birth family. Her adoptive father, Jagan, used to tell stories about finding her in the darkness in bloody clothes, hugging the oud like a mother. The instrument is old, but some strange enchantment keeps its strings fresh and tune clear.
“Let’s go!” Sunaina calls. The day is heating up. Fatima rolls her shoulders, taking comfort in the oud she carries strapped over one shoulder. She observes the loose threads in Sunaina’s sari and the way her hair is worn tightly in a bun without adornments. Surely Sushila-ji can allow some festivity on Deepavali. They make their way silently down the stairs, as Laali lives in a room on the first floor of their building. The room had originally been used for storage until the building residents petitioned the landlord to allow Laali to live there. The landlord, as vulnerable to the demands of tradition as anyone else, agreed. He went one step further and had part of the room closed off to create a bathroom. The room was furnished with the bare necessities: a charpai and a chair. A mat was spread on the floor so visitors not lucky enough to get the chair had a place to sit. Many of the residents, including Fatima and Sunaina, would have happily kept Laali with them, but Laali insists on her independence.
The door to Laali’s room is closed when they reach it. Sunaina reaches out and gives it a sharp rap.
“Come in,” a quivery voice calls from within.
A little table near the front door of the room is already full of packages proving the sisters are not the first who have been to see Laali. Thalis full of food, prasad from Deepavali puja, and fragrant flowers make up for a portion of the bounty. Sunaina puts another thali on the table and beside it a lota full of some concoction. Once again, Fatima smells the scent of dried marigold petals infused with the fragrance of fresh oranges.
“It’s something I made,” Sunaina says in response to Fatima’s questioning look. She turns to greet Laali, who is sitting in a rocking chair beside a window overlooking the busy street in front of their building.
Eight years ago, when Sunaina was fifteen and Fatima ten, the Shayateen attacked the city of Noor without warning or provocation. The humans living in Noor proved helpless against the Djinn, who had vaster strength and who seemed to have no goals but to create chaos. People fell like trees in a hurricane. No one was spared the Shayateen’s blades and their particular brand of cruelty. The maharajah at the time had been left with no choice but to beg the Ifrit for their help in defeating the Shayateen.
After the final battle was fought, their Ifrit saviors collected the survivors and counted them. There weren’t very many. Sunaina and Fatima were two, Laali was the other. She disappeared right before the Ifrit found them cowering under a table in their apartment and only reconnected with them years later when they came to rent an apartment in this building and found her already there. Where she went and how she managed are all mysteries that the old woman refuses to speak about.
She is a small woman, diminished by age. Life has embroidered all her experiences in the lines on her face. The wrinkles near her lips keep record of the smiles she gives generously while the lines on her forehead echo the worries she has battled. Deep grooves at the corners of her eyes lend weight to all the things she has seen in the years she has been alive—not that anyone is sure how many those are. However, though time has aged her, it has yet to defeat her. Apples still bloom in her cheeks; her gaze is as bright and inquisitive as a child’s.
Laali welcomes Fatima and Sunaina into her room with a flush of pleasure. Sunaina kisses Laali’s soft cheeks and squeezes her hands. Laali, as always, is beautifully dressed in a navy-and-gray sari with a matching blouse. She has bangles on her wrists and a nathni in her nose. A chain strand, which is pinned to her hair, extends from the nathni. Delicately peeking out from under her sari are her feet, adorned with silver anklets and matching toe rings.
“I got you some of the fresh marigold and orange potpourri I made. You said the smell of the street in your room bothered you?” Sunaina says to Laali. “We’ll go to the mandir in the evening at six
. Anu said she will bring you there.”
“Thank you, beta,” Laali says with a smile. She turns to Fatima expectantly.
Without preamble, Fatima places the basket of damask roses on Laali’s lap. For a moment, Laali appears frozen. Then she lifts a trembling hand and gathers a handful of the blooms. Bringing them up, she buries her face in the roses, breathing deep of their fragrance. Her eyes are wet when she raises her face, but her smile is incandescent.
“Udit used to give me a damask rose every single day when we were courting.” Laali’s voice is a whisper in the stillness. “When we got married, he promised me a bouquet every Friday. It was a promise he kept. These roses let him live again, if only in my memories. Thank you, child, I will never forget this kindness.” She gives Fatima a teary hug.
They spend a few more minutes with Laali, fussing over the old woman, making her laugh, and plying her with Deepavali sweets. When the clock strikes seven, Fatima and Sunaina say their goodbyes.
Out on the street, Sunaina catches Fatima by the wrist. “I was wrong … about the flowers. They made her so happy.”
Fatima grins at her sister. “They weren’t much, but I am glad they let her remember him.”
“Marigolds remind me of Amma,” Sunaina confesses suddenly. She shakes herself. “Be safe today, all right? Don’t take unnecessary risks.”
“I won’t,” Fatima replies with a sigh, used to the warnings.
“Don’t work too late. Don’t agree to go to dangerous places!” Sunaina continues.
“I won’t! Beeji wouldn’t send us to anywhere she thinks is too dangerous!” Fatima protests.
“Wouldn’t she?” Sunaina’s lips twist a little. “I will see you in the maidaan tonight. If you don’t come, I will be angry.”
“I will be there, didi. I need to go now, or I’ll be late.” Fatima offers her sister one last smile before turning and walking off rapidly in the other direction.
