by Nafiza Azad
As he turns to leave, his feet hit an oud, oddly undamaged, lying on the floor. He picks it up, and when he turns it over, he sees a stamp on it that identifies it as a creation of an old Ifrit master in Tayneeb. A faint scent of fire clings to the oud’s surface.
He brings the oud closer and inhales deeply. His eyes flare when he identifies the scent. The human girl with the Djinn fire. Was she here when Firdaus turned his fire on himself? Does she know how he got the tainted book? Will she know who gave it to him? The bookstore contains no signs that anyone else was injured or killed in it apart from the Name Giver. The girl must still be alive. Zulfikar grasps the oud tighter. He will find her and, with her, answers.
The afternoon brings with it a release from the drudgery that is a housemaid’s work. Sunaina fairly skips down Rootha Rasta on the way home. She pops into her favorite mithai store and has the mithai wallah pack up jalebiyaan, barfi, and, Fatima’s favorite, peda. She also buys two motichoor laddoo, eating one and saving the other for Fatima. With a spring in her step, Sunaina resumes her walk home, contemplating the future if she manages to win Rajkumari Bhavya’s favor. With the princess’s patronage, Sunaina will be able to stop working as a housemaid and focus on making cosmetics. She will earn much more money than she is earning now, and perhaps in time, she can earn enough to buy a house somewhere that is not Taaj Gul.
Sunaina decides to check on Laali before heading upstairs. She finds the door to Laali’s room ajar and the old woman sitting on the floor with her clothes disheveled and hair wild.
In a rush of concern, Sunaina runs to Laali, but the old woman waves her away. “I’m all right, child.”
“What happened, Laali?” Sunaina helps the woman to her feet and guides her to the rocking chair. Laali sits down with a thump.
“Just a flush of heat,” Laali replies, smoothing down her hair with shaking hands.
“Should I take you to a healer?” Sunaina asks, worried.
“No, it was a momentary thing.” Laali shakes her head emphatically. “Have you seen Fatima today?”
Sunaina starts at the question. “No. She went to work early. She’s probably at home right now!” She smiles brightly.
“Tell her to come see me as soon as she can,” Laali says, her eyes looking distant.
“Is there something worrying you, Laali?” Sunaina asks, looking uneasy.
“Nothing to be concerned about, beta. Now go on home; you must be tired.”
Sunaina takes her leave and walks up the stairs slowly, her earlier exuberance banked. She smiles at the children running in the corridors and playing on the stairwells. She even responds to the women who stand in patches of sunlight, gossiping over many pyali of chai and pakoray. She murmurs noncommittal answers to more invasive questions about her life; busybodies want to know if she has a beloved, when she’s thinking about getting married, or if she needs the services of a matchmaker. When she finally reaches her front door, Sunaina is almost jittery with relief. She opens the door quietly, not wanting to disturb Fatima in case she is sleeping.
However, the apartment is dark, with no sign of Fatima anywhere. Whatever remained of Sunaina’s good cheer drains away. She puts the box of mithai on the kitchen counter and checks the bathroom and the bedroom again, just in case.
Sunaina doesn’t want to do this, but it appears that she has no choice if she wants her sister back. Resigned, she climbs the two flights of stairs to the Alif sisters’ apartment with feet that suddenly seem leaden.
She knocks on the door louder than she intends to. When it is pulled open, Sunaina sees the youngest Alif sister regarding her quizzically.
“Will you tell Fatima that I would like to talk to her?” Sunaina says stiffly.
“Fatima?” Azizah repeats, frowning. She calls over her shoulder, “Api, did Fatima Api come back?”
Adila appears behind Azizah. “What’s the matter, Baji?”
“Is Fatima not here?” A cold fear runs its fingers down Sunaina’s back and gives color to her words. “Are you hiding her because she doesn’t want to talk to me?”
“Please come in, baji.” Adila pulls Sunaina inside and closes the door behind them. “Fatima really isn’t here. Has she not come home yet?”
“No …” Sunaina trails off.
“What’s happening here?” Asma, the Alif sisters’ mother, asks. She must have been making rotis because her hands are covered with flour. She takes one look at Sunaina and takes charge of the situation.
“Azizah, make some chai. Adila, you and Sunaina come with me.” The girls obey. Once they are seated in the living room, Asma, an expression of concern on her face, asks Sunaina, “Is Fatima usually this late?”
Sunaina shakes her head, feeling sick. “If she has a late delivery, she lets me know.”
Asma thinks. “Adila, did Fatima say anything to you this morning?”
“No, Amma, she was gone before we woke up, remember?” Adila says.
Sunaina suddenly stands up. “I’m sure she will be back soon. I am probably being overprotective!” Sunaina laughs, and even she can hear the false note in her voice. “I will go wait at home. I’m sorry for bothering you.”
Without giving Asma and Adila time to respond, Sunaina makes her escape. Once home, she sits on her charpai with her knees drawn up to her chest and waits.
Hours pass, and the shadows lengthen. Sunaina doesn’t move from her spot, convinced that if she waits long enough, she will hear a key turn in the lock, a tread on the floor, and Fatima’s voice calling for her. It is nine o’clock at night when instead of a key she hears a knock. Sunaina jumps off the bed and hits her toe on the bed leg. Not heeding the pain or bothering to turn on a lamp, she runs to the door and wrenches it open.
“Fatima?” The name tumbles out of her lips before she realizes it isn’t her sister on the doorstep.
“Is she still not back?” Adila asks, looking scared.
At her question, the tears in Sunaina’s eyes spill over and she shakes her head.
“My abbu is back. I will ask him to accompany me to Achal Kaur’s haveli. Light the lamps, baji. Stay here and wait. Fatima will return when she sees the lights.” Adila gives Sunaina a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes and leaves.
Sunaina turns to the dark apartment, closes the door behind her, and lights all the lamps she can find.
A whisper in the dark and the memory of a red sky. She clasped his hand in both of hers, and he set her on fire. He set her on fire, and yet he was the one who burned. He burned, and there was nothing she could do except bear witness. She bore witness to his pain until she felt it herself. And now she lies in the ruins of a maharajah’s palace, knowing that she has a name but unable to remember what it is. If she remembers, the pain will return. If the pain returns, the loss will become real.
She feels unanchored from her physical body. The air is cold and smells of smoke. The ground is hard and maybe damp. She cannot see the stars.
The girl slips in and out of consciousness. Her skin flushes hot and then cold. The third time she wakes up, the walls are on fire. Or perhaps she is. Perhaps she is still sleeping. If everything is a dream, then maybe she is too. The hours stretch into night. The next time the girl finds consciousness, she sees a glimpse of gold, not outside but within. She turns her gaze inward and sees that persistent flash of gold. It blinks at the corner of her eyes, there until she turns and looks at it fully. The girl is conscious of two things at this moment: physical discomfort and, contradictorily, a disconnect from her physical self. Is she, or isn’t she? She looks at the flash of gold again. If the gold flash is a thing, a word, a name, the name, that tethers her to the part of her that feels the disconnect, if it remains forgotten, what is she? What is she going to become?
Fatima. The name blooms suddenly in her mind. This name has shades of a prickly sister and a father who tickled her until she laughed because he liked her dimples. The name reminds her of a mother who left vases full of marigold blooms all over the house. Marig
old blooms and oranges. Fatima is familiar; Fatima feels like hers. Yet it is no longer enough. Fatima is only half a name and describes only half a person. There, the flash of gold again. In this dark place, the girl who used to be Fatima extends a hand and, as though it has been waiting for her, the name drops on her upturned palm.
It is hot to the touch. In fact, it is on fire. Smokeless fire. Images of a desert, an oud, a caravan train destroyed, corpses on the ground, a child named Shuruq, and Baba with his slow smile and kind eyes. This name has sharp edges; it has known despair and pain. A shadow clings to this name; it used to belong to someone else. Fatima brings this name up and presses it into the skin above her heart. The name flares, lighting the darkness briefly before it is absorbed into her skin. Ghazala. It is hers now.
She sleeps.
Zulfikar is out of Northern Aftab before the sun has the chance to sweep the shadows out of the morning. He spent the night sending and receiving messages from Tayneeb, the city of the Ifrit in Al-Naar. The Name Giver’s death has to be kept secret; there are many who would try to take advantage of the vulnerable straits this leaves the Qirati Ifrit in. Zulfikar makes his way slowly through the streets of Northern Noor, carrying along with him the guilt that sprang up inside him as soon as he comprehended Firdaus’s death.
His only hope is to find the girl. He spent hours the day before looking through the streets of Noor to no avail. Then he remembered Firdaus saying that the girl is a messenger. If she is a messenger, there is only person she could be working for.
By the time Zulfikar arrives at Achal Kaur’s haveli, the sun is out in full force and the door to the building is open as messengers enter and exit. Zulfikar swings off his horse and stalks through the entrance. He spots the formidable woman immediately, standing in the middle of the room, berating a young boy who shares more than a few facial features with her.
His presence causes a murmur, and Achal Kaur looks up, her eyebrows drawing together when she sees him. She leads him to an office in a corner of the room, where they will be granted some privacy.
“To what do I owe the honor of your presence, boy?” Achal Kaur asks. “It is not yet time for me to send the month’s reports to you, is it?”
It was Firdaus who suggested that the Emir use Achal Kaur’s messengers to observe the city and her citizens. Each messenger writes a report containing their observations of the city. If anything is out of the ordinary, they report to their boss, who then reports to the Emir. Zulfikar has managed to keep peace in the city on many occasions due to timely reports from Achal Kaur.
“Was there a delivery for the old man yesterday?” Firdaus found Achal Kaur an invaluable resource in his book-collecting hobby. Instead of having books delivered to him and increasing the risk to his person, he let the books be delivered to the messenger service, which then passed them on to him. He had been using them without incident for the past seven years.
“Yes,” Achal Kaur says. “A merchant, Taufiq Kadir by name, delivered a book for him the day before yesterday. Fatima delivered it to him yesterday.”
“Taufiq Kadir,” Zulfikar repeats.
“Yes, he trades along the Silk Road. He said he was leaving right after delivering the book.” The woman peers at him, her face tense. “Something has happened.”
“Where is the messenger who delivered the book?” Zulfikar asks instead of replying.
Achal Kaur looks hesitant. “She’s missing.”
“Are you lying to me, sayyida?” Zulfikar growls.
“Mind your tone, Emir. You’re still a child.” The reprimand is immediate. Zulfikar bows his head in apology. “She didn’t return after delivering the package, and I received news late last night that she didn’t return home either.”
“Do you know where she would go?” Zulfikar asks.
“I have my children out looking for her,” Achal Kaur says.
“Send me a message as soon as you get word of her whereabouts,” Zulfikar says. He turns to go, when Achal Kaur stops him.
“Do you mean her harm?”
“I just want some answers, sayyida.” He takes a breath and corrects himself. “I need some answers.”
Fatima Ghazala opens her eyes to a world too full of light. She sits up gingerly, her body gradually realizing the hurts it has suffered. She takes a deep breath of air and coughs. Her mouth is dry, her throat drier. The weight of all the prayers she has missed is heavy on her shoulders. She looks around, wondering where she is, and is discomfited when she identifies her surroundings as the ruins of the palace the last maharajah called home. The only things that remain of what was once a majestic building are the walls and the skeleton of the major staircase. These, too, bear scorch marks. The Ifrit could have removed the ruins, but they chose to leave them there on a hill in Southern Noor so the citizens would see them and remember the war and the dead.
The cloth Fatima Ghazala usually wraps around her head is missing, as are her memories of how she got to the old mahal. Her shalwar is dirty, and her tunic is torn. Fatima Ghazala reaches for her oud and then realizes she doesn’t have it. She gets to her feet, her heart racing, and wonders why she feels so strange. Her oud is at Baba’s bookstore. She left it there when—
When. She left it there. Yesterday. No blood was spilled. Blood. Her head hurts. Whose blood? Why? Beautiful faces in snarls. Fatima Ghazala’s hands shake, and she rubs her cheeks, wiping away sudden tears. She straightens her tunic, takes a breath, and exits the ruins, stumbling on a loose block and surprising a napping cat. Unconscious of the looks she is getting from fellow pedestrians, Fatima Ghazala walks through the city streets she knows intimately. She crosses bridges, cuts through gardens and courtyards until she has left the verdant streets of Southern Noor behind. When she crosses another bridge over the desert arm of the River Rahat, she is finally in Northern Noor, where the air is arid and the heat feels like home.
She walks all the way to Kalandar Street and finds her path barred by Ifrit soldiers who stand before Firdaus’s bookstore and allow no entry. Fatima Ghazala stands before these soldiers wondering how she can convince them that it is imperative she speak to Firdaus. Suddenly, her vision darkens, and the two soldiers standing before her fade into shadowy outlines. Each of them has a golden name embedded in the skin above their hearts. Each name has a different meaning, a different shape. The soldier on the right, his name is Qais; firm, lonely, and loyal. The qualities that compose this Ifrit are in his name. The soldier on the left is Masrur: happy and carefree, content to let life lead him where it chooses. The names glint, and upon a closer look, Fatima realizes that hundreds of gold tensile strings extend from the names and appear to shape the Ifrit who are no longer shadowy outlines but man-shaped smokeless fire.
“Sayyida.” Masrur steps forward, and Fatima Ghazala blinks. As soon as she does, the veil falls back in front of her eyes, and the two soldiers resolve into their human shapes. “By decree of the Emir, no one but he may enter this shop.”
Fatima Ghazala looks at the soldier uneasily and wonders if she has always been able to see the names of the Djinn.
“Sayyida …” Masrur tries again.
Fatima Ghazala looks up at the soldiers, drawing upon her fire to give her authority. The fire, her fire, races under her skin; Fatima takes comfort in the heat. The soldiers’ eyes widen, and they look down in deference. “Call this Emir of yours. Tell him that I need to speak to my baba.”
Zulfikar arrives at Kalandar Street just in time to hear the girl’s command. His eyebrows rise at her imperial tone.
“Sayyid,” Qais says, looking relieved to see him.
The girl turns to see who the soldier is talking to and stops short. Her eyes become unfocused, and her fire brightens. Then she blinks and shrugs, as if she is emerging from a trance.
“Zulfikar,” she says softly.
His name is not a secret, but on her lips it seems like one. Zulfikar’s cheeks grow warm, and he frowns.
“Are you Fatima?” She both looks like th
e girl he saw in the bookstore the other day and does not. Zulfikar cannot quite articulate the difference, but it is there.
“Fatima Ghazala,” the girl corrects him. She looks at the closed door. “Why have you made Baba a prisoner in the store?”
Zulfikar flinches, and Fatima Ghazala catches it. Her eyes are wounded things. “What has happened to him?”
The fear that directed the course of their first meeting is entirely absent. “That is a question I must ask you.”
“I don’t understand.” The girl meets his eyes, and he sees that she really doesn’t. “I need to see Baba.”
“He is at Aftab Mahal,” Zulfikar finally replies. He is not lying except by omission. Firdaus’s ashes are at Aftab Mahal.
“Will you let me see him?” the girl says, her hand reaching for a strap on her shoulder that isn’t there.
“Yes.” Zulfikar keeps his tone even, but his expression betrays him when she walks closer to him. Her fire smells as strong as it would if she were of the Ifrit. “Come with me,” he says curtly.
The girl gives him a look. Zulfikar is reminded of the many other times he has been the recipient of this look from his mother, his sisters, all the Ifrit women who are able to decimate a djinni with their eyes alone. “Will you please accompany me?” He amends his words and is rewarded with a regal nod.
The horses present a problem. She has never ridden one and professes no desire to do so. After a minute of looking suspiciously at the horse, she acquiesces to riding in front of Zulfikar.
Zulfikar steels himself against the proximity; her nearness magnifies the wrongness he feels. Even though she is not Ifrit and he is not taking liberties with her person, being so close that their bodies touch still feels like he is willfully breaking the rules. Zulfikar doesn’t break the rules, willfully or otherwise.
