The Lady or the Lion

by Aamna Qureshi

  “Yes,” Saifullah said, agreeing with her, but she saw he wanted to say something more and didn’t know how.

  He looked hopeless, as if her incorrigible attitude toward her grandparents was a source of despair. But she didn’t understand. In this, they had all always been resolute.

  Durkhanai suddenly felt severed from something vital, the blood between her and Saifullah ebbing.

  “Saifullah—” she started, but he cut her off with a smile.

  “You are not feeling well,” he said. “You must rest.”

  She wished to broach the subject once more, to mend whatever had been broken, but suddenly everybody in the room lowered their heads in respect as the Badshah and the Wali entered together.

  The Badshah wore a navy blue jacquard sherwani with an elaborately embroidered shawl; the Wali wore a periwinkle silk gharara and kameez with a jacquard dupatta that matched the print of her husband’s sherwani.

  On the outside, they were every bit a king and a queen, but their faces were simply her grandparents.

  They were worried for her. While they kept their composure, Durkhanai could tell from their pinched expressions just how much her illness had affected them.

  “Chalo, chalo,” Dhadi said, ushering everyone away. “Come, let our Shehzadi rest.”

  “But Nano—” Zarmina began, but with a harsh glance from their grandmother, she was silenced.

  “Go, now,” Agha-Jaan said. “Durkhanai needs rest.”

  Zarmina, Saifullah, and Gululai rose and exited without another word.

  “Dhadhi, Agha-Jaan, aren’t you busy?” she coughed. “I know you must have dozens of appointments for the day.”

  “How could you say such a thing!” Dhadi held a hand to her heart. “Our Shehzadi is sick, and we are too busy to tend to her? It cannot be.” She shook her head. “No, we are here with you.”

  “Yes, jaani, we are here with you,” Agha-Jaan said. He came and sat beside her, his face tense with worry.

  She wrapped her arms around his neck, felt her beard scratch her cheek. A sob rose in her throat. It was strange: her grandparents were always around, but she realized she had missed them amidst the stress and struggles of the past few weeks.

  He lowered her back onto her pillow and planted a soft kiss on her forehead, holding her small face in his large hands, just like he used to when she had first arrived, when she was a little girl.

  She imagined, to him, she still looked so small, despite the decade that had passed since that time.

  “Meri jaan,” he said gently. “I knew visiting the villages so often would come to this. You are too devoted, at your own detriment.” Her grandfather smoothed her hair. “Tell me exactly which village you visited, and with whom you interacted with. We will trace this illness and punish whoever it was that gave you this illness.”

  “Agha-Jaan, it is no one’s fault,” she said, voice thick. He was just fussing, but he shook his head.

  “Gudiya, I cannot bear to see you like this,” he said, holding her hand. “But we can discuss that later. You must rest now and get better soon. Doctor Aliyah is preparing the medicine for you, and I’ve told the cooks to make you something nice.”

  “Here, drink this now,” Dhadi said. She called a maid forward, who brought a teacup full of turmeric milk to Dhadhi. Her grandmother brought it toward Durkhanai, who made a face.

  “Not dhoodh haldi,” she whined.

  “Mhm,” Dhadi clucked. “If you don’t drink this, how will you get better?”

  “Dhadi,” Durkhanai whined.

  “Chalo, meri jaan,” Dhadi said, and there was no stopping her. Durkhanai drank the milk, wrinkling her face like she always used to. But she drank the milk too fast, and it went down the wrong way. Durkhanai began coughing, making a terrible wheezing sound.

  “Maids! Water, now!” Dhadi called, voice panicked.

  “Now!” Agha-Jaan roared. Durkhanai’s eyes filled with tears from the coughing, but she saw how frightened the maids were when they rushed in with water and washcloths, then ran off before they could be scolded.

  “There, there,” Dhadhi soothed, rubbing Durkhanai’s back.

  “Drink,” Agha-Jaan ordered. “Slowly.”

  He held the cup of water to her mouth, and she drank. The wheezing subsided, and she fell back onto her pillows, catching her breath.

  “Uff,” Dhadi fussed. “You cannot be left to take care of yourself, that much is clear.”

  “That is why we are here,” Agha-Jaan said, squeezing her hand tight. She nodded, smiling sleepily.

  “Meri bachi,” Dhadi replied, kissing her cheek. “My little girl.”

  Dhadi stayed with her, taking care of her like she used to when Durkhanai was too small to take care of herself. Despite how busy Dhadi was, she stayed, more grandmother than wali. Dhadi tucked her into bed that night, wrapping her in shawls and blankets, then sliding in beside her.

  “Tell me a story,” Durkhanai asked, already drifting asleep.

  “Once upon a time, in a very olden time, there lived a king . . .” Dhadi began.

  Listening to her grandmother’s voice, bundled up warm and tight, Durkhanai was safe. She was taken back to when Dhadi had devoted all her attention to making her feel at home in the summers and after she moved into the palace for good. Durkhanai had refused to be taken care of by nannies, always asking for Dhadi, who would oblige whenever she could. It wasn’t easy being the queen or a mother, but Dhadi tried her best.

  The next morning, she awoke to Dhadi sitting on a chair by the window, reading the Quran. Warn sunlight streaked through the window, shining onto her grandmother’s face. Durkhanai felt like she had been transported to a memory from long ago.

  “Good morning,” Durkhanai said, stretching. She still felt horrible. Her entire body ached and quaked.

  “Ut’gai meri shehzadi?” Dhadi said, coming over. “You’re awake.”

  She smiled and planted a kiss on Durkhanai’s forehead, blowing softly on her face.

  “You freshen up,” Dhadi said. “I’ll call for breakfast and your Agha-Jaan.”

  Durkhanai did as she was told, and it took much of her energy from her, even with the help of maids. When she came to her drawing room, she found breakfast had been spread across the table, and her grandfather was sitting, waiting for her. She bent down to kiss him on the cheek.

  “Assalam u alaikum, gudiya,” he said in greeting.

  “Walaikum assalam,” she greeted back, offering a smile. But by the time she sat down for breakfast, wrapped in a shahtoosh shawl to keep her warm, she was exhausted.

  She wanted to crawl back to bed, and Dhadi must have guessed as much because she shot her the Grandmother Look. Dhadi set a plate in front of her, full of yogurt, fried eggs with runny golden yolks, and a crisp paratha glistening with ghee.

  “You must eat this entire paratha,” Dhadi instructed. “I’ve had it made with extra ghee, so you can get your energy back.”

  Durkhanai opened her mouth to protest and Dhadi only sharpened the Grandmother Look.

  “Yes, Dhadi,” Durkhanai conceded, beginning to eat.

  The food was delicious, but Durkhanai hardly had an appetite. She could barely swallow a few spoonfuls of sweet yogurt. She was scheming a way of getting out of eating it all when Dhadi reached across the table to pour herself more tea.

  “Agha-Jaan,” Durkhanai whispered, nudging her grandfather when she thought Dhadi wasn’t looking. She gestured to her leftover paratha, and her grandfather chuckled. He nodded, and she discreetly slid her bread into his plate.

  “I saw that,” Dhadi said, sipping her chai. Durkhanai laughed.

  She had missed them. Even though she always saw them, and nothing had changed, really, it hadn’t been just them in quite a while. She missed being a little girl, sometimes.

  “How are negotiations with the ambassadors going?” Durkhanai asked. “Is everything—”

  “Nothing about that, gudiya,” Agha-Jaan cut her off. “You mustn’t worr
y.”

  “So you don’t have to get back?” Durkhanai asked. “I’m sure you are terribly busy. I can manage on my own.”

  “Nonsense,” Dhadi tsked. “We have nowhere to be but here, with our granddaughter.”

  “You used to not even eat, if it wasn’t with us,” Agha-Jaan reminded her.

  “Oh, how you would fuss!” Dhadi added.

  “Do you remember the first summer you came?” Agha-Jana asked. “Just to visit, when you were four or five, I believe. I hadn’t seen you in a year and by Allah how much you grew!”

  “Itni moti,” Dhadi recounted, laughing. “So chubby and fat.”

  “Aur kitni shararti,” Agha Jaan added. “So mischievous, always running around, keeping us all busy.”

  “Hai, you gave us such trouble,” Dhadi said, shaking her head. “You wouldn’t listen to any of the nannies or maids, so I had to take care of you myself. And you would only sit to eat if it was in your Agha-Jaan’s lap.”

  “And even then, you would feed me one bite, then eat one yourself,” Agha-Jaan said. She remembered it, vaguely. Sitting on Agha-Jaan’s lap like it was her personal throne. How patient they had been with her, indulging even when she was at her brattiest.

  “And you insisted on bathing down in the creeks whenever it got too hot and sunny,” Dhadi recalled.

  “Those were the happiest days,” Durkhanai said, smiling at the memories. When it was just them three. It felt like another lifetime. An entirely different world, even.

  Bathing in the creek always made her feel more at home, rather than the elaborate bath and maids that always awaited her in the palace. Down in the creek, the water was always deliciously icy, straight from the glacier, and Agha-Jaan would hold her in his arms. She remembered being so small but so safe.

  “But once, the current was too strong,” Agha-Jaan said. “You got carried away.”

  “Ai, januman,” my grandmother winced. “Don’t talk about that. My heart still breaks just thinking about it.”

  “But you saved me,” Durkhanai said. “I remember swallowing gulps and gulps of ice water, eyes burning, and then I was in the sun again.”

  Agha-Jaan had held her so tight, covering her entirely. She remembered she hadn’t even been afraid, not even under the torrent—she had known Agha-Jaan would be there, no matter what.

  “I would never let anything happen to you,” Agha-Jaan said firmly. “It was true then; it is true now. You mustn’t ever worry.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  One week passed in illness.

  One week full of sleep and medicine and home remedies. A week of Dhadi in her bed and Zarmina by her side and Saifullah checking in.

  One week without seeing Asfandyar.

  He hadn’t come to visit, not even in secret, which he could have. Durkhanai gathered her courage to go see him. She had a feeling he would be around, somewhere close by. If she knew him at all, he would be in her library.

  One night, when she was alone, made her way there, on the edge of her private wing. She felt something pulling at her, nudging. Someone had once said that love without intuition was not love at all.

  And she was right. Asfandyar was moving to leave as she neared the windows.

  “Ambassador,” she tried to tease. “Are you following me?”

  She offered a soft smile with all the energy she had.

  He sigh-laughed, rerouting to walk beside her. “Why, of course,” he replied. “Where to next?”

  “Surprise me,” she dared, raising a brow. He smiled, but his eyes were sad.

  Durkhanai suddenly felt that she had missed something. She hated to be asleep when everyone else was awake. She could tell something was wrong, but she didn’t understand what, as though they were suddenly communicating in a dialect she didn’t fully understand. She could understand the emotion but not the meaning or the context.

  Asfandyar wasn’t saying anything. He sat down, resting his head in his hands. She wondered if the concern was for her health.

  “I’ll be good as new soon,” she told him.

  But, no, it seemed to be something deeper. He looked like he wanted to say something, guilty almost. Like he’d broken her heart. Or like she’d broken his.

  He looked up at her, and his face was entirely too raw.

  “I don’t understand,” she said finally, catching his eye.

  “Sometimes we see what we want to see; sometimes we see the truth,” he said. “But only if we are lucky are the two the same.”

  She still didn’t understand, but he didn’t elaborate. She wanted desperately for things to be okay between them. Something had happened.

  “Have you noticed any strange behavior from n Palwasha-sahiba?” Durkhanai asked, trying to bring them both back to their alliance. “In case she goes out again. We must find out what she was doing—who she was meeting.”

  Asfandyar shook his head. “Nothing. And no word from the Wali of B'rung yet, either, I assume?”

  “Nothing.” Durkhanai had told the postage officer to inform her first if any mail came for Palwashas-sahiba, and to bring it to her before alerting her of its arrival. But nothing had come.

  “Time is running out,” Asfandyar said.

  “I know.” She felt like a river flowing toward a waterfall: inevitable, uncontrollable. They had just two weeks left to find out who was truly behind the summit attack, and while they were getting close, it wasn’t enough.

  They needed proof. But Durkhanai’s mind was spinning.

  ““I visited Mahd,” Asfandyar said. “He’s doing better. I sent him your regards.”

  She wondered why he had done something so deeply intimate, something that tethered them together. She knew she should admonish him for being so public about their friendship, or whatever it was between them, but sick and sleepy, she couldn’t be bothered anymore.

  “And the rest?” she asked. “I have the privilege of medicine,” she added. “But many don’t, so you must still go out and distribute without me.”

  She needed her people to be strong if war truly was coming. Asfandyar nodded again, but he was like a wilted flower, lifeless.

  Durkhanai hadn’t realized how much she had missed him. He was sitting on the seat in front of her, head bowed.

  Suddenly feeling reckless, Durkhanai held him against her.

  He hesitated for a moment, resisting, but then he sighed. She felt the energy seep from his skin as his arms came around her legs. He rested his brow against her belly, his nose grazing the soft skin above her waistline.

  She was dressed but felt completely undressed, her limbs turning to liquid.

  Durkhanai swayed, slightly. Asfandyar caught her arms, looking up. The contact was broken.

  “You’ve overexerted yourself,” he told her. “Are you feeling faint?”

  She nodded. He offered her his arm. Wordlessly, they walked back to her room.

  A guard gave her a strange glance, but she was so disoriented, she barely waved him off. Asfandyar led her to her room, then waited by the door, unsure.

  “Aaj jaane ki zid na karo,” she whispered. “Don’t go.”

  He led her into bed, piling her blankets on top of her. She wanted so badly to sleep but felt she would miss something pertinent if she did.

  “I’m supposed to drink that,” she said, seizing onto the excuse to point out an orange-yellow liquid in a teacup. She made a face.

  It was the turmeric mixed into warm milk and cardamom, mostly probably also mixed with other home remedy spices. Asfandyar brought it to her, and she shook her head.

  “No,” she said, pouting. “It tastes horrid.”

  Asfandyar gave her a face, and she turned her cheek, knowing she was acting like a child. She wanted to see if he would indulge her, and though he ordinarily wouldn’t, today he did.

  He sat down on the corner of her bed. “Drink,” he said. She turned her cheek further away. “Tch, Durkhanai.”

  Her name on his tongue sent a shiver through her. He put an arm ov
er her legs for balance, curving his face over to meet hers.

  “Mm-mn,” she whined. He shook his head at her.

  “It isn’t so bad,” he said, taking a sip. He wrinkled his nose.

  “See?” he said, but the word was a grimace. She giggled.

  “Fine,” she replied. “But you have to drink it with me.”

  “Alright,” he conceded.

  Asfandyar brought the teacup to her lips, tipping it into her mouth. As the taste hit, she scrunched her nose, making a face, but he didn’t move the cup back. She put her hand over his on the cup, pressing down hard, and drank.

  “Your turn,” she said, wiping her lip with her thumb. Durkhanai watched as he turned the cup to put his lips where hers had been. Not breaking eye contact over the cup, he drank.

  Durkhanai suddenly felt very hot, especially under all the wool blankets and shawls. It was June, and the weather had only gotten hotter and hotter.

  But she suspected it wasn’t the weather.

  He handed the cup back to her, and she mirrored his action, turning the cup. Feeling dangerous, she put her lips where his had been and drank the rest.

  “Well done,” he remarked, standing. “Now rest. You’re so drugged, you won’t remember any of this when you wake.”

  He leaned forward and kissed her forehead. When he pulled back, he gave her a soft smile.

  “Your hair smells like coconut oil,” he murmured.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, eyes closing. “I forgot the scent drives you mad.”

  “No, Durkhanai,” he whispered. “You drive me mad.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  No matter how much time passed after that, how her health improved, how many baths she took, she could feel Asfandyar like a ghost. He was etched into her skin. Her cheeks still flamed remembering his brow against her belly, his lips against her forehead.

  And she ached for more.

  Perhaps what she felt for him was pyaar, in which case there was still hope, for while pyaar was a lovely affection, it was not so deep-rooted that it could not be exhumed.

  So perhaps this was heavenly intervention, why she hadn’t seen him, why they kept missing each other. And it wasn’t fair, her heart insisted resentfully, to want him and not have him. But it was an unholy thing to even think.