The Lady or the Lion

by Aamna Qureshi

  Is this what love did? Turn one unholy? It was the only word she could use to describe this: the shift in her mood, the aching, the desire, the wanting—him, him, him.

  For now, the only thing in her grasp was the shadow of love, long and slanted and faint, but she knew it was not far from the actual shape of love, knew it was not far from the love that would inevitably come.

  And then she saw him.

  She saw the instant he saw her.

  But he didn’t turn, just walked straight ahead, hand in his curls, jaw clenched.

  Durkhanai didn’t understand.

  Perhaps he hadn’t seen her, she thought. He hadn’t turned after all—but, no. She knew his body language. He had seen.

  He was ignoring her.

  But why?

  Perhaps it was just this once, she reasoned, but the next day, the same thing happened.

  And suddenly she wasn’t running into him anymore, as they usually did. Before, it had almost been like they had each other’s schedules memorized, so it was understood they would see each other, even just for those brief moments in passing, after her morning walk, or before the jamaat gathered for Zuhr salah.

  It felt like he was staying away from her, somehow. Why?

  Durkhanai got her answer when she was summoned to her grandfather’s private chamber. Agha-Jaan stood by the window, his back to her. Dhadi sat on a chair, sipping chai.

  “Somebody has made it known throughout the villages that the palace is harboring an abundance of medicine without distributing,” Dhadi said without preamble. “And now the villagers are splintering with rage at the crown at a time that we must all be the most united.”

  “Who?” Durkhanai asked, heart beating fast. “Who told?”

  Who had even known? As far as her grandparents were concerned, she didn’t even know—though she suspected they had caught on to the full truth, now.

  “That Jardumi ambassador, of course,” Dhadi replied, shaking her head. Durkhanai’s heart stopped altogether. For a moment, she didn’t believe Dhadi.

  “Are you—” she began, but Dhadi held up a hand to stop her.

  “You’re doubting me now?” Dhadi asked, eyes sad. “Yes, I am sure.”

  “How—”

  “You think we didn’t notice the missing vials?” Dhadi said, shaking her head. “I know all that goes on in this palace. I warned you to stay away from him; in fact, I remember expressly forbidding it.”

  “Why didn’t you say anything?” Durkhanai replied, heart wilting. “Or stop me?’

  “Jaani, we wanted you to feel like you were doing something to help. Delivering a few vials is of no consequence, so long as you were discreet.” Dhadi sighed. “But you weren’t careful; you trusted someone who was not to be trusted. Now, everyone will have noted the unfair distribution. Bevakoof ban’gai. Naeem-sahib is already vexed by the slow distribution—the people already up in arms to stop working in protest—and now this? It’s made matters worse, especially considering Naeem-sahib has already expressed interest for you to marry his son.”

  Rashid—Durkhanai had nearly forgotten about him. She should have been more careful, especially when Naeem-sahib had already expressed his discontent with her.

  She’d been distracted.

  Dhadi’s face hardened with irritation. “You’ve made a mess. And now we must fix it. Durkhanai, when will you learn to stop acting like a child and more like a future queen?”

  Agha-Jaan finally turned to look at her. The disappointment in her grandparents’ countenances stung sharper than a thousand knives. Agha-Jaan remained silent, face stony. He never had the heart to yell at her or discipline her in any manner, but his presence confirmed that he agreed with his wife.

  “When you treat me more like a future queen and less like a child,” Durkhanai said, voice icy. “You always tell me not to worry and don’t involve me in anything. I asked you about the medicine, in the very beginning, but you brushed me off. I had to take matters into my own hands. That is what a future queen does: look out for her people and their health.”

  “No, bachay,” Dhadi replied. “You must be strategic. You cannot act on every whim and emotion your heart sends running through your veins. You must think.”

  “But, Dhadi, why not just give the medicine out?” Durkhanai asked, exasperated. “Why must you use everything as an opportunity.”

  “Because that is what the Badshah must do,” Agha-Jaan responded, no longer silent. “You want to be treated less like a child? Fine. You must stop deluding yourself into believing the problems of this world can be solved so simply, that you can give something in return for nothing.”

  Her throat clogged. Agha-Jaan had never been so stern with her, only Dhadi had ever been. Her eyes stung with fresh tears of frustration.

  “No more pouting,” Dhadi scolded. “Henceforth, we will treat you as a queen, and you must behave as one. Think twice before meddling. Quell the people’s qualms, the unrest that has been growing.

  “You don’t want to be a pretty little princess anymore? Fine. Then stop acting like one.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Durkhanai didn’t realize how heartbroken she would be.

  How much her heart would pinch and ache. She couldn’t believe she had been a fool, that everyone had been right. What good it had done her to believe he was better than he truly was.

  What hurt the most was how wrong she had been. She had valued their friendship, and there was no bigger sin than disloyalty. He had sold her out.

  And she never wanted to see him again.

  Durkhanai convinced herself she was fine, heart cold, and it lasted only as long as the stretch of time when she didn’t see him. But then she ran into him on her morning walk.

  Seeing him felt like she’d chewed on glass.

  Durkhanai tried to walk past him quickly, avoiding eye contact, but he intercepted her path. She leveled a glare at him, and he swallowed hard, his hand running through his curls.

  “I need to talk to you,” Asfandyar said, eyes desperate. His face was full of raw emotion. She could read him like a book, still, but she didn’t understand all the words. Everything inside of her felt singed; she tasted her charcoal heart in her mouth.

  She wanted to spit it out.

  “There is no need,” she said calmly, feeling savage. “You will always be alone.”

  He stopped in his tracks, and she walked away, her back straight as steel, chin high.

  She finished her hike, taking measured breaths through her nose, letting out the steam. She passed a little creek, and inside, the water was stone grey like liquid cement. And suddenly being outside reminded her of that first hike, so, so long ago, now, when the ambassadors had first arrived.

  It made her sick.

  She kicked a rock into the water, watched it splatter.

  Durkhanai went back inside the palace, her mood more bitter than karelay. When she went to her rooms, she found Gulalai sitting on one of her couches, reading a book, her cane resting beside her.

  “I’ve been waiting for you,” Gulalai said, not looking up from her book.

  “If you tell me I told you so, I’ll cut out your tongue and wear it as a necklace,” Durkhanai seethed. She plopped down beside Gulalai, arms crossed, face sour.

  Gulalai put her book down.

  “Hai Allah! Come now,” Gulalai tsked, shaking her arm. “Don’t pout.”

  Durkhanai shrugged her off, face scrunched. Her eyesight was foggy from emotion. She wanted to do something terrible or painful or horrible, but she didn’t know what.

  “Bas bohat hog’ya,” Gulalai said. “That’s enough!”

  Durkhanai was attacked by a pillow to the face.

  “Hey! Ye kya batameezi hai?” she snapped, picking up a pillow and retaliating. She hit Gulalai hard.

  “Ow!” Gulalai exclaimed. She hit Durkhanai again, ensuing a mini battle. They hit one another, and Durkhanai had to curl her fingers into the pillow to avoid actually hurting Gulalai, who had no f
ault in all this.

  Durkhanai tackled Gulalai, smushing the pillow into her face, and she found that it was upending all the toxic energy within her—it felt good. They were both laughing.

  But as she hit and hit Gulalai, her breathing getting deeper and deeper, she felt something unravel inside of her. Tears sprung in her eyes and she told herself it was from the pillow blows, though she knew it wasn’t.

  The pillow was knocked from Durkhanai’s hands. She pushed Gulalai onto the plush sofa.

  “Ah!” Gulalai laughed. She mirrored Durkhanai’s actions, but rather than pushing her, she threw her arms around Durkhanai and tackled her into the cushions, falling on top of her.

  Gulalai squeezed and squeezed.

  They laid in silence, clutching one another, hearts beating in tandem.

  “Okay?” Gulalai whispered. Durkhanai nodded.

  She was anything but okay, yet she still rose.

  “You’re right,” Durkhanai agreed. “Enough dramatics.”

  Durkhanai had too much going on to be worried about a stupid boy. She had to continue her investigation, with little under two weeks left until their three months were finished.

  And still no word from the Wali of B'rung yet.

  Without proof, war was inevitable—and with the illness lowering the people’s ability to work and weakening the general public, her people were in no shape for war.

  “Now you can focus on the people and civil unrest,” Gulalai said. “Rather than being distracted.”

  “I wasn’t distracted,” Durkhanai snapped, even though she knew she had been.

  “Acha, acha,” Gulalai said. “You weren’t. Now, I have an idea to cheer you up!” She grabbed Durkhanai’s hands and pulled her along into the drawing room. “Let’s call for tea! Nothing like chai and samosay to lighten one’s mood. You sit right here and I will be back!”

  Gulalai disappeared, leaving Durkhanai alone to her treacherous thoughts.

  She didn’t understand: she knew he was bad for her and—yet.

  And she couldn’t even turn to anybody. Not Zarmina or Gulalai or anyone because they had all warned her from the beginning, from the first star that had sparkled in her eyes, they had warned her, told her to stay away from him, told her he would ruin her.

  And here she was, ruined. With nobody to blame but her own wretched, cruel heart.

  Ya Allah help me, please, help me.

  A knock on the door interrupted her thoughts.

  “Yes, come in,” she called, wondering why Gulalai had bothered knocking when she had just left. But when the door opened, she realized why.

  It wasn’t Gulalai.

  It was Rashid.

  “Assalam u alaikum,” he said. When she returned the greeting, he sheepishly lowered his head. His ears were pink. Oh, Gulalai.

  Just what she needed to solve her boy problems: another boy. Excellent.

  “Gulalai-sahiba said you wanted to see me,” Rashid told her.

  “Yes,” Durkhanai improvised. “I had some . . . matters to discuss. Will you join me for tea?”

  “I would love to,” Rashid replied, offering a sweet smile. He joined her at the table and they both sat.

  Rashid reached for the tea.

  “I can do it,” she offered.

  “I insist,” he replied. He poured tea into her cup, asking how much sugar she would like. She allowed him to pour it into her cup and stir, then watched as he did the same for himself. He then moved onto the various little finger foods.

  Ordinarily, Durkhanai would put whatever she liked into her own plate, but she was amused by how endearing Rashid was in his efforts to be a perfect gentleman and impress her.

  He was nervous, she could tell, and it was made further evident when he accidentally dropped his napkin to the ground.

  “Oh,” Rashid said, reaching down to pick it up. Durkhanai watched curiously as he did so, and, just as she suspected he would, hit his head on the table on his way up, causing tea to spill from his teacup.

  She refrained from sighing.

  “I’m terribly sorry,” he said, embarrassed, moving to clean up the mess. He gave a surprised sort of laugh, but she saw the quick knit of his brows, the frown tugging at his lips.

  “No, don’t worry about it at all,” she said, offering her sweetest smile. It was at least nice, she supposed, to have a boy be a fool for her, rather than her being a fool for a boy.

  “Yes, well, what did you want to discuss?” he asked, after cleaning the mess. There was a pile of tea stained napkins lying to the side. The silk tablecloth was stained as well, though she hopes not beyond repair.

  “I just wanted to . . . converse with you,” Durkhanai improvised. “To be certain all was okay with your family.”

  His was an important one, allied to the Miangul family for generations.

  “How thoughtful,” he responded, genuinely touched. “My sister is doing much better now, shukria.”

  “That’s good to hear,” Durkhanai replied. She had no idea what he was talking about but assumed his sister had gotten sick. “How did she get ill?”

  “She teaches Quran in the villages some days, so we believe she contracted it from there, though she didn’t touch anyone or anything, so we aren’t quite sure how,” Rashid explained.

  “Ah,” Durkhanai responded. “I hope she recovers soon.”

  “And how are you feeling?” Rashid asked. “I heard you had fallen ill as well. I had wanted to visit but didn’t want to bother you.”

  “That’s so sweet. Thank you for asking,” she replied. “I am much better now. I was bedridden for some time, but I got to catch up on some readings, so it proved fruitful.”

  “You’ll have to recommend me a good book,” Rashid said. “I haven’t read since I was a schoolboy, but I see all the books you have gathered here in the palace and wonder.”

  “Yes,” she replied. “I would recommend . . .”

  And they continued on, the conversation pleasant and uneventful and comfortable and unstressful. Durkhanai was at much ease as she was speaking to Saifullah.

  As Rashid went into great detail explaining something, Durkhanai vowed to herself to stop being distracted. Rashid had been in her heart, she reasoned, long before Asfandyar had stolen his way in.

  She made the intention to later rip all the letters from Asfandyar that she had kept—but she knew, with a sinking feeling, that ripping him from inside of her wouldn’t be so easy.

  But Rashid could help with that—he was the tribe's golden boy. Marrying him would secure the loyalty of the strongest clan and it would strengthen ties between the royal family and the nobility.

  It was what a queen would do, not a silly girl.

  “You support me, don’t you?” Durkhanai suddenly asked Rashid, eyes soft. “You believe I am a good princess?”

  “I do,” he responded firmly. “As do the other noble families. Even with this whole business with the medicine—I understand why the Badshah would wait to distribute it all. Why he had prioritized the soldiers’ families. The other noblemen will come to understand, as well. You mustn’t worry, Shehzadi.”

  “You’re sure, aren’t you?” she asked. “I’d hate for my own people to not believe in me.”

  It was a pretense. She was exaggerating her own worries to prompt Rashid into helping her. With his family’s backing, the other nobles wouldn’t dare raise any brows toward her.

  Guilt riddled her, for an instant, but perhaps this was what diplomacy was: using people. Was the fault hers for manipulating him or his for being so easily manipulated?

  And the Wali had said she had to act more like a queen. Maybe this was what it was. Durkhanai knew she was easy to love, that people fell at her every extravagant whim and excessive command.

  Rashid fell just as easily.

  “If you’d like, I can talk to the other nobles and reassure them,” Rashid offered.

  “You would do that?” she asked, voice timid.

  “Of course,” he said
with a smile. “Anything to help.”

  “Shukria,” she said, relieved. “I appreciate your support greatly.”

  “Don’t worry, Shehzadi,” he said, fondness in his features. He really was too sweet.

  “With you by my side, there is no need to,” she said, smiling. His ears turned pink, and he ducked his head in embarrassment.

  “Well, I’ll be off,” he said. “Thank you for chai. It was lovely.”

  “Of course,” she said, watching him go.

  After he had gone, she let out a breath. Too dense with decorum, she took off some of her jewelry, swapping her heavily embroidered organza dupatta for a simple chiffon one. She left to find Saifullah, aching to be outside.

  She found him in his room writing a letter.

  “Saifullah,” she said, standing in the doorway. “Come walk with me.”

  “Alright, Shehzadi,” he replied. She approached, and he casually folded his paper in half, covering what he had written.

  “Come,” he said, standing up.

  She peered over his shoulder. “What are you writing?”

  “Oh . . . just a letter to Ammi,” he replied hastily. “Nothing important.”

  “Send Nazo Phuppo and the children my love.”

  “I will,” Saifullah said, not meeting her eyes. “Let’s go.”

  Strange.

  The weather was warm enough that neither of them needed their chaadars, but they still shivered involuntarily from the mountain air. They began walking through the dense trees, dark green, arching over them, with only little pockets of sunlight peeking through.

  “You were the one distributing medicine to the villagers, weren’t you?” Saifullah asked, after some time had passed.

  Durkhanai nodded. “Was it stupid?” she asked. “Or selfish, maybe. I just wanted to do something to feel like I was helping, but now everybody is angrier than ever.”

  “I understand,” he replied. “I just wish you had told me. I could have helped, you know. I may not be an heir, but I am not useless.”

  Durkhanai frowned. “I’ve never thought you useless. I’m sorry you’ve felt that way, Lala.”