The week whizzed by. Like an annoying fly that constantly buzzed in the shell of the ear. Despite being the peak of summers, time had not stood still. The sun had risen and set faster than ever before — an opposite of how it usually went. Samra anticipated it was because she awaited the arrival of her birthday, her fingers crossed tightly to see what the King would say. The emerald green grass next to the south wall of the home had grown a few inches in just a few days, and she knew if for she measured it each day. Everything had changed and yet it was all still, and unchanged.

It seemed that for the first time the whole kingdom was counting down the seconds to her birthday. Ofcourse it was not due to herself, but in fact it was simply in wait for the royal wedding and the arrival of one of the strongest Kings. The King of Persia, was a man famous in the regions beyond the Eastern worlds. Everyone wished to be under his just and peaceful rule. When he had taken over, his whole empire had been in a large war. Yet in the past thirty years, Persia had sat like a sated Lion. It's gaze on everyone but too lethargic to attack. That of course, proved nothing. The country had continued to work on it's military skills and news of the new general's success had reached ears far and wide.

General Fadahunsi was an enigma. No one had seen him, save for a handful of his most trusted advisors. It was to protect him on the battlefield but also because his status as a royal prince demanded it. One thing famous about him were his dark mocha eyes, shaped like sharp Hawk eye's. His thick brows and the long mane of curly hair that reached his broad, sun tanned shoulders. Anyone that caught a glimpse of him, was left flushed — be it man or woman, friend or foe. No one was immune to his charms.

Samra who had heard the tales of his handsomeness was filled with a thirst to see him. A thirst that was almost impossible to quench. Her maids who had affairs with the royal guards every now and then, dropped some information in her ear and she was left with enough mystery to imagine a tale on the man. Her heart was filled with a pain upon the realization that she would not be able to see him, ever. Just once she wished, just one time was all that she needed to put a face on the man who clouded her senses and was the hero of refugee's stories.

Even now, taking a dip in the cool water of the communal bath, Samra's mind was hundreds of kilometers out of the palace walls. It was running through the baked streets of Persia, imagining the sweet smells of honey and bread. The people doing their menial jobs as the King's son, their most fierce protector passed by them. How lucky, she thought they were. Sighing she licked her lips, washing her skin with the soap her mother had made the week before. It crumbled in her hand and smelt of rose, the dried petals spreading all across her soft skin.

"Samra jaldi kijiye, ap keh abu ko badshah nai bulaya hai," her mother called to her.

[Samra hurry up the King has summoned your father.]

Nodding her head she dipped into the water and rinsed the remnants of soap. Her mother held a large white linen sheet to give privacy as she undressed under the sun. The warmth of it on her back as she dressed into the loose cotton saree, was relaxing. The indigo fabric came to life against her dark skin, the gold block print gleaming under the sun. Her hair was left open and covered her bare back, one of her breast covered by the flimsy cloth of her blouse, a symbol of her growing up in a muslim household. It was otherwise custom for women to leave their breasts bare — a symbol of power in their kingdom. It showed men that the women were in touch with their femininity and that their bodies weren't meant to be hidden, only the royal family's women wore thin nets to act some form of cover, the rest enjoyed the freeness it gave them.

"What does he want to say?" She frowned.

Catching up with her father she wrapped a hand around his bicep. Her head rested against his fancy raw silk sherwani, the wetness of the hair seeping through the cloth, surely to leave behind a stain. He kissed her hair, the drops of water touching his cracked lips lightly, a light grin marked his face as he picked out the stray pieces of rose petals from her long tresses.

"He wants me for making the final plans about the wedding and long procession of events that precede it," he spoke.

Samra hummed, not surprised by the information her father had given her. It was very common of the royal family to depend on him, sometimes she was forced to wonder if her grandfather would have made him king had he not married someone like her mother. Though she would soon after rid herself of such thoughts, her parents loved each other and were ready to make sacrifices larger than the Ganga river — or so she imagined, having never seen the river ever by her own eyes.

"You two take care, Samra avoid troubles. It will be some time before I come back. Do not wait up for me Yumna," he cleared his throat, standing infront of their home.

The two nodded without complain. Samra's cheeks coated in a dark blush, that the darkness hid only some managing to cover the skin. She looked like a sight of the most prettiest of forest nymphs. Ones that lived on the top most branches of Dir trees, their skins baking under the sky. Her aura carried a breathiness to itself, she captivated any eye that fell on her. Wether it was the Egyptian features she had inherited from her mother or the simplicity of her attire, admirers could never tell. To them Samra was a collective of all that they could hope and wish for.

"Vizier sahab ab hum itnay bhi buray nahi hain, sara din aap ki zouja ki madad kartay hai. Hum jaisa ap ko eik bhi nahi mile ga!" Samra whined.

[Sir vizier I'm not that bad, all day I help your wife. You won't find a single person like me!]

Her hands crossed in front of her chest. A small pouty frown covered her lips, she furrowed her brows as if to show her displeasure with the man who fathered her. Akbar laughed a little, his stressed shoulders relaxed as the servant returned with his thick journal, the coarse paper wrapped by tweed and covered in a thick leather dust jacket. Yumna helped him tie the thin, worn out sword to his maroon dress, the gold embroidery beginning to wear out after years of use.

"Humein lagta hai keh ab aap ko na yeh sherwani nahi pehani chahiye. Issay kisi aur ko de dijiye". Yumna patted his chest.

[I think you should no longer wear this sherwani (traditional dress). Just give it to someone else.]

Samra perked up on hearing her mother's advice. She had had her eye on the fine piece of fabric for a few months now. Hoping that he would agree to part with it a plan conjured up in her head on how to take it from him and sew it into a dress for herself. The embellished work of it, too good to be given away.

⚜️⚜️⚜️

The humongous caravan moved through the desert of  Makran, the people raced to the ends of their developed towns to catch a glimpse of it. To the common folks it was an unusual sight, seeing a woman ride shoulder to shoulder with the king. Their dark obsidian horses looked like sign of death as the bright red-orange sunshine spilled on them. The silky horse tails filled the horizon their muscles well developed— signs of being taken care of by a trained eye. They left behind them nothing but fine sandy dust, the sand dunes hiding their distant figures as night neared and the sky turned a starry navy blue.

A long wagon pulled by the fine Arab horses followed the fast moving soldiers. It was laden to the top with gems and clothes of all kind. Gift for the royal family and the new couple. The King had a softness towards the institution of marriage and did his best to give the newly tied couple something they could cherish for years. This time around he had brought a blood red diamond, the centre made of a dark smoky color, a rarity. He knew in time of need it could be sold to the highest bidder. It would replenish one's treasury enough to last a decade at the very least.

The men dressed in loose garb made of vaguely see through material, dyed all shades of the rainbow. Around their waists were cummerbunds, studded with large jewels and stones. A thin scarf wrapped around their heads and mouths, keeping the sand from entering their mouths. The women wore loose gowns with robes attached to them, the head coverings kept their hair from being on display. The necklines were barely plunging — a shock to the common hindustani man. That is, if they had already not suffered from one seeing no carriage in sight. Instead each of the women carried swords to defend themselves, and their shoulders were pushed back in pride.

"اعلیحضرت چقدر بیشتر؟"
The princess sighed.

[How much more your highness?]

They had been traveling for sometime now and her legs were stiff. She moved them slowly, making sure her horse was in no way agonized. Her aching calves did not equate to animal abuse.

"خیلی وقته شیر من".
He smiled.

[Not long my lioness.]

Princess Alishba, the heir to the Persian throne, nodded with vigor. Clicking her tongue, she signaled her thunderous horse to run up and match the pace of her brother's. Two of them were heads of their own province and the third, the youngest of them all was the army's general. His time in the army had started twelve years ago at the age of sixteen. At twenty eight now, lands far and wide came to their court asking for his help. While his mind was not capable of forming political strategies or talking politics, one eye on a battlefield and he could make some of the most beneficial decisions. Fadahunsi was a talent and as their eldest sibling, Alishba was full of pride.

Her horse bumped into Fadahunsi's, a mischievous smirk covered her thin lips and the hollows of her naturally contoured cheeks perked up. She ran a hand through her cropped hair, the ends barely reaching the nape of her neck. He turned his head at an angle, his eyes catching hers. The gold in his dark eyes lighter than ever under the bright Summer sun.

"How long?" She straightened her chin.

"Three days," his gruff voice announced.

• Translations •
Sherwani — Traditional south asian attire

• Where is Makran?•

Makran is what Baluchistan was referred to as alternatively.

• Historical fact •

Hindustani women did infact not use blouses. Leaving your breast bare was a symbol of power. It was with the arrival of British men and women who made it seem as if covering yourself was modest, that caused these women to adopt blouses.

Royal Mughal women covered theirs but if you have a look at paintings of the time you'll notice their dresses were sheer and the breast could be seen -— even if vaguely.

•••

Thoughts & Comments

Our love birds meet in the next chapter.