Zeba, p.9
Zeba, page 9
Bassam continues, ‘My spies alerted me that you were being abducted. I came to save you from these traitors. I knew it was the Army of the Pure. They are traitors and the greatest nuisance to my father.’
‘You are the traitors! You have destroyed my Khudir. You continue to destroy the word of my Allah,’ Kherun says.
‘Kherun, I need you to leave,’ I say, choosing my words carefully. ‘Get these people out. I will have to go back to the palace with my brother.’ I raise my hand to silence her protests. ‘For now.’
Kherun doesn’t look happy with what I’ve proposed. Bassam looks relieved, probably because this means he gets to leave unharmed.
‘I have to.’ I repeat, seeing the reluctance in Kherun’s eyes. ‘My family … I have to tell them what I know.’
Suddenly, a flash of lightning lights up the horizon. The tranquil sky transforms into a swirling mass and a violent cacophony rends the air. A dark figure shoots across the desert sky. I can’t believe my eyes. It’s a man, and he is flying. Flying. Hurtling towards us like an angry comet.
Who on earth is this?
The figure lands in front of us with a deafening thud. It is the Great Khan, a geometric-patterned shawl draped over his shoulders. I realize he is wearing the Chaddor. I sense the wave of terror that ripples through the gathering. Everyone has heard the rumours about dark magic and sorcery, but no one has seen the might of the Great Khan’s powers on display.
Too much is happening too fast. All my senses are on high alert, trying to process everything at once.
The Khan’s eyes are blazing. He is angry. Very angry.
He takes stock of the situation. His son and soldiers are trapped, incapacitated. His nostrils flare as he looks at the frozen, shattered weapons and, in an instant, the shards of ice are restored into whole weapons. With his next glance, he frees Bassam from the ice-lock and thereafter his frozen soldiers. The royal army speedily picks up their weapons. It has taken him no time to turn the tables on us.
‘You hurt my son,’ he bellows, addressing no one in particular. His eyes are flaming red coals. Ready to singe and burn at will. His soul has no mercy.
Finally, he turns to look at me. ‘You … you did this,’ he hisses.
I look at the Great Khan. My father. Dad. Abba. Abbu.
Asshole.
Am I to give him the benefit of the doubt because he happens to be my father? I think not.
I say the only thing that makes sense to me at that moment. ‘I’m your daughter.’
An eerie silence descends around us. Everyone waits with bated breath, eyes peeled. What will the Khan say? What will he do?
He looks at me. A moment of confusion in his eyes. Is that remorse I see on his face? Recognition? Love, perhaps? Then, without any warning, he directs a sharp bolt of lightning at me.
I block his attack with a wave of my hand that sends a jet of water towards his bolt. They meet mid-air in a terrific collision and both energies hold their own, refusing to back down.
What happens when an immovable object meets an unstoppable force? I guess we shall find out. Today. Here. Now.
He looks surprised. He didn’t expect this. With a blood-curdling scream he attacks again. This time with more gusto. I have no option but to fight harder. I give it everything I have. My might, my will, my anger, my hurt. This is it. Do or die.
But deep down I know that I’m not that strong. I’m too new to this. I can feel the Khan’s energy overpowering mine. I know I won’t be able to hold him off much longer.
‘Run! Get out of here,’ I urge Kherun as I send fresh jets of water at the Khan. He ducks and sends another bolt of lightning towards me. I can only engage him for so long. ‘Run, Kherun. Get your people to safety!’
Out of the corner of my eye I see Kherun finally comprehend. She hustles her crew to flee. ‘Take care my child,’ I hear her say. ‘This is the beginning.’
I continue fighting the Khan’s assaults as Kherun and her ragtag army proceed to escape.
My thoughts are pounding in my head. I don’t understand it … Even assholes have a soft corner for their children, yes? I’m his daughter. I’m more than that annoying wedding guest from Amreeka.
I continue to counter the Khan with every ounce of energy left in me. I send a last jet of water, the strongest I have generated thus far. But he squashes it easily with a flash of lightning from his eyes. With this last herculean effort, I collapse on the sandy ground.
There is only one thought swirling in my head: I don’t wish to get up, ever again.
17
A Twist of Fate
May you have an interesting life. I have often wondered if that is a curse or a blessing.
Certainly, the past week has brought a lot of changes. History is going to remember this time long after we have turned to dust. Each day has brought us a new tale of interest, a fresh discovery and a different reason for anxiety. We are, so to speak, in the eye of the storm.
There is something about this girl. Zeba. She is always preoccupied. Brooding. Then laughing out loud. Brash. Saying things she does not mean. Trying to create some mischief.
But today, she sits attentively, brows knitted. Deep in thought, eyes boring into the chessboard. Her hands are in cuffs, making her movements clumsy. The Khan has put a pair of magical handcuffs on her to restrict her from using her powers. Or ‘superpowers’, as Zeba calls them.
So no water jets. No turning water into ice and back again. No way to escape. Zeba is powerless.
Yet, she does not cry. Does not shed a tear from sadness or frustration.
It took us a while to figure out that Allah has not granted her one of the things that make womankind such a force to reckon with. Their ability to let out their turmoil in torrents of tears. Tears help women return to their centre faster. The more turbulence a woman has seen, the more she has wept, and the stronger she has become. I have always believed that a woman truly finds herself in moments of utter weakness. Such a paradox!
But Zeba has not met that side of her. She has not met that moment. She has not met herself. Yet.
The girl has no outlet. I cannot imagine how she dealt with growing up. No tears during heartaches, through all the confusion of puberty … People around her must have misunderstood her inability to cry for coldness or arrogance and treated her more harshly.
When she regained consciousness in the harem, at first Zeba screamed endlessly. Broke things in her room. Poured out her rage, anger, frustration.
5 stages of grief
Denial
Anger
Bargaining
Depression
Acceptance
I have seen this so many times in the past with so many others. She was not just angry; she was grieving. For her mother. For herself. For the lack of love and acceptance from her birth father. She was grieving about her life. I saw her move from denial to anger to depression to acceptance. Feeling it all too quickly, haphazardly.
Surprisingly, she skipped the ‘bargaining’ stage altogether. Interesting child.
Her angry rants went on for a week. For a few days, she sulked and refused to eat. But then, eventually, she ventured out of her room and asked for a sandwich. Then she skulked and sauntered around till she discovered the games room and met BiBi.
BiBi is our great old dame. By all accounts, she is over a hundred years old. She speaks to no one—unless, that is, she has a vision. She is our cherished oracle who suffers from Alzheimer’s and has great difficulty in recognizing common things. Yet, she can singularly focus on the chessboard placed in front of her.
Every day, BiBi sits in her favourite corner on her favourite chair, with her paan in her mouth and a silver spittoon by her side. Every hour, a hookah is made for her by her trusted aide, the eunuch Haya. She sits austerely in her corner, taking deep drags from her hookah, and plays chess all day long. By herself. Or Candy Crush on the new iPhone we got her with a beautiful, customized LV BiBi cover. She loves them, her phone and the game. Her obsession with it is legendary. Once, she played for four days straight and after that we had to ration her screen time.
She likes to be by herself and with herself. But the day Zeba walked over and silently watched BiBi play, something happened. BiBi looked up from her game and pointed her hookah pipe in Zeba’s direction. She motioned at her to come, play. Zeba sat down and they played for the next two days. Not a word was exchanged between them. Every time one of them lost a pawn or captured the Queen, only small grunts or deep sighs could be heard.
I have been watching them play every day. BiBi, the never-moving ancient dame, and Zeba, the young novice, ever dynamic, untameable.
Oh, but why does this girl slouch so much! I tap her on the shoulder and say, ‘Sit up!’
She looks up at me from the chessboard and blinks.
‘Be an exclamation mark. Not a question mark,’ I say firmly.
I remember my mother saying this to me when I was six. Ever since then, the words have been in my head every walking and sitting moment. I doubt Zeba will ever stop slouching. But if she is to look inwards and find her centre, she must focus her attention on her body first and straighten her spine.
I think I see a flicker of a smile on her face. Perhaps of acceptance. Is she enjoying her time with BiBi, enjoying being here? Then, suddenly, a dark cloud passes over her face. Her eyes change colour. And she turns her face away to focus on the chessboard.
I gather it is guilt she is feeling. Umar and his family have been chained and thrown into captivity by the Khan, and Zeba has been sent to the harem. She is the Khan’s daughter, after all. He sent word that he wants to raise his daughter as a ‘proper woman’. She must be re-programmed and married off soon, in adherence to the rules of the land. I wanted to tell her that this seemingly awful fate might be the best thing that could have happened to her. But I held my tongue.
Among the many things my mother used to say, one of her favourites was: Speak less, observe more. When I started heeding her advice, every time I wanted to say something, I would pause to consider if it was a thought or words that came from my inner core. I found over the years that I had less and less to say. And more and more to observe. Eventually, I only said what really had to be said. Nothing more, nothing less. My conversations and observations became granular and talking became an organic process. I no longer felt the need to chatter away or indulge in loose gossip or plan idly for the future.
I watch now as Zeba takes out BiBi’s bishop. The old dame grunts in annoyance. Zeba cheekily gestures a win.
I smile. Perhaps Zeba really is beginning to feel comfortable here.
You see, staying in the North Wing of the palace, where she was earlier, means you are away from all the action on this side. The North Wing is a sanctified part of the palace, reserved for guests who either do not stay too long or have to be impressed. It is far from the West Wing of the palace, where the harem is located. The women’s-only section. A water garden separates us from the rest of the palace and special permissions are needed to enter the harem. It is an oasis, a world apart.
My thoughts are interrupted by BiBi’s grunt as she gets up suddenly and walks away from the chessboard. This abrupt departure leaves Zeba clueless and alone, staring at the chess pieces. She holds the fallen bishop regretfully between two fingers. This game was her only escape. Now the daunting task of her future actions will press on more urgently.
As she stares outside the window, broodingly she states, ‘I need to save my family. They are in captivity because of me.’ I look up. She is regarding me with piercing eyes. Her voice is low, her face impassive. ‘I got them into this, and I will get them out.’
Of course, I want to say, what is your plan? But I do not say anything.
Zeba looks away and lowers her head. She knows, as I do, that there is no plan.
I was anticipating this. Now is the right time to show her everything.
‘Come,’ I say, beckoning her to follow me.
I lead her to the far end of the West Wing and then down a flight of stairs towards the dungeon where the female tailors and seamstresses have their workstations. We need a lot of abayas and veils for different days of the week, and then there are the ceremonies, christenings, births, deaths and royal visits, so this section of the palace is always hard at work. Apart from just abayas, they also stitch day wear, summer dresses, winter shawls, nightwear. And when the harem women indulge in online shopping (which is quite often), alter, restitch and sometimes even redesign garments to specifications.
This is the busiest area in all of the West Wing.
Zeba’s eyes widen as she walks behind me, gaping at the rows of workers toiling tirelessly, almost in unison. It is our mini factory under the West Wing. A world that she has not seen and did not know existed. I guess, like many others I know, she too assumed that her custom-made clothes came out of thin air.
We walk briskly into the royal cloth room. Rolls upon rolls of fabric line the room in long columns on long perpendicular racks that stretch right up to the high ceiling. This is my favourite room. The rolls of cloth are stacked in beautiful symmetry. Coded by colour. The darkest shade at the bottom and the lightest at the top. Each column a work of art. In fact, the whole room is a work of art. It reflects perfect order in a seemingly chaotic world. It is my sanctuary.
With Zeba scurrying along behind me, I stride over to the blue column, stacked neatly between the pink and purple ones. A ceiling-high column of cloth in all the possible shades of blue. Turquoise, Powder, Sky, Electric Air Force, Baby Blue, Tiffany, Steel, Carolina, Turkish Blue, Pigeon, Maya, Teal, Independence, Cornflower, Olympic. Sapphire, Azure, Egyptian, Yale, Navy, Prussian, Space, Royal.
We walk past the blue column and towards the red. I move the column to the right and then pull it forward—a movement not possible to replicate in any other row or column of this room. Behind the red column, a secret passage reveals itself.
I turn to look at Zeba. Her jaw has dropped.
Now I feel I must say something. ‘Welcome to the harem,’ I say.
There are so many tales and fables about what life in a harem is like. Many travellers and writers have attempted to write about it. There are several wild accounts of how many women live there, and the imaginary and inflated sexual escapades of the King.
The inner workings of harem life continue to capture the imagination of the world. And though this is a space wholly run by women, the Harem Mistress and guards, eunuchs who are privy to everything inside, where no man has ever been allowed to enter, it has always only been the men who have written and talked about the life inside. Without going into specifics, I can confidently say that all of these so-called accounts and histories are inaccurate. So today I shall tell you, as I tell Zeba, the truth about life in the harem. My own lived experience.
The harem refers to that area of the Khan’s household that belongs to the women. A perfectly sealed sanctuary to which the outside world, everyone other than its inhabitants, has no access. The harem includes the living quarters of the Khan’s wives, his daughters, female servants, eunuchs and slaves. It would have housed his mother and sisters too had they been alive. But they had passed away years ago.
Yes, it also houses his concubines. But this is not what defines the harem; it is only one part of it. The section where new entrants to the harem are housed is called Husna Home. But, honestly, the Khan’s ability in the bedroom in the last decade has been … what is that dirty line? … more talk and less c@#k. One night, one of the naughty ones emptied out his vial of Viagra and replaced it with calcium tablets, causing the Khan to leave very quickly, red-faced and in a huff. How these wicked women squealed with laughter. The embarrassed Khan seldom visits now, which gives the women more freedom to do what they please.
You see, the harem was designed keeping in mind the Khan’s rigid interpretation of the very strict Sharia Law. Be watched closely and kept veiled. But the women of the harem are no mute spectators. We have fought back over the years, every chance we have got. The confines of the harem thus became the one place where the handful of us were free. The women within the harem are the only free people in Khudir. It never occurred to the Khan that he was creating right under his nose a perfect sanctuary for us. A household within the palace. With no interference from the Khan himself. A place where we are free to do whatever we please in the company of other women. Most of us are educated. We read, study, play chess, sing, dance, entertain each other.
And here, in this hidden portion, lies another world. An office. A long line of cubicles stocked with state-of-the-art computers and satellite phones. Women running around with files and making calls. The only non-office elements are the beautiful rugs, a gigantic coffee and snack bar, and high-backed comfortable chairs upholstered in beautiful floral textiles. The office is busy and chaotic but not without dollops of feminine aesthetic touches.
A lot of important work happens here. You see, this secret chamber hidden behind the column of red materials in the giant haberdashery is the main base of the Resistance. From here, we help smuggle young girls who are forcibly abducted by the Khan out of Khudir. We get fake passports made for them. Write to embassies and get them asylum, help them enrol in universities in far corners of the world. Even get some of them married. We have formed political alliances and are in touch with Female Resistance Movements across the world and they help us in our collective fight.
‘So, the harem women do what they want to with multitudes of servants serving them all day and all of the Khan’s resources at their beck and call?’ Zeba remarks, a note of awe creeping into her voice.
‘Yes, in a way. This is our empire, and we run it. We also try and influence what goes on in the outside world. We help in securely and secretly housing refugees, especially women who are being persecuted and no longer have a home.’
