The Lady or the Lion by Aamna Qureshi

Author:Aamna Qureshi [Qureshi, Aamna]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: CamCat Books

Chapter Twenty

A celebration was called for that Jummah.

Durkhanai didn’t know how her grandparents could be arranging such a banquet when they were all on the cusp of war, but it was the fiftieth year of the Badshah’s rule.

To celebrate, feasts were sent to all the villages, boxes of sweets distributed to every home. In the marble palace, a great banquet was held.

A canopy was spread over the courtyard, from which fresh flowers and hanging candles dripped down. The floor of the courtyard was covered in mirrors, reflecting the flowers and candles, creating double the effect. The courtyard opened into an open field, where the flames of candles glittered on pillars and great big bonfires filled the skies.

The aroma of firewood was thick in the air, mixing with the charcoaled smell of grilling meat, freshly slaughtered that day. There were tables upon tables of drinks and platters of food: a rich brown pilau topped with raisins and carrots, stacks of chapli kababs with mint chutney, rows upon rows of mutton roast.

In the background, folk singers hummed low songs, in tune with the rubabs and dhols.

Everyone was dressed in their finest for the celebration, and Durkhanai spared no preparation: she wore a heavy peach lengha intricately worked with silver and gold zardozi, with a matching peplum gown. Her hair was braided and twisted into an updo, fashioned with little pearls. She wore a seven-pronged string of pearls around her neck—Dhadi’s—which hung lower than the gold-and-kundan choker that sat on her collarbone.

“Meri jaan, you look splendid,” Dhadi said, kissing Durkhanai on both her cheeks. Dhadi herself was a sight to behold, her hair twisted into a simple updo with a gold and pearl set adorning her ears and neck. She wore a deep pink peshwas gown with a delicately embroidered shahtoosh shawl hung delicately on one shoulder: elegant and regal as always.

“Tumhari beti hai, na,” Agha-Jaan said. “She is your daughter, after all.”

Dhadi grinned, clearly pleased.

“Woh to hai,” she said, self-appreciating. “That is true.”

“Agha-Jaan, how can you be so calm,” Durkhanai asked, voice low. “Our three months are finished tomorrow, and we still haven’t exonerated Marghazar from the summit attack.”

All the time and effort Durkhaani had spent in the past weeks investigating had been for naught: the B'rung lead was a dead end.

The Badshah and the Wali exchanged a private smile.

“Don’t worry, janaan,” he told her.

“Don’t you trust your Agha-Jaan?” Dhadi said.

Durkhanai did, but there was a creeping feeling spreading within her.

If they had evidence, why hadn’t they told her?

“Come, now, let us address our people,” Agha-Jaan said, before Durkhanai could argue further. Dhadi and Durkhanai followed him to the front of the room, standing up on the incline of the hill.

The Badshah motioned for one of his attendants to quiet the crowds. The crowd’s chattering came to a halt, all eyes turning to the Badshah.

“Thank you, my dear family and friends, for joining me in this celebration,” the Badshah began. Durkhanai looked to her people: her cousins and aunts and uncles, the nobles and family friends, all the people she had known her whole life—her family.

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