Aditya Mukherjee is a 23-year-old computer engineer working in Singapore. Anita Nair in her evaluation of this story remarked simply that it was, ‘brilliant’.

The wind was light, rustling softly through the grass and shivering through the many rows of delicate trees of the Shiba Abad. Evening twilight spread its colour, as the last orange streaks and mists of sunset faded away.

She heard soft footsteps, but didn’t turn. Her eyes were tinged with redness, and a silver chalice was held limply in her hand. The soft breeze of early winter ruffled her odhni, as she sat on the stairs of a pavilion and stared out. She wore blue, and was simply dressed.

The man who approached her joined her on the steps after a moment’s hesitation. She didn’t acknowledge his presence, nor greeted him. He didn’t seem to mind, and leant back slowly. He was a tall, lean man, with a neat beard and moustache and weary, deep-set eyes. He regarded her silently.

“You’ve been drinking, sister,” said he finally. “It seemed appropriate,” said she, her voice deep and melodic and slightly slurred. She took another, slow deliberate sip, and rested her head against the banister.

“Forgive me, sister, if I am intruding,” said he. She gave him a look. “I forgive you, if that is all you’re asking forgiveness for.”

He bowed slightly. “Anything more would be presumptuous.” There was silence for a few moments, except for the cry of returning birds, and the soft chuckling of running water. She took a deep swig and finished the wine in the cup.

“So, little brother,” said she, her voice brittle, as if she had to fight for every word. “What’s been happening in the city?”

“I am afraid, sister,” said he gravely, “that I bear terrible news.”

She looked straight at him now, her jaws tightly closed, her face bearing no expression, her eyes deadened.

“Yes?”

“Our dear brother was assassinated,” said he. “I failed in providing for his security.”

“I see,” said she. She did not, of course, show any surprise. She handed him the cup. “Would you be so kind?”
He bowed and took the proffered cup and rose silently. On the table in the centre of the pavilion rested a decanter, and filling the cup he returned once again.

“Here, sister.”

She took a small sip. “And what of his son and daughter?”

“His son shall be transferred immediately to Gwalior for his safety. His daughter has been brought to the palace.”

“She shall be handed into my care.” “As you wish, sister.”

She nodded, and stared at the liquid in the cup. “Unless of course, there is a chance that assassins will find me too.”

The corners of his lips curled momentarily. “I don’t think that is likely.” She glanced up. “Why?”

“Because Begum Sahiba is the foremost of Hindustan, and the empire is in her debt many times over.”

“And the emperor?”

“The emperor owes her the continuance of the empire, which would long ago have been lost if not for her capability.”

“The emperor is too generous,” said she dryly and took a swig.

That made him grow quiet, and she abruptly stood up. She ran her fingers through her hair and removed its bindings. The last light of the day caught her face, and highlighted the odd-coloured patches of skin from her burn wounds.

A walk

“Would you care for a walk?” said she and started without waiting for an answer. He rose and followed.

For a while they walked silently, as the sky lost its inclination for colour, and the moon grew visible.

“Do you remember his wedding?” said she at length. “Dara’s?” He nodded. “It was ... magnificently entertaining.”

She took a deep, sad breath. “I spent nearly a year organising it. Seems like such a waste of time now.”

“I do not recall you spending similar effort on my wedding.”

“Would you have liked something like that?”

“No, I suppose not. But I did wonder if your involvement concerned more than the marriage of a dear brother.”

She plucked a rose on the way, and took a gentle whiff. “It was a statement of grandeur. Our subjects need to see the glory of their rulers. Why else would they be happy to be ruled?”

“Yes,” said he thoughtfully. “That’s been quite the fashion, hasn’t it? With our grand-father. And father. And so it would have been if our esteemed, departed brother could have commanded an army capably.”

She stopped suddenly, the rose pressed to her face, her body stiff. “You will not insult him now,” said she, her voice shaking. “You have done enough.”

He stopped too, a bit taken aback, and then nodded slowly. “Yes. I’m sorry. Forgive my discourtesy.”

She didn’t answer, but resumed her steps, and he followed. The evening call to prayer echoed across.

“Time for you to leave?” said she.

He didn’t seem to hear. His voice was intent. “Why did you favour him so very much? What was so special about him?”

She began tearing off petals from the rose, defacing the symmetry, the deep red flutters falling under her tread.

“How does it matter now?” said she softly.

“I wish to understand,” said he, and paused. “It’s ... not easy for me to ask this.”

She sighed and then stopped and sat on a root of an old peepal. She hugged her knees. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Aurangzeb. I wish it were different. I wish I could have helped you.” She looked up at him with red-rimmed eyes.

He frowned. “What makes Begum Sahiba think I need help?”

She tilted her head, and looked at him. Her eyes closed tightly as if to will away their wetness. “You were troubled. You were always so troubled. And I didn’t help you. Nobody helped you.”

A chat

His face grew colder. The momentary openness it had exhibited vanished. “You don’t need to waste your tears over me.”

Her eyes opened, and she gave a smile. “Jahanara doesn’t cry.” “You cry all the time,” said he harshly, and looked away.

Her voice was tender, and sad. “So did you, once upon a time.” She saw him tense. “I knew, and I never asked you why.”

“I feel,” said he levelly, “that perhaps this is an unsuitable topic of conversation after all.” He took a few steps away and placed his attention on a line of ants along a branch.

“You have a need to be right,” said she. “Always. An overriding, enveloping need. And not just to be right, but rather, to be superior and purer. You find it essential to believe in your worth to the extent that it becomes exclusive, and necessary that everyone else’s worth is below yours. You have to be right, and everyone else has to be wrong.”

“But what if that is true?” said he fiercely, turning to her. “What if I am right? Our house, the house of Timur, look at it. Look at what it’s become. It is corrupt. Degenerate. Lost in frivolities. Our father, who you have such loyalty to, was the most lecherous man in the world! He corrupted everything he touched! The entire treasury is emptied. Half the jagirs are bankrupt. Half the army is dead.”

“You played your part with the army, I think.”

“I had to! I had to, don’t you see? The marriage. The marriage you remember so fondly cost more than the Red Fort! That is what you were doing! What you were all doing!”

“If the rich do not spend, brother, the poor cannot earn. You will have to understand this.”

“That is an excuse! And a paltry one at that!” “Why, you must be right,” said she dryly.

He grew silent, and slowly paced to and fro.

“Navy,” said she eventually, when all the rose was scattered.

He stopped and looked at her.

“That is a thought I’ve been having recently,” said she. “We don’t understand navy.Mongols don’t, Afghans don’t, Uzbeks don’t. Our minds are land-locked.”

He waved his hand dismissively. “The sea is inconstant.”

“The world is inconstant, Aurangzeb. And the sea ... it is difficult to explain. It’s empty, you see. So, controlling the sea is cheap, and yet it allows power to be projected across large distances.”

“I suppose,” said he, his voice still cold, “that Dara would have paid great regard to this suggestion?”

“Perhaps.”

“And thus he would have made a better king than me?” “Who knows? People like Dara seldom become kings.”

He gave a bitter laugh. “I wonder why?”

She sighed softly. He plopped down beside her, his face wearing a slight smirk.

“I’d asked you once before, about whether I would be a good king,” said he. “Do you remember?”

“Yes. I’d said you would not be king. I was wrong.”

“You were, yes.” He idly rolled the ring on his finger. “Nonetheless, I have only respect for your judgment, Begum Sahiba. If I had not been me, I wouldn’t have bet on my odds either.”

“How lucky then that you don’t actually gamble,” said she.

He smiled. “I would like Begum Sahiba to remain in the court. Her council would be appreciated.”

She did not reply, and her eyes continued their inspection of nothingness. “I shall bequeath upon you a title. And provide you an appropriate jagir.”

She remained silent still, and then said slowly. “Dara had promised ... that he would lift the ban...”

His brows creased. “The ban, Begum?”

“The ban on the marriage for princesses of this house...”

He considered that, his face unhappy, and then shook his head. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible.”

“I see.”

“Especially, I’m afraid, for Begum Sahiba. If you were to have a husband, I think I should have to kill him at some point.”

She nodded. “That would be unpleasant.” “Yes. I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright,” said she quietly. “I doubt I shall make much a bride now anyway, with half my years spent and half my face burnt.”

“Begum Sahiba is the princess of princesses,” said he frowning, “and a queen amongst women, in beauty and wisdom...”

She nodded, and let out a little sniff and rubbed her nose. “No doubt. Unfortunate then that she shall not be able to gift the world a child like herself.”

“People from our family should hardly have such an optimistic view about children.”

“That is true. It’s unlikely I could have a child now as it is.”

“Solitude is conducive to greatness, sister.” She sniffed again. “I have no wish for greatness. I am weary.”

“Begum Sahiba” said he, shifting to face her, his voice fervent. “I will remake this land. You deserve to be a part of this.”

Decision

“I shall gladly accept the title you offer, brother, as anything else would be ungracious.” She bowed slightly. “But I shall not consider your court a part of my responsibility.”

He grunted impatiently. “Do you still think I can’t do it? I tell you I will. I swear on my heart I will. I will wash away the dross. Everything will be luminous again.”

“Illumination, I am afraid brother, so often requires a burning flame.”

He stared at her, and she met his eyes. He stood slowly. “It is time I retired to prayer.”

She bowed her head lightly. “Peace be upon you, my brother.”

“And you, Begum Sahiba.” He gave her a last look and then turned and left.

She watched him go, at his long strides. The wind grew cooler. Leaves broke away above her and spiralled to their grassy graves. She lay back and stared at the black sky and the stars.

After a while she huddled to her side, hugging herself. Her body shook softly. Her sobs couldn’t be heard.

On his deathbed he lay, his body mere bones and wrinkles, his breath hollow and laboured.

He’d lived so very long, he’d ruled so many years. He pulled his son close, his voice rasped.

“I came alone,” said he, “and I go as a stranger. I do not know who I am, nor what I have been doing. I know not what punishment awaits me.”

Many miles away, a line of people gathered to pay respects at her tomb, as they did every day.

On it was written, “Let no one cover my grave except with greenery, for this very grass suffices as a tomb cover for the poor.”