ishq-e-sultaana (akdha ss/ff) - Page 7

Update soon, Mide!

hi Anushka, the next update is coming this coming Monday

broken cradles and rebuilt bridges (💖🕌🛕)

Umerkot, 18th October, 1542

Time was merely a passage for the tired queen.

Hamida could only reach out weakly for the humble cradle Rani Nirmala Devi provided — a symbol of goodwill from the residing queen who had extended a hand of hospitality to the once-heavily pregnant queen.

Oh, how did she find herself in this position? A young princess born and raised in Persia's zenana now seeking refuge in a humble kingdom?

It was either this or fleeing for her life — and that of the child she carried — lest she become another casualty of Sher Shah Suri's siege.

"Badhai ho, Rani Hamida Bano. The gods have blessed you with a healthy baby boy!" The dai cheerily announced, carefully placing the little child in her arms.

Her body ached from long hours of labour, and the smell of blood and afterbirth still lingered on her skin even after washing herself. Milk still stained the tunic she was in while her breasts ached from the fullness.

A boy.

Hamida could find herself looking down at this child again. Three days have passed since his birth, and still, not a sound to announce his entrance into this world.

Not a scream, not even a howl, tearing through the room as though to state his rebellion against the cosmic order. Nothing.

Worriedly, Nirmala had assumed him to be deaf as she snapped her fingers close to his ears. A sharp yawn, a slight noise and a jerky movement of the feet were enough to dispel that possibility.

It is as if he knows...

She stared down at him again, his face betraying no expression as his mind was shut to the world. His eyes were a strange blend of green and pale brown when open—an unexpected trait as the only person Hamida could recall having such eyes was a distant cousin of hers, Firdaus. His lips slightly parted, frown lines slightly marring his face as soft sounds escaped him.

A child who does not cry. That is unusual.

His silence was eerily obvious, ringing through the room that even the sound of her breathing was louder in contrast.

It was as if he knew that the sky did not brighten up for his birth, but instead wept for the world he was brought into. That his birth was no call for celebration but a mark of his survival.

Shifting from her post on the bed, Hamida slightly winced, her hands reaching forward for his cot. Tears welled in her eyes, her chest heaved in relief that he was right here, real enough for her to touch with her trembling fingers.

For months, she had fearfully believed that he'd not make it from the strenuous journey of crossing through the deserts to flee Sher Shah Suri, to weeks of hunger strikes just to preserve enough food.

But here he is—my son. Mera bachcha.

A wavering exhale escaped her lips before her mind was suddenly alert to a new presence—Bairam Khan, one of the men who served in Humayun's court.

He offered a nod of deference as his hand went up to his forehead in a taslim.

Nodding weakly, Hamida leaned back against the makeshift pillows Rani Nirmala had set up for her.

"Gustakhi maaf, Begum Sahiba," the older man started, an uncharacteristically apologetic look showed up on his face as he stood before her. Bairam Khan was not the kind of man to apologize or show any semblance of softness unless it was of utmost concern. "I would have granted you enough time for your body to rest, but, unfortunately, three dignitaries from Persia demand an audience. It is concerning matters of the sultanate, they say."

The empire.

Never mind that she had spent gruelling hours bringing a child into the world — one who might end up being the sultanate's waris. No, they have the effrontery to demand an audience as if—

"Let them in," she said calmly, exhaling lest she forget her royal upbringing. Her insides twisted as she watched Bairam Khan walk away to usher in the diplomats.

Something was unsettling about how the older man framed it. Like the empire was about to demand her soul, and she would have no option but to offer it on an altar for her survival.

A few seconds passed when the guest chamber door opened and three men came in. All of them appeared crisply dressed in royal silken robes, their expressions not showing a sign of struggle or the need to mask their identities.

Their combined attar was enough to overpower her senses, almost suffocating her from how intense it was.

Even the way they acknowledged her and her title felt too mechanical, too artificial—like they had memorized this way too many times.

"Tabrik, Malika Hamida Bano," one of them slightly bowed, offering his felicitations in Farsi. His tone was too honeyed, like a flatterer about to lay a net for her feet.

First, the men offered updates on Sher Shah Suri's campaign and his plans to seize as many territories under the Mughal Empire as he could, placing in rulers who would answer to him.

Apparently, Humayun and his allies had to retreat and regroup lest they face more losses than they could easily afford to lose, leading him to seek refuge in Persia, her homeland.

Then, they announced the welfare of the other begums, starting with Bega Begum taking refuge in Bengal, while Mah Chuchak had chosen to stay in Kabul until the dust finally settled. Unfortunately, not a lot of begums had survived the siege and those who did lost their children to the siege.

The tears pricked at Hamida's eyes, her left hand tightening its grip on the cot to the point her knuckles whitened.

That action alone was enough to grab the attention of the men again, whose eyes collectively focused on the cradle with the sharpness of a falcon's sight.

"Mubarak ho."

Another repetition, this time, it was not in Farsi but in Urdu, causing Hamida to loosen her grip on the cot as she turned to fully face the men.

They all took on a mask now—the mask of false concern, and Hamida could already tell what path this conversation was about to take.

"The child—."

And there it was—the clinical tone used to address him like he was merely an inconvenience. Not your son, not even a question of what his name was. Just "the child".

"You will have to leave him behind," another diplomat added in, and Hamida's head snapped up in disbelief at the fact that these men did not bother to even mask it behind diplomatic language.

She stared.

"Leave him behind?" Her voice wavered, repeating their words to them. "You want me to abandon him?"

The men flinched, blinking at her refusal to sugarcoat things.

"It pertains to the empire, Hamida," was the cold reply, as if they were merely asking her to leave an old shawl behind.

Not a three-day-old baby who continued to sleep in silence.

Those tears in her eyes now rolled down her cheeks.

"It is for his benefit and yours," one of them continued. "It is only for a period, Hamida. Until the war settles. Until the Shehenshah reclaims Hindustan. Until the Mughal Sultanate is restored to its full glory. But right now, the Empire needs you. The people need to know if you will stand behind your husband, or—."

The crown or the cradle, her breath hitched in realization.

"So you ask me to do this..." she murmured.

The voice came back like an executioner's axe: "It is your choice, Hamida Bano Begum."

Ah, choice? She felt tempted to spit back at these men as if each option they laid out for her lacked its opportunity cost. They spoke as if they didn't just toss a knife at her, asking her to amputate a part of her and pretend as if it was insignificant.

Her eyes veered over to the sleeping infant, more tears rolling down. He remained silent.

Still no cry.

Still no scream.

Still breathing—his silent rebellion against the world that now forced her against the corner.

"A wet nurse will take care of him." The detachment never left. "Keep him fed until he is old enough to be weaned. He will be protected and she will discreetly raise him according to the pillars of the Mughal Sultanate."

The urge to scream tore through her like a war. Despite the weariness in her bones, she felt like swinging her feet off the bed, walking over to these men and striking them in the face.

Abandon your three-day-old child.

Leave him in the care of a wet nurse.

Treat him like he is merely a tool and not your flesh and blood.

It had barely been three nights. Her body had barely healed. Her womb still bled from the labour of delivering her son. The smell of blood and milk still lingered on her flesh, and now, they had the effrontery to request she cut him loose for the empire's sake. To treat him like a pawn. A liability.

"This is to protect him, Hamida."

"Should Sher Shah Suri learn of an heir," another man took over, his eyes just as cold as his tone. "He'd pull every string necessary to extinguish this light before it can shine down on the empire."

"So, the choice rests on you, Begum," the third dignitary concluded.

The child, or the crown?

What a cruel choice to lay down for a new mother.

Yet, did she really have a choice?

a private heart-to-heart moment between a man and his mother opens up a conversation about unresolved grief and hope for a new beginning

Agra, 1566

Twenty-four years since that night, yet it still haunted her like a ghost hidden in the crevices of her mind.

Hamida bore on her face a sad smile, and her still-sharp sight on the fabric piece she held in her hand while the second pushed the needle through.

It had been 24 years when, ultimately, she made the choice to bend the knee to the empire, and the regrets still followed her to this very day.

Immediately those men had left her in the guest chamber in Umerkot, she had chosen a name as per the names Humayun once chose following the visit of a saint, back when her only fear was failing to choose an impressive ware to put for sale at Meena Bazaar.

Abul'Fath Jalal-ud-Din Muhammad.

Then, she placed him in Maham Anga's care, believing that her son would never lack from her absence.

Oh, how naive she must have been at 16 years of age to even believe for a second that he'd not lack from her absence, that he'd understand.

Even now, even with their relationship slowly mending, Hamida still detected the flash of hurt in those hazel eyes. She still saw those skeletons he hid deep in his closet. His eyes still carried years of nightmares and open wounds.

All these years...

And Khuda had to let history repeat itself in none other than Jodha Bai.

Oh, the cruelty where another woman had to choose again. This time, it was either herself or the empire. And the empire was particularly cruel in the sacrifices it demanded on its altar. Hamida had come to learn that bitterly.

Shukriya Khuda ka, she had said at Sufiya Gulrukh's apothecary, her palms facing the sky in gratitude and hopes that the empire and her son's legacy would carry on. That was until her eyes caught the unfocused stare in Jodha's eyes.

She does not want this.

Hamida could only chuckle bitterly at the discovery. Many years ago, she had found herself in the very same position.

You really have a cruel sense of humour, don't you, Khuda?

She shook her head, passing the needle and thread through the fabric. What would have passed as a source of good news had her erring on the side of caution, as she had ended up leaving the apothecary with a strict order to Sufiya.

"No word about this must go beyond these four walls."

No word until Jodha could make her choice—the choice she had been denied many years ago. A choice that she can freely make without the empire closing in on her.

A choice that—.

Hamida paused in her thoughts, her mind suddenly alert to another presence in her hojra. She could only point to one person capable of making their presence known in such a manner.

This time, he stood by the entrance without his usual pomp or anyone to announce his presence. This man inside her hojra was not the Shehenshah, no, he was her son.

Setting her embroidery aside, she made space for him as he took measured steps towards her divan.

His eyes stared wearily at her, his shoulders slumped forward as if he were Atlas bearing the world's burden.

Silently, he stopped before her, dropping to his knees as he clung onto her like she was his anchor.

He's never...he's never done this.

Not since the first time he'd extended an arm of reconciliation. Not since the first time he'd stopped addressing her like a distant figure and started calling her "Ammi Jaan".

But she was not about to turn him away or abandon him during a vulnerable point in his life, whatever it might be. She had made the mistake of doing that when he was just a helpless infant and regretted it ever since, she'd be damned before she'd repeat that mistake.

Instead, she held him close to her chest, her hand patting his hair, and he could only breathe with a shudder, taking in her scent.

"Kya hua, beta?"

Why am I here?

That question followed him to this point as he stood before the ornately decorated door leading to his Ammi's hojra.

He should be in the khaas mahal, doing what emperors did best, following a heated argument with their fiery begum — get drunk on goblets of sweet sura with aftertaste burning through their throats like it was divine punishment.

But it would seem that this evening was the one exception for him now that the storm had settled and left debris in its wake.

Except that there was no physical debris. What lingered was guilt and pure disgust at himself.

"How could you be this reckless?"

His words, flung at her, replayed on a loop, now mocking him to his face and reminding him of how he had just committed the most unforgivable sin against the one woman he had sworn to never hurt again.

Out of his fear, he had lashed out against her and betrayed the trust she placed in him the moment she'd granted him access to her body.

You hurt her, that rational voice in his head sneered at him. You always manage to f*ck things up, don't you? This is why you'll always be unlovable. Because dil nahi hamare paas, Jalal.

He flinched, blinking at the sharpness that accompanied that thought.

"I did everything right, Shehenshah. I took every precaution...because I knew if something went wrong, I would be the one to deal with the fallout."

And you proved her right, didn't you? You pointed the fingers at her, you blamed her for something you both did, didn't you?

His fingers trembled, his eyes pricking painfully with something that felt like...were those tears?

F*ck, he swore softly, turning away from the door, that rational side of his brain telling him to walk away, to walk into his khaas mahal and drown himself in sura.

Yet, a stronger urge pulled him towards the door, his fingers twisting the knob before opening the door, an inaudible creak filling his ears as he pushed it open.

She was seated on the divan, her mind far away as she passed a red thread through a white muslin cloth. He walked in, his steps light against the Persian carpet. Ammi Jaan's attention was alert to his presence, her head raised to meet him as she set her embroidery work aside.

No further words were exchanged as he was by her side in a few steps, with only the sounds of their breathing filling the air. He found himself leaning toward her—the one thing he'd never have seen himself doing in his whole life, but here he was.

He could sense the initial hesitation, could it be confusion? He prayed it was that, fervently so.

Please, prove it to me that I'm not—. His breath shuddered as Ammi Jaan's hand reached for his head, her fingers stroking his hair as she let out a sigh of her own, and the tears almost rolled down his face.

Fate had denied him of this—her maternal affection—and he had hardened his heart against her for years, making her a stranger when all along, she was right here waiting for him to—.

He trembled again, taking in her scent. It reminded him of Kabul, one of the few good memories he could not place a face or a name on. How did he go from that boy to this broken shell of a man who cannot help but hurt others? When?

"Kya hua, beta?" Ammi Jaan's voice pulled him out of his thoughts, and as if snapping back to his senses, he pulled away as he took the seat beside her on the divan.

For a moment, silence filled the air as he stared down at his hands, his eyes conjuring up blood — not from war — but from hurting her.

Then, he broke the silence, his voice small for a man like him. "She's with child."

From his peripheral vision, he could note the nod, as if she also knew. Did she know?

"I was there," Ammi Jaan added, confirming his suspicion, and he could only laugh dryly.

Of course, she does.

His Ammi had always loved Jodha, treating her like she was her second daughter. And if Ammi Jaan knew but had chosen to keep this a secret, then...

She was protecting her.

His breath came out shaky as he stared back down at his hands.

"I am not ready for this," he admitted to her, the first time he'd be honest with someone other than Abdul. "I don't know how to be a father, Ammi Jaan. I had no one to teach me. Abbujaan left. You left."

The last sentence came out soft but landed so heavily that he could not miss the sharp inhale from her.

He looked up at her, the tears not unmissable from his eyes.

"I don't blame you for what you did, Ammi Jaan," he added. "Not anymore. You did what you thought was best. And—."

He exhaled again, then he felt her hand on his back as if to anchor him.

"I am scared, Ammi Jaan. What if I ruin their life? What if I scar them the way I was scarred? What if they grow to hate me? What if I—?"

Then, he dropped the bombshell, with about bout of dry laughter bubbling from his chest.

"I blamed her."

Ammi Jaan sharply inhaled, her eyes widened, and he could only smile humorlessly at himself. He deserved whatever judgment she was about to lay on him

"I called her reckless, pointed the finger at her as if—, as if I hadn't contributed. As if—."

"You were the one who took me like a man possessed, Shehenshah...don't you dare point that finger at me and act like I was the reckless one!"

Now, the memories of those nights came flooding in because he remembered. He remembered those nights of whispering prayers against the canvas of her skin — not to Khuda but to her as if salvation could be found in her warmth. As if the act of holding on to her and releasing in her was the only form of worship he understood. As if she were the sacred chalice built for his seed.

Not once had he thought to himself to pull out or do something at least.

"How could you be so f*cking reckless?" He had asked her as if he were a victim of the encounters he mostly initiated. As if she were not the one taking responsibility on their behalf, while he sowed his seed on fertile grounds.

The knife twisted even deeper as his self-hatred spiralled.

"She was the one taking the brews, everything, Ammi. I was the reckless one but I chose to f*ck it up by blaming her for the result of our passion. How can I ever come back from this, Ammi?"

This was the first time Hamida would ever witness this form of vulnerability before her, especially from her son, and this did nothing to abate the tears rolling down her cheek.

For two decades and four years, she had borne the burden of regret and the questions of what-ifs each time she made eye contact with him, and here he was before her, the infant she had left behind and the little boy who had stared back at her emotionlessly in Kabul. The little boy who had her introduced to him as his mother yet found her a stranger.

That little boy stood before her again, except his stare was not distant; it was haunted by regret that he might as well have repeated her sins.

"Jalal," she called out to him, her hand still rubbing small circles on his back. "Beta."

He raised his head, his usually cold hazel eyes now soft and wide. How long had she been praying for this? That he'd see her as a refuge and not a cold fortress?

"Many years ago, I had left you behind with the thought that I was protecting you," she started, her free hand wiping the tears. "I had believed that you'd be safe, and not a day goes by that I do not regret that decision."

She exhaled, determination in her eyes as she straightened her posture.

"But you, beta, you still have time to make things right and avoid making the same mistakes I made. You still have the time to step up for both your child and for her," Hamida added, her hands now settled on her thighs. "Jodha is going to raise that child with or without your input, and only you can decide how it is going to end. If you choose not to make things right, she might never forgive you and that child—."

She left the rest unsaid as it lay hanging right in the air.

"What if I mess things up?" He asked, his eyes looking ahead at the darkened courtyard now. "What if I say or do something wrong? What if I fail?"

Hamida could only smile, her hand around her son as she leaned on his shoulders.

"Isn't that the beautiful thing about life, beta?" She chuckled to herself. "No one ever said this was going to be easy. But, beta, if you fail, if you mess things up, it doesn't signal the end of the world. You pick yourself up, make things right, and you try again."

He nodded, and the hojra fell silent again with just a mother and her son sharing a moment of truth and wisdom. His face relaxed now as he nodded again.

"I'll—I'll make things right," he said softly, but his voice was strong enough with steel cushioned with velvet. "I'll show her that she doesn't have to do it all alone. That I'll stand with her, that I'll take care of our child. That—."

A bright beam fell on her face at that, a silent word of appreciation to Khuda.

"The child is not out yet, and you are already a father," she teased him, already parting away from him.

Standing to his height, he adjusted his jama, taking a moment to stare down at her. "Shukriya, Ammi Jaan."

She could only smile at him as she nodded, "Khuda hafiz, beta."

He responded wordlessly with a nod of his own. Then, he was gone.

A shuddering sigh then filtered through her lips as she whispered a prayer to Khuda.

Please, be with them. Guide them, Khuda. Let it all go well.

Jalal finds himself telling Jodha the words he had never thought he would say to anyone.

The echoes of the early morning azaan faded into the background, concluding the morning namaz, yet Jalal remained on his knees, his posture solemn and his hands still on his thighs.

I'll make things right.

The vow he made to his ammi echoed in his mind, and now...it seemed easier said than done, for how does a man like him apologize to the woman he hurt, especially when apologies made up a small percentage of words to pass through his lips?

Ya Allah, help me with this, he found himself praying, his eyes cast down to the floor.

He then exhaled slowly as he stood to his height, slowly unravelling the turban on his head as he made up his mind.

You still have time to avoid making the same mistakes I made...time to step up for both your child and for her.

Ammi's words reverberated through his mind as he laid the silken shawl on his bed. Time.

Such a word.

Despite that part of his pulling every string to ensure he remained within these four walls, he knew better than anyone the significance Ammi Jaan's words carried with them.

He could not afford to waste time. Unless repeating the sins of the past, along with the vicious cycle, was written in his plans.

He let out a shaky exhale as he made his way out through the exit.

I made a vow before Ammi, and before You, Khuda. That I'd make things right again, that she doesn't have to—. Please, grant me the strength, he prayed, even as he walked past the durbaans down the hallways of the mardana over to the zenana.

The hall fell silent at his presence; the bevy of women—his begums and their bandhis—dropped whatever activities they were engrossed in, stopping with their greetings, a silent salaam, which he barely acknowledged with a non-committal nod.

The women stared cautiously at him, their eyes—he swore—were trailing after him. It was as if they all knew his destination. Not that it was news to anyone within the harem, whose hojra he often spent time in.

And there before him stood her abode, once intimate but now foreboding, considering the aftermath of the previous night.

The night I blamed her, his face fell as he hesitated again. Then, his ears picked up a voice—her voice—murmuring verses in Sanskrit. A shloka, her devotion as she concluded puja before Kanha.

His breath caught in his throat at the next steps he was about to take.

Khudara, meri madad karin, he shut his eyes, his fingers brushing the silk curtains while his feet shuffled out of his juttis. While this was nothing new to him, each time he made his way to her space, there was a certain manner of reverence that came as naturally as breathing.

His eyes slowly opened as he made his way in, the scent of sandalwood and jasmine lacing the air. Her back was to him, gleaming in the soft glow of the early morning sun, and her hair was tied in a braid, falling against her back and swaying lightly as she moved, holding out the thali as her bandhis took some prasad.

Then, as if attuned to his presence, Jodha turned, her face serene as if yesterday never happened...that was until her eyes landed on him and she withered like tulsi denied water for long.

It was as quick as it came, but he caught it in time, hurt flashing across her face.

He clenched his fist, his breath hitching at the sight. The guilt returned tenfold as he fought the temptation to turn his gaze away. To fold into himself. To crawl back into his khaas mahal to seek penance or punishment.

But he remained rooted where he stood.

She straightened her posture, setting the thali aside before gesturing to the other women in the chamber, her sight not leaving him.

"Ekant," she ordered, her voice soft like silk wrapping steel.

Wordlessly, her bandhis obeyed, their hands folded in namaste as they quietly filed out of her hojra, leaving just the two of them.

The door shut behind them, creating a dense cloud of tension hanging like a worn thread.

Not hostile. Not warm either.

Jalal found himself like a sinner seeking penance at the gates of his deity, lost for words as his fingers twitched at his sides.

Why did this seem like an arduous task for a man for whom speech came so easily?

It's an apology for Khuda's sake.

He breathed in, clearing his throat as if testing a new territory.

"I...I'm..."

Jodha raised an eyebrow at him, and he found himself swearing internally.

"I'm...Mujhe maaf kijiye," his voice cracked, the words felt so heavy, so wrong tumbling out of his lips.

She stood, her eyes not blinking as she stared back at him as if the sky had just fallen or something.

Please, say something, Jodha Begum. Something. Anything, he pleaded to himself.

Had he ruined everything beyond repair? Had he pushed her away from him for good?

"I hurt you last night," he added, his voice breaking. "I said things I shouldn't have said. I called you reckless for what we both did...it was not your fault."

Still, she stood silent.

He took a step closer, doing the one thing he'd never have seen himself doing—he kept going.

"I was angry. Scared. And I took it out on you because I was too much of a f*cking coward."

Still no response.

Yet, he kept on talking.

"It's no excuse, Jodha Begum. By Khuda, I had no f*cking excuse for what I said, for pointing the finger at you. You were not reckless, I was. You did everything right, but I chose to blame you rather than take responsibility."

Her gaze flickered, her eyes brimming with tears—a sign of her responding to him.

"I was wrong, and you are right to be angry. You have every right to hate me and—," he swallowed as if reconsidering the implication of what he just said. "I just wanted you to know that you do not have to do this all alone. I—."

He exhaled again.

"I am scared of what this is. Khuda knows I am. I don't know how to do this. I never had a good model, but—Khuda ki qasam—Jodha Begum, I swear I will try to be there. For you. For this child. For our child."

The last sentence hung over the air. His fists were still clenching and unclenching at her silence. He looked down at the carpeted floor, his eyes trailing the patterns.

"I want to make this right," he muttered, looking up at her. "I really want to and...mujhe maaf kijiye."

"Mujhe maaf kijiye"

What world had she woken up to?

Jodha found her eyes veering outside the jharokha, and the sun was barely out, but it was out there regardless. The sky appeared in hues of sky blue and iridescent yellow as fluffy white clouds wrapped around the sun like a translucent blanket.

No, the sky is still blue, she confirmed, staring back at the man who stood before her, contrite and remorseful.

Oh, what a time to be alive. What a parallel universe she must have woken up to?

The Shehenshah Jalal-ud-Din Muhammad apologizing to her? And twice at that, too?

Did Surya Dev pull the chariots from the West? Was Yamuna flowing backwards?

She found herself stepping back, her eyes—still guarded though brimming with tears—searched his face for a sign of jest, for deceit, for any ulterior motives.

She found none, only seeing a man stripped of his ego, willing to make things right again between the two of them.

For a moment, she found herself lost for words. How did one come to terms with a man who rarely apologized? And this man apologized twice.

She blinked, the tears rolling down which she caught immediately.

"You...you apologized twice."

Her voice was raw, awed, almost clinging to that bit of skepticism.

"That is new," she added with a tone of incredulity, her voice wavering at that. "Your words still hurt. You hurt me."

He nodded weakly, "I know."

The room fell silent as she slowly exhaled, folding her arms across her chest.

"But here you are, Shehenshah, willing to make things right," she stepped forward, dropping her hands to her side. "I will take that. I accept your apology."

Just like that, he exhaled softly again, and their eyes met.

The air still hung heavy.

The pain still lingered, but deep down, despite the events of the previous night, maybe she was more willing to forgive him because she wanted him near.

You really are weak, aren't you?

"I accept your apology because of our child. Because they deserve—."

She cut herself off before she could say anything more.

Liar.

But he simply nodded, without an argument.

"By Khuda, I give my word. By Khuda, by you and by our child," he swore, placing his hand gently over where his heart sat.

Jodha's shoulders dropped slightly, not in surrender but in understanding.

Just understanding between two people coming together in reconciliation.

The tears came rolling down , first as a trickle, then as a deluge because beneath that was relief.

Relief that she would not have to do this alone. Relief that she'd not be left to bear the cross of what their passion had yielded.

Relief that maybe she might not lose everything she had built so far.

closing notes: I hope you guys loved this chapter and I look forward to reading your feedback 😄💜

Loved this chapter, Mide!

Full of emotions ... raw emotions

Loved every bit of it .. Good he realized his mistake

Wanna see what happens next

Update soon :)